One of Many

by Marata Eros

  The timing's all wrong, but that's the thing, timing is always wrong. Audrey belongs to me, and seeing her grieving for something that was stolen from me is powerful, my love swelling for her in a tight mass inside my chest.

  Instead of telling her how I'd love to lay her out right here, I cover her belly again. “Be happy for the chance, Little Bride.” The nickname I used to call her to play with her emotions, keep her off balance, I now say with tenderness.

  This girl has stolen who I was and reinvented me into something new.

  Something worth having.

  We don't watch the coffin being lowered.

  I carefully take Audrey and turn her toward where the SUV is parked. The tinted windows are black holes, sleet stinging the glass and sheeting off in a torrent of water.

  The sky's open, pouring the grief of The Community on top of our heads.

  Audrey and I huddle, an umbrella taking the onslaught of the deluge of rain.

  Reporters converge like lions after a gazelle, and I hold up a hand, careful with my footing on the slick grass. My leg isn't 100 percent yet, but I've gotten after the physical therapy in my normal, obsessive way.

  I've got something worth protecting. I'm not having my parts all fucked up so I can't handle something coming down the pike at my new family.

  “Kiev,” Audrey says quietly.

  I follow her gaze.

  The members who chose to remain in The Community have gathered behind a plastic ribbon the police erected.

  Hostile stares travel over us.

  Audrey shivers.

  “They can't hurt us,” I reassure her.

  She nods, but Audrey flicks her eyes away from the silent crowd of onlookers. “At least my parents got out of there.”

  I don't want to think about what would have happened to the parents of the Chosen who killed Father Weston.

  Her parents will be in Rapid too. Rapid City has eighty thousand people. Maybe enough to blend into anonymity. Langley has a witness protection program in place for our future. We actually won't be Weston-anything anymore.

  The threat to our safety is large enough that we can't afford to be known.

  Audrey will have blond hair.

  Mine will be cut short—be a different color.

  The reporters, held back by cops, shout their questions instead. “What was it like to sleep with the same woman as your dad, Kiev?”

  The urge to flip them off is strong. I fist the hand that doesn't hold Audrey's.

  “How many wives did you have sex with, Kiev?”

  The nasty details of my childhood had been leaked. Of course Ginny had told the police everything.

  Every. Thing.

  Some of the details had been too juicy to keep quiet.

  “Is Audrey pregnant with your baby or daddy's?”

  “Stop!” Audrey shouts at them, shaking and covering her face with hands that quake.

  I roll Audrey against my body, half dragging her to the waiting car.

  Langley is there, opening the door. His eyes are the same as they always were. Compassionate.

  I'd just never recognized it.

  When he'd talked to me afterward, he remembered coming to a call placed by a disgruntled parishioner.

  “I knew there were illegal things happening, but your father was clever, like all cowardly abusers. Healing you up before I could see you. Hiding his abuse with clothing. And—the other stuff.”

  He'd leveled a steady gaze on me, and I couldn't hold the stare.

  “Don't be ashamed that your own father put you in the role of abuser, son. It's a built-in instinct to please our parents.”

  “I don't think your dad was forcing you to have sex with his wives as a teenager.”

  Langley had ruefully shaken his head. “No. But in a mixed-up, dysfunctional mess like The Community, kids are the first to fall through the cracks and the last to get—or seek—help.”

  He was right. I'd never thought there was anyone to help me.

  “You did better than most, Kiev. You got out of here, made something of yourself, got an education. But one thing that doesn't make sense? Why'd you come back? You could have never returned. Instead, you came back to your abuser.”

  I'd looked at Audrey. She squeezed my hand. Giving me courage to express my feelings. Something that still felt klutzy as hell.

  “Vengeance. But in the end, I came back for Audrey.”

  She smiled. My love ended up being more important than my hate.

  A first.

  An always.

  *

  Six months later

  “I don't know if I can,” Audrey admits, rubbing her hands on her jeans.

