Take Me With You

by Nina G. Jones

  “Sam,” she rasped.

  “Yes?” I replied leaning in to hear her better.

  “I know,” she breathed out.

  “You know?” I asked.

  She took a few heavy breaths, trying to maintain her strength.

  “Where you go…at night.”

  There was no point in denying. I was with a dead woman, and dead women can't tell your secrets.

  “I tried. I tried to protect you.”

  “You did, mama,” I assured her.

  “You're different. I knew.”

  “No one's gonna hurt me, mom. You can rest. I promise I'll take care of myself. You don't need to protect me from then anymore.”

  “No…” she stopped, seemingly exhausted from the brief utterances. “Not them. From. You.”

  Her words knocked me back like a battering ram. Her precious boy. Her angel. All this time I thought she saw me as special, misunderstood. But she saw the darkness. Taking me away was about protecting me and everyone else…from me.

  Tears streamed down my cheeks for the first time in as long as I could remember. She closed her eyes again and didn't utter another word.

  As I sat there in the dark, next to my only true ally, I realized she was one of them all along. She made me this way. I was always alone. She saw me as a freak, too. And now that she was gone, I had nothing to keep me rooted to this world. If she lived to protect them and me from myself, well now a beast had been set free. For years I had spied on these lives, my mother's existence keeping me from breaching an invisible wall. I could walk through their homes, I could study their things, I could watch them through their windows, but I couldn't take their lives. I could not touch them.

  After a couple of hours, as she lay there comatose, I leaned in and whispered into her ear the things I felt deep inside all these years but was too afraid to believe. She was all I had. She was mommy. She was my savior. But what I always knew was she was my ruiner. I blamed dad for everything. And he deserved blame. But I couldn't allow myself to be angry at her, the only person I had. And she used that against me. “I want you to know that I hate you, you sick bitch. And you've done nothing to save anyone, including me. If you hear this, I want you to know that there will be pain in your name. I promise you this. No one will be safe.”

  She never did open her eyes again, dying a few hours later.

  I wait, seated, with my back pressed against the locked door of the cabin, staring at the sweeping blood stain on the floor, so many unanswered questions demanding answers. Why did the sheriff leave me here? How did he find me? Why wasn't he in his uniform? Where the hell is Sam?

  It's all over, it has to be. So many instances over the course of my time here, I envisioned what it would be like if I was found. I imagined droves of police kicking down doors, or even a covert mission of officers sneaking in and swooping me away from the man who took me. I haven't been imagining that lately. No, instead it's been visions of what the baby would look like. Imaginings of my future, sometimes a happy one, sometimes something more tragic.

  I understand the choice I made. I made it hoping that the Sam I see now is the one I'll continue to have, that somehow his sinister urges have been tempered. But I still don't understand what is unfolding around me. I didn't want to be saved, but now that I'm locked in here by the person who was supposed to drag me to safety, even against my wishes, I am beginning to believe things are far more complicated than I understood.

  Time passes slowly. Yelling indiscriminately is of no use out here, so I wait, listening for any sounds of life outside the planks of the shack wall. Finally, I hear footsteps close by. I know Sam's gait when something is wrong. I know it like my own heartbeat.

  “Sam?” I call out cautiously. “Sam!” I shout, pounding on the door.

  He unlatches it and pulls it open, and I collapse into his arms. I don't know how he'll receive me. If he'll blame me for leaving, if he has any idea of what transpired. For all he knows, I ran away.

  “Someone was here. I recognized him, I'm almost one hundred percent sure he's the sheriff. He might be back,” I recite frantically.

  Sam shushes me, running a tender hand over my head. He pulls back and nods like he already knows.

  “You saw him too?” Dread seeps over me like hot tar as I think of what he might have done. “I don't understand. Did you—” I can't bring myself to ask. This fragile fantasy I built, the one where he could become someone better, hinges on a few words.

  He shakes his head. No, I didn’t hurt him.

  He looks me in the eyes, the color of glacial ice, often so frigid, doing his best to warm them, to focus them on mine. He doesn't look away until I return the same calm focus, and then he nods measuredly.

