Survival Instincts

by Jen Waite

  As Anne read The Missing Piece Meets the Big O, Thea drifted to sleep. Anne listened to her daughter’s breath come in and out of her nose and watched her chest rise and fall. She deposited Thea into her crib, hovering over her for several minutes before backing quietly out of the room.

  She walked into the living area quickly, dialing the pediatrician’s office on the way down, pressing 1 for the after-hours nurse. After ten minutes of describing Thea’s movements and asking and answering questions, the nurse said that it sounded like a shuddering spell.

  “It’s actually pretty common in kids her age. It looks scary but it’s a normal developmental occurrence that, to be honest, we don’t even really know that much about. These shuddering attacks fall into the medical category of ‘undiagnosable but normal.’” The nurse let out a husky laugh. “There are more of those than you might think. You know, it could also be something like a pinched nerve. There’s a whole slew of things that could have caused it and most likely it’ll never happen again. If she’s acting normally tomorrow and doesn’t have a fever, then you don’t need to bring her in. Just keep an eye out, ok?” Anne’s breathing slowed at the nurse’s assured, cut-and-dry tone. As soon as she ended the call, a text message flashed across the top of the screen.

  Grace: Checking in. Is everything ok?

  Shit. She had completely forgotten about hanging up on Grace the day before. She responded, fingers flying across her phone, asking if now was a good time to finish their conversation. Grace wrote back asking Anne to call her in five. Anne sat on the pullout sofa, tapping her fingers against her leg. She wondered if what she said in their last conversation changed how Grace thought of her, and her face burned as she dialed.

  “I’m so sorry to have hung up on you before—Ethan showed up early with Thea and I thought something was wrong. I’m sorry I completely—”

  “Is Thea ok?”

  “Yes, she’s—” She thought about her daughter sobbing on her shoulder outside Ethan’s car. And the tremor in the bathtub. The page still up in her phone Internet browser about putting a safety plan in place. “Yes, she’s fine. I think he just didn’t know what to do with a two-year-old.”

  “Good.” Grace let out a deep breath. “I’m so glad to hear that. Look, I have to ask again, have you thought about reaching out to some of your friends? Lana or Whitney? It would be really good for you to have some support. I know you’ve said that—”

  “No.” Anne shut Grace down. “Those friendships are too far gone. I was . . . What I did, missing Lana’s show and not seeing Whitney all the times she visited the city after I married Ethan. Never responding to messages or phone calls. I was horrible. Just trust me on this.”

  There was silence for ten seconds before Grace asked, “Anne, what did you mean when you said before that ‘everything that’s happening now is because of what I did’?”

  Anne licked her lips. They were so dry that the saliva burned. “I didn’t want Thea. My whole pregnancy, I resented the thing inside me . . . And this . . . Ethan coming back, getting custody . . . it feels like karma.” Grace took a sharp breath; Anne braced herself.

  “Anne, there is no such thing as the universe punishing someone. Do actions have consequences? Absolutely. But the only thing we have control over is how we move through life and what we learn as we go along. I always want my patients to look within themselves and try to be brutally honest about how they can make healthier choices and really guard their own emotional well-being, but—” Grace paused to take a breath. “Sometimes you’re also dealing with some really fucked-up shit. Ok? They’re not mutually exclusive.”

  Later, Anne hung up the phone and thought about her conversation with Grace. She stretched out on the sofa, too tired to pull the front out into a bed. She turned over in her head what it would feel like to believe that Ethan returning wasn’t punishment for what she did with Joseph, but rather another lesson that she was going to have to fight her way through, making the best decisions she could with the information she had. Pretty fucked-up lesson, she thought as her eyes closed. That night she dreamed of Thea’s head jerking to the side in rapid movements, her arms and legs stiffening as she toppled to her side. “Thea, tell me what’s happening,” she cried. Her daughter’s eyes stayed glazed, but this time she spoke through the side of her mouth, crystal clear, “Mommy. I can’t tell you. I’m sorry. You have to figure this out yourself.”

