CHAPTER XVII
"The demo equipment delivery will come attached to your next train of crews," an accented voice speaks out of the speaker box.
Although I have been up in the tree for the last two hours, I feel at ease as I listen in on yet another "Strategic Planning" video call from the Unit to the Capitol. The coolness of winter has passed, and with the arrival of April, mildness has settled into the air. Combined with the bright stars of this cloudless night, it makes for a peaceful hideaway.
Earlier, the local team debriefed the others on the complete retrieval and burial of our fallen citizens. The Meadow is now their permanent resting place. Samson had mentioned that with the completion of that work, many of the first crew left to return to their homes. Twenty men decided to stay for the next phase of the rebuild and about thirty fresh workers arrived a few days ago to assist in preparations for demolition. An additional influx of manpower is expected to arrive within week.
"How many were you able to get?" asks Vern from the back of the room.
"You will have sixty-five workers on the next train. Is the dormitory ready for inhabitants?" Daven, the blacksmith's son is the one who steps forward to answer, "Yes, those prefab walls went up in only a day – it was an impressive sight – and we got furniture in two days ago. We'll have plenty of room."
The new building looks like a large cabin, simple and natural. It sits outside the gates of the Village so, I assume, they can be near to the other houses and of course the food. The pieces of the building were pre-built in District 7 and, if what Sam says is true, all the workers had to do was put it together like a puzzle.
"So we'll be to totaling around 120 on call. Should be enough," Max's military voice notes authoritatively. I try to ignore the anxiety that thought brings me. The number of people here will have doubled. Twice as many strangers to hide away from and more will follow.
"With the workforce and equipment on hand, the remaining structures should be razed in ten to fifteen days. The new crews for construction should be on standby for an arrival on the 15th. I'd recommend a total labor force around 150 until we have the infrastructure for more."
I've grown to easily recognize the voices of the core unit. Of course Thom, Oakley, and the Waylands are familiar, however, after my recurring listening missions, the other four are old friends at this point. I know the last to speak was Kelvin, with his precise and monotone delivery. You can always count on Kelvin to stick to the facts. Very economic.
"We'll plan accordingly," a voice from the Capitol confirms. President Paylor's voice says, "I'd like to go over the current design proposals from the architects. Thom, as you have been closest to those conversations, will you take the lead?" He replies, "Yes, Madam President. Kelvin, can you put up the drawings for everyone?" I'm surprised that Thom has been so involved with the designers. With his miner's personality, I expected he'd be out with the manual workers not locked up in meetings with Plutarch's city architects. Although his presence seems out of place, it's encouraging that he is there. Someone needs to prevent Plutarch and company from going too far off the rails.
"The linear 'main street' city shape will be replaced with a semicircular design with radiating interconnected spokes. This is intended to create a feeling of inclusion and unity as well as an easy format for the building schedule. At its apex will be the new municipal buildings and train terminal. Shops and residences will be spread across the various spokes instead of clustered disproportionately. This structure has the added benefit of developing in phases and also will not require all of the rebuild to take place on the demolished district footprint. You'll see on this drawing, that forty percent of the former district is outside the parameters of the current city plan which will assist in meeting the mid-summer goals that the administration is aiming for. Construction can occur in these other segments at a later time if the population expands."
"Where are law enforcement headquarters? I don't see it on the map, and it's got to be a priority. Thom, we've discussed this many times," I clench my stomach at the gruff voice of my former hunting partner. I guess that answers the unspoken question of where he's been. The voice is unmistakably his, but something about it sounds off. It's cold and tinted with a superior imperiousness that sets me on edge. Who have you become, Gale Hawthorne? Your mother would be dragging you out by your ears if she heard you using that tone. The boy who was ready to stage an ill-planned coup against the Peacekeepers is now asserting their preeminence over other district concerns.
If I've learned anything, it's that people change and yet somehow remain the same. For Gale, his new position of authority may put him on a different side of the issue, but he is still the same boy strategizing on how to defeat his opponents and amass more power. I can picture him as a toddler trying to build the most intimidating blanket fort possible and arming himself with toy block grenades. Was that what I was to him? Was I a declared territory he was warding off from intruders? No, no that can't be. No, I know there was more there, a deeper kinship between us.
