by Nicole Maggi
“Plus,” she added, “it’s more complicated than that.” She stared out the window.
I knew she was talking about the guy who raped her, and I wondered for the millionth-and-one time who it was. I wish I knew so I could go all Arya Stark on him. I blew a hard breath out. “Well, my mom has to tell them. I don’t think we’re getting around that. So, what will they do when they find out?”
Mellie turned back to me. “They’ll stop me from having the abortion.”
“You mean, you think they’ll physically stop you?”
“Yes,” Mellie said without a trace of doubt in her voice. “They will lock me in my room. They will block the door. I’m not being overdramatic, Lise. They will do everything they can to stop me from having an abortion. If they have to, they will put me under a twenty-four-hour watch.”
The wheels in my brain spun and spun until they screeched to a sudden stop.
They can’t stop her if they can’t find her.
—Lise
March 22
Early morning
Dear Ms. Tilson,
Lise has some wild idea about how I’m still going to have an abortion even after her mom tells my parents. At this point, I’m open to whatever idea she comes up with. I don’t have many options, and I’m running out of time.
Daphne dropped me off down the street from my house, far enough away that they wouldn’t see me get out of a strange car. It was well past 8 p.m., but I’d told Bethany I’d be staying for dinner at Susanna’s, so I was covered. I trudged up toward my house, watching out for icy patches on the road. The cold was bone-deep. The calendar may say spring, but winter still has a tight hold here.
I was almost at my driveway, when I saw HIS car.
HE was here.
In my house.
Why? Why did he always have to come over? I couldn’t breathe. Panic spread through me and rooted my feet to the ground. I needed to be safe. Away from him. Somewhere I could breathe. I wanted to be in my closet, hidden away in the dark. But to get there, I would have to walk through the front door and be polite and hospitable to the man who raped me.
I wanted to run.
I couldn’t breathe.
And then I got angry. This was my house. I shouldn’t have to run off because he was on my turf. And I thought, What would Lise do?
She would do what was best for her. Not for the family, certainly not for HIM. With her voice in my ear, I crept around to the back door. Inside, I took off my shoes and tiptoed upstairs. Then I shut myself in my closet. In that tight space, with my own familiar clothes hanging all around me, I could breathe again. I stayed there until I heard footsteps in the hall, and got out as Bethany was coming into the room.
She jumped when she saw me. “When’d you come in?”
“A little while ago.”
“How was Susanna’s?” She looked at me like she knew Susanna’s had been a lie, and for the hundredth time I wondered if I told her, would she keep my secret or go running downstairs to tell Mom and Dad?
I couldn’t risk it.
“Fine.” My neck went red hot with shame and my stomach churned with nausea. I slid out of the room and went to the bathroom, trying to make it look casual and not desperate. I locked the door, put a towel against the crack between the door and the floor, and knelt in front of the toilet. But the sick never came. What was roiling in my stomach was not morning sickness, but rage.
I grabbed my towel and screamed into it. I screamed my shame, my fear, my anger that HE was chatting with my dad while I visited meth trailers and stripped in front of strangers. I screamed my rage at being reduced to using back doors—to the clinic, to my own home—and about anyone else having a say in what to do with my own body.
I screamed myself hoarse, but I didn’t have any dreams last night for the first time since this nightmare began.
Signed,
Mellie Rivers
March 22
Later morning
Dear Ms. Tilson,
I woke up early this morning, before the sun. I slept soundly for the first time in weeks. And for the first time in weeks, there was hope inside me. Maybe Lise’s plan would work. Maybe my parents would support me. Maybe everything would be okay.
Bethany was waking up when I headed downstairs. Joanie, who always got up before the rest of the house and had been trained to occupy herself without waking everyone else, was sitting on the living room floor, coloring in a fairy princess coloring book. I expected to find the kitchen empty, but Hannah was sitting on a stool at the island, a cup of steaming coffee in her hands.
“Morning,” I said.
She blinked. “What? Oh, good morning.”
I don’t drink coffee very often, but Hannah had made a pot and the smell was too tempting to resist. I poured myself a cup, added a ton of cream and sugar, and sat across from her. Even though she was dressed, she hadn’t put on any makeup yet, and her face was pale and drawn, dark circles under her eyes, which were usually bright and cheery. I examined her from across the table, taking her in in a way I hadn’t done in a very long time. Maybe not since before she got engaged. She seemed different. Smaller. More contained. “What’s going on?” I asked her.
“What do you mean?” she snapped.
I winced. She shook her head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be snippy.”
I leaned toward her. “Are you okay? You seem, I don’t know, upset or something.”
“I’m not upset. Why would I be upset? I just have a lot on my mind. That’s all.”
“Okay.”
We sipped our coffee in silence. Her phone buzzed. She didn’t even look at it. I did. The screen was filled with missed calls and texts from her fiancé. I couldn’t read what they said from my angle, but I could see they were in all caps.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?”