  It's okay.

  “The baby, it's gone,” I murmur.

  He nods and tilts his head towards the door, leading me outside. I follow him in a trance, still holding the items I collected underneath one arm, taking one last glance back at the only evidence of a life we created. I don't try to fill in the silence. For once, I have nothing left to say. I'm as lost now as I have ever been.

  He leads me into the woods until we are in front of a fresh mound of dirt marked with smooth stones from the lake.

  “You buried it?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “When?”

  He points at me and then rests his head on his hands. When you were asleep. Sam motions towards it. I hesitate, but finally I kneel at the tiny bump of earth.

  “Did the animals—?” I ask, without looking back. I don't want to know. I give a few tears, but it's all I have left. There's no time for lengthy requiems.

  I stand up and give Sam a nod. He leads me back to the main house, and up the stairs, towards his bedroom, but we stop short of that destination. Instead, he turns the knob to the room that was locked and this time it rotates. The door pops open and he gestures for me to go ahead.

  The room is a disturbing contrast to the barren organization of the rest of the house. The walls and windows are covered with layers of colorful tapestry. He clicks on a lamp, illuminating the cave-like atmosphere. Over the tapestries are countless news articles, many of them foxed, a few still crisp. Framed photos rest on most available surfaces, likely the ones that seem to have been removed from the rest of the house.

  The dread dripping over me pools in my stomach. This is a room of insanity. If I could see into Sam's mind, would this be what I see? Is this the chaos underneath the exterior of calculation and unwavering power?

  I look back at him, seeking his permission to explore. For some reason, he's decided this is the time to give me answers. He nods, telling me it's okay.

  I gravitate to an article tacked to a hanging quilt. I notice a few of the squares has the same fabric as one of my dresses.

  HUNTER-RIDGEFIELD HEIR, 8, RUN OVER AND DRAGGED BY DRUNK DRIVER

  Samuel Hunter-Ridgefield, son of Gloria Hunter, one of the heiresses to the Hunter political and business empire, and Andrew Ridgefield, Sheriff of the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department, is in a coma after being hit and dragged by a vehicle while riding his bicycle near their home. Sheriff Ridgefield is a beloved member of the community, coming from a long line of California politicians and philanthropists. The boy's mother is an heiress to the Hunter fortune. Her great-great grandfather found wealth during the Gold Rush and built a farming chemical empire…

  HUNTER-RIDGEFIELD BOY AWAKES FROM COMA

  MAN CHARGED WITH HUNTER-RIDGEFIELD BOY ACCIDENT RECEIVES MAXIMUM SENTENCE

  BELOVED SHERIFF, ANDREW RIDGEFIELD, OF RIDGEFIELD FAME IS KILLED IN ROADSIDE ACCIDENT

  ANDREW HUNTER-RIDGEFIELD, SON OF SHERIFF TRAGICALLY KILLED IN ROADSIDE ACCIDENT 11 YEARS AGO, ELECTED YOUNGEST SHERIFF IN SACRAMENTO COUNTY SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT HISTORY.

  I know of these families, their names ubiquitously etched in museum wings, mentioned on the news in business or political dealings. Sam clearly has money, but he's someone who lives by the callouses on his hands, who wea
rs torn jeans and t-shirts, and whose head is crowned in a mess of golden-brown ringlets. I never thought he was part of a political and industrial dynasty.

  Some of the articles have unintelligible scribbles on them, words circled, some crossed out, as if a code is being deciphered. While there is so much I don't know or understand, a blurry picture of who Sam is and where he comes from begins to emerge. The scars that run along his body and face, products of a tragic accident. His access to money and land explained by his privileged lineage. And the most shocking and confounding revelation of all: the man who was tasked to save me, is my captor's brother.

