Lost You

by Haylen Beck

  When she’d finished feeding the baby, she laid him on her chest and closed her eyes. Soon she drifted into sleep, a gentle, breathy snore coming from her, the child nestling into her bosom.

  So perfect, he thought.

  So perfect, and I can’t take him from her.

  The realization hit him hard, a mix of anger at his own weakness, and a relief at not having to do this awful thing. He would turn around and leave, let himself out the way he had come in. She would never know he’d been here.

  To his shock, tears sprang from his eyes. He hadn’t cried since he was a child. Not since his mother’s funeral. He brought his fingers to his cheek, felt the warm wetness there. Against his will, he made a gasping, fluttering inhalation, and the noise of it filled the trailer.

  Anna woke, lifted her head, suddenly alert and staring into the darkness where he stood. She can see me, he thought. Or can she? He remained still, holding his breath, until she spoke.

  “Who’s there?”

  Barely a whisper, he could hear the terror in her voice.

  Mr. Kovak realized then that he too was scared. In fact, he’d never been so frightened in his life. Afraid of himself, afraid of what he might do. He stepped out of the darkness, into a dim gray pool of light cast by the window.

  “Hello, Anna.”

  She stared up at him, eyes wide, breathing hard, her shoulders rising and falling. The baby stirred on her chest, mewling and huffing. So tiny, his legs kicking.

  “What do you want?” Anna asked, her voice firmer now.

  For want of a lie, Mr. Kovak said, “I came to take the baby.”

  “You’ll have to kill me,” she said.

  He couldn’t hold her gaze, looked away. “I know,” he said.

  Her breathing was audible from across the room, hard and ragged. He imagined the adrenaline charging through her, the fight-or-flight instinct raging for release.

  “Look at him,” she said.

  Mr. Kovak kept his eyes on the floor.

  “Look at him.”

  He raised his head. She lifted the baby from her chest, turned him so Mr. Kovak could see his face in the early light. How beautiful and perfect he was.

  “You know he belongs to me,” Anna said. “No matter what you do, no matter what happens, you can’t change that. I am his mother, he is my son. He belongs here, with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Kovak said. He took a step closer.

  Anna retreated across the bed, pushing with her feet.

  Mr. Kovak raised his hands. “Please, no.”

  “Don’t come any closer,” she said.

  “I shouldn’t have come here,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Then go,” Anna said.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but he felt a cold draft touch the back of his neck. Anna leaned to the side and stared past him. The draft vanished as the door closed. He didn’t turn his head to look.

  “Who is that?” Anna asked. “What did you do?”

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Kovak said.

  49

  LIBBY HAD FELT A MIX of fear and excitement as she looked at herself in the mirror that morning. Mason still slept downstairs on the couch while she dressed and prepared. As she left the house, quiet as a cat, as she started her car and backed out of the driveway, she had the sense of an end of things. Today was not like other days. This day was a threshold, and when it was done, there would forever be a before and after. One life split in two.

  That feeling remained as she drove east, following her phone’s directions until she found the achingly dull town of New Prestwick, and felt a gladness that her child would not be raised here. She took two wrong turns before she found the Rest-EZ Mobile Home Community on the outskirts of the town. Following the final directions Mr. Kovak had given her, she parked her car on a dirt road behind the trailer park. She had to work her way through a small wood, navigating in the darkness between the trees as night creatures rustled in the fallen leaves all around, until she came upon the rear of a row of trailers.

  From what she could make out, many of them appeared deserted. Several had begun to shift on the cinder blocks that held them off the ground, their structures giving way, deteriorating. And this was the place to which Anna Lenihan had taken the baby she had stolen? Did she really plan to raise a child in such squalor? Part of her mind recalled that she had been raised in a place not much better than this, and that realization stung her deep in her heart.

  No, she thought. That cannot be allowed. She felt more convinced than ever of the correctness of her actions. This was a just thing that she was doing.