  I'm still not used to the hair. Her eyes and skin are light enough that the new, honey-colored blond works. I remember all that dark hair with her eyes. Miss it sometimes.

  Don't miss the problem of people knowing us. Our history. Simply from a glance.

  My lighter hair color makes us look a little twin-ish, but that's okay too. We're together.

  Audrey straightens her hair now. It's cut shoulder length.

  “You don’t have to,” I remind her and take her hand. The palm is sweaty, a testament to her nerves.

  “I know,” she says. “But I should.”

  “Audrey,” I say slowly, patiently. “You don’t have to do what you think should be done anymore.”

  “I know,” she repeats and rests a hand on her belly. “I mean I should do it so people know our story.” She shakes her head. “They need to know how easy it is to believe in something when you so desperately need it. My parents aren’t stupid. They never were. And yet they fell for the lies. I fell for the lies…” She trails off, shaking her head.

  I know her parents feel guilty. It took some time away from The Community for them to see things for what they are. Audrey’s mother had to get on medication to deal with the fact she allowed her daughter to be married off to a man more than twice her age. She’s overprotective now, which annoyed me at first.

  Having spent most of my life motherless, the whole “having someone taking care of you” thing was new to me. I found it insulting; Audrey was my girlfriend, pregnant with my child. I’m capable of taking care of her. It took a while to see that the doting was out of guilt, not because Audrey’s mother thought I wasn’t good enough.

  It’s the opposite, actually.

  Audrey’s mother looks at me with as much admiration as she looked at dead old dad. Though it’s in a different way. I saved Audrey and, in the end, saved them. I put an end to the corruption in The Community and removed their daughter from a house of degradation. And now, together—though accidental—Audrey and I are having their first grandchild.

  It took coaxing from Audrey for me to allow her parents to be involved. After all, I have no surviving parents. Our child deserves to have grandparents. Now that all thoughts of vengeance, of revenge are gone, all I want to do is make Audrey happy. Seeing her happy makes me happy.

  I’ve never felt that before.

  “We’re on your terms,” I remind her. “Stop whenever you need to.”

  “You too,” she says.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say automatically, earning a lopsided smile from Audrey. She doesn’t believe me. And I don’t exactly believe me either.

  It’s strange how not having anger fuel my life has changed me. The Community is gone. Mom has been laid to rest. I’m in love with Audrey, and she’s in love with me. It was everything I wanted, yet the lack of anchor opened me up to emotions I’ve worked hard to block out.

  Who knows what the fuck will happen when I open that shit up.

  We face the writer. He's the one who won the auction rights to our story.

  Glass separates us. That was the condition of our meeting. One-way glass.

  We can see him. He can't see us.

  The entire nation is riveted by our “cult romance.”

  To me, it's just me and Audrey, the girl I love. The mother of my almost-born child.


  There's money in our tell-all confessional. And more importantly, though it's almost too altruistic for me, if there's one human being that doesn't think they have a right to choose, to be free of physical and emotional pain—if us spilling our guts makes them feel like they can escape—it's all worth it.

  Especially if the human being in question is a child.

  “Let’s start from the beginning,” the writer cues.

  Audrey inhales, then starts speaking. “I was fourteen when my parents met Father Weston...” Her hand convulses in mine. I squeeze back. She tells what she remembers of her family joining The Community.

  Then it’s my turn. There are parts I legit don’t remember. Things I’ve repressed so damn hard they are actually gone from my memory.

  We talk for nearly two hours, going over details, describing the house and all it holds. Then it’s enough.

  “How are you doing?” I ask Audrey when we get in the car to go home. To our house, the one we bought together, one that has only good memories.

  “I’m tired,” she tells me. “But okay. Thinking about the beginning is weird.”

  “The whole thing is weird.” I swallow and jam the key into the ignition. The beginning, when Mom “ran off” and The Community brought in believers by the dozen seems so close yet so far. I want to forget it all. Start over with Audrey.

