by Joanna Bell
Finally, after almost three weeks, I start refusing my food. There's no intention to take it far enough to hurt myself or my baby, but I don't tell anyone that. In fact, I try to give off the specific vibe that I'll keep it up for as long as I have to. A few days later, I'm free. I mean, I'm 'free.' Free to go home. Not free to do as I please. Not free to leave the house. Who's keeping me inside? Not the police, not my dad, no. My new jailers? The media. When I am discharged from the hospital there is a hoard of them waiting outside the doors – more than I have ever seen, even for a movie star or a disgraced politician. My dad and two of the guards – both of whom are coming home with us to 'keep an eye on me' (whatever that means) use their bodies to shield me, hustling me quickly to the car as camera flashes and shouted questions fill the air.
"Who's the father of your baby, Paige?" "Do you know who the father is?" "When are you due?" "Do you remember anything?" "Are you a member of a cult?" "Have you experienced alien contact?"
I'm too shocked to notice how outlandish some of the questions are. They don't enter my mind. All I want is to be far away from the bright lights. Once I'm in the backseat of the car I cover my head with my arms and think of Eirik. Eirik wouldn't have let any of that happen to me. None of those reporters would even have dared to show up if they'd so much as gotten a glimpse of the Viking Jarl in all his fur-and-leather finery, staring them down.
But Eirik isn't here. Eirik probably isn't anywhere. He's probably dead, Paige. Because you screwed up. You got caught.
The media follow us home. They follow us home and then they set up camp at the bottom of the driveway and in the empty lot next door. And once they've set up camp, they don't leave. There's so many of them they don't even seem to sleep – even at three, four o'clock in the morning, all that has to happen is for me to open the front – or even the back – door, and the shouted questions and flashes resume.
I go online almost immediately, and am horrified to discover that the mainstream media camped outside the house are the least of it. There are whole websites dedicated to the theory that I'm an alien being, that my disappearance – and now my return – is the first step in a process that ends with the rest of the aliens coming to earth and enslaving the human race. There are countdown clocks to this 'invasion.' Grand Northeastern has had to ban reporters from campus, after they started harassing my fellow students for stories. There are whole message-boards convinced I'm lying, that my father and I have made the whole thing up in order to secure a lucrative book deal – that my baby is a pillow, or, disgustingly, the product of incest.
There are months and months of these stories, pages and pages on these message-boards. The volume alone of the incorrect information just makes it seem that I could never say enough to counter it.
I go to sleep that night with a creeping sense of horror. I'm stuck here. Stuck as the seeming star of an almost infinite number of stories, powerless to correct the role I've been shoved into by strangers all over the world. This can't be my life now, can it?
And just before I drift off, the certainty, again – if Eirik were here, he would do something about this. He would not allow any of it to happen. But Eirik isn't here, and I fall asleep with an aching emptiness in my heart.
Chapter 25
21st Century
Almost a week after I return from the hospital, I'm starting to feel stir-crazy. I can't leave, because leaving means dealing with the media and I just... can't. Not yet. So all my time is consumed by two main activities – obsessively reading the stories about myself online and half-mourning a man that I can't even talk about, because talking about him would mean explaining who he is, and how he came to be the father of my baby.
There are some things I enjoy about being back in my own time. I enjoy the feeling of silky, well-conditioned hair after a shower. I enjoy hot water straight out of the tap, on demand. I enjoy sleeping on a mattress, and having a washing machine to wash my clothes. But it's amazing how small these things actually are, how seemingly inconsequential.
It's also amazing how many things I don't enjoy, that I thought I would. There's more food than I've had for months – tons and tons of food, the refrigerator, freezer and every cupboard in the kitchen stuffed to bursting with it – but it doesn't taste very good. It's bland and sweet and no matter how much of it I eat, it's nothing like the earthiness of roasted venison loin or even like the little cakes the cooks in the Viking camp would make out of boiled peas and the wild, onion-like vegetables that grew beside the streams. There was less food with the Vikings, but it tasted better. My father watches me with astonishment as I cook rare steak after rare steak, even resorting to serving it with barely-cooked onions in a fruitless quest to re-create what I miss from the Viking feasts.
"Are you anemic?" He asks me one night, eying me as I use my spoon to capture the last juices of another bloody steak. "We should take you back to the hospital to check if –"
"No."
"Paige, how long do you plan to –"
"I'm not going out there!" I declare, slamming my spoon down on the table. "I don't want to speak to any of those awful people – I don't even want to see them! I'll go see the doctor when they leave."
My father goes back to eating his dinner – a frozen burger of the type that I can no longer bring myself to force down my throat – but I can tell he's got more to say.
"What?" I ask, when he doesn't say it. "What is it, Dad?"
He hesitates and I prompt him again. "Dad? What?"
"Well, I just think I should tell you, Paige, that I have arranged for a lawyer to come over tomorrow – to meet with us."
A lawyer. Good. "Really?" I ask, brightening slightly. "Do you think they can get those reporters to leave us alone? I mean, how long are they –"
"No," my dad says, "it's not for the press. They have a right to be there – believe me, I checked."
"Well what's it about then?" I ask.
