by Banks, R. R.
“I'm sorry to interrupt,” she says. “I just wanted to know if I could be of any assistance?”
I sigh and lean back in my chair. “No, we were just finishing up here,” I say.
“Your surgery is scheduled for two weeks from now, Mrs. Renfro,” I say, my tone ice cold. “Unless you would prefer to have a second opinion and another doctor take over your case. If you decide to go that route, please let us know so we can forward your files to your new surgeon.”
I stand up and walk out of the conference room, leaving both Mrs. Renfro and Jean standing there, looking completely flabbergasted. I walk down to my office and slam the door behind me – slamming the door to my private bathroom behind me as well, just for good measure.
After splashing my face with cold water, I stare at myself in the mirror – and don't particularly care for what I see. There are dark circles beneath my eyes and a haunted expression painted upon my face. There's hostility and a deep, abiding anger running through me that I can't quite seem to banish entirely. Although I can keep it at bay most of the time, ever since rotating out of the military, it's been my constant companion.
I dry my face with the hand towel and drop it on the counter. Opening the door, I step out into my office and find Jean sitting in the chair across from my desk. She still has the same expression of curiosity mixed with concern on her face that she'd had in the conference room. I step over to the small, discrete bar I keep in my office. After pouring a couple fingers of scotch for myself, I raise the bottle and look at Jean.
“No, thank you,” she says. “And it's the middle of the day. Are you sure it's a good idea to be drinking? You still have patients to meet with.”
Dropping down into the seat behind my desk, I look Jean in the eye and take a long swallow of my drink.
“When did you become my mother?” I ask.
“Ever since you thought that berating our patients was a good idea,” she snaps back. “What were you thinking, Eric?”
Jean's eyes narrow, a baleful expression upon her face. She and I have a bit of a contentious relationship and have crossed swords more than a few times over the years. She wasn't my first choice to be our office's nurse practitioner. She wasn't my second or third choice either. But, my partner, Vance McDermott, had been really partial to her after we'd interviewed potential candidates after opening our practice. But, since I hadn't been attached to anybody in particular, I didn't put up too much of a fight and we hired her.
But I knew going in that our relationship wasn't going to be sunshine and roses. I will say though, that Jean is very good at what she does. She's an incredible nurse practitioner and honestly, I feel lucky that we have her. Vance had been right on the money about her. But, she tends to overstep her bounds. She sometimes forgets that the name on the office door is Galloway and McDermott – not, Galloway, McDermott, and Kelly.
She's stubborn, hard-headed, and usually thinks she knows what's best for everybody – including me. And nothing pisses me off faster than somebody trying to tell me what I should think, feel, or do. Vance says we're a lot alike and that's the reason we clash as often as we do, but I don't see it. Her place is not correcting or admonishing me – it's tending to our patients. Jean is our employee and needs to remember that.
“What was I thinking?” I ask. “I was thinking that Mrs. Renfro is a goddamn hypochondriac who needs some serious psychological help.”
“No, she's a scared woman who needs some reassurance.”
“Please,” I say. “I've gone over her biopsy with her a dozen times. I've assured her that she's fine, that the tumors are benign, and that she's in no immediate danger. She refuses to listen.”
“She's scared, Eric.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, and she thinks something she read on the goddamn Internet trumps my years of education and experience,” I narrow my eyes and say, my anger rising like a flash flood. “Give me a break, Jean.”
She looks at me for a long moment, the tension and frustration with me on her face more than clear – as it was most days. Like I said, our relationship is contentious and we clash often. This is most definitely not our first rodeo. Especially when it comes to my bedside manner. Or as Jean usually says, my lack of bedside manner. It's been an ongoing argument since her first day with us.
And an argument I am tired of having.
Jean believes in hand-holding and coddling. And while I didn't go out of my way – usually – to be an asshole, I believed in laying out the facts. I believed in efficiency, in giving my patients the unvarnished truth of things so we could lay out the best course of action possible.
I don't see any reason, or benefit, to walking on eggshells or sugar-coating things. My patients need to know what they're dealing with and what their best possible options are. Tiptoeing around the issue or giving them some false sense of hope or security does more harm than good, in my opinion. I feel it's far more effective, efficient, and helpful to give it to my patients straight.
“Eric, our patients – like Mrs. Renfro – are scared,” she says. “They're just looking for a little –”
“Enough!” I shout, pounding my fist on my desktop.
Jean jumps and looks at me, a startled expression on her face. I'm usually not so forceful with her, but I really am not in the mood to deal with her bullshit today. I'm not in the mood to deal with anybody's bullshit, truth be told. In fact, I don't even want to be in the office.
She clears her throat and tries to compose herself. “I will not be spoken to that way, Eric.”
My voice is low and I find that I'm speaking through gritted teeth. “You know where the goddamn door is,” I growl. “Don't let it hit you on the way out.”
“Okay, okay, let's throttle things back a bit, huh?” Vance says from the doorway to my office.
He steps into my office, looking from me, to Jean, and back again, concern upon his face. At least he's got the good sense to not ask if everything is okay, when very clearly, it is not. Vance is the peacekeeper in the office – a role he's well suited for. He's a man who doesn't like conflict. Tries his best to avoid it all costs. And tries even harder to keep the conflict out of the office.
