Surrogate

by David Bernstein

  Sitting back, she was starving again. Weak. Picking up the banana, she peeled back the skin—making sure to keep it—and ate the rest. It was almost impossible to swallow as her mouth was parched, but she eventually got it down. Then she tore the peel into tiny pieces and ate that too.

  When night came, she was able to sleep, not caring about the creepy crawlers anymore. Let them feast on her, she knew what it was like to starve. A couple of times she managed to grab a bug—never a spider, they were too gross and some were poisonous—and eat it. She’d seen that on her survival shows too.

  The next day, Jane came to see her. She tossed her a paper bag and left, no longer asking for information. Rebecca knew then that she was going to be left there to die. And with what little food she was given—just enough to survive—her death would be a long, drawn-out nightmare. She thought about killing herself, but couldn’t. Anna needed her. Fuck Tom, that cheating bastard. How could he not know his wife? Her breasts, her soft skin, her tender lips, her sex? She bit down on her hand again, knowing she was starting to lose it. With the pain came the grounding.

  Opening the bag, she found a turkey sandwich on white bread, a bottle of water and an apple—green this time. Her stomach churned at seeing the turkey. It was all she ate this week, or was it a couple of weeks? She couldn’t remember as the days all seemed to blend together. She was in one long nightmare; sleep the only tolerable part, but barely.

  Using the water to wash down the bites of turkey, she managed to eat half the sandwich, wanting it to settle before eating the rest. Closing her eyes, stomach full, she took a nap. When she awoke, she was hungry again. Swooshing away the flies resting on the bread, she picked up the half sandwich and ate it, saving the apple for later.

  The next morning, she awoke to a scratchy throat. She had thought she felt a cold coming on yesterday, but now she was sure of it. She had experienced the postnasal, need-to-swallow sensation many times before. It was the middle of the summer and she was coming down with something. A tickle in her nose and she sneezed, her head exploding with pain. It seemed she’d had a headache since coming to the shack. Malnourishment, stress, and Jane’s beatings were taking their toll, and now she could add being sick to her body’s plight. Closing her eyes, she felt the sadness, the cloak of gloom fall over her. She couldn’t help it and had to give in. Letting it out, she cried, but it only made her head and throat feel worse. She sniffed in through her nose, gathered up snot and coughed it up into her hand. The color was yellow. Good, no infection yet. Green and she’d be in real trouble, needing antibiotics.

  She lay back, her joints on fire, cuts and scrapes burning.

  A few minutes of trying to rest and she had to pee. Having eaten, she felt a little better, more energized. She used the wall, and got to her feet. Walking over to the toilet—the mop bucket—and looking into it was like peering into the hole of a Porta Potty, a cavern of human waste, being consumed slowly by numerous green-colored flies, the same flies that had been walking across her sandwich earlier. But Rebecca had grown used to the sight and smell, as hard as that was to believe. Jane usually emptied it when it was half-full, but hadn’t done so in a while, leaving the bucket three-quarters full.

  Pulling down her underwear, she squatted over the container, feeling the insects bounce off her thighs and buttocks like harmless paper spitballs. About to urinate, feeling the release of her bladder, her left calf seized up. The pain was sharp, like the stabbing of a knife, and she fell to the floor, but not before her left ass cheek caught the end of the bucket, knocking it over. Brown sludge sloshed onto the floor and all over her legs. Rebecca turned over onto her back and cried, her bladder emptying as she did. The warm urine felt good on her stiff, painful back. She didn’t care anymore and would take what she could get.

  Sometime later, just before nightfall, Rebecca heard the door rattling and knew Jane had arrived. Glancing over, she saw the woman enter, carrying another bucket. Rebecca remained on her back, the urine from earlier now cold. Maybe Jane would kill her, end all this. Rebecca almost couldn’t blame Jane. In the woman’s mind, she had stolen her child. And if someone had done that to Rebecca, she’d want them to suffer too. But what Jane was doing, how she was going about it, was wrong. And Rebecca didn’t steal Anna. The doctors had lied to her, just as they had lied to Jane.

