The Babysitter Read online

  As for me, I dozed in and out, getting maybe a total of three hours in short clips. But with my background, I was used to such things. Sleep deprivation, needing to be on my game regardless of how long I had gone without a proper REM cycle.

  It was after dawn, all the dogs save for Captain outside running around, chasing squirrels. Whether they lived in a subdivision or in the woods, dogs would always be dogs. I was in the kitchen making coffee when I heard a low grumble, like stretching yourself awake.

  My heart did the damnedest thing.

  It skipped and stuttered a little.

  Until I got a hold of myself, moving out of the nook of the kitchen and into the living space, finding her on her back, slow blinking up at the ceiling.

  "The hell were you doing in the woods again?" I asked, cringing when her whole body jolted. Not having anyone to speak to on a general basis, I'd been told that I have issues modulating my voice appropriately - always talking too loudly or too quietly.

  Her gaze shifted, chin tucking to her chest to look at me. Seeing, yet not exactly. There was a strange glaze there. Not the drugs like the last time. More like a wall. Like she had constructed something inside to distance herself from everything and everyone outside.

  I would have preferred the drugs. At least they would wear off.

  I knew a lot about building walls, about reinforcing them.

  And, in my experience, there was no getting over or under them unless the person who constructed them showed you the trapdoor. Or finally figured out they didn't need them anymore, knocked them down themselves.

  My air rushed out in a sigh as she shrugged, turned carefully on her side, her arm dropping down off the side of the cushion, gently stroking down Captain's neck.

  "Her money's in the nightstand," her voice mumbled, sounding raspy, almost sick, giving me a moment to worry about the chill in the woods the night before, paired with the blood loss, the trauma to her system.

  "Whose money? What nightstand?"

  "Miller's. The motel." With that, and nothing more, she rolled onto her other side slowly, tucking her face into the cushions, sliding her legs up to make room for Cap to curl up at her feet.

  I don't know if she slept or if she was simply done talking to me. But I figured I would get nowhere by trying to be forceful with her. I imagined her system had enough of that already.

  So I turned, grabbing my cell, moving out of the house into the fresh air, watching as the persistent rooster tried to weasel his way into the chicken enclosure as I dialed, walking around, looking for decent reception.

  "What's up?" Miller's voice asked, sounding like her mouth was full.

  It was rare Miller was up at this hour. Which likely meant that Gunn had woken her. Then placated her expected grumbling by supplying breakfast.

  "She's back."

  "Who's back?"

  "The woman. Captain was whining last night. I let him out, he lead me back to her."

  "Did the bastard find her?" she asked, voice serious, pissed. No one would claim Miller was hard to rile. She had a temper. It was somewhat easily sparked. But I didn't expect it for a woman who was a practical stranger.

  "I don't think so. She's not exactly in a talking mood."

  "Great. Two of you in one place," she quipped. "Is she hurt?"

  "Not that I can tell physically. But she's... off. She cried for hours. And this morning, she is just, I don't know, locked down. But she said something about your money and the motel nightstand."

  "I gave her money to help get her home since she had no cards or anything. Do you want me to go check out her room?"

  "There's more than one place to stay in town."

  "Yeah, but not a lot of places that would give someone with no credit card and no ID a room. We'll track it down. I'll get back to you."

  "Appreciate it."

  "Hey, Ranger," Miller called, knowing I was quick to hang up when the important shit was over.

  "Yeah?"

  "Just... be gentle with her, yeah?" she half asked, half demanded.

  "Wasn't planning on forcing her into manual labor, Mills."

  "It wouldn't be the first time. But no. I just mean... I don't know. If she's in a bad place, she's not going to be taking care of herself or making demands. Maybe just... make her a plate when you make yourself one, leave it for her. That kind of thing."

  "Will do," I agreed, ending the call, turning back to the chicken coop.

  She probably hadn't eaten.