"We understand that, Captain Hawthorne-" Thom begins but is cut off by Gale, "Then let's fix this now, Thom. We don't have the time to waste delaying this conversation." Thom pauses, and then calmly answers, "As you'll see on the next image, law enforcement will be located at the town apex along with other important district buildings like schools, medical, and mental health facilities." Thom's reply is more patient than I anticipated but his scorn in clear by the tone in reminding Gale of the other things important to citizens' well-being such as education and health.
Paylor tries to move on from the awkwardness in the room. They discuss the public interest in resettling and opening businesses in the new district. Then, they discuss the potential trades and various landmarks that will feature in each of the radiating roads. Most have yet to be determined but there is an obvious priority to make places where the community can gather socially. It's hard to imagine. Outside of required gatherings related to the Games, that is a foreign concept in 12.
Victors Village will be renamed but will remain as government-owned properties with the exception of the homes of the living Victors. Well at least Haymitch, Peeta, and I won't be looking at eviction. We will, however, always have neighbors connected to the government. Not an appealing thought.
Plutarch begins to suck up all the air in the room as he pontificates on his new vision. It's clear that some of his grander ideas were originally in the city plans but were overridden along the way. However, as always, he is as unrattled as ever, realigning to appear to be the master puppeteer. Once a Gamemaker, always a Gamemaker.
After another fifteen minutes of updates and reminders, the meeting begins to wrap up. I close my notebook expectantly but then hear Plutarch's voice call out, "Before we sign off, can we get an update on the Mockingjay?"
He just couldn't let the opportunity pass, could he? I thought they banished me to 12 to be forgotten. And why must he insist on calling me that? I suppose to him, I will always be the icon first, the Mockingjay or the Girl on Fire. Simple Katniss Everdeen is not exciting enough for his taste.
Thom diplomatically replies when it is obvious no one else will step forward. "What exactly are you looking for, sir? She hasn't caused any trouble with the workmen." Plutarch huffs with frustration, "You know I don't mean that. What does she look like, what is she up to? Our citizens are desperate for details and I've been told I can't send out a film crew. There must be something, man!"
I dread what ideas float through Plutarch's head as he imagines what my life is like here in 12. Does he imagine a fantasy of a luxurious retreat in my finest banquet gown or does he salivate over the drama of the nervous breakdown of a haggard war torn girl. Either would get him excellent ratings, I imagine. Both turn my stomach.
Oakley's voice takes advantage of the opening, "Our Katniss is as lovely as ever." A few of the men in the room snort at that. He delivered it with such reverence even I want to laugh. Oakley may be a flirt, but this is him putting on a show for a bit of mischief. "My dreams are filled with thoughts of her tending her garden all day long." Another round of snorts and chuckles erupt, and I feel my cheeks redden in embarrassment. Damn it Oakley, too far.
"Garden?!" I hear Gale's voice sneer, "Get your dreams in check, Oakley. There's no way Catnip is skipping about picking flowers all day."
I try not to feel embarrassed by his comment. I'm not some Delly-like princess frolicking about. I'm gardening. It makes me feel better. I can be of use to Sae. I'm gardening to keep my hands busy and my mind distracted. I'm gardening vegetables and fruits and herbs. Sure, some may be flowers, but they are good, strong flowers. How does he have the power to make me feel so inferior with just a few words?
The laughter has stopped. His derision seems to cause a shift in the room.
"Well, well, well Captain Hawthorne, your information must be out of date. I can assure you my dreams are perfectly straight. And by the look of all the delivered supplies that Thom personally carried for her, Katniss' hands are being kept plenty busy." His words may be playful but his voice is challenging. And no doubt, he is enjoying how the double meaning that his words could be misconstrued. Honestly, if he wasn't so harmless I'd punch him in the face.