  Turning her head to the woman, she said, “Hey, bitch. Maybe we can work together and kill those doctors. Make them pay for lying to us?” She started laughing, feeling a bit outside of herself, as if she’d split in two.

  “What the fuck have you done to yourself?” Jane asked, clearly disgusted. She walked into the room, and poured the bucket’s contents onto Rebecca. Ice-cold water splashed onto Rebecca’s skin. Her eyes and mouth opened as she bolted to a seated position, gasping. Her flesh erupted in goose bumps as chills raced up and down her spine. The sensation was shocking, waking her completely. She sat up, ignoring the pain in her body, and hugged herself as if that would help. Looking toward the door, Jane was gone.

  Had the woman really been there? Was Rebecca imagining all this now? Dreaming maybe? Dead? But then Jane reappeared in the doorway with the bucket and threw more water at Rebecca, who arched herself toward the liquid, wanting to wash herself clean. Jane returned two more times, Rebecca standing for each bucket toss.

  When the showering was done, Rebecca was soaked, feeling cleaner. Feeling better. The floor was wet, the excrement spread out and thinned, but still present. Thankfully her place by the wall was virtually unsoiled.

  Jane tossed a clean bucket to Rebecca, along with sweatpants and a T-shirt, then left the shack, the familiar rattle of the lock echoing in Rebecca’s ears.

  She couldn’t stand that sound. It played over and over in her head at times like a song. She started to hum a Billy Joel tune, trying to get the lock’s rattle out of her mind.

  She hated how fragile she’d become. Yes, physically, that was expected, but mentally? She was a wreck at times. If it wasn’t for the pain, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to hang on. Yes, she thought of Anna, looked at the picture stuck to the post—that was pain too—but it was the physical pain that kept her going.

  She began to shiver, teeth clattering loudly, and hoped the warm weather would dry her off quickly. She worried being wet would worsen her cold, but realized she could do nothing about it. And in fact, could do nothing about anything. She was being punished and had to last, had to take it all and come out a winner. It seemed her only hope was for someone to happen along out of chance. But even then, with the place locked up, they had no idea she was inside.

  Yes, she called out occasionally, when she thought Jane wasn’t around. The one time she thought someone was outside—the lock rattling for a long period of time—she called out, asking to be rescued, but it was Jane at the door. The woman had beat her senseless that day, telling her if she ever did that again, she’d hurt Anna. Rebecca looked into Jane’s eyes, wanting to call the woman’s bluff, but what she saw was pure hate. It was then she knew something had changed. Was it her love for Anna? Did she no longer love the girl? Was Anna not living up to her expectations? Was being a mom more than Jane could handle? Maybe things at home were bad. Maybe the crazy bitch couldn’t take raising a child. Rebecca then knew she not only had to behave for her own well-being, but for Anna’s and Tom’s. From that day on, she never called out again.

  Jane had Rebecca completely at her mercy.

  Sitting there, darkness coming on, Rebecca could still see smears of shit on her legs. Her panties were caked with sweat, urine and waste. She wondered if she’d ever be clean again.

  Her stomach rumbled. Where is that apple? She looked around and behind her, but couldn’t seem to find it. Frantically she scanned the area, spotting the green fruit by the leg of a chair. It was out of her reach. She went for it anyway, the chains stopping her about half a foot away.

  She had to have that apple, and began yelling for Jane to come back. She didn’t stop, even when her throa
t burned and her voice was but a raspy whisper. Spent, she fell backward, crashing into the bucket.

  The bucket!

  Turning around, she grabbed the bucket, and extended her arms as far as the chains allowed. Using the pail, she was just barely able to touch the apple and began ushering it toward her. Her arms grew tired quickly, the chains seeming to grow heavier and heavier with each movement.

  With one last nudge, the apple rolled to her. Dropping the bucket, she scooped up the fruit, holding it close to her chest like a newborn. She’d never let it go again. Sitting back, she shook her head, realizing how crazy she was being. It was just food, not a security blanket. Not wanting to take a chance it would rot or get gobbled up by one of the nightly critters, she bit into the juicy apple, her mouth flooding with sweetness.