  She'd only had coffee with me, then she'd been getting examined, then going to the motel which likely didn't have anything to eat, then back into the woods.

  And who knew when she'd last eaten before I found her in the woods.

  I collected eggs, and headed back to the house, scrambling a share and a half, piling them on the plate with some fruit and quickly fried breakfast potatoes. That, coffee, and water, found themselves piled on the coffee table. Her body jumped a little at the sound, so I knew she knew it was there. But I was going to take Miller's advice - just do the work, leave it to her to eat or not. Go about my day.

  When I came in from mucking out the stalls and cleaning out water troughs, her plate had been picked at slightly, half the fruit gone, a bite or two of eggs and potatoes. The water was half full, the coffee gone.

  And the woman herself was absent.

  It took all of, oh, point-five seconds to know where she was, thanks to the ever-present Captain, sitting sentry outside the bathroom door.

  Later that afternoon, I got another call from Miller, telling me they found the room, gathered the money. Gunn headed on home, having a family to think about. But Miller hung back, taking the scripts to the pharmacy, getting them filled.

  She decided it was too late to try to come in, telling me she would start in at daylight the next morning, likely crash for a night, and head back to Navesink Bank the following day.

  There was no talk about taking the woman with her, getting her settled in her old life.

  And for reasons utterly unknown to me, I didn't press, didn't ask. In fact, I found myself carefully avoiding the subject.

  Why?

  Yeah, that was the question, wasn't it?

  It was entirely out of character for me to want to have someone in the cabin with me. I chafed at the very idea of having a guest. Let alone one who was clearly damaged, struggling.

  I wasn't a caregiver by nature.

  And I didn't have the tools to help her.

  She should be back at her place, with her people, going to some licensed expert.

  I mean, not that the brain shrinkers did shit for me. I'd tried. For years. The talking, the journaling, the exposure therapy, and - when all else failed - even the medications. That made shit even worse.

  You want to really fuck with someone's mental health? Give them medicine that makes them want to kill themselves when, normally, their depression didn't tilt in the direction of self-conclusion.

  I ditched the medications, ditched the doctors, ditched the world as a whole.

  That was what I chose.

  But I understood, too, that it wouldn't be considered a healthy coping mechanism.

  How the fuck could I help her find something healthy when I couldn't find it for myself?

  Shaking my head, I moved back outside, working in the greenhouse, spreading some compost in the raised beds, wondering if the frost was nearly over so I could start planting.

  By the time I came in for lunch, she was back on the couch, burrowed into the cushions, legs rocking, so I knew she was awake, though she actively avoided me.

  A bit hesitantly, Cap got up, whining, likely needing to go out.

  "Go on, bud. I'll keep an eye," I told him, voice low, holding the door open to let him rush out.

  Figuring she wasn't in a talking mood - something I was infrequently in myself, so I saw no need to press it - I moved into the kitchen, chopping up vegetables, opening cans - tomato paste, beans - and set a chili to cook. I wondered a bit if she
needed meat. Because of all that blood loss. If I should make Miller bring some in. Meat, as a whole, was a luxury. Sometimes, I fished occasionally, but fish didn't keep that well in the freezer. And, once in a blue moon, I might hunt. Killing animals wasn't something I enjoyed. I had trouble with it even if it was a mercy kill.

  I'd had enough killing in my life already. I didn't do it for sport. And rarely for sustenance.

  Sometimes when I went into town, I would load down a cooler, pack my freezer. But it had been a long time. My supplies were almost nonexistent.

  Protein, as a whole, came from beans and certain grains, legumes. Things that kept well on a shelf for extended periods of time.

  Adding spices, I looked over, wondering what her preferences were. If she liked spice, if she liked things more bland.

  I'd had dozens of clients in my house, crashing in the guest room. I never gave a second thought to their preferences. This wasn't a resort. There was no room service. I wasn't a chef. So you ate what I offered you, or you went hungry. Case closed.

