Right Next Door

by Leah Montgomery

  So someone had drugged me, and then they’d reduced both shoulders. I was unconscious. Completely vulnerable. Hadn’t even felt the pain of my shoulders being manipulated. I shuddered to think what else had been done to me.

  My chin trembled, but I refused to focus on any other body parts to check for pain or soreness. If I’d been raped, I didn’t want to know.

  It dawned on me that I was truly at my captor’s mercy. This had been planned. Thought out. I was at a huge disadvantage in every way.

  My chest ached. My heart raced faster and faster. If I’d stood any chance of fighting or escaping, those chances decreased dramatically when I dislocated my own shoulders like some kind of imbecile. That one unfortunate turn of events had quite possibly rendered me prey. Much more than my situation ever did. Now I was limited. Now I was weak.

  “Who’s there?” I shouted, half in anger and half in panic.

  No answer.

  “Who’s there?” I repeated, aiming my voice in a slightly different direction. Maybe if someone were around, I’d hear a difference in the way my words sounded. Like echolocation. Hell, if it was good enough for bats, it was good enough for me.

  Still no answer, so I turned a few degrees more. “Hey!”

  Nothing.

  “Hey!” I shouted from even further left. “Answer me, you bastard!”

  I repeated this, hollering into the dark, listening for changes in the acoustics, until I’d turned what I thought was a full circle. Nothing sounded any different.

  I stopped moving completely. Even held my breath. I listened. Listened for breathing, for movement, for the faint brush of material on skin. I heard nothing.

  As far as I could tell, I was alone.

  I took a deep breath. Inhaled the stale air. Sniffed for the aroma of cologne or deodorant or hair products. Body odor. Bad breath. Anything that smelled like another human being somewhere near me. There was nothing. Nothing but the nauseating scent of my vomit. Nothing but my own stench. No one could sweat this much, for this long and not wear out their deodorant.

  That’s when I noticed that I wasn’t sweating anymore. I touched my arm, my chest, my neck. My skin was tacky, but not actively sweating. Yet, if anything, the room was even hotter. And I hadn’t had the urge to pee since whenever I’d peed on myself. Definitely before I woke up naked and in chains. That wasn’t a good sign, I knew. I was probably too dehydrated to sweat. I’d been drugged after all, so I had no idea how long I’d been here. Wherever here was. A person can survive far longer without food, but only three days without water. And sweating like I had been, probably less. Maybe a lot less.

  Like magic—black, awful, asshole magic—the thought of a drink of water triggered a thirst that was almost excruciating. I wished for a second I hadn’t even had the thought.

  I’d never been so thirsty in my entire life. My tongue was so dry it felt like a sheet of sandpaper inside my mouth. I would’ve given anything for just one tiny sip of cold water. Hell, it didn’t even have to be cold. It could be warm. I doubted I’d even have cared if it was clean. The more I thought about it, the more I focused on how thirsty I was, the more desperate I got. I remembered watching a survival show where a guy drank his own urine. At the time, I’d thought that was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. Crappy television at its best.

  Maybe I’d been too quick to judge.

  The thought of drinking my own pee made me cringe, but I was already to the point where I couldn’t rule it out. That alone was an alarming level of disturbing, especially for someone like me.

  I told myself that it wouldn’t come to that. I mean, why would someone kidnap me and just stick me in a room to die of thirst? Where was the fun in that? Surely, the guy had some other plan for me, which would entail (I hoped) keeping me alive. Because that would necessitate him giving me water.

  I tried to draw comfort from that rationale as I drew my knees in close to my chest and rested my chin on them. I just had to wait. Be patient and wait. Someone would come. And I would be ready. Ready to fight. Preferably after I’d had a drink of water.

  Chapter Eight

  Marcy is wishing she’d made plans with Jill sooner. Caroline has been particularly quiet, and with John gone, the house is more lifeless than Marcy can tolerate for long stretches of time.

  She eyes the corked bottle of red on the counter. There’s some left in the one she opened before Jill arrived on Saturday. She glances at the clock. Three twenty. On a Monday. Some would frown on her drinking so early. She debates for another minute before muttering, “Waste not, want not,” and pouring herself a healthy glass anyway.

  Three or four sips in and Marcy is rifling through the cupboards to see if she has all the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. Everyone loves chocolate cookies and, if she makes a big batch, they’ll give her an excuse to go over to Jill’s. Just a friendly drop-by. Neighbors shouldn’t need an excuse, but Marcy and Jill haven’t reached that point yet. But they will. Marcy is sure of that. Until then, Marcy will arrive bearing gifts. Several delicious gifts. No one can refuse that.

  Whistling as she measures and mixes and stirs, Marcy imagines playdates and picnics, lunches and birthday parties. She pictures barbecues and lake trips, and adults-only dinners where the two couples can bond in a relaxing, child-free environment. She’s already hoping that they’ll all stay right here in The Coves and never leave.

