Take and Give

by Amanda G. Stevens

  An escape. She pressed her lips together and lay still, but the silence ached in her stomach. “Do you believe God has the power to disallow evil?”

  “Of course. He wouldn’t be God, otherwise.”

  “Yet evil exists.”

  “Well … yeah.”

  “There you are.” Lee turned over to face the wall and the obscured painting.

  “So you would trust Him if we couldn’t do evil things?”

  If no one could hold a gun to the throat of a child. If no one could beat a man until his ribs broke, starve a man until his muscles began to consume themselves. If no one could pin a woman to cold cement and pull off her clothes and force—

  If no one could boost herself onto an exam table and open her legs and nod to the doctor, Take my baby and throw her away.

  “Yes,” Lee said. “I would.”

  “But … well, yeah, I guess you would, because everyone would.”

  Perhaps, though that wasn’t relevant.

  “So you want God to … force us? To do what’s right?”

  If she wanted to phrase it that way.

  “But you’re Lee.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Choosing matters to you. I—I mentioned it to Sam one time, and he said yes, I was right. So I’d expect you to want the choice. Between good and evil.”

  At least Violet was no longer crying. Lee could tolerate this dead end of conversation a bit longer for that. “Perhaps God could permit the choice, as long as evil wasn’t chosen.”

  “So He only creates people who choose to do right?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Then the other people never even get to exist? How’s that more of a choice?”

  “Violet.” Lee let her hear the sigh.

  “Anyway, what if you did love God, and then at the end of your life you got to see for a second that the reason you loved Him was because He forced you to all this time and didn’t even let you know He was doing it. Wouldn’t you all of a sudden hate Him?”

  A meaningless hypothetical, since clearly God had not forced Lee to love Him.

  But if He had.

  What would she be, then? A cheery machine programmed for adoration. Not herself, surely. A despicable, subservient version of herself. The image was sour on her tongue.

  “Wouldn’t you?” Violet said.

  “All right, I suppose I would.” But it’s immaterial.

  “So you’d hate God for forcing you to be sinless. But you also hate Him for not forcing you to be sinless.”

  No … yes?

  Silence stretched over minutes. The ice machine clanked again. The air conditioning kicked on—in October, proof they’d left Michigan far behind.

  Hate was an inaccurate word, an emotional word. Lee’s reasoning was solid, and solid reasoning couldn’t be shaken by … by Violet of all people.

  “So what would it take?” Violet whispered.

  Logic demanded an answer. If one rejected God based on His nature, then a change in His nature should produce something other than rejection.

  What would it take?

  Violet was silent, likely praying for Lee. That God would change Lee’s mind, as if they hadn’t just discussed the repulsiveness of that prospect. Lee closed her eyes.

  Sterile, white room. Feet in stirrups. Gentle swell of her belly under the thin gown. Good-bye, and I’m sorry, and I have to do this, Dad says so.

  Instruments inside. Discomfort spearing into pain.

  Flutter inside, felt before, then something new. Writhing, jerking. Hand to her belly. That’s you, isn’t it. You, dying. Tears on her face. Sweat on her neck. Time.

  Pain squeezing around stillness.

  Blood on the table.

  Someone small wrapped in something disposable. Disposed of. You were a girl. A daughter. No one told her. No one had to.

  Lee convulsed awake. Sweat plastered her hair to her neck. Tear stains stiffened her cheeks. She panted into the pillow. Her hands pressed her abdomen, and her knees drew up, but nothing eased the twisting pain. Somehow her body could reenact her crime again and again, even without a womb.

  She waited for Violet’s voice. The girl must be exhausted not to wake up. This nightmare wasn’t as loud as the other one, but it wasn’t quiet.

  Lee’s body uncurled as the cramping abated. Her breathing leveled. One hand settled at her side, and one remained tight against her belly. Her right hand. The one that had signed the consent form. Eighteen years old. An adult. Culpable.

  God hadn’t stopped her.

  28

  The room was too dark to see the ceiling, but Austin stared toward it anyway. He’d crossed the line between exhaustion and too-far-gone-to-sleep. His eyes were dry, too wide, blinking maybe once a minute, yet they refused to stay closed. The edginess wasn’t about Tatum, was it? Maybe it was Agent Baldy. Or the piece of dung that had threatened Violet. He held in a growl. He needed to relax, or he’d be dead on his feet in the morning. Not the greatest condition to guard vulnerable people, and if they’d ever needed protection on this trip, they needed it now.

  Sand gritted against his eyelids, and his eyes sprang open again. He held back a growl.

  Bump.

  Austin sprang up in bed and tossed off the covers, heart hammering before his brain could dial back his reflexes. Probably someone in the neighboring suite had—

  A shuffle and another bump. No, that was in this room.

  “Brenner?”

  A cough.

  Austin turned the old switch between their beds, and both reading lamps flooded the room with light. Ow.

  Brenner was on his feet, bracing one arm against the wall, halfway to the bathroom.

  Austin jumped out of bed. “You should’ve asked for help, man.”

  “I’m okay.”

  The man took another step and had to catch himself. Nothing but the wall was near enough to grasp. He swiveled to brace both arms and bit down on a whimper.

