Mother Knows Best

by Kira Peikoff

  “What? You haven’t even started the protocol yet.”

  “I checked myself in voluntarily. I’m not a danger to anyone or myself, so no one can stop me from leaving.”

  “But you just had that massive panic attack. Why don’t you at least wait for the doctor?”

  “I don’t have time. My family could be in trouble.”

  “This is your illness talking. At least consult the doctor!”

  She might be right, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it get in the way of taking care of my girl. There’s no way I can work through my anxiety and PTSD issues if my family’s safety is in question. There’s no way I can stay here.

  I give her an impatient smile. “Thanks for your concern, but what I really want is my stuff back. And a cab.”

  “But it’s against medical advice.”

  “Are you going to get my things, or should I ask someone else?”

  “After last night, the attending won’t give you the green light to leave. You’re not ready.”

  “But you can’t legally keep me here. I’m a voluntary patient.”

  “Yeah, but the hospital could seek a court order to commit you,” she warns.

  Fear bristles in my chest. I need this woman on my side.

  “You have a little girl too, don’t you?” I ask, gesturing to her Minnie Mouse watch.

  She looks at me in surprise. “Yeah, my daughter is nine.”

  “Almost the same age as mine. And she needs me right now.”

  The nurse sighs like she’s failed me, but it’s also a surrender.

  “No one could talk me out of this,” I promise. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Okay.” When she touches my shoulder, there’s no longer an implicit threat—only kindness. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  JILLIAN

  Nash and I lie a mile apart in the bed in near silence. When the wind gusts, the trees outside howl and the windows rattle. On such a blustery night, all I want is for us to keep each other warm. It’s all I’ve wanted for a very long time. I wonder how well he remembers my naked body and the things we used to do to each other.

  His angry breathing now disrupts the effect. He hasn’t spoken a word since I slid the gun into my nightstand drawer and turned off the lights. What is this, a cold war? We’re sharing the same blanket, but he’s edged himself inch by inch to the opposite side, as though I wouldn’t notice. If he’s waiting for me to fall asleep first, it’s not going to happen. We’re both flat on our backs staring up at the ceiling. He’s stripped down to his boxers and T-shirt; I’m in my sexiest silk nightgown.

  But he’s impervious. I bet he’s still thinking of her.

  I fume in silence until I resolve to break the spell. We must keep moving forward; our future together depends on it.

  Eventually, I let my pinkie graze his thigh.

  “Stop.” His voice cuts through the quiet. “Don’t.”

  “Oh, just relax.” I turn on my side to face him.

  He doesn’t follow suit. “I can’t believe you’re making her sleep down there.”

  “She’d run away otherwise.”

  He throws off the blanket. “How much?”

  “What?”

  “To leave us alone. Ten grand?”

  I blink as the insult sinks in. “You think I’m after a payoff?”

  “What else?”

  “I already told you. I’m getting us out of the country so we can pick up where we left off.” I scoot closer to him, though there’s still an arm’s length between us. “You deserve so much better.”

  He snorts. “Seriously, I’m willing to negotiate. What do you want?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Come on, everyone has a price.”

  “Enough.” I almost slap him. “You should be thanking me.”

  “Yeah, because you’ve been so accommodating.”

  I decide to appeal to his rational side.

  “I’m giving you a way out. What more could you ask for?”

  “What if I don’t want to go?”

  That’s her talking, I think. Not him. The genius I knew would never settle for a mediocre life with an unstable woman. The reminder of her influence deflates my rage; it’s bound to be transient. Like a virus, it needs to run its course. Only then will he finally be free.

  The covers rustle as he sits up. “What if my biggest problem is you?”

  “I get it. But once we’ve started over, you will thank me. When was the last time you set foot in a lab?”

  It’s hard to see in the dark, but I think a shadow of yearning crosses his face. Proof that the real him is still intact under all those layers of deprivation.

  “You’ve paid a terrible price,” I say gently. “But it doesn’t have to be forever.”