"Gardening!" Plutarchs cheers. "There's my Mockingjay! What an image for a new era! Planting forget-me-nots to never forget the fallen, trading violence for violets! She is literally growing new life from the remains of 12! GAH! That girl always makes my job so easy. I swear, you can't write it! Excuse me I must make some calls. Gardening!"
They end the video call quickly, likely to avoid any more off-topic conflicts between the younger men on the group. Old man Wayland's voice is the first to speak. His voice sounds full mirth, "You put on quite a show there, Oaks. Enjoy yourself?"
"Not as much as I would if I could smack that smug little smirk off his face. How were we ever friends?" He deepens his voice and attempts to impersonate Gale's new government persona, "Then let's fix this now, Thom." The room of men laugh and Max's voice compliments Thom, "You handled that well, son. You stayed calm when he tried to bait you, didn't back down, but responded respectfully and accurately."
"Thanks, Max," he replies softly, "he doesn't make it easy sometimes."
The richly low voice of Vern asks, "There a story there?"
Thom seems wary to go into details but I, like the others, would really like to know what caused the hostility. Oakley offers, "I mean, we were neighbors and worked on the same crew, but I never liked the guy. Thom was closer with him. You know, he kept Katniss from making friends with anyone else but him. Then he'd rub all our faces in it. That grudge might just be my own. Really it's about how things went down during the rebellion. Oh come on Thom, it's not some big secret."
"It's nothing really. He just changed once the war started," Thom abates. "Oh that's generous," Oakley interrupts. "The man turned into an absolute ass. Strutting about 13, kissing that creepy Coin woman's ass and using his connection with Katniss to leverage his own promotions. He left all us normal folk from 12 behind to join the "Star Squad" and act the hero. And he got, I don't know - how'd you describe it Thom?"
"Malicious." The word is said with precision as if he has stayed up at night trying to properly identify it. "We all hated the Capitol. We were more than ready to fight, but he was… bloodthirsty. Everything was black or white. He showed no sympathy and constantly ranted about Peeta being a traitor. He thought everyone who wasn't with us was against us, and needed to be removed permanently."
"Ah, I've seen those in the field," Max consolingly. "War brings out a lot of the ugly in people."
"I don't know if he didn't think we'd ever catch wind, but once we all heard that it was his plan to collapse the Nut and take no survivors most of us Seam folk lost our respect for him," Oakley adds. And Thom explains, "Every person from the Seam has lost kin to a mine collapse, Gale included. Hell, most of us spent every day sure that there'd be another cave in or explosion and that would be the day we would die in the dark gasping for air. None of us would wish that fate on another person, even our enemies." He sighs heavily no doubt trying to push out the memories of the mines.
"One of the widows from 12 was on cleaning duty in the 13 Command offices when she overheard the whole comm broadcast from their meeting. Gale openly wanted to kill every man, woman, and child in that mountain, innocent or not, ally or not. And our Katniss, she tried to reason with him, tried to explain why the idea of it was so unimaginable and thankfully they at least left an escape tunnel open."
"That level of hate is toxic," Kelvin's voice says softly. And I know it's the truth, because Kelvin spoke the words. And Kelvin only speaks in facts.
I leave after that, not wanting to hear any more. I lived it once, and it was bad enough the first time. It was like being complicit it my own father's death. Now with a mind un-muddled by morphling, it is all the more heinous. As I walk back to my house, my head feels over-full and eyes feel heavy. I'm ready to crawl into bed to forget all this day has drudged up. Sometimes I wonder if the knowledge we gain from my little jaunts are worth all the trouble.
As I walk through the back door, I nearly jump out of my skin when the blaring ring of the telephone greets me. At this hour, it must be Effie. I have been waiting for an update for the last few days, and although exhausted, I don't want to miss my opportunity to finally get one.
"Katniss, darling, I am so pleased I caught you. I tried ringing earlier and you weren't around, but I just had to try again!" Effie's voice tinkles out like crystals through the handset. "Oh I have so much to tell you, I don't know where I could possibly begin. How many days has it been since we last spoke – it feels like weeks! You know, despite the incompetents I must contend with, I am rather enjoying myself. I haven't felt this useful since your Victory Tour." She puffs, "However, I have to tell you, I have yet to find a single person with any sense of style. I think, perhaps they are all so inept because of their dangerously low thread counts."