My dad's expression is suddenly serious. Worryingly serious. He looks at me and I see that he's holding back tears. My stomach drops.
"Back at the hospital, Paige – there was some talk. Some talk of –"
"Of what?!" I cry when he trails off. "Dad! Talk of what?"
"Of your baby."
Terror surges into my veins. "My baby?" I ask, my voice trembling. "What about my baby, Dad? What about my baby? Is something wrong with –"
"No! No, Paige – the baby is fine." My father cuts in when I jump to my feet, on the edge of losing it completely.
"Well then what is it?!"
"Sit down and I'll tell you. I – just sit down."
I sit down, light-headed with dread – I really don't like the look on my father's face right now. Not at all.
"OK," I say slowly, trying to show that I'm calm enough to discuss the matter with. "Please tell me what they said about the baby."
My dad looks away suddenly, but not before I see that he's emotional. "They said they're not sure if, uh, if –" he breaks off and presses a hand to his mouth. "They're not sure you're in the right place to care for a newborn. Psychologically, I mean."
The blood in my veins feels as if it's turning to ice. The sound of my own heartbeat thuds in my ears. "What?" I ask, because surely I've misheard.
"They're not talking about taking the baby away from you for good, it's nothing like that. But Dr. Lawson and the rest of her team seem to feel that he – or she – might be in danger if you were allowed to take full custody right after birth. She says there can be, uh, hormonal issues after a woman gives birth, that can exacerbate any psychosis already present, or bring on a crisis of some –"
I stand up, shaking my head. "I'm not hearing this," I say out loud. "I – Dad – what are you saying? Psychosis? Since when am I psychotic?! Do I seem psychotic to you? This can't be legal! How can this be legal? You said the lawyer is coming tomorrow?"
He nods, but he still won't look at me. "Yes, tomorrow. But she already said she wasn't sure if –"
"This can't
be happening," I say quietly and then again, a few seconds later and not so quietly. "THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING! Are you kidding me right now, Dad?! They think I'm psychotic? Do you think I'm psychotic? Is that why you won't look at me? DAD!" I'm screaming now, slamming my fists down on the table.
"No!" My dad responds, angrily swiping a tear off one of his cheeks. "No, Paige, you don't seem anything like what I thought psychotic people were like. But the doctors, they say it's not always obvious, that sometimes it seems as if people are perfectly sane."
"Well isn't that fucking convenient?!" I shout, beyond caring about cursing in front of him. "So even if I don't show any of the signs of being crazy, they can just –"
"Paige, they said you don't have amnesia. You don't have any of the signs of amnesia – there are two different kinds, the doctor said, and you don't fit the criteria for either one. And then there was that stuff that came out a few months ago, that interview your friend did, about the, uh, the time travel."
I clench and unclench my fists, concentrating on breathing in, and then out. In, then out. I'm on the edge of something, I can feel it. Finally, a couple of minutes later, I sit down again and look my father in the eye.
"What friend?" I ask calmly, even though there's only one 'friend' it could be. "I'm not sure what you're talking about."
"Your roommate, the one you were living with when you went missing. She did an interview with one of the big news shows, and she mentioned that you'd written some weird story about time-traveling, or told her something about it. I can't remember, it all sounded so ridiculous I just put it out of my mind. But then I re-watched it one night and I remembered you used to talk about similar things when you were a little girl – do you remember that? You used to talk about those imaginary friends of yours? William and, uh – do you remember?"
There is a hollow feeling in the middle of my chest, like someone has just drained all the blood out of my heart. Betrayal. Emma talked about what I told her – what she swore she would never talk about to anyone – on national TV? My mind can't decide whether to weep or rage. In the end, both happen at once.
"I'm – Paige, I can see that you're upset but I think what you need to understand here is that when you were missing, everyone who loves you was willing to do anything, to follow any trail of breadcrumbs – to find you. And now that we've found you and there's still no real answers..." my dad trails off as I sit in front of him, desperately trying to gulp back the sobs that are erupting out of me.
"I just want you to be OK, Paige," he continues, "I want you to be able to deal with –"
"So just to be clear," I ask, my voice shaking. "You told Dr. Lawson about that childhood stuff – about my friends in the woods? You –"
"I didn't have to tell her," he replies, looking at his hands. "One of your old therapists came forward – Dr. Hansen, I think it was? From when you were a little girl, just after your mother passed? So when Dr. Lawson asked me about it, did I remember anything etc., I didn't want to lie. You did used to talk about those things, Paige. And I want you to be OK! Your friend who went on TV just wants you to be OK, too."
A fact presents itself to my mind: the media are not allowed on the property. They have to stay at the bottom of the driveway, and in the lot next door, outside the property line. I could make it down to the woods. They might see me, but what would it matter if I disappeared before they got to me? And if, this time, I never returned?
I get up and slip my shoes on. It feels like being on some kind of auto-pilot, like my brain is in some kind of very practical, basic mode. Shoes. What else? Food. I open the cupboard under the kitchen sink and grab a couple of the plastic grocery bags my dad has always insisted on keeping, for some reason. There are bananas in the fridge. Cheese, peanut butter, bread, butter, a bag of oranges. They all go into the bags.