  THE CABIN

  ROSE

  Rose hadn’t touched a gun in ten years. Truth be told, it never made her feel safer when she carried a gun on her body, the opposite in fact, and she was glad when she no longer had use for it. But when she looked at the man’s gun, snug in his hand, she could feel its weight, the cold smoothness against her palm, the power beneath her fingers. She closed her eyes and breathed in the sour air through her nostrils and felt the burn in her throat after the trigger was pulled. She saw from the way the man held the gun that he’d only used it once or twice before, a handful of times at most. He treated it as a foreign object, separate from himself, and he gripped it tightly but awkwardly, as if it might wriggle out of his hands at any moment.

  Rose thought about the night she went to Ethan’s house ten years ago. How she had looked at Sam after that phone call from Anne, and he had known immediately. That was the night.

  “But am I ready?” Rose had asked, the blood slowly draining from her head.

  Sam had surprised her by saying without hesitation: “Yes, Rose, you’re ready.”

  He’d packed an overnight bag and called an old marine friend, the one he had dinner with once or twice a year and usually ended up staying the night if he had too many beers. When Sam hugged Rose goodbye, she felt his body tremble and, for the first time, wondered if she was making a mistake.

  “When it comes down to it, it’s just another day in the woods. Just like yesterday, and the day before,” Sam said, standing in the kitchen with his arms wrapped around her. “The first time I took someone down, it messed me up. I had panic attacks and I kept thinking about the guy I shot. Who was he? Did he play sports? Like to read? Did he have a family? Racing, obsessive thoughts.” Rose listened quietly, her head on his chest, their soft bellies touching. “Before the next mission, my sergeant took me aside and asked me, ‘What was the alternative? If you hadn’t gotten your shot off before him. What was the alternative? It’s not going to get easier, so you need to decide whether you can live with this better than you can live with the alternative.’” Sam backed up and looked at Rose. “I guess what I’m trying to tell you is: What you’re about to do . . . it’s not like in the movies. Afterward, you’re different; it stays with you, it seeps into you, and it’s a heaviness that you’ll carry. Always.” Sam sighed. “But don’t second-guess what you’re about to do. Unless you can live with the alternative.”

  They never spoke outright about what all the practicing and training was for—Sam’s speech was as close as they ever came to putting it into words, and Rose understood that, in his halting way, he was giving her his blessing. After she heard his car start up and back out of the garage, she got ready slowly and methodically. She laid out the ninja ensemble she had stored in her bottom drawer: black turtleneck, black leggings, black gloves. She dressed quickly and then undressed, deciding on jeans and a blue sweatshirt blotted with coffee stains. She wound her hair into a tight bun and secured it, watching her face in the mirror like she was looking at a stranger, waiting for it to break into a smile or start talking, but it stared blankly back at her. She walked into her bedroom and slid her fingers into one glove and then the other, testing the fit, scrunching and straightening her fingers into the nylon material.

  Rose looked down at her hands now, bound tightly at the wrists with her own shoelace from her Bean boots. She glanced to her left and caught Thea in her periphery—huddled against the wall a few feet down, knees to her chest, arms circling her legs, head resting against the po
ints of her knees. Rose moved her eyes carefully to the right without moving her head and saw Anne’s legs and feet, tied together at the ankles with Rose’s other shoelace. Rose shivered involuntarily at the section of Anne’s naked skin showing between her thin socks and leggings that ended just above her calves. She silently scolded her daughter for not wearing long underwear and thick socks. Anne’s zip-up boots laid on the hearth, the tall trunks curled over onto themselves, empty. Anne hadn’t looked at Rose since the man had dragged her back into the cabin and thrown her against the wall. Rose wanted to tell her daughter that she did the right thing, she had come so close to saving Thea, and it was not her fault that they were all back in the cabin now.

  Rose kept her eyes straight ahead on the fire and shifted her hands slightly, feeling how much leeway she had. The boot lace was wrapped tightly around her wrists twice and the prickly fibers cut into her skin. She rubbed her wrists against each other, keeping the back of the man in her sight. The thin rope cut deeper into her flesh but gave a tiny bit. She straightened and scrunched her fingers, testing. For now, she had full range of motion in her limbs but she feared they might fall asleep. As long as she could move her fingers she thought she was still good.