I have yet to get in a single word. I imagine Effie could have this entire conversation by herself, without any contributions from me. But I should probably help her along or we'll be here all night.
"I am thankful you're there, Effie. Last we spoke you had arrived and they weren't letting you-." She cuts in, "Oh those fools, what were they thinking!? The thought that they would stop me from seeing my Peeta is complete poppycock." I do not miss the possessive use of "my" that she now uses when speaking of Peeta.
"Absolute nonsense! They quickly learned that there is no length an Escort won't go for her Victor. You know Katniss, I think you might have rubbed off a smidge on me. Some of these hirelings seem absolutely terrified of me now, some have even tried to outrun me!"
What a mental picture. Thankfully I never taught Effie how to use a weapon. "I admit I may revel in the power of it all." She lets out a giggle that sounds innocent, but somehow sends chills down my spine, "Oh, Katniss, you should have seen it, their lumpy last season clogs clip-clopping across the foyer in retreat." And I've lost her again, granted my evening has improved with this newfound knowledge. I regret not getting to see it firsthand. Hell, even Haymitch would have enjoyed watching that performance.
"Have you seen Peeta?" I ask, intent on actually getting a useful update from this call. "Oh, I'm sorry, Katniss, you must be so worried and here I am dithering on and on. Yes, not only have I seen him, I've relocated both of us to a premiere set of rooms that much better suit our particular quality of life. I've done a bit of shopping, and I believe it will be rather charming by the time I'm done. I'm calling it health retreat chic."
"How is he?" I ask, ignoring the beginnings of her décor ramblings. "Is he okay with you being there with him?" I have been on edge, worried that her arrival might anger him or make things worse. A he added yet another count against me? It was a big risk to take and I made it quickly. Many times that impulsiveness works out well for me, but other times using a bit more thought wouldn't hurt.
"He was so pale, Katniss, he looked like he hadn't been allowed in the sun for months. He seemed tired and confused, not himself at all. Apparently that is a side effect of the medication he's on for his episodes. I assure you, I will be looking into everything they have him on. I have already reached out to some credible consultants and have put them on retainer. We'll let Peeta have much more of a say in his treatment from here on out.
"Honestly," she huffs angrily, "these doctors treat my sweet boy more like a science experiment than a person and he goes along trusting that they know best."
My blood boils at that. It takes very little to imagine their grotesque fascination in both his torture and his perseverance. I'm sure the science behind it is alluring to those who have no sympathy for what he's actually going through. None of them truly know how to help him recover; it was one of the few straight answers Plutarch ever gave me. There's no knowledge on hijacking ever being reversed, not even hints that it has been attempted. It would be quite the career-making achievement to be a part of the team that found a breakthrough and for the famous Victor Peeta Mellark no less.
"You'll stop them from taking advantage?" I ask to avoid the ruder curses I'd rather exclaim. "Oh, my dear, their lives have gotten exponentially more difficult since my arrival. If my plan proceeds as scheduled, by next Thursday they won't be able to sneeze without my knowledge and subsequent paperwork."
"I knew you were the right woman for the job," I admit. "Peeta is comfortable around you," I try to ask delicately, "no episodes?"
"It took a bit of time to convince him he wasn't hallucinating, but I think he may have mostly been teasing me. I think we took him by surprise is all. Poor thing was so desperate for some decent company." She stops, her voice deepening in its gravitas, "You were completely correct, Katniss, he was alone. And that is unacceptable." She sniffs, and I can perfectly picture her raising her nose into the air haughtily and fluttering her long lashes. "We sat and talked for hours and he slowly drifted back to a boy I could recognize. He kept asking if it was true that I would stay with him."
"Is there anything you need?" I ask unsure of what assistance she would ever consider accepting from me.