  Austin reached him in five steps. “Don’t be stupid.”

  “I don’t need—” A cough broke off his words.

  Austin lifted Brenner’s arm over his shoulder and circled his waist below the ribs. Together, they hobbled to the toilet, and Austin kept a supporting hand under Brenner’s elbow while he used it. By the time they got him back into bed, sweat had broken out on Brenner’s forehead. He glared when Austin tucked the covers around him.

  Whatever. Austin dived back into his own bed and switched off the lamp.

  A minute later, Brenner said, “Thanks.”

  If he thought about it, Austin would cringe at the idea of being in Brenner’s place. Maybe he should say so. Probably not.

  “Why’d you come?”

  Austin folded his arms under his head. The truth might not be the best thing to tell this guy, but he didn’t feel like lying. “For Violet, I guess.”

  “You think we’d hurt her?” The tension in the words constricted into a cough.

  “Not intentionally. But you also couldn’t protect her from a hornet right now.”

  Brenner coughed a few more times, then filled the room with shallow breathing he tried to mute.

  “See, you’re not even going to argue the point.” Austin shifted the pillow under his head.

  “No,” Brenner said.

  “Nothing personal, man. Just a fact.”

  “Yeah.”

  For some reason, Brenner didn’t point out Austin’s hypocrisy in bringing up the whole protection thing. And at least Brenner had an excuse. Being bedridden was about as excused as you could get. Austin had been asleep when Violet and Lee got robbed. He shut his eyes and ground his palms into them. How could he spend minutes or an hour not thinking about it and have to be jolted back to the reality? It should be in his head like a song on repeat, a grunge song
with gory lyrics.

  Brenner cleared his throat and shifted in the bed. “Thanks.”

  Any response he gave—sure, no problem, you’re welcome, anytime—would be accepting the gratitude. He searched for some change of subject, but maybe he didn’t need one. Brenner would probably fall asleep in a few minutes.

  And then Austin would lie here until daybreak. The quiet settled onto him, heavier by the minute. He squirmed under it but couldn’t set words loose in the room, not even to push away the weight.

  This was the Christian resistance leader. Austin should be volleying questions into the dark. Sociological data to explore. A criminal—the prime criminal—to interrogate.

  “You would’ve died.”

  Not the words he meant to say. Not that it mattered, because Brenner didn’t even cough in response. Austin rolled onto his side and propped his head up on his hand. Facing Brenner, he could barely make out the guy’s profile—the hand at his side, the low mounds of his legs under the bedspread—yet even in the near-dark, the emaciation was obvious. You have no right to ask him this. Last week, you were strangers and enemies. But he wanted to understand. Probably had since the first time their eyes met in that reeking pantry.

  “You went out of your way to clarify that you wouldn’t recant. What was the point, antagonizing him like that, when you were already …?”

  Dying.

  “You knew what he’d do,” Austin said quietly.

  Brenner stared forward.

  “Nothing you did—nothing—upped your survival odds.”

  His gaze snapped to Austin’s, then back to the wall.

  Austin flopped onto his back and shut his eyes. He didn’t regulate his tone, let surface in it the frustration and whatever else nibbled at him. “Yeah, I don’t know why I expected an answer to that. Forget it.”

  “Why does it matter?” Brenner said.

  “Call it a hobby. Understanding people, motivations, etcetera.”

  “It would have been wrong. To deny Him. So I didn’t.”

  Black and white the guy might be, but he couldn’t think it was that simple. “And if you did, what do you believe would happen? You’d go to hell?”

  The pause lengthened. Surely Brenner wouldn’t say yes.

  “Just because God would forgive me … doesn’t mean it would be okay.”

  Fair enough. “You may be in the minority on that opinion, but …” Austin could respect it, although it still left the question of survival instincts and where Brenner had misplaced his.

  “I’m not in the minority. Or you wouldn’t have so many people locked up.”

  “True, but we’ve released a lot too, clean bill of mental health.”

  A quiet scoffing sound punched the darkness.

  “Come on, you don’t know anyone who was released? Hard to believe.”

  The silence again, but Austin was learning its ebb and flow. Brenner was collecting thoughts or words or something. He’d answer in a minute.

  “I knew someone,” he said quietly. “But she had more to lose than I did.”

  “More than her life?”

  “She was pregnant.”

  And what, she didn’t want to raise her baby in re-education? “Not following, man.”

  “The agent told her she could recant or she could have an abortion.”

  “No way.” The words burst from Austin as his face flushed. No Constabulary agent would threaten a woman like that. They weren’t Nazis.

  Right, because you know this organization so well. And here he was, proving his … bias? He’d been trained by them, after all.

  “Her name was Aubrey Weston,” Brenner said, and … yeah. She had been in re-education last year, before Austin was recruited. He knew her case file, not well but well enough. She had been pregnant.

  “Did you … ‘save’ her, after she got out? Get her to Ohio and beyond, or whatever it is you do?”

  “No. She’s dead.”

  The heat in his face drained away, and cold crept up his fingertips. “How?”

  “An accident.” Brenner’s voice had flattened to hammered steel. No more questions on that topic. At all.