And I do my best to keep my clashes with Jean down to a minimum. But sometimes, like today, I'm just not in the mood.
“What's going on?” Vance asked.
I roll my eyes and lean back in my seat. “Oh, just the usual,” I say. “Jean feeling the need to play mother figure to me. Again.”
“Well, perhaps I wouldn't have to if you weren't such an asshole to our patients,” she hisses.
I shake my head and finish off the drink in my glass – and contemplate going back for a refill. Ultimately, I decide against it. The last thing I need to do is get buzzed – I might say something I come to regret. Or then – maybe I won't end up regretting it. It's probably not a good idea though. I just needed the one to take the edge off.
“Maybe, you shouldn't be sticking your nose in places it doesn't belong,” I snap back. “Maybe, you should learn your place around here.”
“My place?” she fumes. “What, making your goddamn coffee and fetching your slippers?”
Her eyes are wide and she's trembling with rage. How she's taking it obviously isn't how I meant it. It just came out wrong. Or she heard it wrong. Or some combination of the two.
“That's not what I mean and you know it,” I sigh. “Jesus, do you always have to be so fucking dramatic?”
“Dramatic? Are you serious –”
“You seem to forget that you work for us,” I say, my anger rising to dangerous levels. “That you are our employee, Jean.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Guys,” Vance shouts, cutting us off. “Enough with the petty bickering. Christ.”
The tension in the air is thick as Jean and I continue to glare at one another from across the desk. Vance is standing there, a dumbfounded look on his face. He's played referee to plenty of our fights and he looks like he's getting a
little tired of it. Not that I can blame him, really. He's a doctor, not a kindergarten teacher. Intellectually, I know that he shouldn't have to play mediator for Jean and me.
The woman just knows how to piss me off.
“Eric,” Vance says. “Why don't you get out of here? Take the rest of the day and chill out, man. Go get something to eat. A drink or something. Jean and I can handle the rest of your consults this afternoon.”
It's not a bad idea. I need to get out and clear my head. Calm down. This little row with Jean is nothing new and I shouldn't be feeling as worked up about it as I am. I'm self-aware enough to know that my issue isn't with Jean. Not really. I'm pissed about something else and am taking it out on her. I know this and yet, can't stop myself from doing it – because she knows how to push my buttons.
“Yeah, that's probably a good idea,” I say.
Vance nods. “Good. Yeah, that's good.”
I take off my coat, drop it on my chair, grab my bag, and walk out of the office without another word. I'm just so over today.
Chapter Eight
Calee
I'm awake shortly before the sun, just staring at the ceiling of our cabin. My stomach is roiling and I feel like I'm going to throw up. I'm doing all I can to fight off the nausea that's gripping me tight. I stifle the moan that threatens to escape my lips. I don't want Ruth to know that I'm sick again because given the fact that I've been sick first thing in the morning every day this past week, I know it will only lead to questions I don't want to answer. Questions I don't even want to contemplate.
Her words from that first day come back to me. Maybe you're pregnant. At the time, it was an offhanded remark that I'd just brushed off. Even though I've been sleeping with Danny for a little while now, I didn't think it was possible. We're always careful and always use condoms. It's not possible that I'm pregnant.
Is it?
I'm scared and I need to talk to Danny. If it turns out I am pregnant – I don't know what I'm going to do. I know that if I'm pregnant, Raymond and his Shepherds would do horrible things to me. They might even kill me. I once heard a story about one of Raymond's brides – after she'd been set aside – getting pregnant by a boy in town.
She disappeared.
From what I've heard, Raymond explained it away. He told his flock that she'd been exiled for her sins and that she'd been sent to live with another family to have her child – well away from the Ark, where she couldn't contaminate others with her poisonous sins. The person who told me that story, an older woman named Clea, didn't believe it for a minute and was sure the woman had been killed and her body buried somewhere on the compound.
I don't want to end up that way. Dead and buried in some shallow, unmarked grave. I don't want to end up dead at all, actually. Which means, I really need to talk to Danny. And that means, I am going to need to come up with a reason to go into town.
Our movements are strictly monitored by Raymond and the Shepherds. We must have approval to leave the compound and are sometimes escorted into town – depending on how paranoid Raymond is feeling at the time. Most of the time, he's able to maintain his composure. He knows his followers need the illusion of calm and stability. And being that he's a very capable chameleon, he gives them that.
But every once in a while, his grip on his calm slips. I've seen him fly into a rage and it's terrifying.
The Ark is raided by the local authorities pretty regularly. Sometimes, even the FBI and the ATF show up once in a while too. Outside of the compound, Danny tells me that Noah's Children is thought of as a cult. And Raymond, being the fanatical religious leader, is often compared to Jim Jones or David Koresh.
But if they ask me, I can tell them that Noah's Children – and Raymond – are so much more than that. Something so much scarier. Something so much more dangerous.
