Page 61 of The Midnight Hour
He gives me a look like I’m stupid, in the way only a six-year-old can. “Here,” he says.
I decide it’s time to get out of bed.
Although the cabin has a log-burner, we didn’t fire it up last night, and it’s freezing as I stuff my feet into sneakers. I went to bed fully dressed, but I grab my parka and zip it up before following Jason out of the bedroom and then the whole cabin. I’m not sure where he’s leading me, or where everyone else is; Ruby and Mattie are sharing one bedroom, Sam and Kyle another, and Ben and Nicole took their own cabin next door, but I don’t see or hear any of them as I step outside.
I pause for a moment, taking in the pristine and wintry landscape of heavy frost, the whole world glittering and white, Red Cedar Lake stretching out in front of the cabin, half-frozen and frost-covered, fringed by evergreens and leafless trees. The cold air catches in my chest and I breathe in deeply. For the first time since we left the cottage,I feel free.
“Aren’t you coming?” Jason asks, sounding impatient, and I turn to this little boy who has somehow become my guide.
“Where are we going?”
“To the others.”
Hmm. Not sure how I feel about that, or even what he means, but I let go of my usual suspicious instincts and follow him down the dirt track that connects the cabins, all of them facing the breathtaking view of the lake. The whole world is silent and hushed, the frost so thick it looks like snow. The air is crisp and clear and improbably, considering all the obstacles we almost certainly face, my heart lightens. Leaving the NBSRC was, I acknowledge, the right decision, and one that superseded anything to do with Sam or William Stratton.
Jason leads me to the main cabin and dining room, which, I see now, is occupied. As I look around the camp in the daylight, I realize with a jolt that it is neither empty nor abandoned, as we’d assumed late last night in the darkness. There are quiet signs of life everywhere, from the canoes and rowing boats pulled up on the dock, to the line of laundry strung out between two cabins, to the two beat-up trucks parked behind the main cabin. In the darkness last night, we missed them all.
I follow Jason into the main cabin, which has a soaring ceiling and wood-paneled walls, with a huge picture window overlooking the lake. It’s half living room, complete with leather sofas and a huge stone fireplace that now holds a cheery blaze, a deer’s head with an impressive set of antlers and a baleful stare positioned above it. The other half of the cabin is a dining room with about a dozen round tables; one is laid out with breakfast items and various people are sitting around a few of the others, eating and chatting. The scene is so relaxed and normal, it takes me by surprise. I find I almost want to laugh.
“Mom.” Mattie rises from one of the tables, a mug of coffee in one hand. I’m jolted by her presence, and not just because I didn’t realize she was here. There are times in a parent’s lifewhen, for no more than a moment, you see your child as others must see them—not as someone who is achingly familiar and beloved, but just as a person in their own inalienable right. And for a second, that is how I see Mattie—her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, her manner relaxed and assured. She is dressed in a cable-knit sweater and jeans, and someone here must have given her a pair of fur-lined boots because I’ve never seen them before but they’re on her feet.
She’ll be sixteen next month and she looks it, or even older—a young woman, fully grown. Someone who, if I’d met her on the street, I’d feel a flicker of interest and admiration for and I’d think to myself she was the kind of person I’d like to get to know.
“Hey.” I embrace her clumsily, overwhelmed by everything, and she laughs at me, shaking her head.
“You look like you can’t believe your eyes.”
“I can’t,” I admit. I glance at the other people, including Jason, who has joined someone who looks like his dad. Everyone is observing our interaction with a sort of smiling bemusement. “What…what’s going on?” I ask Mattie.
“There’s a community living at this camp,” she replies. “Come and meet everyone. They’re all so friendly.”
She tugs at my hand, and I walk toward the group, feeling both shy and hopeful. They alllooknice, but my suspicious instincts are still there, ready to rise to the fore.
“Hey, everyone,” Mattie says, “this is my mom, Alex.”
Everyone murmurs some version of a greeting in a way that makes me think I’ve just entered a group therapy session. Why does everyone seem so smiling and relaxed? I feel as if I’ve entered a time warp or a fever dream. This isn’t the way the world works anymore. At least, I thought it wasn’t.
“Draw a chair up, Alex,” a woman invites me. She is mid-thirties, her long, deep-brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, with a calm, capable manner that makes me wonder if she’s incharge. “Have some breakfast.” She gestures to the buffet spread out on one of the tables—a tureen of porridge, scrambled eggs, stewed apples, coffee. Where did they get it all, I wonder. How long have they been living at this camp?
I help myself to eggs and apples as well as a cup of coffee—it’s instant, but better than anything I’ve had in a long while. Then I join Mattie and the woman who invited me to have breakfast at one of the tables.
“Last night,” I say by way of both introduction and explanation, “we didn’t think anyone was here.”
“We were all asleep,” the woman replies with a laugh. “I’m Vicky, by the way.”
“Alex,” I say, before I remember she already knows my name.
The others take the opportunity to introduce themselves—Jason and his dad, Adam; a young hippyish couple called Rose and Winn; a single man in his fifties named Stewart, a middle-aged couple, Patti and Jay. They have two kids, a boy and a girl, who are currently fishing.
“There are twelve of us here all together,” Vicky explains. “My parents, Sheryl and Don, are out back. They ran this fishing camp before the bombs, and a few months ago, when everything started getting crazy, we decided to pool our resources and form a community here. Help each other out. We’re stronger together, that sort of thing.”
“And you haven’t been…attacked?” I ask cautiously.
“I told them what happened to us at the cottage,” Mattie interjects. “But not everyone is like that, Mom.”
“There’s more space out here,” Vicky replies, which is exactly what I’d said to Daniel, although I’m not sure I really believed it at the time. Does simply having more space make people behave more like decent human beings? Is that all it takes? “And people have more resources,” she continues. “Besides, most people know each other around here. We take care of each other.” She shrugs. “We haven’t had any trouble.”
I can’t quite let go of my skepticism. “How come there are only twelve of you here?”