  She ate slowly, savoring every bite, making sure none of the juices escaped her mouth. When she was finished, the core resembled nothing but a bone stripped of flesh. Breaking it in half, she put both pieces into her mouth and sucked on them.

  She was used to the dark, preferring the gloom to the ugliness of the place. Something touched her shoulder, but she was too tired to care. The things that dwelled around her were all the friends she had now, and she wasn’t about to get rid of them—unless they were edible, of course.

  With only faint light reaching in through the grimy windows, Rebecca decided to sleep. Closing her eyes, she leaned back, hoping to dream of Anna.

  Two days later, Jane returned with food.

  27

  Tom came home early from work one day; his wife needed to get to the hair salon before they closed. He kissed her on the cheek as she ran out the door.

  “Thanks, honey,” she said. “Love you.”

  After showering and changing into jogging pants and a T-shirt, Tom went to check on Anna.

  The girl was in her room, crying on her bed. One side of her face was a bright, almost illuminated, red.

  “What’s the matter, sweetie?” he asked gently as he came over to her.

  “I was bad. I’m sorry, Daddy. I won’t do it again. Please don’t hit me.”

  Stunned, Tom asked, “Hit you? I would never hit you, Anna. Why would you say such a thing?”

  “’Cause I was bad again.”

  “Bad? What happened?”

  “I wanted a cookie. I know I have to ask first, so I did.” Anna hesitated, looking down at her fingers as she intertwined them nervously.

  Tom touched her arm. Anna flinched. What the hell was going on?

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” he told her. “Daddy’s not going to be mad.”

  “You promise?”

  “Anna, look at me.” And when she did, he said, “I promise,” then smiled.

  “Mommy promises not to be mad sometimes too, but she lies.”

  Tom didn’t know what to say. What Anna was saying didn’t sound like Rebecca. His wife had been acting a little strange lately, her patience practically nonexistent with him; and the sex was more intense, almost painful at times. He’d have to talk to her, ask her if something was wrong. Everyone was entitled to off days, weren’t they?

  “Anna, sweetie, please tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I knocked down a bag of sugar from the shelf when I was getting a cookie. The bag broke, and sugar went everywhere. Mommy screamed when she found out, and then she…” Anna started crying again.

  “Then what?”

  “Then she hit me on the face and spanked me really, really hard.”

  Tom’s heart ached. He hated seeing his little girl cry. What Anna was saying was crazy. Rebecca might be inclined to give her a light spanking, but not over a spilled bag of sugar. It was an accident. And his wife had never hit Anna across the face. Whenever their daughter was punished by one of them, they always told each other, but Rebecca hadn’t said a thing on the phone, or when she ran out of the house.

  Tom hugged his little girl, telling her Mommy was sorry that she hit her and that everything was going to be okay.

  Later that night, while in bed, Tom brought up the talk he had with Anna.

  “She said I hit her?” Jane put down the book she had been reading.

  “Hit and spanked.”

  “I gave her bottom a light pat, but I would never hit our little girl hard, let alone in the face. You know that, Tom.”

  “I saw her face. Her cheek was bright red.”

  “Tom,” she said, harshly. “I would never hit my daughter. I love her. Give her a little spanking now and again, sure; she needs discipline—but hitting her across the face? Come on. She’s lying.”

  “She’s a good girl. Why would she lie?”

  “So you believe her over me?”

  “Look, you’ve been on edge lately. Is something wrong?”

  Jane crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips. “Edgy? You think so, huh?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  She smiled, then placed her hand on his shoulder and ran her fingers up and down his arm. “Look, I’ve just been a little stressed lately. You know, home all the time. Not working.”

  “Okay.”

  “I didn’t want to say anything, but I’ve been looking into a few things. And I’ll talk with Anna tomorrow. I’m so sorry I scared her.”