  Her stomach rumbled for the first time since they entered the cabin and she wondered about Anne and Thea. It had only been a few hours since lunch, but Thea had barely eaten, pushing her burger around her plate, sucking the ketchup off a few fries. Rose pictured the large water cups dripping condensation onto their table and her insides suddenly screamed for water. She blocked the image immediately. They would last another few hours in this cold before they started to get sluggish from dehydration, and Rose didn’t think the man intended on keeping them another few hours anyway, from the looks he’d been giving Thea. The words the man had whispered in her ear ran through her mind. “I used a glass bottle, so that the bitch would stay nice and still.” Rose shuddered and flexed her fingers again.

  THE CABIN

  THE MAN

  The man was almost done waiting. His whole body vibrated with anticipation. But when he looked at the girl, a sickness formed in the middle of his stomach and he wanted to smash his head against the floor. She looked only half alive, huddled by the fire, but he didn’t care. He was tired of waiting. He started walking toward the girl. He licked his lips and pressed the end of the gun on the crescent-moon scar.

  “I know what you want.” The mother’s voice jerked him out of his thoughts and he stopped abruptly in the middle of the room. “I can give you what you want,” she continued in a low voice.

  The man let out a sharp laugh. The bitch was trying to crack his code again. “I already told you. You don’t know shit.”

  “It’s not your fault that the girls in your school didn’t understand you,” she replied. He let out another laugh, but his face burned as Molly’s ringlets flashed into his mind.

  “It’s because they were so young. They couldn’t understand.” The woman’s voice was cold and she looked straight into his eyes. “I get it. You want someone to see you for what you are. I see you.”

  The man turned his body away from the girl, toward the mother. “What do you see?” he asked.

  “I see a powerful man. A man who knows what he wants. You want control. Complete control. I can give you that.” She leaned toward him, off the wall as far as she could. “I can give you exactly what you want.”

  The man felt his body responding to her words. He walked toward her until the tips of his boots touched the soles of her feet. He extended his hand and the woman took it, hauled herself off the ground awkwardly, tipping to the side. He pushed her back against the wall and she almost fell again. “Not here,” she said in his ear, leaning on his arm. “Untie me so we can go outside.”

  The man admired her, what she was trying to do, and for a moment he considered it, examined the offer. But it wouldn’t be real with this woman; it would be like the videos he used to watch, where even the violence seemed practiced and orchestrated. He pressed against her harder and felt himself go soft. Rage coursed through his body as he remembered the back seat of the Saab, Julia, and the same feeling he had now of not being in control of his own body. He’d held Julia down, but he couldn’t do it; he could feel her beneath him, judging, probably pitying him, smirking to herself, that bitch. He’d finally grabbed the Coke bottle he’d gotten at the rest stop. Now, his admiration turned into anger as he looked into the mother’s eyes and saw a glint of laughter.

  He didn’t know he was going to do it until his knee connected with soft flesh, but once it happened, it felt right. The woman buckled over on herself, a half moan escaping her lips. He heard “Please” as he brought his fist down on her back, but he couldn’t stop now. It felt good and he wanted her to be quiet. The child screamed and he yelled, “Shut up or I’ll kill her.” The woman was on the ground, legs curled to her chest. He kicked her once, a sharp kick to somewhere in the middle, it was hard to be precise with her arms in the way, and he heard a crack. She was still now.

  “Shut up,” he said again into the room, even though it was silent. “I need quiet.” The man pointed the gun first at the old woman and then at the girl.

  There was a woman doctor at the prison who told him over and over that his feelings of rage stemmed from growing up in a society that didn’t allow boys to be vulnerable, to emote. “You will only begin to heal when you acknowledge that it’s ok to experience emotions and have insecurities. Try to accept those feelings instead of repressing them. And let someone else accept you as well,” she said, leaning toward him, almost tipping out of her black plastic chair.

