“Have you guys seen The Shining?” Georgia asked.

  “Oh my god, Georgia, why would you bring that up?” Stephanie seemed no longer just annoyed by Abby but by everyone.

  “Uh, because it feels like we’re in it right now.”

  “Gahh,” Emma said. “You’re totally right.”

  “Who do you think is going to turn into an axe-wielding maniac first?” Abby asked, leaning out of Stephanie’s sight line and pointing at her.

  “Stop it, you guys.”

  “Whatever,” Stephanie said, downing half of her glass of wine in one go, “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “I do,” Georgia said.

  “Yeah, you said, family legends. Respectfully disagree,” Stephanie said.

  “No,” Georgia said calmly, “I’ve seen one. Met one? Whatever. I’ve had an encounter.”

  She had their attention now.

  “There’s this outpost, really northerly, up by this tiny oil town Prudhoe Bay. There’s a research hut out by Point Hope. I was staying there on a solo trip. It was during the summer when the sun is up almost twenty-four-seven; you have to have full blackout curtains to get a wink. So, I wake up in the middle of the night and there’s an Inuit woman standing in the corner of the little bedroom. For a minute I thought she’d wandered in; most of the people who live there are of Inuit origin. But I was miles away from the nearest homestead as far as I knew. Also, she was dressed in a traditional anorak, which the first nations folks usually only wear for special occasions. So . . . it seemed weird.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Abby said. “Did she say anything?”

  “Yeah, but nothing I could understand. She seemed worried about something. I was trying to calm her down but then she just walked out the door. Disappeared into the tundra.”

  “I just got chills,” Emma said.

  “Yeah. When I was back on base, I learned I was not the first to have met her.”

  “Wow,” Emma said. “Was it . . . were you scared?”

  Georgia shook her head. “I was alarmed to find her there, but she didn’t feel threatening; I was worried for her. It seemed like she’d lost someone she was trying to find.”

  The group sat with that for a moment. Emma thought back to the woman she’d seen on the beach—it had only been hours earlier but it felt like days. It wasn’t so much that the woman had looked like Hannah, she hadn’t gotten a good look at her, but it had felt like Hannah. Though she’d heard nothing, she’d had the eerie feeling of listening to someone screaming for help from very far away.

  “Do you guys really think there could be a ghost here?” Georgia asked. “Seriously. No jokes.”

  “Of course not,” Stephanie said, clinging desperately to her certainty. “They’re making it up! I mean, can you imagine how bored the locals get out here? It would be so dull living on one of these tiny islands, I can’t even imagine it.”

  Georgia shrugged. “I think it’d be nice. It’s practically bustling compared to where I spend most of my year, so . . .”

  “Ghost or no,” Abby said, “the history of the house is real. And it sure doesn’t help that Hannah is missing.”

  “Maybe she just really doesn’t want to marry Steven,” Georgia said. “I mean, what she said to that girl? That does not sound good.”

  “It’s prewedding jitters. She was drunk. I’m sure I said something similar the week before I got married.” Stephanie sighed, looking over at Emma as if expecting her fellow grown-up to help reassure the kids.

  “Well, that’s true,” Emma said. “A little freak out would be in order, but that combined with the fact that she’s taken off makes it more alarming.”

  “But I don’t think we should just assume she’s taken off,” Stephanie said.

  “Oh, so you would prefer one of the alternatives?” Abby said. “That something terrible has happened to her? That’s fucked. Has anyone considered that maybe she just doesn’t want to get married, period?”

  “Well, she could have just said no when he asked her if that was the case. Why would she not want to get married?” Stephanie’s voice was defensive.

  “Well, Stephanie, not everyone does. Just because it’s conventional doesn’t mean it’s what everyone wants.”

  “Take it easy, guys,” Emma said, sensing that things were about to erupt.

  “Have you ever thought that the reason it’s conventional,” Stephanie said, her voice now practically a hiss, “is because it has value?” Emma had never seen Stephanie barefaced—she wondered if even her husband had—but at this point, the flawless makeup she’d begun the day with had all but disappeared; the remnants of it pooled in the corner of her eyes. It made her look younger, more vulnerable. “Women like you,” she continued, “always act like you’re above the institution. I mean, it’s fine for now. You’re still young enough that boys like Josh will pay attention to you, but do you think that’s going to last? In a few years, you’re going to be one of those women who just reeks of desperation, or worse, becomes some horrid hippie who embraces polyamory and talks about their lovers. Do you really think society has come so far that it just accepts a single woman? If you do, you’re dreaming. My mom decided to leave my dad after forty years of marriage, and you know what? She’s pathetic. She’s become one those silly divorcées who drinks wine with “the girls” and ogles waiters. My dad? He married someone fifteen years younger than him within a year. Now I have to deal with this dreadful woman on top of everything else. Being a stepmom makes her feel old, so she tries to be my big sister. It’s a mess, and you know what? My dad was faithful and honest and good and he’ll love my mother until the day he dies, and she left him. She regrets it now, I’m sure, but she’s too proud to admit it and it doesn’t matter because he’s already gone and married someone else. We’re in our thirties, in case you’ve forgotten, and these are the last days of having the upper hand, ladies, sorry to tell you this. It’s not sexism, it’s science. Men can procreate longer and they become scarcer with age. We get over forty and the game is over. You want to judge us for getting married while someone still wants us? Fine. But you might want to stop talking shit about something you know nothing about.”