"Paige," my dad says, after watching me quietly for a few minutes. "What are you –"
"I'm going for a walk," I reply. "I'll stay on the property, don't worry."
"A walk?" He asks, confused. "Why do you need to take all those groceries on a walk? Where are you – Paige, what are you doing?"
I can hear my father's voice getting more concerned. I don't have much time, he's either going to try to stop me or he's going to call someone – the police, the paramedics, who knows.
"I'm going for a walk," I say again, adding two bottles of water to my load.
"But," he protests, clearly thinking about blocking me and then stepping aside at the last minute as I open the back door. "Paige! Wait! This doesn't make any sense! What the hell are you –"
I turn around and kiss my dad on the cheek. "I love you, Dad."
And then I turn and step out into the backyard. My father shouts after me, telling me he's calling the hospital, begging me to stop. But I don't stop. They're going to take my baby and that's something that I simply cannot allow to happen. Eirik may be alive, he may be dead, but I'm going back to the past, back to my friends and, hopefully, to him.
When I'm almost at the bottom of the yard, and about to enter the woods, my dad starts to chase me. I pick up my pace a little, but not much – he's in no condition to catch me, even as pregnant as I am. But a few seconds later I see a bright light to my right, also in the woods. It's bouncing, like someone is carrying it.
"Help!" A voice shouts – my father. "Catch her! She's trying to leave again!"
The light is getting closer. Soon, there is a voice.
"Paige? Paige Renner? I'm Brian Watlin from KPYU News – can we have a minute of your –"
FUCK. I whirl around and shove the reporter to the ground before he can get another word out of his smarmy mouth. And the bastard is actually narrating what's happening as it's happening.
"She's just pushed me to the ground. Paige Renner has just pushed me to the ground. We're in the woods, out back of the Renner property, she's running. Mike! She's running!"
I am running. The reporter's tone indicates that this is a game to him, excitement, something that's definitely going to play well on the six o'clock news. But I'm running for my life. For my child's life – for our right to be together.
Suddenly my mouth is full of dirt, the smell and taste of dry leaves. Someone is sitting on my back. Someone else is pinning my arms to my sides. People are breathing heavily, after the chase.
"We've got her," the reporter says. "Tell the paramedics we're in the woods behind the house – I've got my light on."
I've either tripped or been knocked off my feet. Either way, it's over. I won't be getting away. Not now. Maybe not ever. An image of Eirik's face fills my mind's eye. Those piercing blue eyes, as changeable as the sky. If he was here, none of this would be happening. I never should have left him. I never should have been so arrogant as to think I could save him all by myself.
I turn my face back into the dirt, because the cameraman with the reporter has recovered and is now filming me, and begin to scream. Not incoherent screams. It's just one word, over and over: Eirik.
Chapter 26
21st Century
I'm back at the hospital again. There's a guard at my door, and this time I know he's there to keep me in as much as he is to keep any imaginary bad guys out. I'm restrained, my wrists held by soft cuffs to the side of the bed. It's ridiculous, and I know who's behind it, too – Dr. Lawson. What is it about people like that? Some of them – like her – are even highly qualified, but there's something there, some narcissism of their own, some need to be seen as the expert, the one who is never wrong, the one who sees what other people don't.
Because I've had people think I'm weird before. Oh, that I'm used to. Therapists, fellow students, from the time I was very small. I'm used to being 'weird.' And I even learned not to talk about Caistley, or Willa and Eadgar, at a pretty young age. But Dr. Lawson is looking for reasons to condemn me and that's the part I can't quite understand. Who am I to her? It begins to become clearer, however, over the days (and then the weeks) that I spend having 'sessions' with her in
my hospital room.
Dr. Lawson is smart. OK, that's become debatable. Dr. Lawson is somebody who needs to be seen as smart. She spends hours a day with me, asking me the same questions over and over – 'Do you ever feel like you might hurt yourself?', 'Do you ever feel like you might hurt somebody else?', 'Do you ever feel as if you have difficulty distinguishing between what's real and what's just in your mind?' – and always receiving the same answers – no, no and no. How long will it go on, I wonder, until she accepts I'm not lying, and that she never had any real reason to think I was nuts – or possibly even violent – in the first place?
But as the questions continue and the answers remain the same, I begin to sense something that feels almost like hostility in the good doctor's tone. It only takes a few comments – about how I must think I'm so smart for fooling so many highly qualified people, or how only a deeply disturbed person would invent stories of time travel and alien abduction (Dr. Lawson turns out not to be so great at doing her research, because I have never, not once in my life, ever brought up alien abduction – that's entirely on the tabloids) while their friends and family have spent the past months, almost a year, losing their minds with worry. She even seems to suggest, in her vague and passive-aggressive way, that I have somehow manufactured my own kidnapping. But she's a doctor, and she knows how to say these things without really saying them, in ways that I can't really call out without looking like the crazy one myself.
She gets up one day, as we're talking in my room, and walks over to the window, looking thoughtful. "Interesting," she says, to no one in particular – definitely not to me. "I've never had a patient try so hard to pull the wool over my eyes"