Marika clasps the mask and rests her forehead on Alice’s. “God, I missed you.”
“We’ll make this work,” Alice types. “We have to.”
* * * *
Marika’s doorbell rings four times. That’s the signal.
Alice logs off of the work database and closes her eyes, letting a deep breath out through her nose.
This is never easy. But these are the rules.
She grabs her canes and limps over to the walker. It’s a terrifying contraption—one that she’d never seen with her own eyes for all the years she spent in it. Dull metal, faded padding, straps and buckles, and that rail circling the entire thing, trapping the occupant inside.
Trapping her inside.
But she doesn’t need to look at it for long.
She pulls off her clothes, straddles the chair, and carefully connects the seat/body interface until it is just right. Then she pulls on the thin cotton gown, tying only the very top tie, letting the rest hang loosely off of her still-thin frame.
And then there’s the mask.
This is the hardest part.
It takes several deep breaths for her to work up the courage. But she finally closes her eyes and pulls it over her face, making sure the breathing tubes and earplugs are perfectly aligned before tightening the straps around her shaved scalp, sealing her inside the sound- and light-proof prison.
It’s always heavier on her face than in her hands, and she sags forward, shuddering under the weight.
She slides her hands into the thumbless mittens that are now permanently strapped to the rail. Marika won’t walk in until she uses their controls to type the all clear.
And she hesitates, just like she does every day.
No. This is love. And love requires sacrifice. Hers is just more tangible than most.
She steels herself, then types, “I’m ready.”
She feels the air change as the door opens, and there are hands strapping her into the mittens, trapping her in the chair until morning.
And as always, panic grips her with that realization.
But then hands and lips roam all over her, and she’s lost.
Notes on “Captive Girl”
The inspiration for this story came to me one Boskone. There was a painting in the art show of a woman with the top half of her head completely covered in a metal helmet. Wires trailed from it, and there was a wire-covered glove on her outstretched hand. The image lodged itself solidly in my mind. Later that weekend, I went to a writing panel, and one of the panelists mentioned that you should write about things that fascinate you to the point of scaring you. So I started musing in my notebook about how terrified I was of the thought of total captivity, which lead me back to the painting, which eventually turned into a girl strapped into a chair with all her senses (but touch) hijacked for a greater cause. And because I’m a sicko, I turned it into a love story.
My initial impetus for making it a lesbian love story was that I thought it would seem less exploitative to have an older woman as Alice’s lover than an older man. But as I started writing, I came to realize that another benefit of having them both be women was that I got to explore the peculiarly female aspects of a relationship from both sides. It would have been a very different story if one or both of them had been men.
Last Bus
SHE STANDS IN FRONT OF the tidy brick house and gazes up the sloped, neatly-mown lawn at it. This is the place. The last stop. She walks up the front sidewalk, takes the narrow flagstone path around to the side of the house, heads into the little roofed-in area between the house and the garage, and starts searching. There it is, right under the mailbox in the nook leading to the side door. The little faded yellow egg sticker.
She sits down and waits. The bus should be by soon.
She wonders how the bus is going to make it into this little space—a small walkway between the side door and the garage, the washer and dryer taking up half the available room. She wonders how the driver will see her, tucked away under the mailbox like she is. But those thoughts immediately slide back out of her head. The bus will come soon. This is the stop. The egg sticker is there. The driver will see her. This is the last bus. Soon, she’ll be home.
A gray-haired woman in an old housedress walks by, a full laundry basket tucked under her arm. “The bus doesn’t stop here anymore,” she says.
She just smiles at her and says, “I’ll wait.”
The woman shakes her head and walks into the house.
She settles back against the wall, knees drawn up, waiting. It might be a long wait. She thinks she might have just missed the earlier bus. But it’s a beautiful day, and the nook is a sunny peach color, so the wait doesn’t seem so bad. She wonders if she should have brought something to read, or maybe a notebook to write in, but it’s too late now. She can’t go back. She wouldn’t want to even if she could. She’s moving forward; almost at the end. All she has to do is be patient and wait.
Then he walks into view, smiling pleasantly down at her, a faint twinkle in his eyes. She feels a slight stirring inside of her. The attention is nice. It’s been a while. She tries to think how long, but that also slides away as soon as she calls the thought up.
He squats down next to her, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, then gazing down at the flagstones, his hands folded in front of him. He has a very pleasant face. She finds herself thinking that he looks like a cross between a couple of people she used to know. Or maybe they were people she used to watch on television. She really can’t remember.
He looks up at her again and smiles, and she smiles back. “You’re new here,” he says.
“I just got here.”
“Waiting for the bus?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“I’m trying to place your accent.”
She smiles, hoping it comes off as coy. She doesn’t want this conversation to end too quickly. “It’s nothing special.”
His smile widens. She thinks it’s sweet. “It is special. But it’s not important.”
“No, not really. Not here, I don’t think.”
