The Noah Confessions by Barbara Hall Page B

dressing me in my new winter wear. I thought back to meeting Jackie, to her promising me the bird bracelet.
    I couldn’t stop crying.
    He calmed me down somehow. He said a million things, probably. He said, “Your mother is crazy and your sister is sick and you were my idea.” He said, “Trust me, don’t worry, this is what we have to do.”
    He said, “Come back here with me.”
    And I knew nothing then of history. He was just my father.
    Everything that happened next is unclear.
    I think we walked back to where I saw him wrestling with a tree. I think her body was lying there. I think she was faceup to the cold winter sun and she looked just like I remembered her, except that her face was frozen in a stunned expression.
    I think he said, “She was not a good person.”
    I think I abandoned my idea of her. I think I chose my father in that moment.
    She was lifeless. We dragged her body into the truck. Then we drove the truck to another part of the forest. He was quiet the whole time. I made a decision not to speak. Every now and then I glanced at her and I saw the bird bracelet dangling. I wanted to touch it but didn’t.
    I saw her red hair spilling across her chest and I wanted to touch that, too, but I didn’t move.
    After we parked again, I helped him take her out of the car. We carried her into the woods. We approached an abandoned well—they were all over and I had been warned against playing near them. I saw the well and I was scared because he had done such a good job of warning me away from such a place. I saw the disorganized pieces of lumber in the middle of the woods and I knew that a dark, forever place lay beneath them.
    I think this really happened because I remember holding her by the wrist. I remember looking at the bird bracelet.
    We dragged her toward the well and she got stuck on some rocks and a shoe came off. I don’t know what happened then. The bracelet was still digging into my palm. I unhooked it and slipped it into my pocket.
    It seemed like a lot of time passed.
    He told me to go sit on a rock and watch for intruders. I did that. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I had played enough in the woods to know that no grown-ups ever came there.
    When it was taking too long I walked back to the well. I saw him leaning over it and he stood up and said, “What did I tell you to do?”
    I went back to the rock and watched. No one came.
    Finally he came and found me. He looked tired. He touched my hair. He said, “Hey, are you okay?”
    I didn’t know what to say.
    He said, “Let’s go home. You need a snack or something.”
    Then we drove back home.
    Right before we pulled up at the house, he turned to me and said, “What’s good about you and me is that we have our own language. Right? We understand each other. You’re my idea.”
    I can’t remember what I said.
    My mother met us outside. “What have you been doing?” she asked. “Where’s the tree?”
    â€œWe couldn’t find a good tree,” he said.
    â€œWhat do you mean you couldn’t find a tree?” she asked.
    â€œI think we might have to go to a lot this year,” he said, dusting off the arms of his jacket.
    â€œBut you were gone so long,” my mother said.
    â€œWe were looking. There was nothing.”
    My mother turned her eyes on me. She was beautiful and nervous. Her eyes were black and quick. There was nowhere to hide.
    I looked at my father.
    â€œWhat happened to her?” she asked, looking at me and my frayed clothing.
    I already couldn’t remember. I had no idea that my clothes were torn and dirty. My mittens were gone, my pixie hat was chewed up, my winter coat was full of briar scratches. I just stared at my mother.
    My father said, “We were in the woods. We were looking. Give us a break.”
    That night he came to my room and read me the Bible passage in which God asks