Page 28 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
Alex’s eyes flick to the pile of notebooks on the desk. “I guess you’ll have to write longhand.”
“I guess.” My tone is dismissive. I’m not usually this rude but she pissed me off by looking at my work and I’m staving off a panic attack through sheer effort. I need her to leave.
She turns to go. Finally.
I’m crossing the room to open the door, when she wheels around, swinging the axe.
I jump back. “Watch it!”
“Did you take this from my porch?”
“What?”
“The axe disappeared from my porch this morning. And when I got here, I saw it leaning against the cabin wall.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Yet, here it is.”
What’s her game? She’s got to be gaslighting me. But why?
I draw my eyebrows together and crease my mouth into a frown. “Alex, I didn’t take your axe. I haven’t been outside since my walk yesterday evening. Why would I take it? You already brought me all the wood I need.”
I stop short of noting that I’ve never split wood in my life. From the way she’s eyeing my thin arms, I can tell she’s thinking it. I hug my cardigan around my midsection in a self-protective gesture, as if I can ward off her judgment.
“It didn’t walk here by itself,” she persists.
“Maybe whoever was outside this morning put it there. Why, I have no idea.”
Alex blinks. “Who was here? When?”
“I don’t know. Before sunrise. I don’t sleep well. I decided to come down here and write. On my way past the window, I saw the beam of a flashlight, like someone was standing in the clearing near your barn. But when I looked again, the light was out, and I couldn’t see anything in the dark. I assumed it was you checking on your farm.”
“What time was this?”
“Um, around five. Maybe a little later.” But not much later, because I know exactly when I woke up.
Her face pales, and her jaw tightens. “That was me. But I didn’t move the axe. You didn’t see anyone else?”
“Like who?”
“Like anyone—a delivery person or maybe a hunter or hiker who wandered off the public lands.”
“I don’t know,” I say after a long pause. I’m uncomfortable at being put on the spot. “I’ll be honest, I drank a lot of wine last night. Too much. I was a little hungover this morning. I’m not sure what I saw, but I am sure I didn’t take your axe. That’s all I can tell you.”
Alex holds my gaze wordlessly for several seconds that feel like hours, then she nods. “I’m taking this with me.” She hefts the axe.
I lift my hand. “You should. It’s yours, after all.”
She finally leaves. I lock the door behind her and then slide down the wall to the floor, where I tuck my legs under me, rest my head against the cool wall, sweating and dizzy, and close my eyes.
Eighteen
Alex
* * *
I’m still in a huff when I reach the farmhouse. I throw the axe against the woodpile with a thwack and stomp up the stairs to the front door. My agitation surprises, and worries, me. I’m usually placid. Sometimes my unbothered affect requires a lot of effort, but I rarely—no, never—lose my temper. I don’t allow myself to because I’m afraid that losing my grip on my temper is the first step on a steep downward trajectory of losing control of all my emotions.