  His response comes a beat late, as though he’s mustering up the conviction to fight me. “That part of my life is over now. I moved on a long time ago. You should, too.”

  But his pause spoke otherwise.

  “Did you?” I slide my fingertips over his bare ankle.

  “Jillian.” He kicks me away, but not roughly. “I’m married now.”

  “Does she do this?” I slip a hand into his boxers and fondle the underside of his balls the way he used to love. It was always his shortcut to ecstasy.

  I’m half expecting a knee in the gut, but to my delight, my massive gamble pays off: his coiled legs go limp as he emits a quiet moan.

  “You like it like this,” I whisper, curling up alongside him, caressing his shaft. He pants, his body radiating heat. It’s been years since I’ve slept with anyone, but my hands remember what to do. The right strokes come back like muscle memory.

  In no time, he rolls on top of me and grabs my wrists. I want him to pin me against the bed and fuck me. I don’t mind that he’s smothering me under his weight. The motion of our bodies is oxygen enough. Even with my underwear and his boxers still on, it’s already hotter than any encounter I’ve had in a decade.

  “Put it in,” I beg him. “I’m not going to last.”

  “You have a condom?” he asks.

  “No, I don’t care.”

  “Let me just check.”

  Maybe it’s the eagerness in his voice, or my belated awareness of his soft dick, but as he reaches for my nightstand, a heinous thought occurs to me. I let out a shriek as he jerks open the drawer and seizes my gun.

  In the dim light, he fumbles to release the safety, and I throw myself at him with all the power I’ve got; the force of fury redoubles my strength.

  He’s ready, but not ready enough. With no time to position the trigger, he settles for blocking his face with the gun as I collide with him. We both fall off the bed, and I immobilize him with a swift kick in the groin, an easy target. He manages to punch my shoulder, keeping the gun out of my reach, but he doesn’t count on my teeth sinking deep into his ear.

  A guttural cry escapes him as the metallic taste of blood soaks my tongue. I can’t help gagging. But then he writhes on the floor, and his grip on the gun goes slack. I snatch it triumphantly and wield it above him.

  He reaches for his left ear. “What the—fuck?” The top of it is missing a chunk; I realize the fleshy piece is still in my mouth. I spit it out onto his leg.

  “You forget I was in jail. You learn to fight dirty pretty quick.”

  “Please.” Blood saturates his exposed cartilage, dripping over what remains of his ear. “Don’t shoot. Abby needs me.”

  “Are you going to cooperate from now on?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “You’ll leave town with me?”

  His anguish intensifies. “Yes.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  Satisfied, I withdraw the gun. “Get back into bed. I need to tend to that wound.”

  He scrambles onto the bed without protest. Blood drips onto the white comforter, but who cares; we’ll be gone in the morning.

  I lock the gun back up i
n the high-tech box that will only open for my fingerprints. Such a silly mistake, thinking I could reach him with sex. Of course not. After his isolation with Claire, trapped for so long in her skewed universe, it might be weeks until he recovers and embraces our second chance. I knew he needed me to get him out of there. But his psychological deterioration is worse than I expected. It’s going to take more time than I thought, but pretty soon, we’ll have all the time in the world.

  Once he’s back under the covers, I retrieve a towel, a glass of water, and a first-aid kit from the bathroom, and get to work tending his wound. He yelps when I dab it with rubbing alcohol, but I hold his head and whisper gently until I’m done. I bandage it up with gauze, then offer him two Tylenol plus an Ativan so he can get some rest.

  “That’s okay.” He pushes the meds away, but winces when his ear rubs the pillow.

  “You’re in pain.” I press the pills into his palm. “There’s no reason to suffer.”

  Reluctantly, he takes the glass of water and swallows them.

