by Jen Waite
The man didn’t believe in a higher power, but he couldn’t help but feel this was preordained. He turned to the right and began walking, his step light, his mind clear. He felt the girl’s stringy hair brush against his hand and he checked, once again, to be sure she was breathing. The man had restrained himself for so long, had buried his nature for ten years because he had no choice, and now he was being given one last chance.
THE CABIN
ANNE
They approached the cabin and the man put Thea down in a heap on the small deck that wrapped around the front. Anne burned to reach out and touch her daughter’s forehead, to wrap her arms around her daughter’s body, and to listen to her chest as it rose up and down, but she ground her teeth and stayed where she was, a few feet behind the man. Anne watched him test the front door—first pressing against it firmly with one hand and then heaving his body against it. Once, twice, he slammed his body into the door. On the third smash something gave way with a pop and the door flung open. He motioned with the gun, still in his right hand, for her and Rose to enter first.
Anne walked into the small one-room cabin first, with Rose right behind, and took in the space before turning her eyes back to the man and Thea still on the porch. The floors were covered in a layer of dirt and grit, the windows so dirty they were almost opaque. There were two wooden chairs, barely still pieced together, the bottom slats sagging to the ground. It must have been a warming cabin, at one point, for hikers and campers, but judging from the condition, no one had been in charge of its upkeep for years. Anne watched her breath form a ring of smoke in the air. She couldn’t be sure, time had morphed from a straight line into loops and spikes, but she calculated that it must have been between three and four p.m., judging from the dim glint of light in the trees. The man’s gray sweater had ridden up from carrying Thea, exposing white skin burned red from the cold, and Anne had a sudden thought that maybe he would catch hypothermia and then realized that, though her daughter was bundled in a winter coat and mittens (thank god those had stayed on), her small body was the least likely to survive the cold.
Anne and her mother waited in the middle of the one-room cabin. The man bent over and scooped Thea back up. Anne wanted to hurl herself at him and claw at his face until he released her daughter. Instead, she clenched her jaw. He crossed the threshold and looked from Rose to Anne, as if suddenly aware of their existence. “Sit,” he commanded, nodding to the back of the cabin. Anne lifted her eyes to his face quickly. Dark hair, forming a peak at the top of his head, and a thick beard masked most of his face. She and Rose backed up and sat against the wall farthest from the door. The man seemed to be considering where to put Thea. He walked to the right of the door and then paused.
“She needs body heat.” Anne opened her arms and felt Rose stiffen beside her. She was desperate to hold her daughter; she had no thoughts beyond that—as if her touch alone would transport them to some other reality.
“Don’t talk.” He hesitated but then moved toward them. Anne held her breath as he lowered Thea’s body into her arms. She kept her eyes on her daughter and tried not to flinch as his hands brushed her arms. Thea was warmer than she was expecting, and her chest rose and fell steadily. She noticed something in the man’s face before she dropped her eyes. She felt a spark of hope.
The man paced the opposite side of the cabin, muttering. Anne could make out “I told them. I fucking told them not to . . .” She closed her eyes. The man didn’t look familiar, but . . . Was this her worst nightmare coming true? An ex-husband or boyfriend of one of her patients? She glanced at him again quickly, this time searching the parts of his face not covered in beard. His eyes revealed his youth; she guessed he was early to mid-twenties. She ran through her current list of clients in her head. No, all the women she was seeing were in their thirties or older. And this young man struck her as wild, manic, and unkempt to the point of being squalid—not the ex-partner of a well-to-do Burlington woman. So, this was random—a random act of violence. She exhaled. She could do this. She had counseled dozens of women, and several men, in abusive relationships. Though she rarely made face-to-face contact with their partners (her practice specialized in extricating oneself from a toxic relationship, not saving it), she was versed in the personality traits that often accompanied mentally and physically abusive partners. Each client’s circumstances and backgrounds differed substantially, but there were common threads that seemed to be woven into every relationship. The thickest, brightest thread being that the abuser, no matter how horrific his actions, believed himself to be a victim. And she had had her own personal experience with abuse, but this man was not Ethan. She glanced at the man again quickly—he paced near the door, his movements manic, and shook his head back and forth, muttering under his breath. No, this man was not Ethan. She held on to that thought and opened her eyes. She could do this.