  Before she could give it more thought, a shape moved on the other side of the trailers, not quite directly ahead of her. She tensed at the sight of Mr. Kovak as he moved like air toward the nearest trailer, climbed the wooden steps to the door. He took something from his jacket pocket, slipped it between the door and its frame, and within a few seconds, the door opened. Her skin tingled when he paused and looked straight at her before slipping inside. All without a sound.

  That had been thirty minutes ago, maybe more. The sky had turned from oily black to milky gray. Birds stirred in the trees, called to one another, and she felt they scolded her, told her to get out of here.

  What was he doing? He should have been in and out in seconds. She had heard nothing, no struggle, no screaming. What was happening in there?

  “Just take him,” she said aloud.

  The sound of her own voice frightened and shamed her, and she no longer wanted to stand here among the trees, powerless. Mr. Kovak had told her to keep her distance, stay back, and he would bring the baby to her. But how could she wait any longer? How could she stay hidden in the trees while her baby was right there waiting for her?

  She felt something cold in her right hand, though she had no knowledge of lifting it from her jacket pocket. The Walther P22 Mason had insisted on buying for her three years ago when he suddenly got into guns. He had gotten himself a Glock something-or-other, explaining they were for home protection, and certainly not toys for him to play with. She had humored her husband by accompanying him to the range a handful of times, but she did not derive the pleasure from shooting that he did. The tiny pistol had lain untouched in the safe for two and a half years, until this morning, when she had slipped it into her jacket pocket before she left the house. It had lain against her side all the way here, a heavy, dark presence that she could not ignore. Now it filled her right hand and told her to move.

  Libby walked fast, not caring about the rustling of leaves beneath her feet or the cracking of twigs. The time for quiet had been and gone. She crossed the distance to the steps and the trailer door in seconds, pushed the door open, stepped inside, raised the pistol with her right hand, supported it with her left.

  Anna Lenihan sat on the bed, Mr. Kovak standing over her. Libby heard her speak, ask who she was, but she was transfixed. It was like watching a movie of her younger self, something tucked away on her phone or on a Facebook post, unseen for years. Just like me, she thought. Just like me.

  “Who is that?” Anna Lenihan asked again.

  Mr. Kovak did not move, did not turn his head.

  Libby aimed the pistol somewhere above Anna’s head. “Take him,” she said.

  Mr. Kovak did not react.

  “You bastard,” Anna said. “What did you do?”

  “Just take him,” Libby said.

  Mr. Kovak glanced over his shoulder at her, and she saw the wetness on his cheek, like he’d been crying. What had happened in here?

  “For Christ’s sake, just reach out and take him,” Libby said. “That’s all. Just take him. Take him.”

  Anna shook her head, held the child close.

  “Libby, go home,” Mr. Kovak said.

  “What?”

  He turned to her now.
<
br />   “I said, go home. There’s nothing here for you.”

  She felt the fury that had been balled up inside her for weeks begin to unfurl, to untether itself from her restraint.

  “You son of a bitch,” she said. “You’re going to say that to me now? After all I’ve gone through, you’re going to tell me to go home?”

  Anna laid the baby in the bassinet on the bed, made soothing sounds, like she was his mother, like everything was going to be all right.

  “I’ll give you back the money,” Mr. Kovak said. “But you need to turn around right now and go, Libby. It’s over. This child will never be yours. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can—”

  She turned the pistol’s aim on him, her forefinger curling inside the trigger guard. She aligned the front and rear sights on his broad chest.

  “Jesus, Libby, what are you doing?” Mr. Kovak asked, bemusement in his voice.

  “Give me my baby,” Libby said, her voice firm.

  Anna kept her eyes on Libby as she moved the bassinet, trying to ease away from the bed.

  “What is that, a .22?” Mr. Kovak asked, taking a step toward her. His voice rose until it boomed between the walls. “It’s a goddamn peashooter. What do you think you can do with that? You think you can intimidate me? Give it to me right now, or I will take it from you.”