  Tom smiled, seeing the woman he’d fallen in love with again. Maybe she was just a little stressed, like she said. Maybe a bit of cabin fever had taken hold. A night of lovemaking would be a good start to relaxing her. Spend some quality time with foreplay, bringing her to the brink of orgasm, then slow down before working her up again until she finally exploded. He went to touch her stomach, wanting to slide her shirt up and get at her breast when she flinched and put a hand out to stop him.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yes, but please, let me.” She pushed him down onto the bed, and Tom gave no resistance. “Let me take some pressure off my hardworking man. Then you can show your wife how lucky she is to have you.”

  Tom closed his eyes and felt his wife’s soft, moist lips fall over his penis.

  28

  She was afraid to look, keeping both eyes closed. She needed to see a plus sign, prayed to see the crisscrossed symbol. Holding the stick in front of her, she opened her right eye, then the other. Her cheek muscles contracted, drawing her lips back into a genuine smile. She felt butterflies in her stomach and her heart swell. Jane was pregnant. Anna would have a sibling, her family growing. And this time she would be there from the beginning, raising the child properly, unlike how Anna was raised.

  Jane figured she would have about four months before she began to show, maybe more, and would have to be long gone by then. She would start over, for good this time. Go where no one knew her, or of her situation, that she wasn’t supposed to be able to have children. It was time to put the rest of her plan into action: kill Tom and Rebecca, the latter of which was almost there.

  Rebecca had fight in her, Jane admitted. The woman had been fed far below basic meals—bread, cold baked beans, cheese sandwiches, and given a bottle of water a day—but she couldn’t imagine the woman’s sanity holding out much longer. Rebecca had been chained for over two months to a wall in a shack in the middle of the woods. There was nothing more she needed from the woman, and keeping her alive was a risk. Maybe she did it to watch her suffer. Whatever the reason, it was time for Rebecca to leave the world and head to hell, where punishment would reign down upon her by the devil himself.

  Tomorrow night, she’d take a trip out to see the woman, and if she wasn’t dead by then, Jane would help her to it. A slow, agonizing death.

  * * *

  That night, Tom came home later than expected. Rebecca’s Jeep Cherokee was not in the driveway. He gritted his teeth and sighed. She was supposed to have waited for him to get home before leaving, but decided she couldn’t wait and had taken Anna with her.

  After entering the house, just to make sure, he called out Anna’s name and received no reply. With all the strangeness going on, Tom thought he better make su
re his wife had indeed taken Anna with her.

  He went to his daughter’s bedroom and saw that she wasn’t there. About to leave the room, he paused, hearing the soft, muffled cries of his little girl. The sounds were coming from her closet, the door closed. Opening the door, he found Anna crying yet again, curled up in the fetal position, with a coat thrown over her. His little girl was shaking, afraid. Lifting the coat off, he saw that she had bruising on her arms—finger marks from where someone grabbed her, that someone being Rebecca. Damn it.

  Coaxing her up and into his arms, Tom asked what had happened. It was difficult to remain calm, his heated pulse thumping away as if he’d just come from a workout. Rebecca was out of control and he needed to do something; find out what the hell was going on. Maybe she was on drugs.

  Staying at home and raising a child couldn’t be easy, but he put in his share when he was at home. He helped out with shopping and other things when he could. She had loved being a stay-at-home mom; she’d said so herself. Now she was antisocial and short-tempered. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a friend over, or Anna’s friends for that matter. She was even avoiding phone calls, telling Tom to answer and say she was busy.

  Not knowing what else to do, he decided to make a move and do something he never thought he would have to, and began rummaging through Rebecca’s things. He hoped to God he didn’t find anything, but on the other hand he hoped he did. It would at least explain her behavior.

  An hour later, and he’d gone through everything. Sifting through her clothing drawers, checking inside her coats, shoes, up on the high shelves of the bedroom and kitchen shelves, in the basement, closets, pots, the cookie jar, and open boxes of food. He imagined a druggie wouldn’t hide things where they could be easily found, and thought about looking through Anna’s room, but didn’t think his wife was that careless, that stupid.