“I want you to know that I’m not bringing this to your attention as gossip, but out of concern,” Aurora said.
Angeni’s throat felt suddenly dry. She swallowed.
“I couldn’t sleep the other night, and I got up for tea. When I came inside, Erik and Sitka were in her room. Together. I guess Erik was having some insomnia issues, and they, like,talk?”
Angeni willed her face to stay soft and calm. Erik and Sitka, talking at night. She knew Erik had insomnia at times. It wasn’t unusual for him to get up for tea. She hadn’t heard him get out of bed lately because she’d been sleeping so soundly. But it was possible he had. It was possible Sitka was up, too, with Freya.
“He does have bouts of insomnia,” Angeni said evenly.
“Yeah, so I guess they’re like insomnia buddies or whatever. God, it sounds silly as I’m saying it to you,” Aurora said with an uneasy laugh. “I just wanted to make sure you knew.”
Angeni hadn’t known, and she wanted more information, but she couldn’t let Aurora know she had any doubts or worries. Doing so felt like pulling a thread on a delicate tapestry.
“Thank you for letting me know, Ror, but it’s nothing to worry about,” Angeni said. “Erik does have insomnia, and we all know what a social being he is. He’s been wanting to make Sitka feel more included.”
Angeni was talking to herself as well as to Aurora. The truth was that the idea of Erik and Sitka hanging out while everyone slept was disquieting, if it was really happening. What if Aurora was lying, trying to turn Angeni against Sitka? Angeni had never known Aurora to have a malicious streak before. Was Sitka that much of a threat to her?
“Right, okay, that makes sense,” Aurora said.
“I really value you,” Angeni said, looking into Aurora’s eyes. “You know that, right?”
Aurora smiled, said, “Yeah, I know. I really value you too. That’s why I wanted to make sure you knew about this. But you knew, I can see that now. You and Erik tell each other everything.”
They both laughed, but there was still an odd tension between them.
“Well, enjoy your gardening,” Aurora said, nodding toward the duffel bag. Did she say it with a hint of sarcasm, or was Angeni imagining that?
“Thank you,” Angeni said as Aurora turned and headed back toward the house.
The far-east corner of The Land was overgrown, dense with misty forest. On eleven acres of land, there was only so much maintenance that was feasible. She had come to accept that parts of the property would always be wild. Maybe that was what she loved most about this place she called home—the sheer impossibility of taming it.
She made her way through the blanket of ferns, leaves overlapping so that none of the ground beneath was visible. She stopped to inspect the various mushrooms—a grouping of chanterelles, another grouping of boletus. She would teach Freya about mushrooms as she got older—which were magical (for cooking purposes and otherwise), which were dangerous. She couldn’t wait to guide her daughter, in so many things. This exuberant joy came with grief. It was only in mothering Freya that Angeni realized just how little mothering she’d received.
My dear, you have mother wounds.That was what a woman named Cheyenne had said to Angeni years ago, at the start of her healing journey. Giving birth to Freya, loving Freya, didn’t heal the wounds. Instead, the wounds reopened, fresh blood gushing forth. With precious Freya in her arms, Angeni simply could not understand how her mothercould have been so neglectful, so uninterested in the very act of loving her. How did she never hold Angeni on her lap and smother her with kisses? Angeni felt this compulsion with Freya every single day, blowing raspberries on her daughter’s belly, smooching up and down her arms.
At the same time, there was this poignant gratitude, this observance that, somehow, Angeni’s mother had managed to keep Angeni alive. She must have breastfed her—formula would have been too expensive—and changed her diapers. She must have taken her to the doctor when she needed antibiotics. Angeni had never considered this fundamental caretaking that her mother must have performed. She had been so fixated on all that wasn’t done. Having Freya had made her realize all that was.
Angeni had even found gratitude in all that her mother had gotten wrong. By not being a good mother, she had taught Angeni how to be a great one. And now Angeni was helping other mothers be the best mothers they could be. If that wasn’t healing, Angeni didn’t know what was.
Once she was deep in the forest, she sat on a large rock she’d never noticed before. How special it was to discover a little more of your own home. This was how she described the inner healing journey to her followers—ongoing discovery of one’s self.
There was an indentation in the rock that invited Angeni to sit. She did. As she unzipped the duffel bag, she wondered what Erik and Sitka talked about, if they were in fact meeting at night. Had Erik told her about their fight at the firepit? Was he venting about their marriage? She couldn’t help but think of Sitka wearing her skimpy pajamas, that thin camisole, those short shorts. She was sure Erik found her attractive. It wasn’t his fault if he did. He was a man with eyes, and Sitka was a young, beautiful woman. Angeni and Erik prided themselves on openly discussing the inevitability of attractions outside a marriage. They werehuman. It was natural to find other human beings attractive. That didn’t mean they would act on it. They could rise above their own base instincts in honor of the commitment they’d made to each other. It was silly of her to worry. The worry was an insult to what they’d created together.
She had originally planned to shoot the rifle, the Steyr AUG. But now she knew Aurora was suspicious, so she decided to shoot the 1911 with the suppressor to lessen the noise. She could have just told Aurora that yes, she was going shooting, but that would be admitting that she was not in the best frame of mind. Aurora knew, better than anyone, that Angeni only went shooting for therapeutic release.
Angeni hadn’t gone shooting since Freya was born. In her years with Erik, she could count on one hand the times she’d taken out the duffel bag. She just hadn’t felt the need, and she considered this a sign of her growth and recovery. What did it mean that she felt the urge now, that she could think of nothing else that would make her feel better than shooting? She decided to suspend analysis and just give her soul what it needed.
Erik knew of her hobby, for lack of a better term. He wasn’t a gun enthusiast himself, but he seemed to think it gave Angeni an attractive edge. “My lady, the gunslinger,” he’d said when she first told him. It was when they were first dating, before anyone knew they were dating. In response, she’d said, “Your pistol is my favorite to sling,” and they’d laughed like teenagers in love. He’d watched her shoot a few times, whistled when she hit her targets. That was so long ago now, back when they accompanied each other on outings and took interest in each other’s interests.
If he knew she was shooting today, he would probably be concerned, especially considering their recent troubles. So she wouldn’t tell him. Whatever went on between her and her guns was her business.
She thought again about her agent’s suggestion of writing a memoir. She thought of including the fact that she had been shooting guns since she was a child. This was why she couldn’twrite a memoir. The type of people who loved her—the hippies, the lovers, the earth mothers—hated guns. They could see some of her, but not all of her.
She loaded the 1911—that satisfying click. She stepped down from her rock and took her position in front of a Douglas fir about ten feet away. She held up the gun, finger on the trigger, squinted, pulled.
Her first shot was a complete miss, the bullet flying past the trunk. Birds squawked overhead, fleeing the trees at the sound of the shot—even with the suppressor, there was a startling bang. She waited to hear if anyone would call for her. Nobody did, though. It was unlikely they’d heard.
Her second shot went right through the trunk of the tree. Exhilarated goose bumps covered her arms. She’d forgotten how good this felt. She took another shot, hitting almost the exact same spot on the tree. She thought of Steve, how he would be proud. She’d never known what became of him. Every so often, she would google his name, but it was too common—Steve Waters—to turn up any meaningful results. He was also the kind of person to go to great lengths to keep himself off the internet.