  But I won’t forget, I can’t.

  Starting over with Audrey I can do.

  *

  I place my hand on Audrey’s belly and feel our daughter kick. We decided to name her Sophia, and she will have my last name. So will Audrey, eventually. The best part is, the name’s not Weston anymore.

  I don't mind either. I never felt like a Weston anyway.

  We got to choose our name:

  DeVere. A family name. Mom stays with us forever that way.

  Audrey had loved the idea too.

  “Are you ready?” the writer asks us. It’s day three of talking to the writer. We had four days set up to talk, to go over everything. At first I didn’t think we’d need the whole time. But we do because our story is that fucked up.

  Audrey starts speaking. After she became part of The Community, her schooling reinforced Father Weston’s sick notions about the world ending. Fearmongering at its finest. Her life passed by rather uneventfully until she became one of the Chosen.

  Things go from bad to worse there. Audrey wanted to talk about the rape only one time.

  Tears fill my eyes, spilling down my cheeks as the words pour from her mouth. The brutality of my father while I lay unconscious on the floor from the bat sickens me. Angers me. Makes me wish the bastard was still alive so I could kill him with my own hands. I was there, silent and unobservant witness to the ultimate crime against her.

  I hadn't protected her.

  I hadn't protected Mom.

  Audrey turns my face to hers. Her face is blurry through my tears. “I'm sorry,” I say in a hoarse voice, hating my weakness.

  She shakes her head, hitting the mic button so the writer can't hear our conversation. “Oh, Kiev. Do not blame yourself. He did this, not you. If it wasn't for you, I'd have nothing. I'd still be with him. You saved me.” She grabs a tissue from the box and wipes my face.

  I feel like a pussy, crying. Until I realize I've never cried. Except for her.

  “You were my first,” she whispers solemnly.

  I grab her hand, kissing the knuckles. “Your last.”

  She nods. Audrey releases the button with her finger.

  “We're back,” I say in a voice rough with emotion. Resolute.

  “My turn.”

  I take a lot of breaks as I speak. My throat's so dry from confessing my sins that I feel like a camel.

  When I chronicle the beatings, the writer remains stoic.

  When I get to my father forcing me to sexually please his wives when I was only thirteen, the man across the glass hits his own mic button.

  “I apologize. I need to take a moment.” His face is grim, his eyes wide. Though he can’t see us, he’s gotten to know us. He knows our hopes, our dreams, our fears. And he knows the shit we went through is all too real.

  We're not the only ones who cry. He can't stand the events of the past any better than the ones who lived them. Audrey and I watch him try to control his emotions. Each word unravels him more and more, until he tells me to stop.

  Finally, we resume our story.

  *

  When the tale hits the bookshelves, it's an instant bestseller, putting The Community—and Tea, South Dakota—on the map.

  People look for us. The media has a fascination with our forbidden romance forged in the cult. Audrey doesn’t understand why anyone would be interested. It makes me love her more. After all she’s been through, she’s still my sweet, innocent Little Bride.

  Finally, the next tragedy grabs the spotlight, and our sordid story fades from the memories of most.

  Not ours.

  But the fabric of our experience doesn't steal the hope from our future. The chip on my shoulder isn't that fucking big anymore.

  My love for Audrey is greater than the wounds of my past.

  With time, they close.

  Through her love, they heal.

  Epilogue

  Audrey

  “Mommy?”

  “Yes, honey?” I ask, looking in the mirror at the little face behind me.

  “How did you meet Daddy?”

  I freeze, lipstick hovering an inch above my lips. My heart pounds, and my mind blanks.

  “Church,” Kiev answers for me. “I met Mommy at church.”

  I close my eyes in a long blink and let out a sigh of relief. Thank you. After all these years, he’s still has my back. I can always count on my husband. And after all these years, thinking of The Community still makes my heart skip a beat, still makes bile rise in my stomach.