"Oh, you have become rather sweet, haven't you?" I automatically grimace in response. Me sweet? Never. "I can't think of anything at the moment. Oh!" she gasps. "I nearly forgot – one moment - let me pull out my notes." There's a gentle rustling and the sound of pages being flipped rapidly. "Peeta said, and I quote 'Tell Katniss that I received her colorful delivery and it's been brightening my day, but I hope to still receive my letters from her.' Isn't that just darling?" she chirps. "Now, I haven't seen whatever it is you sent him, he must be keeping it a secret, but oh, I couldn't wait to pass on his message."
I rub my pink cheeks shyly, worried of a betraying blush that Effie wouldn't even be able to see. A colorful delivery might be the kindest description of Effie Trinket I've ever heard. His veiled thank you for her arrival is enough to subdue my worry. And more letters? I'll have to work myself up to another one. I had assumed the one letter would cover all of my writing for the next year.
We say our goodbyes, a process that takes five minutes longer with Effie than it would any normal person. She has a lengthy checklist of tasks. She seems energized and focused by her duties, traits when not related to sending children to be slaughtered are much more impressive.
Her dedication does make me wonder whether she has any real friends or family. She seemed unconcerned with dropping everything and abandoning her life for an unknown period of time. I'd always pictured her life outside the Games being full of large Capitolite gatherings overflowing in food and frivolity, but maybe that was more my prejudice than reality. It hits me that, besides my remaining prep team, few fellow escorts and stylists survived the war. And her family… well, I can't remember her once mentioning them.
My dreams that night are full of sharp needles, white rooms, and the sound of tracker jackers buzzing in my ears. Peeta, strapped to a hospital bed wrists bleeding from his restraints but eyes dead and empty, too tired or too medicated to fight anymore. When we spoke of dying for each other in the Quell, neither of us imagined this. A quick or violent death sure, but this, I know I was never worth this kind of torture.
There was a reason I grabbed that syringe when I thought the Capitol had retrieved us from the Arena. Like what my father taught me when hunting, there is such thing as a noble death. And I knew, Snow had no honor. He was all barbarity and spectacle. A clean kill would not have satisfied. Like a cruel child, he took pleasure in watching the ants burn under his magnifying glass.
I wrap the quilt, Peeta's quilt, around my shoulders tightly. My breathing is shallow and uneven. Are my ribs too small for my chest? I think that might be the problem. Or maybe my heart is too big for it because it's beating so loud it practically echoes off the wall. My body shakes with such a force it feels as if I might vibrate into a pile of dust. Will that be what Sae finds in the morning, Peeta's quilt cradling nothing but a small pile of dust?
Somewhere deep inside my stampeding mind, I know this will pass. It will pass like it always does. My nightly hysteria, sometimes worse than this, sometimes better, but always there. There is too much darkness packed into my memories and my dreams seem to always open the box where I keep them tightly contained. In about twenty minutes the panic will subside and I can put my pieces back together and begin my day. It is just a part of life now.
I've set Sam up with all the tools he will need to construct his bow. Over the last several days, we have been gathering materials and I know I can't put it off any longer. Sam found and dried a handsome hazelnut wood for the stave and, last Wednesday, we were lucky enough to catch a wild turkey so he's got the feathers for fletching. Finally, yesterday, I took him out to the maple trees where he retrieved a bag full of fine straight-lined branches for arrows. I'll provide my stock of hemp fibers and sinew for him to twist into string. Ideally he'd harvest and treat these too, but it's the wrong season for the fibers and we won't be catching anything in the snare that wound have large enough tendons to be of use.
It's a cloudless afternoon, nothing but the blazing sun and a bright blue sky. Sam is suited up with thick gloves and eye protection as he hacks away at the hazelnut. He's making quick work of splitting the trunk in two, not needing much help from me other than supervision and guidance.
