Don't Turn Around

by Jessica Barry

  She’d driven through rush hour traffic sipping from her own thermos full of coffee and pulled up to the address with ten minutes to spare. For the first time in her life, she was early for something. It meant that much to her.

  The woman handed Cait a thick sheaf of papers, an ID badge, and a rainbow-striped tabard. “They were orange before,” she said, nodding at the tabard, “but we had a few pretenders wearing them, so we switched to these. They’re harder to copy, and it’s easier for patients to identify you out on the lot.”

  “Works for me. Orange isn’t really my color,” Cait said.

  The woman, whose name was Deborah and who had a head of close-cropped steel-gray hair and was wearing a pair of enormous owlish glasses, didn’t crack a smile. “This is the manual,” she said, tapping a finger on the bundle of papers. “Read it, and then read it again. You’ll have a one-on-one training session, too. Your trainer will be”—she glanced down at the clipboard—“Lisa. She’s one of our longest-serving volunteers, so you’ll be in good hands. If you just take a seat, she’ll be with you soon.”

  Cait nodded and lowered herself onto one of the hard plastic chairs that lined the room. The office was tucked away in a 1970s block in Westgate that also housed a dental practice and a Laundromat. It was a shabby, tired-looking place, its walls painted a dull beige, its carpet threadbare. The only decoration was “Sisters of Service” painted in bold purple letters above the receptionist’s desk.

  Cait pulled out her phone and started scrolling through Instagram while she waited. A few plates of artfully arranged food, an ad for “the best pajamas in the world,” which Cait had to stop herself from clicking, Busy Philipps doing painful-looking exercises as she grimaced at the camera. An extremely cute dog.

  “No cell phones.” Cait looked up to see a woman with a mane of red hair towering above her, frowning.

  “Sorry.” She slipped the phone back in her bag.

  “It’s fine, you’re new. You’ll get used to it. I’m Lisa, by the way.”

  Cait shook her outstretched hand. “Cait Monaghan.”

  “Nice to meet you, Cait.” She led them to a cramped office. The walls were papered with Frida Kahlo and Georgia O’Keeffe prints, and the single, small window overlooked the parking lot below. “So,” Lisa said, moving a stack of papers off a chair so Cait could sit down. “How’d you hear about us?”

  “I saw the article in Digg and thought it would be good to get involved.” This was true, mostly. The attention surrounding her article had died down as the good people of the Internet had found someone else to hate, and she had been pretty much forgotten. She should have been relieved. Instead, she found a swirl of anger growing inside her like bacteria, ready to burst through the skin.

  After her conversation with Ken at the bar, she’d gone home and read every single comment that had been written underneath that article, followed every single thread. She read until her eyes were blurry and her insides slick with nausea and then she clicked on another link and read some more. She read until she could read these things—things she always feared might be true about herself, things she would whisper to herself late at night, when her mind was soft and weak—unflinchingly and without pain. She read until the shame was replaced with a dull sort of numbness, and then she read on until that numbness turned to rage.

  She’d been carrying that rage around with her for weeks now. She needed somewhere to focus it, a grindstone on which to sharpen it.

  Reading the article about the work the Sisters of Service were doing across Texas, she felt something stir inside her. Here was a bunch of women facing down a bunch of (mainly) men who wanted to tell them that what they did with their bodies was shameful and wicked and wrong. Here were women standing up for other women, strong and proud and brave. She wanted to be like them, to be involved in something noble and selfless.

  Really, though, she wanted one of those protesters to spew some of their bile her way so she’d have an excuse to explode.

  “Oh, cool. We’ve been getting some nice attention from that piece.” Lisa’s mouth twisted, like she was tasting something sour. “Some not so nice, too.”

  Cait attempted a rueful laugh, but it came out more like a splutter. She had read the comments underneath the piece, every hate-filled word. It was what had nudged her into sending the email asking if she could volunteer.

