Well, I thought about your suggestion, Doc, and I’m not sold. I know no one is actually trying to harm me, it’s all in my head, so making a list of anyone who might want to seems goofy as all get-out. Tell you what I will do, though. The next time I’m feeling paranoid, I’ll make a mental list, and when I can’t think of a single name to put on it I’ll feel like a dumbass, which beats feeling paranoid.
The blue scarf you’re wearing looks great with your eyes, by the way. You’re pretty stylish for an older woman, you know, with your black turtlenecks and long fitted skirts. A classy look—no, streamlined. Like you don’t have time for bullshit, even when it comes to your clothes. I’ve always tended to dress conservatively, the exact opposite of Mom’s style—Hollywood House wife. But Christina, who was my personal shopping guru, had been trying to coax me out into the light before I was abducted.
Poor girl wasn’t having much luck with me, though. I generally avoided shopping, especially in the fancy stores she liked. My favorite suit was the result of an accidental walking-by-the-store-window-I-have-to-have-it moment. If there was an event I had to go to, I just headed over to Christina’s house. She’d bounce around, ripping things out of her closet, draping me with scarves and necklaces, telling me how pretty I looked in this dress or that color. She loved doing it and I loved having someone decide for me.
She was really generous with her hand-me-downs, too—Christina got bored with clothes the week after she bought them—and a lot of my wardrobe was made up of her cast-offs. That’s why I still can’t figure out why I got so pissed at her for trying to give me clothes when I got back from the mountain.
When I found out Mom had gotten rid of all my clothes, I loaded up at the Goodwill. Man, you should have seen the look on Mom’s face when she saw the oversized jogging suits and sweatpants I brought home. I didn’t care what color anything was, it just had to be soft and warm-looking, the baggier the better.
Running around up there in all those girlie dresses The Freak liked made me feel so exposed. One thing you can say for the way I dress now: nobody’s tempted to look underneath.
Luke called Sunday morning and asked if I wanted to get together and take the dogs for a walk. The first word out of my mouth was No! Before I could soften my reply with a reason—believable or otherwise—he launched into a rundown on something going on at the restaurant.
The thought of seeing him again terrified me. What if he tried to touch me and I pulled back again? I couldn’t stand to see that hurt look in his eyes a third time. What if he didn’t try to touch me? Would that mean he didn’t care anymore? Now that I’d said no I wondered if he’d suggest a walk again—I wasn’t sure if I’d feel any braver next time but I knew I didn’t want him to stop asking. When I did finally drag my butt outside to take Emma for a walk I couldn’t stop thinking about Luke and wondering what it would have been like if he was with me.
The next morning, instead of camouflaging myself with yet another shapeless jogging suit, I carried up from the basement the box of clothes Christina had dropped off on my doorstep months ago. I didn’t realize until I checked out the faded jeans and sage-colored sweater in a mirror how long it had been since I’d looked in one.
It’s not like I’d put on a slinky dress—the jeans were a relaxed fit and the sweater wasn’t tight—but I couldn’t remember the last time I chose something because I liked the color, or put on anything even hinting at curves. For a second, staring in the mirror at the stranger wearing Christina’s clothes, I almost saw the shadow of the girl I used to be, and it freaked me out so much I wanted to tear off all the clothes. But Emma—anxious for her morning walk—whined at my heels, and I left them on. I don’t care what she looks like, and she doesn’t care what I look like.
Emma stayed at my mom’s while I was missing—definitely not my first choice and it sure wouldn’t have been Emma’s. Later, I found out Luke and a couple of my friends offered to take her but my mom said no. When I asked her why she took Emma, she said, “What was I supposed to do with her? Can you imagine what people would’ve said if I’d given her away?”
Poor dog got so excited when she first saw me she started dribbling pee—she’s never done that, even as a puppy—and shaking so hard I thought she was having a seizure. When I squatted down to hug her, she shoved her head into my chest and whined for the longest time, telling me all her woes. And she had a right to complain. For one thing, she was tied up to the Japanese maple tree in Mom’s backyard, and Emma had never been tied up in her life. Mom said she’d been digging in her garden beds. No doubt—she probably thought she’d landed in dog hell and was trying to dig her way out.