  I can close my eyes and feel like I’m right there, standing in the foyer of the big house on the hill. My suitcase is next to me and I’m in a wedding gown. I can smell the cleaning products, feel the cold air surrounding me.

  It took years to stop the flashbacks. Years, and love from the one man who saved me and who stood by me through it all.

  “That’s boring,” Sophia says, scrunching up her nose. “I hope it’s romantic when I meet my husband.” She brings her hands to her chest and sighs. “Like in a princess movie. Maybe he’ll save me from a monster.”

  If only she knew. Her daddy did save me from a monster. I smile and watch Kiev.

  He shakes his head and sits on the bed next to our eldest daughter. “Aren’t you too young to be thinking of romance?”

  “Daddy, I’m seven.” She turns toward him, hiking an eyebrow. “Half the girls in my class have boyfriends.”

  Kiev’s face tightens. “Oh you are definitely too young for that!”

  “Jackie kissed Ben on the playground at recess yesterday,” she goes on, “and I’m going to kiss Tony on Monday.”

  Kiev opens his mouth, then snaps it shut, not sure what to say. “Then I think you’ll stay home Monday and hang out with Daddy.”

  Sophia laughs. “I can miss school? Okay!”

  I’m trying not to laugh as I watch the exchange.

  I put red lipstick on, checking myself in the dresser mirror, and turn around. “She’s going to hold you to it, you know.”

  “Oh, I know,” Kiev says. “And I’m serious. No boys, not yet. And probably not ever.”

  “Boys are gross!” Charlotte chimes in, holding a stuffed animal close to her chest. She’s four and looks just like her sister. Dark, wavy hair that touches her shoulders. Blue-green eyes that sparkle even without the sun. Half of me and half of Kiev. True blessings. The reason for living and breathing. Our children are perfect.

  “Yes,” Kiev says. “Boys are gross. They burp and fart and pick their nose.”

  “Ewww!” both girls squeal. I laugh, my heart so full as I watch Kiev loving on our daughters. Tonight is our sixth weddi
ng anniversary, and we are going out to celebrate. It’s been seven years since we left The Community, and I’m finally to the point where days can pass without it entering my mind and causing nightmares.

  Kiev and I have a life now. A normal life. It took time and a lot of hard work. Kiev got to put his degree to use and works as an engineering consultant, providing for our family. I stayed home with the girls, but now that Charlotte is in preschool a few days a week, I volunteer at the women’s shelter in town. I keep my past a secret. Not because I’m ashamed of being a victim—I’m not. But we wouldn’t want our girls to be treated differently if people found out the truth.

  If they found out how fucked up the beginning of Kiev and my relationship was, if they knew Sophia was conceived on accident while I was sleeping with the son of the man I was married to, they wouldn’t look at us the same.

  The people at the women’s shelter know I was hurt in the past. They know Kiev helped me escape a cycle of abuse. Knowing I was able to get past it, to move on and make a life for myself is inspiring to the women there.

  And sometimes a little bit of hope goes a long way.

  Father Weston already took enough from us. I’m not letting him ruin the future for our kids. Our life here is simple, but we’re happy.

  The doorbell rings, and Kiev goes to answer it, both girls hanging on his strong arms. I quickly fluff my hair, arranging the curls that are just going to straighten in a bit anyway.

  My hair is back to its original color. I kept it light for three years, afraid someone might recognize me. But when we moved to Colorado so Kiev could take a good job, we got a bit of a restart on our already new lives. Kiev’s hair is short, kept tidy for work. He’s still as muscular and tatted as ever, driving me wild just as much now as he did back when we first met.

  I grab a pair of black heels and head out of our bedroom, going into the living room where my mother stands, taking Charlotte out of Kiev’s arms.

  “You look lovely,” she says when she sees me.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  Kiev opens the small closet in the foyer and takes out our coats. “We better head out,” he tells me and taps his watch. Right. We have reservations.