  For a moment they all sat stunned by Stephanie’s rant. She’d gone and done it. Articulated the unspoken worst fear of so many single women. That there was no escaping the trap; that no matter how feminist they were, no matter how progressive society around them became, how advanced the beauty and fertility treatments got, biology itself was not on their side. That the advantage went to younger women and by nature’s cruelest trick, just at the moment they came into themselves—as they hit their stride in their careers, gained confidence and wisdom—it slipped away.

  Georgia and Emma looked anxiously at Abby who to their collective surprise, did not look angry but was smiling sadly. She and Stephanie stared at each other like boxers squaring off from across the ring.

  “So,” Abby said, after what felt like an interminable silence, “should I tell you about my marriage?”

  Georgia’s jaw dropped. Emma’s head swiveled between Abby and Stephanie. Was this a joke? Stephanie made an incredulous face. “What?” she said flatly. “You cannot be serious.”

  “Oh I’m quite serious,” she said with the same serene smile. For the first time, Abby did not seem wired with electricity.

  “You’re married?” Emma blurted out.

  “No, no,” she said, “divorced. Yep. Sad divorcée drinking wine with the girls,” she said, raising her glass.

  “I don’t believe you,” Stephanie said, lifting her chin imperiously. Emma could see she was utterly flummoxed by this turn of events. Most women would have been reduced to tears by that onslaught and here Abby was, cool as a cucumber.

  Now Abby grinned. She pulled her phone from her pocket and scrolled through her photo album as the three of them watched in anticipation.

  “There you go,” she said, tossing Stephanie the phone. Emma and Georgia scooted quickly to either side of Stephanie to look over her shoulder.

  Though much younger in the photo, Abby was unmistakable at a glance. She stood on the steps of a pristine white building, her hands clasped with those of a baby-faced guy in a gray suit. She wore a lace-covered gown with a high straight neckline and sleeves to her elbows. Her hair was blond, piled on top of her head in elaborate curls, a thin crown of flowers woven into the base. The image itself wasn’t digital but rather a picture of a framed photograph.

  “I took it before I left because I thought it would be funny to show Hannah,” Abby said, as though that explained anything.

  “I don’t understand, is this a prank?” Stephanie said.

  “Oh no. That’s a picture of me on my wedding day outside the Latter Day Saints temple in Bountiful, Utah. I grew up in a smaller suburb just outside, but we went to the big city for my wedding day.”

  When no one could think of a single thing to say to this, Abby continued. “And that’s Jacob. My high school sweetheart. He wanted us to get married before we left for Brigham Young University, to avoid “temptation”—because you can imagine what a hotbed of sin that place is,” she said with a wry smile. “He looks like a bunny rabbit, I know, but . . .” She shook her head. “My six sisters and I were raised to be daughters of God. First it’s all about God and dad, then God and your husband.”

  “I can’t imagine having a husband during college,” Emma sputtered.

  “Oh, yes. No keggers. And no coffee for late-night study breaks either. And of course Jacob—being eighteen‚ he wanted to have sex constantly. Which might be fine for me now but at the time I didn’t really know what to do, you’re so conditioned to think it’s the ultimate evil thing, and then you get married and it’s your duty and you’re supposed to be all happy about it. It’s bizarre.”

  “Was it bad?” Georgia asked. “The sex, I mean. Sorry, that’s rude but I’m curious.”

  “Oh, it was awful, hello? Do you remember what sex was like at that age? But of course, I thought it was all my fault that I didn’t enjoy it. As did he.”

  “So what happened with him?”

  “Well,” Abby said, letting out a deep sigh. For a moment Emma could see the girl in the photo reappearing on Abby’s face. “It didn’t last, obviously. I had this one professor at BYU who was pretty subversive—a feminist—she got kicked out the year after I finished, but she had a big influence on me. After we graduated, I left him.”

  “How’d that go over with your family?” Georgia asked. Abby had never mentioned having siblings, let alone six sisters.

  “Not well. They still don’t speak to me. Long story short: I left Jacob, I left the church. Stopped going by Abrah. Moved to Portland.”

  They all let it sink in, what she’d said. Stephanie in particular appeared to be thunderstruck.

  “Stephanie,” Abby continued, “it sounds like you have a really nice marriage. I’m happy for you. But it’s not always like that so . . . maybe I understand why Hannah might not be as stoked about it.”

  They all watched Stephanie, for it seemed that what she did next would determine everything going forward. After a moment’s pause she reached out and squeezed Abby’s hand. “I’m very sorry for jumping to conclusions about you. I was wrong. Can you forgive me?”

  Abby laughed and nodded. “Of course I can. I grew up judging everything. It makes the world easier to understand. I get it.”

  “Abrah, huh?” Emma said with a smile.