  Austin waited for him to change it, but of course, silence took over. Maybe he could sleep now. As his muscles loosened, so did his lips.

  “So according to your belief system, did Aubrey Weston get forgiveness?”

  “Yeah.” No hesitation there.

  “The rooster story, right? That Peter guy.” In his own ears, his words began to slur.

  “Um … yeah.”

  “I figured you guys use that one a lot. Positive outcome and all that.”

  “You’ve read the Bible?”

  “Some. It’s recommended, under supervision of course.”

  “So you can play the part. If you need to.”

  “Well, I think it’s more the idea of understanding your enemy, but sure, some guys have used it for undercover work. It’s surprisingly effective.”

  Another pause, and as Austin’s thoughts disintegrated into slumber, Brenner said, “Yeah.”

  29

  “I don’t sound Canadian,” Violet whispered, leaning close enough to brush her arm against Austin’s. She didn’t flinch. Comfortable with his touch, or immune to it? Analyze later.

  “Okay.” He slathered cream cheese on his bagel.

  “I’m serious. Haven’t you ever talked to a Canadian?”

  “Sure, but maybe these people haven’t. Anyway, our vowels are similar.”

  “No, they’re not. Good grief, we don’t have accents in the first place.”

  “Pretty sure we do.”

  Already three people had asked where they were from, and Violet and Austin hadn’t even joined Lee at the table yet. One older guy insisted they were North Dakotan and talked “just like what’s-her-name in that one movie.”

  “What kind of cream cheese is that? I can smell it.” Violet wrinkled her nose.

  “Chive and onion.”

  “Oh my gosh. In the morning?”

  “Says the eater of fruit wax.”

  He headed with his tray toward Lee’s table—in the corner, of course. He took his time, stepping around strangers who didn’t meet his eyes and exchanging small talk with those who did, though when destinations came up, he didn’t cop to Texas (and had warned Violet not to, either). It was refreshing, the reminder that people existed other than him and Violet and Brenner and Lee, that some people traveled and mingled and laughed, free of desperation. A smile pulled Austin’s lips as he sat down.

  Across from him, Lee nibbled her strawberries and melon, ignoring her oatmeal. “Good morning.”

  “Hey,” he said. “How’s the gym? I want to go run, at least.”

  Lee lifted an eyebrow at him.

  “Violet said you already worked out this morning,” and now her eyebrow arched at Violet.

  “What?” Violet said. “You did, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, then.” Violet dug into her cold cereal—something with marshmallows—as if it were edible.

  “Please let me know if you spot Tatum before I do,” Lee said. “As for the gym, there’s a treadmill along with a few weight machines.”

  Perfect. Austin started on his eggs. A little runny, but after the last few meals of beef jerky, he could hardly complain. Halfway through breakfast, a young dark-haired couple approached with laden trays. The girl beamed at them through red-framed glasses. The guy, about her height and hefty, hung back.

  “May we?” the girl said.

  “Sure.” Violet moved her chair closer to Austin’s as the strangers settled in.

  The five of them didn’t exchange names. The small talk steered toward impersonal topics. Finally the couple enthused over the latest movie to shatter the box office—a character-d
riven epic about a matriarchal alien society. The more they described it, the surer Austin became that he’d never be able to sit through it.

  He couldn’t place their accents. Probably wouldn’t have tried if his own hadn’t been pointed out to him three times in as many minutes. East Coast, somewhere. They might be hiding contraband in a floor safe, envisioning the border between them and freedom while they sat here eating bagels and oatmeal and discussing movie trends.

  Austin cleaned his plate before Tatum flitted into the dining room, wearing her standard black pants and white button-down.

  “Hey,” he said in lieu of Lee’s name, and nodded over her shoulder to where Tatum refilled the two coffee machines. Lee glanced back as Tatum took in the room. She must have signaled with her expression somehow, because Tatum beelined for them as soon as she finished setting up the coffee.

  “Hope you all slept well.” The smile was for their whole table, but the lingering look was for Lee.

  “You have a sign prohibiting the transporting of food to the rooms,” Lee said.

  “Yeah, if we didn’t, people would—oh. That’s a problem for you, I guess.”

  “I don’t see anything here but paper plates. I was hoping you’d provide something sturdier.”

  “Can do. Uno momento.” She held up a finger and then disappeared the way she’d come.

  Their dining companions eyed Lee with unmasked curiosity. She ate her oatmeal without bothering to meet their eyes.

  When no one offered an explanation, the couple glanced at each other. Their confusion hadn’t dissipated a few minutes later, when Lee left the table. Austin followed her.

  “I’m going back to the rooms,” Lee said. “Would you bring up whatever Tatum gives you?”

  “Sure.” He returned to their table and Violet.

  The hostess kept them waiting only minutes. She offered Austin a glass dish with a center divider, one side half-filled with scrambled eggs, the other with oatmeal, its dollop of butter and brown sugar melting. To Violet, she handed a small bowl of the fruit mix—berries, melon, grapes.

  “Will this be enough?” she said.

  Enough times ten, given Brenner’s eating habits. Violet’s smile didn’t reveal that, though. “Perfect. Thanks so much.”