  I pat his knee. “Good job. Now go to sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

  He lies down again and closes his eyes. In a few minutes, his anxious breathing slows to a quiet rhythm. Watching him slip into slumber feels more intimate than sex, more restorative than sleep. I relish the solitude of this special form of togetherness: just us, yet just me, bearing witness to the peaceful rest of a saved man.

  * * *

  I wake before he does when the first morning rays filter through the blinds. He’s still conked out: mouth half open, snoring lightly, a spot of drool on the pillow. I hate to wake him, but the gauze is soaked with blood and the towel under his ear is bright red. I hope he doesn’t need stitches. A stop at the ER is not in the plan.

  As I’m considering doing the stitches myself, though I don’t have anesthesia, the sound of breaking glass startles me. I leap off the bed and Nash’s eyes open. Abruptly he is wide awake.

  “Where’s Abby?”

  Shit. I had almost forgotten about her.

  He staggers out of bed cupping his ear, but now there’s no time to change the bandage. We run across the cottage to the basement and clamber down the staircase to discover that our worst fear has come true. All that remains of the window is a rim of shattered glass, splattered with white paint.

  Abby is gone.

  ABBY

  I try not to cry as I run. But it’s hard not to. I’ve never felt more alone.

  The fresh air helps, even though my shoulders are covered in scratches that sting in the breeze. Branches on the forest floor crunch under my feet. A blur of trees passes by as I sprint toward the road.

  “Come back here!” shouts a frantic voice in the distance. It’s her.

  Don’t look back. I’m terrified I’ll see her gun. I think of a bullet flying into my head, knocking me down dead.

  “Wait!” she shouts. “We can talk about this!”

  My heart is pounding so hard I worry it might explode. Don’t cry. I think of bullets and run faster. My gasps sound like a choking person. A dying person. I run faster still.

  I force myself to double my pace, keeping my mind on the prize—the main road. I don’t hear my dad yelling after me; God, I hope she hasn’t shot him. Oh, God.

  I’m far enough ahead that I think I can lose her. There’s a rustling sound way behind me near the cottage—her feet crunching over the leaves—but I see the main highway just up ahead, and it gives me another insane burst of energy.

  By the time I reach the pavement, my feet are aching and my sneakers are all scuffed up. My backpack feels like it’s filled with rocks. When I finally work up the nerve to look over my shoulder, it’s a relief to see that she isn’t chasing me. The path is empty. I listen for footsteps in the distance, but the forest has gone quiet.

  Am I really free? I can’t tell if it’s another trap. I have no idea what to think about anything anymore.

  Last night, I couldn’t sleep at all, so I ended up in that nasty cot just thinking. If you had told me in class yesterday that my favorite teacher would have kidnapped me and locked me in a basement … And yet the more I think about it, the more it makes a horrible kind of sense.

  She always was extra nice to me, even if I wasn’t paying attention. Sometimes I would look up from a worksheet and catch her just watching me. It never creeped me out before because I figured she was making sure I wasn’t secretly passing notes. But now I get it.

  I am her experiment.

  All night, my mind looped around the same shock until I got too worked up to lie there any longer. My back was aching on the curved pad. So I climbed out and went over to a dusty corner where some old stuff was piled up. Empty cardboard boxes, a broken vacuum, a gross spider web, and … a full metal paint can. It was very heavy. I waited.

  As soon as the sun came up, I swung the can as hard as I could at the only window, which was half-underground. I couldn’t believe my luck when the glass actually broke, and the white paint flew everywhere. If I was any larger, I wouldn’t have fit, but I dragged the cot underneath the window, hopped up, and squeezed out of the hole with my backpack. All I have now is my $30 allowance and a couple of school binders; no phone.

  At least I’m free. But I feel bad leaving my dad behind—I mean him … whoever he is.

  Dad or not, I can’t stand to think of him suffering back there. I heard them fighting last night; there was a crash and a thump, like a person falling on the ground. I don’t know if her gun went off, but after that, it was silent. I may be pissed, but I definitely don’t want him to die.