Judging by Emma’s long toenails, the last year of her life had mostly been spent tied to that tree. Her fur was matted and her beautiful glossy eyes were dull. On the porch I found a bag of food—the cheapest crap you could buy—and it smelled moldy.
This dog used to sleep with me every night and I walked her two, sometimes three times a day. She had every dog toy and treat ever manufactured, the softest bed in case she got too hot to sleep with me, and I planned my workdays so she never had to be alone for too long.
Furious at the way she’d been treated, I wanted to say something, but I’d just come back, and if being around people was like crawling uphill through mud, then talking to Mom was like crawling uphill wearing a heavy backpack. Besides, what could I have said? “Hey, Mom, next time I’m abducted you don’t get my dog”?
After I finally got back to my place Emma preferred being outside, but it only took a couple of days for her to remember the good life and she’s probably on my couch drooling all over the cushions right now. Her fur is back to shiny gold and her eyes are once again full of life. She’s not the same dog as before, though. She stays a lot closer to me on walks than she used to, and if she does forge ahead, she comes back every few minutes to check on me.
I don’t think Mom meant to hurt my dog, and if I accused her of cruelty she’d be shocked. She didn’t raise her fist to Emma—not that I know of, anyway, but I doubt she would. But she didn’t give her any love for a year, and as far as I’m concerned that’s just as damaging as physical blows. Mom would never get that lack of affection is abuse.
After my baby died, I blocked out my grief by focusing on my hatred for The Freak as he forced me to continue with my daily routines like she’d never existed.
Late one morning after about a week of this, he went outside to chop wood in preparation for winter. I thought it was close to the end of July, but I wasn’t sure. Time only counts when you have a purpose. Sometimes I forgot to make a mark on the wall, but it didn’t matter—I knew I’d been there for almost a year, because when he opened the door I’d caught the scent of hot earth and warm fir trees, the same scents that filled the air on the day he took me.
While he cut wood, I was inside sewing some buttons on his shirt. I kept sneaking little glances at the baby’s basket, but then I’d see her blanket hanging neatly over the side where he’d placed it and jab the needle into my finger instead of the fabric.
After about twenty minutes he came back inside and said, “I have a job for you.”
The only other time he’d asked for my help was with the deer, and as he motioned for me to follow him outside, nerves made my legs go rubbery. Still gripping the shirt and with my hand holding the needle suspended in the air, I stared at him. His flushed face glowed with a fine sheen of sweat—I couldn’t tell whether it was from anger or exertion, but his voice was neutral when he spoke.
“Come on, we don’t have all day.” While I followed him out to a pile of large fir rounds, he said over his shoulder, “Now, pay attention. Your job is to pick up the pieces as I split them and stack them over there.” He pointed to a neat stack that came halfway up the side of the cabin.
Once in a while, when I was inside the cabin and he was outside, I heard the sound of a chain saw running, but I couldn’t see any fresh stumps at the edge of our clearing or any drag marks. A wheel
barrow leaned against the pile where he was chopping, so I figured he must have felled a tree in the forest and wheeled the bigger blocks in to be split into smaller pieces.
The pile was only about twelve feet from the stack. Seemed to me it would be easier to either chop the tree up into smaller pieces where he’d cut it down, or at least wheel the bigger blocks right next to where they had to be stacked. Just like with the deer, something told me this was him showing off.
I hadn’t been outside much since the baby died, and as I carried wood to the stack my eyes searched for any evidence of recently disturbed dirt. I didn’t find any, but I was only able to give the river a quick glance before memories of my baby on her blanket in the sun overwhelmed me.
After we’d been working for about an hour, I deposited an armload in the stack and came to stand a couple of feet behind him until he finished swinging the axe and it was safe for me to pick up more. He’d taken his shirt off and his back glistened with sweat. He paused for a breather, his back to me and the axe resting on his shoulder.