“No, not here,” he says. “You’re right.” He points down at her boots and says, “They look worn. You’ve been traveling a long time?”
She opens her mouth to speak, then exhales, trying to pull her thoughts together and failing. Finally, she says, “I suppose I must have been.” She looks at him, his expression open and warm, and untucks her legs and stretches them out in front of her, knees demurely pressed together. “Who are you?” she asks.
“Me?” He looks behind him at the washer and dryer, then turns back to face her. “I live here. I thought I’d keep you company while you waited.”
“That’s nice of you. I hope I’m not trespassing.”
“No, this is the bus stop.” He points to the faded sticker.
She turns and looks at it, running a finger across its papery surface. “It’s an odd place for it. But at least it’s nice here.” She finds herself wishing he’d touch her, and smiles at the thought. It’s been a while since she’s been touched. That she remembers.
He sits down cross-legged on the flagstones and fixes her with a long stare. She doesn’t find it uncomfortable. “I’m not supposed to be helping you out like this,” he says.
She raises her eyebrows, a feeling a bemused grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You’re helping me?”
He smiles back, tilting his head to the side. “I’m actually supposed to be discouraging you. It’s just that it’s been so long since anyone else came through here.”
“To the bus stop?”
“To the bus stop, yes. This bus doesn’t run very often anymore.”
“That’s too bad.” She suddenly realizes she’s wearing a backpack, and wonders what’s in it. She’ll have to check once she gets on the bus.
He rests his hands behind him on the brick walkway and leans back. “Do you remember how you got here?”
She has to think about it. Some memories flicker
to the surface, but they’re fading fast. If she doesn’t try to think too hard, some of them come easily to her, but if she grabs for them, they dissipate under scrutiny. She takes a deep breath, her eyes focused on the empty space between herself and the far wall, and says, “If I’m remembering correctly, the last bus I took came through a nice neighborhood, with trees, shops, and houses. But it ended up somewhere really creepy.” She pauses, fishing for an accurate description of the surreal memory. “It was like… It was all industrial and decayed and…” She looks at him sheepishly and lowers her voice to a near-whisper. “This is going to sound crazy, but when I got off the bus, there were evil clowns.”
“The neighbors,” he says simply.
She looks at him, flabbergasted. “But this is such a nice neighborhood.” She starts to lean forward to look down the driveway at the street.
“They’re gone,” he says. “No point in looking for them.”
She decides to believe him—she can’t think of any reason not to—and settles back against the peach wall, against her backpack. It feels empty. She wonders, briefly, why.
“So, you saw them as clowns,” he says. “Interesting. They look different to everybody. The last person saw them as SS officers. Like I said, it’s been a while since we’ve had a visitor. Tell me how you managed to get by them.”
“I disguised myself as one of them. I wore a mask, and made sure I was in bulky enough burlap that I didn’t look like a woman, and…” She raises her hands and shrugs. “I just walked right past them until I got here.”
He nods and leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “A very clever solution. And where did you get this costume?”
She squints, lost in a kaleidoscope of fractured thoughts, then exhales until her lungs feel flat. “I don’t know. I just remember thinking I’d be better off disguised, and then I was. I must have taken it off somewhere around here. Maybe in my backpack—” She pulls it off and reaches for the zipper.
“Don’t look for the costume. It’s not here anymore.”
She looks up at him. “Like the neighbors?”
His expression is matter-of-fact. “Like the neighbors.”
She puts the backpack on the ground at her feet, unopened, and wonders why she would bother carrying it around empty.
“That was a very ingenious solution,” he says. “Most people run, or fight, and it takes them forever to get to this stop, if they even make it at all. No wonder you’ve made it this far. Do you remember how you got to the previous bus stop?”
“I…” Her face goes blank, save for a faint scowl around her eyes. “I think I remember water. It’s all so…” She fades into silence.
He nods. “You’ll remember it when you get there. You’ll remember everything. Like your name.”
Reflexively, she says, “I know my name.”
“What is it?”
She pauses, then shrugs, oddly unconcerned. “It’s not important.”
“No, it’s not.”
She leans back against the peach wall, resting her head against the cool surface, breathing in the warm scent of freshly-cut grass. “I feel like there should be a breeze blowing.”
“There used to be one,” he says. “Before the house.”
“Where was the sticker then?”
Now it’s his turn to think. “You know, I forget. I’ve been here an awfully long time. It all starts blurring together. I think there might have been an actual egg here before, but we built the house over it. The washer and dryer are where the stream once was.”
“So that’s why they’re outdoors.”
“Well, there is a roof over them.”
“It wasn’t always a bus either, was it?”
He smiles. “No, of course not.” The smile fades. “But at this rate, we may not need to replace the bus when it becomes an anachronism.”
“I’m sorry.”
He rests his hands behind him again and gazes down the driveway with a faraway look in his eyes. “It’s not your fault.”