  Maybe it was the trauma. She was hurt. She'd lost a lot of blood. She needed to eat. So if she needed to eat, I needed to make sure whatever I cooked for her would be to her taste.

  "You like spicy?" I asked, cringing when my voice boomed back at me through the empty space.

  All I got was a grumbling noise.

  Hearing the scratch at the door, I let Captain in. And I swear the bastard gave me a disapproving look. Like he thought I had been yelling at her, before running inside, jumping up on the couch, circling around the cushions, then dropping down onto her feet.

  "Alright, you hold down the fort."

  It was late afternoon when lunch/dinner was done. I served it up with some rice, dropping hers down on the coffee table as I ate mine in silence at the dining table.

  Nothing.

  Not a word.

  Not a stir.

  Trying to bank down the uneasiness, I fed the dogs, put the animals away. When I came back, her spoon was in her bowl. I couldn't be sure, but I thought a bit had been eaten. I cleaned up, started a fire.

  "You want light on?" I asked, glad when my tone came out more even. "Don't usually put light on at night, but it works if you want it," I told her. And got nothing. "Um, the dogs all sleep out here," I told her, feeling the heaviness of sleep deprivation start to weigh on me. Maybe I would be able to figure her out better after some sleep. "Alright. 'Night," I mumbled, heading off toward my bed, dropping into it.

  Tired as I was, it took a long time for me to settle down, get my mind calm, slip away.

  I woke with a start, the kind of anxious you get when you realize you slept through your alarm, that you were running late.

  The light was just starting to move through the trees, casting everything in a comforting, familiar orange glow.

  Miller was likely already on her way in.

  And I had a lot of shit to handle before she got here.

  On that, I got out of bed, walking out of my room, expecting to see the newly familiar body huddled under blankets on the couch.

  I won't lie.

  My heart skittered into overdrive when I saw the blanket tangled up with no form beneath.

  Captain was gone too, I reminded myself as I tore through my home, worried she had gotten herself lost in the woods again, this time without having Cap to lead me to her if she was deep enough for me not to hear or see her.

  Throwing open the front door, I noticed things I had missed.

  Like all the dogs hadn't been inside.

  Like my jacket was missing from the hook.

  I noticed them then, though. Because the dogs were tussling near the end of the clearing, pouncing on each other, dragging one another around by the collar or scruff.

  And she was sitting in a chair I often found myself in right outside the house, an old rocking chair I had inherited from my grandfather who had built it himself. My jacket dwarfed her small frame. With her knees pulled up to her chest, the jacket was pulled down over her legs, reaching nearly to her ankles. The hood was pulled up against the cold morning air, her breath puffing into white clouds.

  "Morning," I mumbled, taking a deep breath to stave off the impending heart attack that had threatened to engulf my system.

  I got nothing.

  I didn't expect to.

  But, oddly, I felt disappointment.

  "Miller is coming in today," I told her, not sure why I felt the need to carry on a one-sided conversation. Maybe a part of me knew that in my worst places, sometimes just knowing someone was there, someone gave a shit, would be there, even if you didn't give them dick to work with, it helped.

  "Gotta bring your medications. Haven't gotten a look at the cut on your stomach. Getting worried about infection."

  Her head fell back onto the wood, her chin angled over near the empty pasture.

  Figuring she was imagining the animals, I grabbed shoes, went through the motions of letting them out, so she had something to watch before going in to make coffee, bringing her out a cup.

  She reached for it, cradling it between cold fingers.

  I figured that was a good sign, and gave myself the luxury of a quick shower before heading back outside, wondering if Miller would be able to find her way here. It had been a while. Trees got bigger. Underbrush changed. Woods were tricky that way. Always the same, yet constantly evolving.

  The question was answered about an hour later while I was filling the food troughs for the goats and donkeys. And the dogs went apeshit.

  There were fox warning barks and squirrel chasing barks and play-with-me barks.