  “Anyway, did Deborah run you through the basics? No last names, no personal details, no social media. Our job is to protect the patients, period. Their safety is our only priority, and we can’t do anything that might jeopardize that.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “All right. Let’s get going. We’re starting you out on a weekday because they’re quieter. Saturdays are a zoo. For today you’ll just shadow me. See how I talk to the patients, get a feel for the route. If we’re both feeling good after today, you’ll go out on your own for the next shift. You work nights, right?”

  Cait nodded. “I bartend down at the Dark Horse.”

  “Oh, man, I haven’t been to that place since college. They still make you wear those Daisy Dukes?”

  “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

  Lisa laughed. “Yeah, it seemed like the kind of place that would remain untouched by progress, if you know what I mean. How long’ve you been there?”

  Cait shrugged. “A few years. It’s not so bad once you get over the uniform. The tips are usually good.”

  “Hey, money’s money, right?”

  “Amen.”

  Lisa led her to a beat-up, old Honda Civic. “Our chariot awaits,” she said ruefully. “Sorry about the mess.” Cait excavated some space on the passenger seat among the take-out wrappers and stacks of leaflets, and Lisa drove them downtown and parked in front of a Rite Aid. “You don’t want them to see your car,” she explained. “If they get your plates, you’re cooked.”

  It was early still—not quite nine a.m.—but Cait could already see a few protesters starting to gather. “Time to suit up,” Lisa said, slipping the rainbow tabard over her head. “You ready for this?”

  Cait pulled on her tabard. The smell of cheap nylon filled her nostrils, and she felt a flutter of nerves. “I think so.”

  Lisa put her arm around her and steered her across the street. “You totally are.”

  Taiban, New Mexico—177 Miles from Albuquerque

  The inside of the truck smelled like fast-food wrappers and synthetic lemon air freshener and Scott’s cologne, which seemed to get stronger by the minute. His thigh pressed against Rebecca’s and she held her breath, willing herself to shrink as small as possible.

  Play nice, she reminded herself. Don’t do anything to upset him.

  She stared out the window. It was strange being up this high, like they were flying above the road rather than driving on it. She shifted in her seat and tried to angle her body away from his, but his thigh pressed in tighter.

  “So, how do you two know each other?”

  She saw Cait about to open her mouth, but Rebecca didn’t trust her to say the right thing. They had to be careful, and Cait didn’t strike her as the careful type, so Rebecca made sure she got in first. “Cousins. We’re on our way to our grandfather’s birthday party tomorrow in Tucson. That’s why we’re out here now—Cait’s shift ended late, so we had to drive through the night to get there on time. It’s a surprise, so we can’t be late.”

  Cait made a noise in her throat that could be read as an affirmation. Rebecca could feel the girl’s eyes on her, questioning, but she kept her own eyes locked on the road.

  “Awful long drive,” Scott said, rubbing a thick hand across his stubble. He cocked his head toward Cait. “What kind of shift work do you do?”

  “She’s a nurse,” Rebecca said. Cait arranged her features in bland agreement. She knew enough to play along: good. “We both are.”

  Scott nodded. “God’s work.” He looked at Rebecca and winked. “Too bad you two aren’t wearing your uniforms.”

  Cait laughed
, too loud. Rebecca winced. “I’m not sure we’d be all that sexy in our scrubs,” she said lightly. “Not when we’ve been on shift all night.”

  “Aw, pretty girls like you? I’m sure you’d be sexy in anything.” Rebecca let this hang in the air. She knew what was coming next. “You two have boyfriends?”

  “Yes,” Cait said, too quickly. “We both do.” Rebecca winced again. Wrong answer, Cait, and said in the wrong tone of voice.

  “Is that right?” His eyes swiveled away from the road and turned sharp. “And they let you drive through the middle of the night on your own like this? No way I’d let my girlfriend do that, ’specially if she was as pretty as you two. It’s a dangerous world out there, you know.”

  Rebecca placed a hand on Cait’s leg. A warning. “That’s why we’re lucky you turned up,” she said, smiling so her dimples showed. “Our knight in shining armor.”