She reaches a hand out, but draws back before she can touch him. “Maybe…maybe you could come with me on the bus.”
He looks back, and the smile that crosses his face is grateful and tired. “That’s very sweet of you, but it doesn’t work that way.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t say.”
“But you do know.”
He slowly shakes his head. “I wish I could tell you.”
She looks at him for a quiet moment, then says, “I’m sorry.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I know.” The dryer buzzes, and she looks back toward the house.
“She’ll come out to get it after you leave,” he says.
“Ah.” She closes her eyes, and can almost feel the breeze that once was here.
“You’re on a quest, you know,” he says.
“I’m at a bus stop.”
“That too.”
“A quest,” she murmurs. “I don’t feel like I’m on a quest. Quests are things you read about in mythology.”
“I never said it was an epic quest.” She can hear the laughter in his voice.
She grins. “Still.”
“Well, why are you here?”
She opens her eyes again and stares at him, trying to grab hold of the murky jumble of thoughts lying tantalizingly out of reach. “I have this feeling that…that I got somewhere, and it wasn’t the right place. It wasn’t home. So I started heading for home.”
“It’s been a long and difficult trip.”
“Has it?” She shrugs and looks over his head at the washer and dryer, at the empty basket sitting atop them. “I can’t remember.”
“Probably for the best.”
She looks back at him. “But you said I will remember.”
“When you get there, yes.”
“I don’t know where ‘there’ is.”
She looks at him expectantly, and he sighs and looks down at his feet. “I can’t tell you that either,” he says.
She looks away. “I didn’t think so.”
“But I think you know.”
“It’s…impossible.”
“And a bus stopping in this tiny hallway is possible?”
She looks back at him, and he’s staring at her, his eyes imploring her to accept the truth, and she finds herself wondering how she knows his thoughts so clearly. Finally, she says, “I didn’t think I was dead.”
He nods. “Not everyone sees it coming. In a way, you’re lucky.”
“Oh.” She plucks at her jeans, feeling like she should be upset somehow. “What was it?”
He looks around, then leans forward and whispers, “Brain embolism in your sleep.”
She leans her head back against the peach wall and traces the outline of the little faded egg sticker over and over with her fingertip as if it were a miniature prayer wheel. “I was only thirty-four. There’s so much I didn’t do.”
“Don’t feel so bad. Most people feel that way, no matter how old they are.”
“It’s no one’s fault but my own, I suppose.”
“I couldn’t say.”
A corner of the sticker starts to come loose from the wall, and she presses it firmly back down. She doesn’t want to think what will happen if the last stop isn’t marked. “Maybe that’s why I felt like I didn’t belong there, in that first place.”
“Maybe.”
She turns back and looks at him. “You’re getting awfully quiet.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Am I? I’m sorry.”
“The bus is coming, isn’t it?”
He nods. “Soon.”
“Oh. Are you sure you can’t come along?”
“Positive.”
“That’s too bad. I’ll miss you.”
She’s rewarded with another smile. “I’ll miss you too.”
“How long have you been here?”
He pauses, then says, “Since the beginning.”
“It must get lonely.”
/>
“Well, I have the washerwoman to keep me company. But yes. It wasn’t so bad at first, back when more people came through.”
“How is it that I’m the first person to come here in such a long time? Do most people go directly there?”
He shakes his head. “No. Most people stay where you started out. They don’t think to look for anything better.”
She considers trying to dig through her scattered memories once more, but quickly dismisses it as impractical. “I really can’t remember where I started,” she says.
“It’s not very memorable. It’s gray, quiet, boring. But every now and then, someone comes along who isn’t satisfied, and they start looking for the way out. Most don’t make it this far. Not anymore.”
“What’s changed?”
He sighs. “Imagination’s dead. People accept what’s given to them. They don’t think to question it. But you did. And you were strong enough and clever enough to make it this far. I think you’re going to like it at your final destination.” He sits forward, lacing his fingers together.
She leans forward and asks, “You’re not going to get in trouble for telling me this, are you?”
He shrugs. “I might. I don’t really care, though. If nothing else, it will break up the monotony.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I really do appreciate all you’ve done for me.”
“It was a pleasure.” Now even his eyes are smiling.
She hears the sound of a motor and stands up. “It’s almost here.”
“Yes.” He’s looking at the ground.
She reaches her hand down for him, and he looks up at her, eyes wide, and accepts it. His hand is warm, his touch gentle, and when he stands, he’s only a couple of inches taller than her. The bus pulls up beside them, impossibly, and opens the door. There is a piece of paper with an egg printed on it taped to the inside of the windshield.
“You have to go now,” he says. “Don’t worry, this part of the trip is uneventful.”
“I want to give you something first.” She reaches down, picks up her backpack, unzips it, and pulls out a small wrapped box. “Here.”
He takes it, eyebrows raised. “What is it?”
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