  And then there were someone-is-here barks. The least frequent, the most menacing.

  "What? Like you don't know who I am. I was the one to take you in to get your balls cut off," Miller declared loudly to be heard over the snarling. "Well, okay, fine. I can see why you are bitter about that, I guess. Call off your ball-less dogs," she yelled, making a small smile tug at my lips.

  "Enough," I called, watching as their heads turned to me, almost disappointed that they had to sit and be quiet.

  All through this, Captain stayed seated beside the rocking chair - and her - head lifted, ears up, alert, but determined to stay exactly where he was.

  "I brought danishes," she told us, pulling a backpack off her shoulders, digging inside for the white bakery bag. "Cheese ones. Because fruit in desserts is disgusting. Now, excuse me for a second. I have to pee."

  Miller was not what anyone would call high maintenance. Her job demanded she be adaptive to all kinds of living conditions. From luxury hotels to a hovel in the woods during a Russian winter.

  But she had one rule.

  She didn't pee outside.

  Case closed.

  Which meant the entire team eventually learned how to throw together a composting toilet on the fly.

  "I need coffee," she called from the closed bathroom door. "After making me trek all the way in here, that is the least you can do. Well, that and tell me there are baby goats to play with."

  "Coffee I can do. Too early for goats. Got two pregnant ones, though," I called back.

  "So, what you're saying is I need to take another trip out in a month or two," she declared, moving into the kitchen with me. "She's almost catatonic," she mumbled, jerking her chin toward the front of the house where, I imagined, the rocking chair was still occupied.

  "Told you she was off. What?" I asked, watching as her dark eyes went thoughtful.

  "Dunno. Just interesting, I guess."

  "What is?"

  "The way trauma affects people. I wonder if she started remembering," she added, glancing over to me filling a pot with water to boil. "You know they make coffee machines now, right? Automatic. Keeps the coffee hot for hours. Or, you know, for your antisocial ass - single-serve machines."

  "Bad for the environment."

  "They do make reusable pods now, you know," she told me with an eye roll. "This way takes forever."

  "You can w
ait five minutes for a cup of coffee. Sure you do it when you get coffee to go."

  "Five minutes? In Navesink Bank?" She snorted at that. "You're lucky if you get out of She's Bean Around in half an hour some days. Though, an argument could be made for the frequent, out of the blue dance parties from the employees slowing down the service a bit."

  "So what are you bitching about then?"

  "Has she eaten?" she asked.

  Miller was always an interesting conversationalist. She could veer off the main topic for forty minutes, filling the air with anecdotes and a healthy heaping of sarcasm, then just as suddenly jump around to the point once again. If you weren't used to it, it could give you whiplash.

  "Little bits of things. She's small though."

  "And you're probably giving her a mountain man portion. So long as something is going in. As soon as you're done making Little House on the Prairie coffee, we will go out and offer her a danish. I know you don't usually have anything sweet around here. And most girls I know have a sweet tooth. Especially when they're not feeling great. Hopefully, she will eat that up. She was drinking the coffee."

  "Doesn't seem to perk her up at all," I mumbled, taking the pot off the stove, pouring it over the grounds.

  "Coffee stopped perking me up when I was sixteen. But I'm assuming she doesn't take it black. So sugar and milk is at least some more calories. Do you think she'll take her medicine?"

  "Maybe. If I put it down next to a meal or something. She doesn't eat when I'm around."

  "I'm guessing you haven't gotten a look at the cut, right?"

  "No. She hasn't been up much."

  "It looked clean at the hospital. No redness or anything."

  "Did she get bad news at the hospital?" I asked, not entirely sure it was my business to ask.

  "She was, ah, not really there during the exam. Like she is now. Zoned out. She didn't seem to hear anything while I was still there. But maybe she asked after."

  "So, that's a yes."

  "It's a maybe? I don't know about her life. If she has a boyfriend or a fuck buddy or anything. There was activity, but they called in inconclusive."