“Where are you from?” Anne asked softly. The man was still pacing and talking to himself. At the sound of her voice, he spun around. “Shut the fuck up shut the fuck up shut the fuck up,” the words came out rapid-fire.
Tears stung her eyes. She looked down at Thea and watched her breath come out into the room in a tiny cloud. A thought passed clearly through Anne’s mind: You are useless and weak. She had never been able to protect her daughter; in fact, she had put Thea in danger even before she was born. How could she have thought she could save her daughter from this man when she couldn’t save Thea from Ethan? She gave in to the tears that had been building and put her head to her knees. All these years later and she was going to fail again.
FOURTEEN YEARS
BEFORE THE CABIN
ANNE
Anne met Thea’s father when she was twenty-five. She had moved to New York straight from college—not because New York was the place where all her dreams would come true, like so many other young people in the city, but because she was able to jump on the train from SUNY New Paltz to the city for job interviews her senior year; she wanted to have a job at a law firm lined up right after graduation. It was the compromise she had made with herself—she hadn’t taken the LSATs or started applying to law school during senior year, but she would work as a paralegal for a year or two, get some hands-on experience, and then apply. In hindsight, perhaps not so much a compromise as tapping the brakes, unsure that she really wanted to be an attorney. Anne only knew that she wanted to make a lot of money—though the bakery was booming now, she had watched Rose struggle for years and witnessed Sam grapple to secure carpentry jobs each month for as long as she could remember. That would never be her. She would be able to pay her mortgage with money tucked away for future vacations. Her kids would be able to pick any college they wanted, not base their decisions on the financial aid package. And so, lawyer it was—at least, that’s what Anne told herself as she filled out paperwork, scanned documents, and ate dinner at her computer each night (it was free if she stayed past eight p.m.). Three years later, she still worked as a paralegal at a boutique law firm that specialized in financial transactions, supporting a team of four attorneys, three men and one woman, all in their late thirties, all making close to half a million dollars a year, and all completely and utterly miserable.
“Run, Anne,” Paul whispered, early on, at the end of a meeting. “There’s still hope for you.”
“I would do literally anything else,” Stephanie echoed two years later, pouring herself a cup of lukewarm coffee in the kitchen at three p.m. “Anything. It wouldn’t even have to pay.” She dumped four creams into her mug and swirled the liquid around thoughtfully. “Well, that’s actually not true. I have a million-dollar mortgage on my apartment, so I guess it would have to pay.”
When Anne was sent to Ethan’s firm to drop off signature pages three years into the job at the law firm, panic about her chosen career had set in fully. She’d told her parents that she’d been studying hard for the LSATs, when in reality, the fat, red book remained shiny and untouched on her co
ffee table.
“Hi, I’m here from Thatcher and Reed. Just dropping off some paperwork for . . .” She looked down at the envelope. “Rob Yoon.” The receptionist, an older man with white hair, asked for her license, told her to “Look into the camera,” printed out a sticker with her face on it, and sent her to the elevator bank. “You want the twenty-sixth floor,” he called out as she wavered. She turned right and dashed into the box just as the door was sliding closed.
“You know these doors don’t have motion sensors,” the man already in the elevator said. “Could have lost an arm . . . or more.”
“Are you serious?” Anne reflexively rubbed her upper arm. “That seems like a serious safety violation.”
“I’m kidding,” he said, then broke out laughing. “By the way, which floor?”
She spun around to look at him and gave a short laugh. As soon as she saw the man standing behind her, she flushed, turned back around, and stared straight ahead. “Twenty-six, please.”