  Sam waits patiently as I move on to the photos. There is a picture of a blond boy alongside a taller boy in front of handsome couple. His hair has darkened with age, but those eyes, even on a small boy, could not be missed. They are his mother's eyes. A beautiful woman, with dark hair, and an elegance that oozes from the photo. His father, a tall man with a dominating posture, his hair lighter, but his eyes brown, like little Andrew. Sam's mom smiles for the camera, but she looks hollow, as if held prisoner. Mr. Ridgefield doesn't smile, though his squint into the sun might provide that illusion. Little Andrew's smile beams across his face—a little boy who has it all. But Sam, little Sam, before the accident, when his skin was still perfect and unmarred—he looks uneasy, tense. His father's hand is gripping one of his shoulders. It's not a gentle touch like that of his mother's. It's a reminder to stay in line. I browse the photos of the family that should have it all. Over time, there is less and less of the Andrews, and just pictures of Sam and Gloria. She looks increasingly disheveled as Sam grows into a handsome young man, though there seems to be the occasional photo were her eyes are bright again, her hair combed and twisted into a prim updo.

  I've gathered as much as my eyes and brain can before turning back to Sam.

  “He's your brother?” I ask, already certain of the answer.

  Sam nods.

  I walk over to him and take his hand. I run my fingers around the stitches on his arm. Last night he reopened his scars. He flinches at first, but then allows me. “This was all from the accident?”

  He nods, darting his eyes away.

  “I'm sorry that happened to you.”

  He shrugs.

  “Why am I here? Why now? What's going to happen, Sam? I need you to talk to me. Please.”

  It occurs to me that reason he may not speak to me is not psychological, but physical. Damage from the accident, maybe. But it still doesn't add up.

  He pulls out his pad, and this time he writes slowly, thoughtfully, not rushing in fragments as he often does.

  This room is not mine, Vesp. It's my mother's. She died last year. She seems nice in the photos, right? Pretty. Gentle. But she was sick, and she wrapped me in her sickness. I was different as a child. I had a severe speech impediment. My father, the hero, hated me for what he saw as a weakness. He made sure to remind me every day. I was teased incessantly; my own brother was embarrassed by me.

  And then the accident happened. Things got worse. My mother told me people were trying to kill me and she took me up here, afraid the teasing and taunting would get worse with my scars. My dad used to pull me out of my bed at night, he used to make me swim in that lake until I would almost drown and then he'd pull me out. That playground, he made me build those obstacle courses and run them for hours until I would vomit or pass out. He thought my mother was making me soft, so he had to make me strong. She put on a good enough act for him, he knew she wasn't well, but he didn't want to be bothered with us, no one did. Our families have an image, they have goals, and we were blemishes on that perfection. I wasn't allowed to leave the land here without her, have friends. My speech improved as I got older, but when I was finally about to go out there, I was so overwhelmed by the outside that I found it easier to hide my voice, especially when it came to women. I didn't want fucking pity. I didn't want people laughing at me. Around my brother and mother, though, I could speak almost normally.

  When my father died, I realized I could sneak out at night and be like everyone else. That's when it started. That's when I realized that when I was out there, alone like that, I had all the power. It was like a drug, and when that drug came over me, I became someone else. I watched the lives I had missed out on, the ones I knew I would never have because I was not like everyone else—a fact my dear mother had reminded me of every fucking day.

  When she died, I snapped. I did the things you see mentioned in the articles I gave you. I stopped just watching and prowling. I found my voice. It was hiding in the darkest part of me, where rage, power, and sex intermingle. I didn't care about how they saw me, because I was in charge, and my stammer would disappear. I didn't have secrets in those homes I took over, and with that burden being lifted off, so did the oppressive tightness in my throat, so did the heaviness of my tongue. It was always something, my dad watching me, the kids at school, the secrets I kept, something was always like an invisible hand, choking me, making it hard to breathe, hard to speak.

  You said you wanted to know, Vesper. Now you do.

  I read the note, sometimes reading the same line over and over, the information overload making it hard to process this story of isolation and rage.

  I look up at Sam, and though nothing physically has changed, I see him differently. I am angry at him, and I am sad for him.

  “Why did you come to my house? I know you were watching me, but why me? You didn't take the others.”