  “Shut your mouth,” Libby said. “Just take the baby and give him to me.”

  She saw his weight shift, his arms moving out from his sides, his hands open. Ready to move, ready to snatch the pistol from her.

  “Stay there,” Libby said as she pulled back the hammer.

  But he did not. He stepped closer, his big hands reaching for her, cursing between his teeth.

  Reach out and knock ’im down, the instructor on the range had said. When faced with a threat, don’t think too hard about it. All you have to do is reach out with the pistol and knock ’im down.

  So, she did.

  The Walther gave one jarring POP! and jumped in her hand, and Mr. Kovak staggered back, reaching for the new hole in his chest, so small, hardly anything at all, an inch or two below his clavicle. His legs met the bed and he flopped down to sit on its edge. The mattress rocked under his weight. Anna screamed.

  “Jesus, Libby,” Mr. Kovak said. “Look what you did.”

  He coughed, then tried to stand again, so once more she reached out and knocked him down, once more the Walther popped and jumped.

  Another hole appeared, this one in the center of his chest, and now he slumped, his forearms on his knees, keeping him upright. He gave a bubbling exhalation, his wide eyes staring at her, then past her, and he tried to say something, but his mouth moved silently.

  Anna slipped off the bed, past Mr. Kovak, one hand closing the straw handles of the bassinet. What did she think she could do? Get past Libby?

  “Stop,” Libby said, but if Anna heard, she paid no heed.

  Anna’s body looked like a spring, ready to launch her toward the door.

  “Stop!”

  Anna lifted the bassinet, her body between it and Libby. Time slowed, almost froze.

  “Stop, please, stop!”

  No good. Libby’s finger found the trigger once more.

  The first shot missed.

  And the second.

  The third did not.

  50

  SOMETHING PUNCHED ANNA HARD IN the right shoulder and left behind a deep burning heat. The air beside her left ear split and cracked, then another punch, lower down in her body, in the ribs, and now it was hard to breathe. Something zipped past her head again, and her legs became ever so tired and heavy. She kept hold of the bassinet, tried to lift it, but it was so heavy. She turned, used her other hand to try to hoist it up.

  Then a hot punch low down in her back, and this one hurt, this one burned so bad, and her legs were no use to her anymore, just liquid things that could not support her, because now there was pain and the pain was everything. Another strike to the back of her neck, and it felt like a hammer blow that bit through the muscle and into her jaw and her mouth filled with blood and hard things that she thought might have been teeth and it didn’t matter anymore because she had lost hold of the bassinet and she was falling.

  Lift it, she commanded herself, lift it and run.

  But she couldn’t because she was on her knees and the floor was sucking her down and her arms were so heavy, and she couldn’t hold her head up anymore, it felt like a balloon on a stick, and she coughed and she sprayed a fine red mist from her nose and mouth and the floor rushed up to meet her. She found herself lying at Mr. Kovak’s feet, and that struck her as funny, and she wanted to laugh, but it hurt too much.

  Anna heard quick footsteps approach, but she couldn’t turn her head to see. No matter, the woman appeared above her, towering, and once more Anna thought how much she looked like her. Like she had a twin her mother had never told her about.

  The woman, Mr. Kovak had called her something, what was it? Sounded like L’il B, but it couldn’t be, that was her baby’s name.

  “L’il B,” she said aloud, but it came out as a gurgle and a sputter and red dots spattered Mr. Kovak’s shoes. She spat, and she saw glinting white among the red.

  “L’il B,” she called again, louder this time.

  The woman stopped, stared down at her.

  “L’il B.”

  The woman looked back to the bassinet on the bed, reached for it, but stopped, frozen like a rock.

  He’s beautiful, Anna thought, I know he is, thank you for saying.

  Then the woman screamed, and Anna didn’t know why.