“Perfect, you’re on the express.” He had thick, dark hair, a slight dimple in his chin, and clear blue eyes.
Anne looked at the wall of numbers. Twenty-six glowed bright yellow. “Thanks.” She glanced back at him over her shoulder and tried to give a casual smile. Her heart thudded in her chest.
When the doors opened, she stepped out tentatively; they were in a hallway that led to giant glass doors in both directions. The man stepped around Anne and strode to the left. At the glass door, he turned. “Where are you going?”
“I’m dropping something off for Rob Yoon?” It came out as a question.
“Ah, other way then.” He walked toward her.
Her brain went static and she overcorrected her nerves by responding with a sharp, “Got it,” and turned on her heels toward the other set of doors.
* * *
—
On the way out, while Anne was waiting for the elevator to take her back to the lobby, one of the glass doors opened and the same man was striding toward her again.
“I saw you leaving and wanted to give you my card.” He looked nervous now. His nervousness gave her confidence. She smiled. “Oh, that won’t be necessary. I think I have everything I need from Mr. Yoon.” His face fell and then righted itself quickly into a small smile.
“Right. Ok. I actually meant—”
“I’m kidding.” She grinned and took his card, touching his fingers lightly. A tingle traveled up her body.
“I suppose I deserved that,” he said with a wink. And then, “I’m Ethan. I really hope you get in touch.”
THE CABIN
ROSE
Rose shut her eyes, willing her daughter to be quiet. “Shut the fuck up shut the fuck up,” the man spat the words out. Rose moved her eyes to Anne: Don’t. But Anne had her face down, staring intently at Thea. Rose had been developing a plan and it didn’t involve her daughter psychoanalyzing the man. She needed the man to leave the room so that she could communicate with Anne. By the looks of him pacing the room in small circles, like a caged animal, it seemed possible that he would leave them for a few minutes eventually. Rose didn’t know exactly what he wanted with them, but she didn’t need to know—she knew enough about what people were capable of, and she needed to get her daughter and granddaughter out of the cabin before his intentions clarified. She remembered back to the Facebook article she had clicked on: “Women—read this, your life may depend on it,” one of those clickbait titles meant to terrorize you into reading, but it had worked. The article hadn’t been revolutionary, but it had reinforced what she already understood—action, you must act—in a situation like this, the worst thing you could do was nothing. Of course, easier said than done when a twelve-year-old has been knocked unconscious by a gun-wielding maniac.
Rose pictured Sam sitting next to her on the cabin floor, stroking her arm calmly with strong, calloused fingers. Her husband would know what to do and she tried to still her mind, hoping for some divine inspiration. Sam’s character was a blend of integrity, intelligence, and action—he meant what he said and he acted with care and precision. So few men had these qualities nowadays, or at least the blend of all three. Shame, Rose thought. Her neighbors, a lovely family of four, let their lawn grow out until the kids could practically get lost in the tallest weeds. The husband worked from home, some sort of tech job, and yet he couldn’t seem to work a lawn mower on a consistent basis. Sam, on the other hand, had always kept their house and lawn pristine. It was who he was: thorough, foresighted. Rose squeezed her eyes shut. Sam, are there holes in my plan?
Rose was deep in her thoughts when the man turned toward them. “Do not move.” He cracked the front door of the cabin open, peered outside, and then pulled it open wider. “Do not fucking move,” he repeated, and then slipped into the dark. Rose’s heart thudded, adrenaline rushed through her body. Now. They had to act now.
“Anne, when he comes back, I’m going to surprise him—throw my body at him when he walks in the front door.” Her words came out in a rush and sounded silly even to her own ears, like an amateur actor on stage rehearsing a fight sequence out loud.