  “Oh, it could have been so much worse. Growing up, my two best friends were BeDae and Krescentia.”

  They all laughed and it eased the tension that had settled on them. Abby raised her glass. “To life as an ex-mo.”

  “To marrying right . . . or not marrying at all,” Emma added.

  “Hear, hear!”

  As they raised their glasses to clink them in the middle, a long red line stretched itself across the length of Georgia’s forearm. Emma was just about to mention to her that she’d spilled wine on herself when Georgia yelped.

  “Gah,” she said, pulling her arm back swiftly. “Ouch. Oh fuck, that hurts.”

  “Georgia . . .” Emma said, feeling fear squeeze its tight fist around her heart.

  “My arm,” she said, examining it in wonder. “I must have scratched it on a branch while we were going through the trees. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it until now.”

  Stephanie’s face was white. “I don’t think that’s where it came from.”

  “You saw it too,” Emma said, looking at Stephanie. “You saw it just . . . appear like that! I thought it was wine.”

  “You guys are freaking me out!” Abby squealed.

  “What do we do?” Emma looked to Georgia, who had her other hand clasped over her forearm, as though to contain the scratch from spreading.

  “Should we search the perimeter?” Stephanie asked. The phrase itself sounded sensible, but what good would it do?

  Georgia shook her head.

  Suddenly, they could hear laughter echoing from somewhere else in the house.

  “Oh my god,” Abby said, “do you guys hear that?”

  The four of them crept closer together on the floor, putting their backs together to be able to watch from all sides.

  “Should we talk to it?” Abby whispered.

  “Her,” Emma said. “Ruth Ericksen.”

  “Ruth,” Georgia said. As silly as any of them might feel addressing a ghost, Georgia sounded assured.

  “This is absurd,” Stephanie said under her breath, but her voice was empty of conviction. “If there’s actually someone here, we need to call the police.”

  “And how,” Emma said, losing her patience with Stephanie, “do you propose we do that?”

  “Ruth, we’re sorry for what happened to you,” Georgia continued, in a remarkably steady voice. “We’re sorry that your bastard husband left you out here by yourself. We’re sorry your no-good boyfriend cheated on you. Those men were trash. We’re sorry you didn’t have better options in your life. We’re sorry you died. We um,” she faltered, “we hope you can move on to a better place eventually. We want you to know that we don’t mean you any harm and . . . we appreciate your hospitality.”

  It seemed a strange thing to say. She—if it was a she—hadn’t been terribly hospitable, really. But still, they somehow all felt better after Georgia spoke.

  The storm continued on outside and the girls resigned themselves to the fact that there was nowhere to go, nothing to do but wait it out. They remained close, tried to remain calm, drank more wine, and eventually, one by one, they passed out from exhaustion.

  Emma woke first, a ray of morning light breaking through the dissipating clouds and hitting her face through the naked windows. They’d forgotten to close the blinds. No one had actually made it to bed, instead simply sleeping where they’d landed on the enormous sectional or curled in the two giant armchairs. Emma smiled when she woke to see them all looking like preteen girls at a sleepover. But then she remembered that Hannah was missing and the panic that she’d only drowned with wine and whiskey the night before returned. And the creepy events of the previous evening—though they seemed preposterous in the light of the fresh new day—had left a residue of fear. What time was it? The Catch and Release opened at 9:00 a.m. if she was remembering right. She checked her phone—7:00 a.m. She should let the rest of them sleep it off.

  She circled to the front yard, and as she looked down the wooded road, she saw with dismay that the tree that had fallen along the road remained. But of course it did, who would have swooped in during the night to remove it? This rendered the road impassable. Walker’s Landing was at least five miles away—moments in a car but much longer on foot.

  Walking along the empty, storm-ravaged road a few minutes later, Emma felt strangely peaceful. For one thing, it was the first time she’d been alone in days. She’d felt it would be easier to search for Hannah on her own, though of course there was nothing to stop any of the other girls from following her once they saw the note she’d left on the kitchen counter. She’d grabbed a paper trail map, the likes of which she hadn’t used in years, which included all the main roads from the house. The previous day had shown them all how utterly helpless they’d become when their phones were rendered useless for even a day. It was distressing, this reliance on technology none of them had even grown up with. Emma didn’t have her first cell phone until she was out of college, and of course, that thing only made actual phone calls, something she rarely used it for these days. And yet she felt that, without meaning to, she’d surrendered many of the problem-solving skills that had once been innate. Her sense of direction, chiefly, and the very idea that someone who was unreachable for a moment was otherwise engaged, rather than dead or in peril.

  Her head pounded and her throat was dry. The mix of wine and whiskey had been a terrible idea, but it had also seemed the only option in that creepy house with the group of women, with all their secrets, their fractures, their complicated hearts. The ghosts crowding the corridors, not only those that belonged to the house, but those they’d brought with them.

  By the time Emma reached the Catch and Release, it was nearly nine o’clock. She tried the door just in case, and it swung open.

  A boy who barely looked old enough to drink was behind the bar polishing glasses.

  “Good morning,” he said, smiling at her.

  “Are you open yet?”

 

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