“We can’t let this distract us from our ultimate goal,” he said. “Nature has a plan.” What the hell was he talking about? “But so do I.” The shiny blade of the axe lifted high in the air. “It was better we found out early that she was weak.”
Then I got it, and my frozen heart shattered in my chest. He continued chopping, emitting one little grunt with each downswing, talking in between strokes.
“The next one will be stronger.”
Next one.
“It’s not quite six weeks, but you’re healed, so I’m going to let you get pregnant early. We’ll start tonight.”
I stood perfectly still, but a loud screaming began in my head. There were going to be more babies. It was never going to end.
The silver of the axe flashed in the bright sun as he lifted it over his shoulder for the next swing.
“No response, Annie?”
I was saved from having to answer when his axe got caught halfway through a piece of wood. He used his foot to pry the axe out, then leaned it against the woodpile to his right. With his foot braced on one side of the block, which shifted his body slightly away from the axe, he bent down and tried to break the split apart by hand.
Treading softly, I came up behind him on his right—the side angled away. I could have reached over and flicked one of the beads of sweat off his back. He grunted as his hands fought with the wood.
“Ouch!”
I held my breath as he brought his finger to his mouth and sucked at a sliver. If he turned, we’d be face-to-face.
He bent over again and resumed his struggle with the wood. Keeping my body directly behind him and facing the same direction, I focused my gaze on his back for the slightest sign he was about to turn, then reached for the axe. My hands caressed the warm smooth wood handle, still slick from his sweat, and curled over it in a tight grip. The weight of it felt right and solid as I lifted it up and brought it to rest on my shoulder.
His voice straining with effort, he said, “We’ll have another one by spring.”
I lifted the axe high.
I screamed, “Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!” as I sank it into the back of his head.
It made the strangest sound, a wet thunk.
For a few seconds his body stayed bent, then he fell over facedown with both of his arms and the wood underneath him. He twitched a couple of times, then stilled.
Shaking with rage, I leaned over his body and yelled, “Take that, you sick fuck!”
The forest was quiet.
Leaving a red trail in his blond curls, blood rolled down the side of his head, hit the dry ground with a plop, plop, plop, made a rapidly spreading pool, and stopped plopping.
I waited for him to turn around and hit me, but as the seconds turned to minutes my heart rate settled down and I was able to take a few deep breaths. The cut hadn’t split his head wide open or anything, but the blond hair around the axe head—embedded halfway into his skull—was a glistening mass of scarlet, and some of the hair seemed to have gone into the cut. A fly landed and crawled around in the wound, then two more landed.
Walking backward to the cabin on weak legs, I hugged my trembling body with my arms. My eyes were mesmerized by the axe handle reaching toward the sky and the crimson halo surrounding his head.
Safe inside the cabin, I ripped off my sweaty dress, then ran the shower until it was so hot it almost scalded my skin. Shaking violently, I sat down in the back of the tub, tucked my knees under my chin, and wrapped my arms tight around them to stop the muscle spasms. The water thundered down on my bowed head in a fiery baptism while I rocked myself and tried to comprehend what I’d done. My mind couldn’t grasp that he was really dead. Someone like him should have taken a silver bullet, a cross, and a stake through the heart to die. What if he wasn’t dead? I should have felt for a pulse. What if he was making his way back to the cabin right now? Despite the hot shower, I shivered.
Expecting him to jump out at me, I slowly opened the bathroom door and sent steam billowing out into the empty room. Slowly picked the dress off the floor and pulled it over my head. Slowly made my way to the cabin door. Slowly placed my ear against the cool metal. Silence.
I tested the knob, praying the door hadn’t locked behind me. It turned. I opened the door just an inch and peeked through. His body was still in the exact same position in the middle of the clearing, but the sun had shifted and the handle of the axe cast a shadow like a sundial.