“Mom, no.” Anne said the words like they were final. “We don’t even know what he wants,” she whispered. “Before, when he brought Thea to me, I swear to god he looked like he thought he’d made a mistake. I think I can talk to him . . . get him to let us go . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“That is not how these situations work,” Rose whispered back. “Why do you think he brought us here?” She let the question hang in the air. “We have to do something. Something he doesn’t expect.”
Anne nodded toward Thea. “And how are we supposed to do that with Thea unconscious?” She took a breath and they both listened. Footsteps crunched toward the front door. “Just, please. I can do this, Mom.”
The door opened. They fell quiet. Rose watched their breaths travel up toward the ceiling and disappear. It had only been a few minutes since they were forced off the trail and the temperature had already plummeted. They were going to freeze to death. Rose closed her eyes again. She prayed that Anne was right—that the man was rethinking his decision to bring two women and an unconscious child to an abandoned cabin. Perhaps he really would let them go, or run himself right out of the mess he had created. But with Ethan, no amount of waiting, or reasoning, had made any difference.
FOURTEEN YEARS
BEFORE THE CABIN
ROSE
She had met Ethan for the first time when Anne brought him home for Thanksgiving. Anne had only been dating this new boy for a handful of months and Rose had said jokingly, in an effort to dissuade Anne from bringing a stranger to Thanksgiving, “Don’t you think you should let him get to know you a little bit better before he meets the whole family?” They both knew she was referring to Sam, who could be a scathing judge of character, in his quiet, reserved way. Anne had sighed over the phone. “Mom. I really like him and you guys will, too. I promise. I’m bringing him.”
And she had been right, for the most part. Ethan was handsome and charming and helpful. Setting the table and running to the oven.
“I got it, Mrs. Thompson.” He had smiled, whisking the oven mitt out of her hand and removing the turkey carefully from the oven, a bead of sweat forming on his brow.
She had smiled back and said, “Why, thank you!” and hoped that it sounded genuine. Because he was a lovely boy, or man, she should say (thirty-five years old, ten years older than Anne; though, according to Anne, that was nothing at all, especially for New York City), but there was something about him that made her uneasy. He clearly adored Anne, he had made partner at his investment bank just this past month, almost unheard of for someone his age, and his manners were impeccable. But. Rose couldn’t put her finger on it, and so she swallowed it down and laughed and chatted over Thanksgiving dinner and tried to convince herself that this was “the one,” as Anne had confided to her earlier that d
ay. “I know it’s soon to say that,” Anne had said sheepishly, “but I just feel it.”
Her daughter had “just known” once before, with the boyfriend before Ethan. Three years ago, Rose and Sam had visited their daughter in her first apartment in New York. Anne had gushed over the phone about the new guy she was seeing and how excited she was for her parents to meet him, but when Rose and Sam showed up to the restaurant that evening, on the Upper West Side where they were all meeting for dinner, Anne arrived alone, eyes puffy and red.
“We’re done,” Anne had said over dinner, voice wavering, betraying the confidence of her words. “I honestly want nothing to do with him. Ever. Again.” She swabbed a piece of bread into the pool of olive oil on her plate. “He’s so messed up.”
“What happened, honey?” Rose had asked, glancing at Sam with a raised brow.
Sam had added, “Sorry to hear that, Anne. Seemed like you liked the guy.”
At this, Anne’s eyes welled with tears again. “I did. I really did. But then today, we were hanging out and he was like, ‘I think I’m too young to be in a monogamous relationship.’” Anne rolled her eyes. “We’re twenty-two, not nineteen.”
Rose and Sam shared a discreet look of amusement before Rose responded, “Well, that’s too bad. It sounds like he’s confused about what he wants. But there are plenty of guys in the city. And you know what? You should enjoy being single right now! You’re so young. I mean”—she kept a straight face—“you’re not nineteen, but you’re still young.”
“Your mom is absolutely right. Live it up, Anne,” Sam talked while poring over the wine list.
“Yeah, you guys are right,” Anne said forcefully. “I just hope Drew gets a venereal disease.”