  He sighs, again writing down his answer.

  Because I saw you with Johnny. And it made me remember what it was like to have someone who took care of me like that. The person I loved and hated most in this world. But even she wasn't you. You were perfect. You were the person I wish I had had. You were the person I dreamed of.

  “But you took me away from him. You understand? You hurt the little boy you saw as yourself.”

  I didn't plan to take you. I had never been so careless. But you make me act out of character. You make me a fool.

  “What's your brother going to do?”

  He gave me a choice. He said he would forget what he saw if we left town.

  I chuckle to myself. “I was going to propose that myself,” I say, realizing how ridiculous I sound as I say it aloud. Giving my kidnapper ideas on how to never be found again.

  He scrunches his brow.

  “Well, it's just that, if we were going to try being…normal, we'd have to start fresh. But I don't know, Sam. I honestly don't know with you. You have to understand what's happening to me. I feel like an idiot for saying this…but, I don't think you're all bad. I know what you've done. I know the pain you've caused, but I do see that boy. I see that inside of you there is still a gentle person…” I begin to sob, the knotted cluster of emotions tugging at what's left of my soul. “But how do I forgive myself for falling for you?”

  He watches me cry in silence, his brow furrowed with concern and confusion.

  Finally, he scribbles something on his notepad.

  The only person you ever have to hate is me.

  But I can't. I can get angry. I can become disgusted at times, but I can't hate him.

  “You said the secrets make you stutter. But now there aren't any. I know it all. And I'm not running. I'll run away with you. I don't care what you sound like anyway. You should have known better than to think I would. And when things are clear, when my face is completely forgotten, we can get Johnny. You have to understand he needs me. He’s the only part of my old life I can’t let go of.”

  I wait for Sam’s response. I know it’s a huge gamble, asking him to help me kidnap Johnny someday. I know how crazy it all sounds. But I also know things are different now. I am different. So is he. And what once sounded insane, now seems like the natural progression of things. We were preparing to have a family. This can be that family. Sam looks away, the intersecting thoughts in his mind visible in his distant stare. Eventually, he nods pensively.

  I sigh with relief, but deep
inside I know I can’t steal Johnny. I may find a way to see him again, from a distance or in secret, but I can’t bring him into the madness. My asking was a way for me to come to terms to that. I can tell myself it wasn’t my idea to leave him behind. Otherwise, it’s not possible to reconcile my love for Johnny and this choice.

  Silence falls upon the room. I think of the letter, about the invisible hand he speaks of wrapping around his throat and I grow frustrated. “You picked me because you saw me with Johnny, because I don't see people that way. I might know and accept more about you than anyone else. So why?” I take the wrinkled paper and wave it between us. “Why are you still writing me notes instead of just talking to me?”

  He writes a small note on the pad, tears it off and hands it to me as he stands up, turning his back to leave the room.

  Because you make my heart race, Vesp.

  Sam flings the last of his bags into the truck.

  “What about the animals?” I ask.

  Sam nods and jogs to the barn. I follow closely as he opens the door and leads them out. He swats Beverly on her hind until she runs away. The goats take a few steps but linger nearby.

  “Will they be okay?” I ask as we head back to the truck.

  They’re free now. They have everything they need here.

  Sam points to the floor of the truck.

  I look at him quizzically and he huffs before pulling out the notepad again.

  You need to lie down until we are well out of town. People will recognize you.

  “You know, you wouldn't have to write it down if you just spoke,” I snipe.

  He shoots me a stern look out of the corner of his eye before walking over to the driver's side. I freeze anxiously. I've never done anything like this. I feel like a criminal.

  Sam stops short when he senses my hesitation. He takes a breath and walks over to me. I stiffen, wondering if the stress of recent events has shortened his patience. But he palms my face in his hands and locks his eyes on mine, tilting his forehead down to mine. He locks his gaze on me, so that all I see are those eyes. For so long, it was all I knew of him. It was my greatest source of terror and uncertainty. But now, I'd follow those eyes into hell. Hell is my home now.