  He lowered the gun from the girl to his side. He studied the lump of the mother in front of him. It was her vulnerability, her emotions that put her in the position she was in now. He wanted to tell that prison doctor that he may never be healed, he may never be normal, but he felt pretty fucking good right now.

  TEN YEARS

  BEFORE THE CABIN

  ANNE

  Two days before Thea’s next overnight with Ethan, Anne broke out into hives. Her boss tapped on the side of her cube and asked if she should maybe go home. “I won’t count it as PTO, Anne . . . Just, you know, a freebie,” he said, leaning his body slightly away from her.

  “Oh! No, it’s not contagious. I’m having an allergic reaction”—she laughed loudly and it reverberated through the small office—“to sushi.” It was the first thing that came into her head. “I had it for lunch and I totally forgot that this happens when I eat raw fish.” The truth was, she couldn’t go home, couldn’t be alone with her thoughts. It felt like she was carrying a grenade around in her purse. She knew it was going to explode. But she couldn’t do anything about it. She just had to wait and bear it.

  Ethan came on Saturday morning again. This time she didn’t say a word to him. She held Thea closely and whispered into her ear, “You’ll be home tomorrow. You’ll be home tomorrow,” as Thea clung to her and sobbed. She watched his car speed off and then she sat on the floor, motionless, for hours. She didn’t eat or drink. She didn’t cry. She just sat, muscles tight, waiting. The plan to leave, to take Thea and flee, was still taking shape. She had withdrawn almost her entire balance, eight hundred dollars, from her bank account in four chunks of two hundred dollars, driving through the ATM wearing large, dark sunglasses—even though it was her money and she could do with it as she pleased. Still, she looked into the rearview mirror nervously each time, fingers shaking as she typed in the passcode. Anne had researched countries without formal extradition agreements with the United States, but the ones that came up in her search—Algeria, Serbia, Lebanon, Afghanistan—weren’t realistic options, especially not for a woman and a girl. She shifted the plan to disappearing inside a new country once they arrived there. She started looking at countries where they wouldn’t set off red flags at the customs counter, places a mom and her daughter could be vacationing for some bonding time and
Instagram-worthy photo memories—Italy, Portugal, the Netherlands. It was taking longer than she had anticipated. Rose was right. This part, laying the foundation, would take weeks or months, not days. They couldn’t just up and leave. Everything had to be in place. She had one chance, she realized, to execute the plan correctly, to board a plane and disappear completely.

  As she sat on the floor and waited, she wondered what risk was greater, leaving without sufficient planning, or staying and handing Thea over to Ethan again and again. She kept her eyes on the clock on the kitchen microwave, fluorescent green numbers burning through the dark. She thought if she could stay awake and stay focused on Thea, it would protect her daughter somehow. She knew it was irrational, just as she knew her clenched hands on the armrests of the plane weren’t the force keeping the plane aloft during takeoff, and yet she always remained in that position for the first few minutes of a flight, only relaxing her fingers once the plane leveled off. She stared at the clock and thought of Thea. Her daughter’s face burned in her mind. She carefully studied her from top to bottom, encasing Thea in her mind. Her eyes must have closed at some point in the early morning because when they opened, her head lay against the prickly carpet and sun streamed in through the kitchen windows, shining a spotlight on her body. She sat up quickly and looked at the microwave. 9:45 a.m. Thea would be home at 10:00 a.m. She resumed her vigil. The clock turned from 9:59 to 10:00. She willed her ears to pick up the rumble of Ethan’s engine. At 10:05 a.m. she told herself it was only five minutes past—the difference of putting on Thea’s sneakers versus her slip-ons. At 10:10 a.m. she felt a lump in her throat rising and knew something horrible had happened while she’d slept on the floor, oblivious. At 10:15 a.m., she picked up the phone and dialed Ethan’s number, ready to scream, sob, and then throw herself at his mercy. It rang. No answer. At 10:30 a.m., she grabbed her purse and walked out the door right as Ethan’s car sped up the street.