The Last House on Needless Street

is Lulu? Where are the answers that are her due? Dee screams out her horror and her sorrow. But her screams are no louder than papery whispers against the patter of rain. Her cheek is cold. She is lying on the forest floor, slick with rain. Her arm is swollen dark and heavy as a block of stone. I’m dying, she thinks. I just wanted there to be some kind of justice in the world.
As her vision clouds to black and her heart slows, she thinks she feels the lightest touch on her head. She seems to catch the scent of sunscreen, warm hair, sugar. ‘Lulu,’ she tries to say, ‘I’m sorry,’ but her heart stops beating and Dee is gone.
The thing that was once Dee lies far from any trail. The can of yellow spray paint is still held in what was her hand, swollen black with venom.
The birds and the foxes come, the coyotes, bears and rats. What was Dee feeds the earth. Her scattered bones sink into the rich changing humus. No ghost walks under the spreading trees. What’s done is done.

Ted
I am not dead, I can tell, because there is a strand of spaghetti on the green tile floor. What happens after death may be bad or good but there won’t be spilled spaghetti. The white hospital bed is hard, the walls are scuffed, and everything smells like lunch. The man is looking at me. The light glints on his orange-juice hair. ‘Hi,’ he says.
‘Where’s the woman?’ I ask. ‘The neighbour lady? She was saying the girl’s name. She was sick.’ Her arm looked snake-bit. I think she used the kit from my bag, but everyone knows those kits don’t do anything. I don’t know why I carry it. The memories are very confused, but there was something wrong with the neighbour lady – inside and out.
‘You were alone when I found you,’ he says. The man stares at me and I stare back. How are you supposed to talk to the person who saved your life?
‘How did you find me?’ I ask.
‘Someone had been blazing young trees with yellow paint. I’m a park ranger up in King County, so I didn’t like that. It’s toxic. I followed the trail, to tell them to stop. The dog got a blood scent. That was you.’
The doctor comes and the orange-haired man goes into the hall, out of earshot. The doctor is young, tired-looking.
‘You seem better. Let’s take a look.’ He does everything gently. ‘I want to ask you about the pills they found with you,’ he says.
‘Oh,’ I say, anxiety settling on me like a cloak. ‘I need them. They keep me calm.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘I’m not sure about that. Did a doctor prescribe them?’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘He gave them to me in his office.’
‘I don’t know where your doctor got them – but I would stop taking them, if I were you. They stopped manufacturing these pills about ten years ago. They have extreme side effects. Hallucinations, memory loss. Some people experience rapid weight gain. I am happy to recommend an alternative.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I won’t be able to afford that.’
He sighs and sits on the bed, which I know they’re not supposed to do. Mommy would have been upset. But he looks exhausted, so I don’t say anything. ‘It’s tough,’ he says. ‘There’s not enough support or funding. But I’ll bring you the forms. You might be eligible for aid.’ He hesitates. ‘It’s not just the medication that concerns me. There is a great deal of burn scarring on your back, legs and arms. There are also many scars from sutured incisions. That would normally indicate many hospitalisations in childhood. But your medical records don’t reflect that. They don’t seem to reflect any medical intervention at all.’ He looks at me and says, ‘Somebody should have caught this. Somebody should have stopped what was being done to you.’
It never before occurred to me that Mommy could have been stopped. I consider. ‘I don’t think they could have,’ I say. But it’s nice that it matters to him.
‘I can give you the name of someone who can go over your medical history in detail, someone you can talk to about … what happened. It’s never too late.’
He sounds unsure and I understand why. Sometimes it is too late. I think I finally understand the difference between now and then. ‘Maybe some other time,’ I say. ‘Right now I’m kind of tired of therapy.’
He looks like he wants to say more but he doesn’t, and I’m so grateful to him for that that I just start crying.
The orange-haired man brings me a toothbrush from the gift shop, sweatpants, a T-shirt and some underwear. It’s kind of embarrassing that he bought me underwear, but I need it. All my clothes were ruined by blood.
Doctors come and give me the stuff that makes the world go underwater. It keeps the others in here quiet, too. For the first time in many years, there is silence. But I know that they are there. We all move gently in and out of time.
Through the window I can see tall buildings, gleaming in the sun. I feel how far I am from the forest. I ask to have the window open, but the nurse says no, that the heatwave is over. This part of the world is returning to its cool, deep-green self. I feel like I’m coming home after a war.
The nurses are nice to me, amused. I’m just some clumsy guy who slipped and fell on his hunting knife, early one morning in the woods.
The orange-haired man is still here when I wake again. It should be weird, having a stranger in the room. But it isn’t. He is a peaceful person.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asks.
‘Better,’ I say. And it’s true.
‘I have to ask,’ he says. ‘Did you really slip on that knife, or not? There was something in your eyes while I