  She could feel Cait’s eyes on her again, disbelieving now. She knew what the girl would be thinking. She didn’t care. She knew what she was doing.

  “That’s right,” he said, teeth glinting in the half-light. “Come along with my big white horse to sweep you off your feet.”

  Rebecca giggled. “Have you got a girlfriend?” She hoped he would say yes. Maybe they could offer him a little relationship advice, play the big-sister card. Remind him of what he had waiting for him back at home.

  Scott shook his head, and her heart sank a little. “I was married for a while, but the strain of being out on the road was too much. Divorce came through last year.”

  Rebecca cooed sympathetically. “That’s tough. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Scott said, waving her off. “I didn’t much like being tied down, always having to check in and answer to somebody.”

  “I get that,” Rebecca said, nodding along like he was some kind of guru. “Better to be single and happy than married and miserable.” Validate his choices. Make him feel like he’s a good guy. Honorable.

  “Amen,” Scott crooned. He looked at her, eyes full of admiration. “You know, it’s not often I meet somebody I’m simpatico with. I feel like you and me, we’re simpatico.” He leaned back in his seat and grinned into the dark. “I sure am glad I stopped for you two. Next town should be in a couple miles.” He nodded toward the road. “We’ll get your tank filled up and get you back on the road in no time. I wouldn’t want you missing your granddaddy’s big day.”

  Rebecca felt an elbow digging into her ribs, but she didn’t dare look at Cait, not when they were this close.

  “Now,” Scott said, shaking his head, “why is it that I can’t find nice girls like you two back in Louisiana?”

  “Give it time,” Rebecca said. “A nice guy like you? I’m sure the right girl will come along any day now.”

  Scott looked over, his eyes shining, and Rebecca felt so much cold fear rushing through her. She’d played it wrong after all. “Maybe she already has,” he said, and she felt his thigh press harder against her own.

  Six Months Earlier

  Patrick came home, eyes wide and bright. “It’s happening,” he said, grabbing Rebecca by the waist and spinning her around. “It’s actually happening!”

  “What’s happening?”

  “The junior senator for the great state of Texas is going to resign at the end of the summer. Something about health problems, but Rich says there’s been a financial scandal brewing for a while.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He put her back down on the ground and hugged her close to his chest. “It means, baby girl, that you are looking at the newest candidate for the United States Senate. Rich filed the paperwork today. He says it’ll be an uphill battle—I haven’t been in my congressional seat for very long, and some people might take against that—but he thinks I have as good a shot as anyone.” His eyes took on a far-off, dreamy cast. “Senator McRae. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? And you’ll be my beautiful, brilliant wife!”

  “That’s wonderful!” Rebecca tried to hide her dismay behind a bright smile.

  Two years as the wife of a congressman had been enough to convince her that she wasn’t cut out for it, and the spotlight would be all the brighter when he ran for Senate. There had been a part of her that had hoped he’d get sick of it—sick of the travel, the bureaucracy, the hours hitting the phone banks, begging for money—but he seemed to love even the worst parts of politics. He was good at it, too: in the short time he’d been in Congress, he’d developed a reputation as an effective dealmaker, one of the rare people who could reach across the aisle and appeal to members of both parties. Rich said he was a natural.

  Rebecca, on the other hand . . . well, she had yet to find her feet. She’d tried to set up the educational charity Patrick had promised, but she found it tough to drum up interest. Parents were focused on getting their kids into the best schools so they could get the best grades so they could go to the best colleges, period. When Rebecca started talking to them about empathetic learning or creative modeling, their eyes would glaze over. In her desperation, she’d even reached out to the local newspaper to see if they’d be interested in interviewing her about it, but the journalist they sent was more interested in talking about her role as Patrick’s wife than as an educator.