She shrugged. The phone buzzed again. She still didn’t reach for it, but her fingers tightened on the mug, her knuckles turning white.
I could hear footsteps above us, running water in the pipes, and Joanie humming a cartoon theme song as she colored. Hannah didn’t take notice. She seemed deep inside herself. I watched her warily. I didn’t know which Hannah was here today, Old Hannah or Almost Mrs. Talbot.
Years ago, Hannah used to talk to me. I was the next-oldest girl, so it was natural. But then she went to high school, fell into a clique with the other church girls her age, and got a boyfriend who became her fiancé. I got left by the wayside.
The phone buzzed again. Hannah ignored it. “Do you ever wonder what’s on the other side?” she asked me instead.
That was a weird question. “Other side of what?”
“Of this.” She waved her hand in the air. “All the stuff we’re doing. I’m doing. You’re doing. What do you even want to do with your life, Mellie?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.” Her voice was fierce and low. “You know, even if it’s deep down.”
She was staring at me so hard that I didn’t dare lie. “Paint. I want to paint.”
“Then do it. Don’t let anyone—Dad, Mom, anyone—tell you not to.”
Where was this coming from? It was the first time I’d ever heard Hannah talk like this. Well, maybe she had when we were kids and played imaginary games where we traveled to China in a hot-air balloon and raised pandas.
Hannah pushed back her chair, but I put my hand on her arm. “What do you want to do, Hannah?”
She looked away. “I’m doing it. Teaching, getting married. Having babies is what’s on the other side of that.”
“Is that what you want?” I kept my voice low. I didn’t want Joanie to hear and tell Mom about this conversation in her innocent-but-tactless way.
It took a moment, but she faced me, her eyes on mine. “I want to travel,” she said. “I want to teach English t
o kids in Asia, Eastern Europe, Africa.”
The air between us was thick. That was impossible. Especially once she was married. Maybe they’d take one good trip, but then she would get pregnant, and there’d be no more traveling.
Footsteps pounded on the stairs. We turned away from each other as the rest of the family came down for breakfast. Later, when Bethany and I left for school, I saw Hannah in her fiancé’s car when he picked her up to take her to work. His face was twisted and angry as he talked to her. She sunk down low in the seat.
I’ve seen my father talk to my mother like that.
I’ve seen Delia’s father talk to her mother like that.
I’ve seen how ugly men can be when they feel like they’re losing control. I’ve felt it. I’m carrying that anger’s baby.
She should not marry someone who treats her like that. But if I tell her this, I will become the enemy, not him.
Signed,
Mellie Rivers
March 22
Dear Ms. Tilson—
I told Mom my idea, and she didn’t say it was impossible. We talked it all out and came up with a plan. A good plan. I think. I hope.
I slipped a note into Mellie’s locker this morning, telling her to meet me in the bathroom by the gym. This time there was no note telling me no. She was there when I got to the bathroom, leaning against the sink and drinking from her water bottle. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
She looked different, brighter almost, a sharper, clearer version of herself. “How are you doing?”
“Still pregnant,” she said, and laughed this short, bitter laugh that wasn’t joyful at all. Then she got quiet. “But, I’m ready to face whatever’s on the other side of this.”
“Are you?” I didn’t mean to doubt her, but sometimes there are things you just can’t be ready for. But I wanted her to feel strong. “That’s good, I guess.”
“So what’s your wild plan?”
“It’s not wild,” I said. I backed up against the bathroom door. “I talked to my mom and she thinks it will work.”
“Okay, so what is it?”
“We go to Denver,” I said. “You and me. We go to the sister clinic in Denver, and have it done there. My mom will call your parents, but they won’t be able to find you before you have the abortion.”
Mellie’s brows pinched together. “We go to Denver. For two days. Where will we stay?”
“Oh, my mom has tons of friends we can stay with,” I said, waving my hand at the insignificance of this problem. “She’s making some calls.”
“But…your mom won’t be the one to do it.” Her brows were still drawn tight, her eyes filled with worry.
“No. She won’t.” I hadn’t really considered that. “Is that a problem?”
Mellie hunched her shoulders. “I trust her. I don’t know the people at the clinic in Denver.”
“They’re good people. It’s one of the few clinics left in the state. They’re fighting the good fight, like my mom.”
She gnawed at her lip. “I just really wanted your mom to be my doctor.”
I reached out and grasped her hand. “I know. And if there was some other way…I just don’t see it. If my mom calls your parents while you’re still in Wolverton, they’ll get to you. It’ll be much harder for them to find you in Denver.” I tried to smile and squeezed her hand. “And I’ll be there.”
Mellie’s brows smoothed a bit. “Thank God for that.” She took a big, shaky breath. “Thank God for you. Have I told you that?”
“Eh.” I waved my hand again. “When this is all over, you can buy me a big piece of red velvet cake.”
Mellie snorted, but then her face drew sad again. “When this is all over,” she whispered, “what is my life going to look like?”
I wanted to tell her that her life would be sunshine and roses and unicorns. But I could only tell the truth: “I don’t know.”