An hour later, he's decided which half will be his stave and I've shown him how to use the drawknife on some practice scraps. Once he's comfortable with the movements, I stop his practice. "Now look at the growth rings," I point out. "The lighter is brittle early wood, whereas the darker shade is the stronger flexible late summer wood. Which do you think is better for a bow?" I ask. "The strong bendy one, obviously," Sam replies, his brusqueness giving away his fatigue. I softly laugh, understanding his tone. "How about we take a break, eat some lunch." His arms are going to have a big workout later, he'll need to power-up.
After a hearty meal, I watch as Sam spends the next several hours smoothing out the back of the bow and moving on to the more exhausting task of taking a hatchet and removing wood from its sides and belly. While he's toiling, I've pulled out the plant book and a thick journal of my mother's medical notes that I discovered in the study.
As I flip the pages, I watch as her handwriting evolves. Towards the end, another script interrupts my mother's periodically. These are my Prim's musings from only a mere year or two ago. The ink feels fresh under my fingers as if it only dried moments ago. She was such a kind soul. She writes about her concerns for Haymitch, more specifically the effects of his drinking. She lists out ingredients like milk thistle and burdock for a tonic that might help his stomach and liver, although she admits that given the length of his drinking and its probable continuance, it wouldn't make a big difference.
Her thoughts are insightful and nuanced despite her age. Her brightness is on full display. I feel the profound sense of failure rise higher in my soul. She was on course to become the best healer Panem had ever seen.
I turn the pages until I arrive at the next section in her hand. Within the first few lines it is clear these are notes from injuries caused by Thread's whip. She describes Gale's condition upon arrival and what issues were the most threatening. She recounts my mother's care in detailed steps and references which prior pages contain the recipes for the concoctions used.
At the time, seeing the boy I once relied on and sought refuge with so torn to shreds, my mind was filled with nothing but worry and self-loathing. Of course, it was my fault. Snow had warned me. I couldn't see past the overall horror of it all. You also could only see out of one eye at the time, I remind myself. Now reading Prim's precise notes, I'm left with a much less emotional look at what those days were really like. I wonder if she was this clear headed when it was happening or if that came after some reflection.
I flip the pages, again looking for the next installment of her handwriting. I find it on two side-by-side pages. On the left, is a salve of some kind that, according to her jottings, she invented to assist in the chaffing Peeta was experiencing with his prosthetic. How did she know it was hurting? I vaguely recollect her begging me, one spring afternoon, to bring her back a bag full of comfrey, complete with its purple bell-shaped flowers and powerful roots. It must have been for this. She was looking to solve a problem I didn't even know existed.
On the reflecting page, is another recipe adapted from the salve. With many of the same ingredients, Prim was attempting to make a lotion for burns and scarring using her creation for Peeta as a starting place. According to her writings, after the Hob was set on fire she was worried and wanted to be prepared to help the next time something like that occurred. She had the purest heart, generous and kind. Two things I was so grateful could be bestowed to her in my stead. I always wished for her to be all the beautiful things I wasn't.
I scratch my neck where one of the more uncomfortable scars nags at me. The dried, puckered marks and seams litter my body and constantly remind me they are there by itching or sending phantom burning sensations. Looking at the ingredients, I know many of these are still on the shelves in the study. It doesn't look too hard to make. If my brilliant baby sister came up with it, maybe it will help. I trust her memories more than any doctor alive.
I pluck a leaf and mark the page before closing it. I'll want to return to this once I'm alone. For now, I interrupt Samson's strenuous efforts to provide some guidance. He's focused but too intense in his efforts. Without some intrusion he'll likely hack the beginnings of the bow into nothing but tinder. Now in its tillering phase, the bow needs lightening in the limbs to find balance between them. It needs to pull evenly and flexibly. The stiffness needs to be shaved off little by little and its equity checked continuously. By the end of the day, Samson's hand grips the beginnings of what will be a beautiful bow.
That night, I find myself clutching the healing journal close as I stare at the wall-to-wall shelves that line the north side of the study. The shelves were built to display hundreds of elegant leather bound books - a display of the Capitol's supreme intellectualism. Or more likely they wouldn't even be real books, just colorful pretend ones, beautiful and hollow, useful for nothing but decoration. But in 12, we are limited to our fifteen or so dilapidated books and handwritten accounts. They hardly count as a collection and won't make a dent in the shelf space. Instead, the ledges are filled with mismatched jars, boxes, and tins. Most are reused receptacles labeled and filled with my mother's precious supplies with a few exceptions where Capitol-purchased bottles store rarities. From raw herbs, to powders, to tinctures, she's alphabetized the lot impressively.