  Eventually, she gave up. She tried getting another teaching job, but with Patrick’s job being so high-profile, schools didn’t want to hire her for fear of attracting scrutiny. “The press’ll be all over us like white on rice,” one principal had said as he pushed her résumé back toward her. “I can see you’re highly qualified, but we just can’t take the risk.”

  So she’d become a full-time politician’s wife, the plus-one he brought along to fund-raisers and rallies and charity events. She’d tried to do well, to make friends with the other wives, to make people like her, but somehow, she just never fit.

  And now things were about to go into hyperdrive.

  “Look,” Patrick said, as if he could read her thoughts, “I know these past couple years have been tough on you—on both of us.” She put a hand on her stomach instinctively. She didn’t want to think about that, not right now. “I know the last thing you want to do is get dragged around the campaign trail, so you just take this at your own pace, okay? I’m the one who’s running for office here, not you. I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

  She felt a rush of gratitude. He was a good man, her husband. He understood. “I’m so proud of you,” she said, reaching up and running a hand through his hair. “You’re going to be the best senator this state has ever seen, and I promise I’ll do as much as I can to help make it happen.”

  “I know you will,” he said, bending down to kiss her. “I know.”

  Fort Sumner, New Mexico—162 Miles to Albuquerque

  welcome to fort sumner: a sleepy little village with a shady little past.

  Rebecca could have wept with happiness. It was a town, a real one, one she’d heard of before, however vaguely. There was bound to be a gas station here.

  But the first few minutes in Fort Sumner weren’t promising: the only buildings fringing the road were barns or warehouses, all of them dark. She caught a glimpse of a neon sign up ahead, but it was a Super 8 with vacancy lit up underneath, the motel all dark except for a strip of emergency lights in reception. No sign of a gas station.

  They passed the Billy the Kid Museum, its brick exterior inexplicably covered with wagon wheels. The yellow sign depicted a cartoon Billy in jeans and a bandanna, a rifle resting by his side, his ten-gallon jauntily perched on his head. He looked more like an amiable cowboy than a murderous outlaw. A sign underneath boasted that the museum had once appeared on prime-time TV.

  Who came to these places? Rebecca wondered, but as soon as the thought ran through her head, she remembered going to places just like it when she was a kid and loving every one of them. Rebecca, aged seven, would have jumped at the chance to go to the Billy the Kid Museum, would have happily posed for a photo next to
the wagon wheels, would have begged for her very own bandanna from the gift store.

  Grief washed over her in a single powerful wave. How many times had she dreamed about her and Patrick bundling a pink-cheeked, still-drowsy toddler into the car one early weekend morning and pointing the car in a direction just to see where it would take them. Small hands sticky with roadside ice creams, cheap souvenirs that would be lost as soon as they were bought, the long, quiet ride back home, the radio on low, a gentle snore coming from the backseat. She reached her hand to the little gold cross around her neck and held on until the edges dug into her palm.

  More buildings, no lights. She could feel Cait’s body straining next to her, both of them waiting for something to appear.

  She spotted an RV park half full of trailers, and a light on in one of them.

  “We could ask them for gas?” Cait suggested, pointing toward it. “RVs usually keep extra gas on hand.”

  Scott shook his head. “The gas station’s just ahead,” he said. “Besides, I don’t think they’d look too kindly on us knocking on their door at this hour of the night.”

  Cait settled back into her seat. Rebecca felt an itch building at the back of her throat. They’d been in the truck for too long now. Over twenty-five miles. The town stretched on. Fred’s Restaurant. Fort Sumner High School. First United Methodist Church. A few auto parts stores that raised her hopes briefly before dashing them. Lights out everywhere. Not even the streetlamps were lit.

  There wasn’t a gas station in this town, and even if there were, Scott wasn’t going to stop for it. She thought she’d sweet-talked him enough to keep them safe, but she’d been wrong. He was going to keep driving until he found whatever place he had marked out in his head, and then he was going to kill them. Her hands started to shake, and then her arms and legs, and soon her whole body was quaking like she was undergoing her own personal earthquake.