Sure, we might get her safely out of Wolverton to have the abortion, but what would happen when she came back? What would she be coming back to?
The landscape of that world hasn’t been built yet.
—Lise
March 23
Dawn
Dear Ms. Tilson,
Three days from now, I won’t be pregnant anymore. The nightmare will be over on Sunday.
A new nightmare can begin.
But I can’t think about that yet. I have to get through this nightmare first before I can face the next one.
Today, instead of going home, I’m going to get into Lise’s car, and we’re going to drive through the mountains to Denver. We’re going to stay with one of Alanna’s friends, and then on Sunday, it’ll be over. Probably around the same time my family will be in church.
Unless they’re scouring the state to find me.
I don’t know what they’re going to do when they get the call from Alanna. I don’t know what I’ll be coming home to. But at least I won’t be pregnant anymore.
And then maybe I can tell my parents the truth about what happened to me, along with Delia and everyone else. Maybe I’ll be able to build something new with them, something based on honesty. I’m done lying. I just want truth from now on.
I don’t want to lose my family. But I can’t lose myself.
Signed,
Mellie Rivers
March 23
Dear Ms. Tilson—
My plan would’ve worked perfectly except for the fucking snow.
By the end of the school day, it was swirling down, but it wasn’t a bad storm. I could still drive in it, still see several feet beyond my windshield. I was confident. I called my mom and told her we were leaving. “Drive safe,” she said. “Be careful in the snow.” I know how to drive in the snow; Mom taught me herself. I’ve lived here my whole life; I could drive the roads and hills of Wolverton blindfolded in the snow. I know how snow works, how it may look light and ethereal, but it is actually heavy and dangerous.
That’s why I could tell we were in deep, deep shit before we even reached the pass.
The snow was starting to pile up by the time we reached the outskirts of town. The pass was still twenty miles away, and the storm was getting stronger, the snow coming down fast. Mellie peered out her window, her hand cupped against the glass. “This looks pretty bad,” she said.
That was an understatement, but I didn’t say that out loud. Instead, I said, “I’ve driven in snow worse than this. No big deal.”
What I didn’t say was that I’ve driven in bad snow, but not over the pass. In the mountains, when it snows like this, you build a fire and make some hot cocoa while you wait out the storm. But I’m sure Mellie knew that. She’s lived here her whole life too. Though Mellie has never driven in snow. She doesn’t have her license. She doesn’t understand the concentration it takes to drive through a storm like this, whether you’re in the mountains or not.
Beyond the reach of the streetlights in town, the snow looked even more menacing, swirling wildly with nothing to keep it in check. I clutched the steering wheel and leaned forward, squinting through the pathetic light my headlights gave off, even with the high beams. The snow snaked in the air in front of us, shifting back and forth in the ever-changing wind. The tires gripped and released, gripped and released, then we swerved. My hands clung to the wheel, fighting for control. I didn’t dare take my eyes off the road.
Why didn’t we leave school early? Why didn’t we ditch last period?
By the time we made it to the pass, the gate was up. Even through the snow, it was easy to see the bright, reflective red sign barring the road. A state trooper’s car was parked just beyond it.
“No,” Mellie whispered. It was the most hopeless sound I’d ever heard.
I eased the SUV to a stop, the front fender inches from the gate, and we sat staring at the blockade as if we could make it
go away. A moment later, a trooper got out of the car and came to my window. I rolled it down.
He looked at me, then at Mellie. “Pass is closed,” he said, like I couldn’t already see the big freaking gate and his car blocking my path.
“Is it really that bad?” I asked.
“It’s pretty slick,” the trooper said. “The storm is supposed to get worse overnight.” He squinted at us. “Where you girls headed in this kind of weather?”
“Denver.”
He shook his head. “You’ll have to wait for your girls’ weekend.”
I grit my jaw. “We’re not having a ‘girls’ weekend.’ She has a medical appointment.”
“On a Friday night?” His blue eyes flashed his doubt. “Your parents know where you are?”
“Of course they do,” I said through my teeth. “Thank you, Officer.” I rolled up the window before he could say anything else, threw the car in reverse, and did a slippery three-point turn. Then I pulled to the side of the road and hit the call button on the Bluetooth System. It rang once before Mom answered with a breathless “Hello?”
“They’ve closed the pass. We have to turn around. Don’t call them yet.”
There was a split second of silence that passed in slow motion. I knew what she was going to say, and I wanted to live in that split second before she said it.
“I already made the call.”
Next to me, Mellie made an inhuman sound, like an animal caught in a trap. Wolverton has trapped us. Within its boundaries, nowhere is safe until the storm passes.
—Lise
March 23
Dear Ms. Tilson,
Fear is a strange thing. It’s not invisible. It has teeth so sharp you can feel them in your skin. It will eat you alive, and you can’t do anything to stop it.
That’s how I feel as Lise drives us back into Wolverton. Like I’m being eaten alive by fear.