There are tools of her trade sharing a lower shelf. Her mortar and pestle, sieves, knives, hand grinder, measuring spoons, and a variety of bowls and small pots are polished and in immaculate condition, evidence of her care. When I returned from the first Games, she spent weeks locked away in the room. I rarely saw her outside of meals. While I was seeking any kind of comfort in my woods, she was here, avoiding her troubled daughter, seeking comfort in her herbs.
On the bottom shelf there are several baskets of clean linens and rolled cloths. Beside them are a large containers of carrier oils, alcohol, salts, and waxes that I ordered for her upon my return, using my Victor funds to try and please her in our new home. My eye is drawn to a strongbox tucked in the farthest corner and seemingly out of place. The bolt is undone and I pull the box off the shelf to investigate.
Lifting its heavy lid, I discover three boxes of delicate vials and a dangerous looking case of needles and syringes. Immediately repelled by the contents but yet drawn by the mystery of their appearance, I close and return the box. Some of these vials are certainly morphling and who knows what kind of miracle drug is in the others. These are not items even I could have simply purchased, they require connections. Connections like Madge's father had or maybe shadier connections for trading illegally. Either way, under Snow, having this box would have been a hanging offense. Its existence makes me both nervous and proud. There are little rebellions all around me, the marks of a proper Everdeen home.
Looking at my sister's notes, I select the required ingredients one by one, laying them out on the desk before me with tools and a shiny mixing bowl at the ready. The malodorous calendula and comfrey root tinctures are overwhelmed by the pleasant aroma of the lavender oil and ground chamomile. Once the aloe and honey are mixed, a lotion takes shape. Prim's notes don't leave exact measurements, instead providing recommendations for its texture and color. Looking at the bowl, I'm amazed at how easy and satisfying it was. A problem met with straightforward steps leading to an ultimate solution. It's a calming thing - uncomplicated, wonderfully uncomplicated.
I transfer the lotion into a jar using my fingers, and then rub what remains on the scars not currently covered by my large sweater. It glides on, soothing the itching defects upon contact. Before bed, I strip down and look at what is left of Katniss Everdeen. The emaciated creature has filled in ever so softly. I'm still gaunt and angular, with flesh savaged by a life filled with hunger and two years of trauma. But a month of consciously eating Sae's meals and forcing myself to work past the weaknesses of idled muscles, the girl reflected back at me at least begins to look human.
With fingers full of thick lotion, I caress every scar that mars my skin. I remember staring in fascination at the tattooed vines that Cressida had crawling up her neck and head. My scars are just as eye-catching but without the artistry. They are angry and red, licking up my back to leap up my neck and skittering down my arms like a spreading forest fire. I'm fortunate that I can carefully cover most with clothing. Even so, I've still caught people surreptitiously staring at my neck when my hair is tied back or my arms when my sleeves are pushed up. It's fine. It could have been so much worse. I deserve worse.
As I gently paint each mark in Prim's lotion, I feel a deep primal connection to my family. It's like a missing link between the past and the present, between the living and the dead.
I always shied away and let my mother and sister's close bond thrive together in their pursuits. I stood on the perimeters watching them dazzle, fending off the envy by wrapping myself in my father's attention. But I'm an apothecary's daughter as much as a woodman's. Pa and the Everdeens are with me every time I enter the forest, but my mother, sister, and maybe even the entire Culpeper line, are just as much with me whether mixing herbs in the study or cleaning festering sword wounds on a riverbank. I don't really know who I am, but I think this is an important part of what makes me me. I'm not certain of much, but I do know that there is a constant pull to care for those I hold dear, to protect them with my life. Whether with hunting or healing, I'm starting to realize, it makes no difference.