IFFY FICTION

“You awake?” 

I reached out beside me to pat Allie’s back. The sun blazed through my eyelids, and a breeze wafted in through the open door flap, chilling the tent. I shivered, burrowing into my sleeping bag. I found hers empty and cold beneath my hand. 

“Hey, you need to close the tent. We don’t want spiders in here,” I called, shoving up to my elbows. From where I lay I could see the picnic table, covered bins of food, the fire pit, still smoldering, the garbage bag pulled down from the hook in the post, its contents scattered. Chaos. Why was I so bad at this?

I sat up and peered outside, squinting to see behind the underbrush to our designated restroom. A little bird flitted up from the ground, alighting on a branch. 

“Allie, are you there?” No answer.

Pulling on my old burnt-orange hoodie, I stumbled outside, bare feet freezing on the rocky ground. The surrounding woods were still, brown leaves fallen after a brief autumnal show. No sign of Allie. The other campsites were empty. 

When I’d booked the spot, the ranger said to take my pick. There wasn’t a single other reservation in the park. I asked him why — the heat had abated, the mornings were crisp. A gorgeous month for camping. He lifted his shoulders slightly, his eyes avoiding mine, and said, “no one comes in October.”

As I slid on my camp sandals, I noticed Allie’s little pink flip flops still sitting under the rain fly. An image flashed of her walking barefoot, toes freezing, the wound on the bottom of her foot pressing into the dirt. I hurried toward the pond calling her name.

Near the water, the dense woods muffled my calls for Allie, absorbing my voice hungrily. I could barely hear myself in the greedy silence.

I walked along the rocky bank, frigid splashes soaking my feet. As I rounded a large bald-cypress, I saw a flash of sky-blue swimsuit and a shock of blonde hair emerge from the spot where we’d played the day before. I ran, slipping on the crumbling shore.

I opened my mouth to call her name. Allie, waist deep in the pool, turned toward me. “Hi, mom.”

“Sweetie, what are you doing? It’s freezing!” My breath clouded as I spoke.

She laughed and resubmerged. 

I waded through the water toward her, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her up. “Let’s go dry off now, sweetie. You’ll catch a cold.”

Allie complied as I dragged her back toward camp — not resisting, but not willing. Her purple feet pressed into the jagged, chalky pebbles and dried cedar needles as she walked. I thought of her flip flops by the tent. 

“Let me carry you,” I said, lifting her up, her wet body soaking my sweatshirt. I cradled her, trying to warm her with my arms. Difficult with a seven-year-old. 

A clammy foot brushed my fingers. I took it into my hand and squeezed, trying to warm it. My thumb brushed the wound on her sole. Gashed by a jagged rock in the pond the day before. I winced, anticipating her pain, but she didn’t react. 

“How’s your cut, honey?” I asked, worried that she’d lost feeling in her feet. 

“Good.”

“Let me take a look.” I sat her down on a boulder in the sun and wrapped her in my hoodie. The bandage was gone, lost in the pond. The gnarly gash in her foot was now covered in a thick, bark-like scab. While Allie sat, impassive, her blue eyes looking off into the trees, I pushed gingerly on it.. It was as hard as wood, unsoftened by the water.

“Did you put something on your foot, Allie?” I asked, scratching at the edge of it. “Dirt can make the cut get infected.” My fingernail bent backward. 

When she didn’t respond, I flicked my eyes up to her face. She was staring at me, her eyes the dark green of the algae covered rocks in the water. 

My breath caught in my throat. “Allie, what’s wrong with your eyes?”

She closed them slowly, squeezing tight. When she reopened them, they’d returned to the bright blue Ian’s had been.

I looked at her, frozen. The emptiness of the park and the distance from civilization apparent, I realized how vulnerable we were. This had been a mistake. The trees seemed close, an air of menace in their fractal branches. I wanted to be gone from there.

“I’m worried about that cut, Allie. I think we should head back to camp and pack up. I want to get you to a doctor.”

“But I don’t want to leave.” Her voice took on the baby whine that usually irked me, but this time I softened. My shoulders relaxed, and I looked at my little girl. 

“I know, sweetie. We can come back soon. I promise.” I leaned down to pick her up. Before I could lift her, I felt a sudden, sharp pain in my arm. I stumbled back, shocked. Streams of blood poured from a gash above my wrist. Allie held a jagged pond rock in her plump little hand. 

“I don’t want to leave,” she said, pressing her thumb into the stone, rubbing the blood and algae together. “Ever.”

The pain in my arm began to throb, then the throbbing slowed to a weak pulse, and then disappeared. I looked down at the wound and stroked it with my fingertips. Beneath my skin, dark green tendrils writhed, emanating from the cut, slithering and spreading outward, up my arm, down my chest, into my heart.

Allie pushed herself up, and stood on the boulder, smiling, green eyes shining. 

“You know,” I said, touching the woody scab that was already forming over my wound, “neither do I.”