The authorities know there are illegal weapons on the compound, but they've yet to find them. I really wish there was a way for me to tell them where to look, but I can't without exposing myself to risk. I'm not even supposed to know. I accidentally stumbled into the underground bunker one day.
Raymond is smart and simply uses religion as a pretext to keep all of his followers obedient and in line. When I was still in his good graces, I once overheard him telling his Shepherds that religious fanatics are the easiest people to control because they're the most weak-minded – which is why they prey on them. He doesn't know I eavesdropped on that conversation, but it's something that's stuck with me for a long time.
I remember that it was the first time I saw through his mask of piety and saw Raymond for what he really is – a violent, evil man who preys on the weak. I never wanted to be part of this cult – I was forced into it. And if I wasn't so afraid of dying, I'd run away.
“You up?”
The sudden sound of Ruth's voice startles me and pulls me out of my thoughts. I clear my throat and sit up on the edge of my bed, doing my best to push down the feelings of nausea that welled up within me.
“I'm up,” I reply.
Ruth slips her shapeless gray dress over her head and sits down on her bed to put on her shoes. I take the dress hanging in the peg next to my bed and put it on. We have to get over to the kitchen to help start making breakfast for the community. It's not my favorite thing to do, but it's way better than the back-breaking work of tending to the gardens.
I tie my shoes and stand up, smoothing the wrinkles out of my dress. I feel the bile rise up in my throat and taste the vomit in my mouth. Not wanting Ruth to know – or suspect – anything, I force myself to swallow it all down.
“I'm going to ask Raymond if I can go into town today,” I say. “Do you need me to pick anything up for you?”
“What are you going into town for?” Ruth asks. “Normal shopping day isn't until Thursday.”
“I need a few – personal items.”
Ruth nods as if she understands. “Come, we need to get over to the kitchen.”
I follow her out of the cabin and across the compound to the kitchen, where I begin my chores for the day. This is what life is like for one of the Fruitless – an existence of endless chores and serving others. I hate it. More than I can even possibly express.
Chapter Nine
I stand at one of the stands in the local farmer's market, looking at the display of fresh fruits and vegetables. I can see some of the townspeople casting furtive glances in my direction and whispering to one another in hushed tones. I'm used to it. The plain gray, shapeless dress I wear singles me out as one of Noah's Children. And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that the people of Elk Plains don't care much for Raymond and Noah's children – not that I can really blame them.
But you'd think that Raymond's cult, being part of the community more or less, for as long as they have, people would get used to seeing us. Or would eventually grow bored with all of the whispered insults and dirty looks. It took some time, but I eventually learned to just let roll off my back.
The sound of a Greyhound bus rumbles by behind me. I turn and watch it go, part of me still wishing I could hop aboard and just go – anywhere. It doesn't matter where. I just want to go anywhere that isn't the Ark. Actually, if I had my choice in the matter, I'd never set foot in the state of Wyoming again.
When the time is right, I keep telling myself. When I'm strong enough and ready, I'll leave. I'll put the Ark and Noah's Children and Raymond behind me. Forever. When the time is right.
I've thought about running away more times than I can count. I even started to head toward the bus terminal in town once. But then I remembered – like I always remember – Raymond's warning. Every time I step foot off the Ark, he reminds me that there is nowhere I can go that he won't find me. Even remembering his words – and the tone of his voice when he says it – right now still sends chills down my spine.
And I've seen his Shepherds drag enough runaways back to the compound that I believe him. I have no idea how he does it, how he tracks down the runaways, but he somehow manages to fi
nd them. And when he gets them back, they face severe consequences – like the girl who'd just been lashed.
The threat is real enough that it keeps me in line. Keeps anybody thinking about running away in line. Not that there are all that many of us. Most of the girls he keeps on the Ark are broken down, brainwashed and subservient to him. Raymond is good at that.
Having overcome that – most of it, anyway – I guess I'm one of the lucky ones.
It took me a long time to see him for who he is, but now I see it plain as day. Well – time and help from Danny. Before I met him, I was a mess. A shell of a person, really. I'd let Raymond beat me down and take away any sense of my own power and control. Raymond ran my life and dictated everything to me.
I know it's all part of his need to control me. It's all part of how he programs and controls everybody who comes to live at the Ark – especially the young girls. That's just who Raymond is.
In the beginning, like all the other girls on the Ark, I'd been broken down. I'd been made to feel useless. Worthless. Degraded. I came to believe that without Raymond, I was nothing. That he was my whole world and my only salvation in this life. He made me feel good. Important. Like I mattered.
At least, until I hadn't provided him with a child and had been set aside. Had become one of the Fruitless. Now, I'm barely a consideration to Raymond. I'm little better thought of than a house maid. I guess now that he considers me past my peak child bearing years, my only value to him and the community is as a servant.
It had been the lowest point of my life and there were a million times I thought about ending it all.
But then Danny and I struck up a friendship, and things began to change. My whole world began to change, actually. During my trips into town, we'd talk quite a bit. It took a while – and a lot of patience and persistence on his part – but he finally started getting me to open up to him. I told him all about the horrible life out on the Ark and the abuse I – and the other women – suffered at the hands of Raymond and his Shepherds.