My legs tense in case I had to break into a run, I snuck up on him. Every couple of steps I paused and strained my eyes and ears for any sounds or the slightest movement. When I finally got up to him, his body looked awkward with his arms under him, and the position made him seem smaller.
Holding my breath, I reached around his neck, on the opposite side of the blood river, and checked for a pulse. He was dead.
I backed away slowly, then sat on the porch in one of the rocking chairs and tried to figure out my next step. Keeping beat with every creak of the chair, my mind repeated the words, He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.
In the hot summer afternoon the clearing was idyllic. The river, calm without spring’s heavy rains, was a soft hum, and the occasional robin, swallow, or blue jay warbled. The only sign of violence was the buzz of the rapidly growing mass of flies that coated his wound and the pool of blood. His words tripped through my reverie: Nature has a plan.
I was free but I didn’t feel free. As long as I could see him, he still existed. I had to do something with the body. But what?
The temptation to set the son of a bitch on fire was huge, but it was summer, the clearing was dry, and I didn’t want to start a forest fire. Digging through the dry, compact ground to bury him would be next to impossible. But I couldn’t just leave him there. Even though I’d confirmed he was well and truly dead, my mind refused to accept that he couldn’t hurt me anymore.
The shed. I could lock him in the shed.
Back at his body, I tilted him slightly to the side and searched his front pockets for the keys. With my teeth clamped over the ring, I gripped both of his ankles—then dropped them quickly when I felt his warm skin. I don’t know how long it takes a body to cool down, and he was lying in the sun, but it scared me enough that I checked his pulse a second time.
Grabbing hold of his ankles again and ignoring their warmth, I tried to drag him backward, but I was only able to move him enough that his body slid off the log round, and when it hit the ground, the axe handle in his head wobbled. I fought the bile rising in my throat, turned my back to him, and tried to pull him that way. I was only able to move him a foot before I had to stop and take a breath—my dress was already damp, and sweat dripped into my eyes. Even though the shed wasn’t far away, it might as well have been on the other side of the clearing. Casting my eye around for an alternative, I spied the wheelbarrow.
I rolled it over to his body and braced myself for the sensation of his skin touch
ing mine. With my eyes averted from the axe, I gripped him by his upper arms and managed to pull them out from under his body. Eyes still averted, I grasped him under the armpits and with my heels dug into the ground threw my whole body into trying to haul him up—I could only move him a few inches. I straddled his back and tried to pick him up from around the waist, but I was only able to get him up a foot before my arms began to shake from the exertion. The only way he was getting in that wheelbarrow was if he came back to life and climbed into it himself.
Wait. If I had something to roll his body onto, something that would slide across the ground, I might be able to drag him. The rug under the bed wasn’t smooth enough. I hadn’t noticed a tarp near the woodpile, but he had to have one somewhere, maybe in the shed.
After trying five keys on his monster key chain, I was able to open the padlock. It took a while because my hands were shaking like a burglar’s on his first job.
I half expected to see the deer still hanging from the ceiling, but there was no sign of it, and on a shelf above the freezer I found an orange tarp. Unfolding it near his body, I considered how I was going to roll him over onto the tarp with the axe in his head.
Damn. It was going to have to come out.
With my hands wrapped around the handle, I closed my eyes and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. I tried a bit more force, and the sensation of flesh and bone resisting as they let go of their prize had me gagging. It had to be done fast. With my foot braced against the base of his neck, I shut my eyes tight, took a deep breath, and wrenched the axe out. I dropped it, bent over, and dry-heaved.
Once my stomach settled down, I knelt beside his body, on the opposite side of the blood, and rolled him onto the tarp. He fell onto his back, glassy blue eyes staring up at the sky, a smear of blood on the orange tarp arcing out from his head. His face had already paled and his mouth was slack.
With quick fingers I closed his eyelids—not out of respect for the dead but because I thought of all the times I’d had to force myself to look at them. Now, in a few seconds, I’d fixed it so I’d never have to see those eyes again.