  She screamed again and again, doubling over with the force of it, shouted, No, no, no, no, no, no, and screamed again.

  Just lift him, Anna thought, see how beautiful he is. Why don’t you lift him?

  The woman screamed some more, her voice shrieking between the walls, and then she raised the pistol so the muzzle pressed beneath her chin, and she tried to pull the trigger, but nothing happened, so she screamed again.

  “Why don’t you lift him?” Anna asked through a mouthful of warm, wet grit.

  She closed her eyes, rested her head on her arms, and listened to the woman scream as she drifted away into the cold black.

  51

  LIBBY PULLED INTO THE DRIVEWAY at seven in the evening, rain pelting down, bouncing off the car and the asphalt. She had driven all day, unseeing, like a machine, pulling over now and then to scream into the windshield or to open the door and vomit onto the verge. Turning the ignition off, she listened to the hammering of the raindrops on the roof, the ceaseless clamor of it, and she savored the way it seemed to blot out everything else. A blanket of white noise, and she wanted to hide within its folds.

  She could not recall how long she had remained in the trailer. It had felt like hours, though she imagined now it was more like seconds or minutes. She wished she’d had a bullet left in the magazine, that she hadn’t used all ten of them. Just one, and everything could have been wiped clean.

  But no. She had endured hours of living beyond seeing what she’d done, but there would be only a few minutes more. All she had to do was get into the house and find the box of ammunition. She knew there were several boxes in the safe, mostly the larger ones for Mason’s gun, but there were smaller ones for hers. Once inside, she would load the pistol, go into the bathroom, lock the door behind her, and end it.

  There was no other way now.

  As the rain fell, she wept. She grieved. For herself as well as him.

  “What did I do?”

  She had asked that question a thousand times in the hours since she ran from the trailer park. And the answer was always the same.

  Her stomach lurched and flexed, and she retched into her lap. The car already stank of it, drying on her clothes, on the upholstery.

&n
bsp; Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

  Just get out, she told herself. Just get in there and get it done.

  She pulled the handle, pushed the car door open. Then she climbed out, letting the rain soak her through, ignoring the cold. The hateful weight of the pistol, still in her jacket pocket, thumped against her hip. She walked around the car, her feet splashing through the water that coursed down the driveway. Lights on inside. Mason was home. She hoped she would not have to face him before she could put the bullet in her mouth.

  The front door was unlocked, and she stepped through, treading softly. Music played in the kitchen, and Mason sang along, unaware of her listening. She heard the oven hum, pots and pans rattling. A bitter ache throbbed in her heart and part of her wanted to go to him, tell him she loved him, tell him goodbye. Instead, she stood in the hallway, dripping water onto the floor, one hand over her mouth to silence the hacking sobs.

  Move, she thought, before he finds you out here.

  She went to the stairs and climbed, reached the landing, and slipped into their bedroom. No need for the light, she went to the closet, opened it, and dropped to her knees. She entered the code for the safe and waited for it to finish whirring before she pulled the metal door open and reached inside. Feeling around, she found the smaller box and lifted it out, felt the weight shift inside as the contents rattled in their plastic.

  Libby got back to her feet and crossed to the bathroom. She entered, pulled the light cord, and closed the door, locked it. The light seemed so bright in here, so painful and hard. Her reflection moved in the mirrors, but she could not see that, could not bear to look at herself. She sat down on the closed toilet lid and opened the box. The bullets spilled across the tiled floor, dozens of them rolling with their dull sheen of brass and lead.

  She pulled the Walther P22 from her jacket pocket and found the lever beneath the trigger guard. The magazine popped free, and she set the pistol aside. She leaned down and gathered exactly ten rounds from the floor, then fed them into the magazine one by one until it was full. The fact that she needed only one flitted across her mind before she dismissed it. She reinserted the magazine into the pistol, slapped it home with her palm, then pulled back the slide assembly to chamber the first round.