  I’ve got to find a way to get him out of there. I wish I had an aunt or uncle, or some other family member who could help me. I wish I could go to my mom, but she’s totally lost it. This is way too serious for my friends, and if I ask for help at school, they’ll call the cops. And that would be even worse. They would arrest him, not her. My skin prickles. No way am I getting the cops involved.

  As the sun climbs higher in the sky, I walk along the edge of the road with absolutely no clue where I’m going. On my right side is the forest and beyond it, the river. On the other side of the road is a steep hill with more trees. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since barely touching dinner last night. My tongue is sandpaper; its surface is all rough and bumpy. Thinking of water makes the dryness even worse. I try to swallow, but I have barely any saliva.

  A low horn echoes in the distance. The Metro-North train. If I squint through the trees, I can see its silver cars hugging the Hudson.

  It goes to New York City. I don’t know anyone there, except—

  Jillian’s sarcastic voice runs through my head: Ethan, a big shot at Columbia.

  I stop cold. I’m going to find my father.

  * * *

  About a half hour after I decide to head in the direction of the train station, without a map, food, or water, a beat-up Ford Explorer pulls up beside me on the road. A teenage girl with large hoop earrings rolls down her window.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  I’m so hungry and thirsty that I shake my head.

  “You want me to call someone? Your parents?”

  I clear my throat. “No, thanks.”

  She frowns, her thick mascara weighing down her lashes. “You look younger than my sister, and she’s not allowed to walk to school by herself.”

  “I’m allowed.”

  She turns back to the wheel. “All right, well …”

  “Actually, could you drop me off at the train station?”

  “If you’re running away or something, I can’t—”

  “No, my dad’s picking me up in Manhattan. I just had a little fight with my … stepmom … so I need a ride.”

  “Ah, family crap!” She smiles like a big sister might. “I know all about it. Hop on in.”

  * * *

  The drive takes less than ten minutes, and my new friend is nice enough to share a PowerBar and some water with me. I’m so grateful I almost cry. Maybe it�
�s because of all I’ve been through, not knowing who I can trust, but her kindness hits me hard. When I grow up, I want to be just like her: a person who will help others in need.

  On the crowded platform, no one pays attention to me. People in suits are typing on their phones or reading their tablets. After I buy a ticket, I sit close to one woman on a bench so it seems like we might be together, in case anyone’s wondering why a fifth grader is alone.

  Soon the train shows up, and everyone is sucked into the chaos of climbing on and grabbing a seat. I walk through a few cars until I see an open seat next to a fat man dressed in a business suit whose buttons are bursting. He’s bald, with a white mustache and a honker of a nose. He reminds me a bit of Santa Claus, if Santa commuted to work in New York City. His head is resting against the window and his eyes are closed. I hope he doesn’t wake up and ask me too many questions.

  After I take my seat, the train jumps forward. We’re off.

  To where? I don’t know where Ethan lives. I don’t even know his last name, only that he reported the experiment and caused a bunch of trouble.

  Wait. If my parents had to change their names and go into hiding and worry about being recognized, that means the world must have known about them. And how would anyone know unless …?

  The man next to me is snoring.

  “Excuse me.” I tug his sleeve.

  He startles awake.

  “I’m really sorry, but um, can I borrow your phone?”

  His eyes land on my dirty hair, my sweaty tank top, and my scraped shoulders.

  “I fell off a friend’s trampoline,” I quickly explain. “But I’m fine. I just forgot my phone … and I need to look something up.”

  “Are you—” He glances around at the nearest passengers. “Are you by yourself?”

  “I’m going to meet my dad at Grand Central. It’s no big deal; I take the train all the time.”

  He seems surprised. “You don’t see a lot of kids doing that these days.”

  “My parents are cool,” I say, wishing it were true.

  “Well, good for them.”

  He hands me his iPhone. I thank him and wait until he rests his head against the window again. Then the screen is all mine. I bring up Safari and type into the search bar: THREE PARENT BABY NY.