  When the cookies are baked to a perfect golden brown and cooling on a rack, Marcy goes to the bottom of the stairs and calls up to Caroline. “Caroline, come down here please.”

  She pauses to listen for the sounds of her daughter’s footsteps as she complies. She never does on the first try, so Marcy isn’t surprised when she hears nothing but silence upstairs. “Caroline, come down. I have something for you.”

  Sometimes that works. Caroline likes treats. Not surprises in the form of anything else, but cookies and cakes and crackers she loves, so Marcy makes a point to whip up something like that for her every day. Otherwise, she probably wouldn’t come down at all without a fight and a freak out.

  Sure enough, Marcy hears the floorboards creak and, seconds later, a small silhouette appears on the landing. “Hi, sweetheart. Why don’t you come down and have a cookie? I made some chocolate chip.” Marcy smiles warmly up toward the shadowed face and waits for Caroline to start down the steps. When she does, Marcy feels comfortable moving back to the kitchen.

  Caroline shuffles slowly behind her. Marcy wonders for the umpteenth time if she’ll ever find shoes her daughter likes. Caroline doesn’t like to go barefoot, but she drags her feet like she can’t stand shoes either. It’s a conundrum. The one shoe she seems most comfortable in is the rattiest pair of tennis shoes in the house. They’re so dirty they’re brown where they’re supposed to be white, and the laces are in tatters, but Caroline refuses to let Marcy wash them. Marcy took them by force once and she thought Caroline was going to bang her head against the wall until she lost consciousness. Needless to say, Marcy hasn’t tried that again. She doesn’t let her wear them, though. Caroline has outgrown them and her toes scrunch up inside. Marcy doesn’t want her ruining her feet. The only thing they can agree on is for Caroline to keep them, but not wear them. Hardly a good solution, but better than head-banging.

  Marcy takes the spatula and slides one cookie off the cooling rack. She turns with it in hand and waves it toward her daughter. Caroline doesn’t move a muscle. “I bet that’s what heaven smells like. Mmmm.”

  Caroline’s little chest expands and her nostrils flare as she inhales the aroma. She doesn’t say anything, and still doesn’t move. She just stares at the cookie with her darkly intense eyes. She looks neither happy nor sad, just…focused. Marcy would give almost anything for a smile of glee or a moan of delight. Anything that would give her a ray of hope.

  The only thing she gets, however, is one, two, three twitches of Caroline’s arm before she actually reaches for the cookie. Her small fingers take it to her mouth and s
he nibbles delicately around one edge, her tongue sneaking out to lick a bit of chocolate off her upper lip. Then, without a word, she turns and walks out the way she came, shoes scuffing the floor as she goes.

  Before she can get out of sight, Marcy tells her, “I’m going to the neighbors to take some cookies. Would you like to come?”

  There’s a pause in Caroline’s step, just enough to let Marcy know she heard her. There might be a minimal shake of the head; it’s hard to be sure sometimes. Then Caroline resumes her exodus, and Marcy is left holding an empty spatula and nursing a breaking heart.

  After ringing the bell, Marcy straightens her blonde bob with her free hand. She clears her throat and brings her lips up into a smile as she waits. She can hear movement on the other side of the door—clacking on hardwood; the thump of something solid being dropped; the sound of something rolling across the floor. There might even be a hushed whisper going on; she can’t be sure. Her smile deepens to a grin. She would be the same way if someone rang her doorbell in the evening after work. She’d be scrambling to pick up toys and shoes and pillows tossed carelessly onto the floor. Well, she would’ve before. When Caroline actually played with her toys downstairs and left them wherever she lost interest in them. It used to frustrated Marcy to no end that her living room always looked like a tornado had recently come through, but in retrospect, she’d give anything to have those days—and that version of her daughter—back. She feels so helpless now, as though her child has needs that she can’t meet. That’s a torturous feeling for a mother—to not be able to help her baby. That doesn’t mean she’ll stop trying, though. As long as she has breath, she will do whatever she can to keep Caroline safe and happy and healthy.

  Finally, the snap of a deadbolt and Marcy is staring at a slightly disheveled Jill Halpern. “Hi, Marcy,” she greets breathlessly. Marcy contains the chuckle that bubbles up. Yes, she’s been doing an emergency straighten up.

  “Hi, neighbor. I hope this isn’t a bad time.” Clearly, it isn’t necessarily a good time.

  “Oh, no. It’s fine. I just…I wasn’t expecting company, so the house is a mess. Kids!” She shakes her head a little like she’s frazzled.

  Marcy waves her off. “Anyone with kids never pays attention to a mess. It’s just a fact of life.”

  “Your house looked perfect.”

  “If you came over right now, you’d see what it looks like on a regular basis.” The lie eases right out from between Marcy’s lips with no effort and no guilt. Her house stays spotless because her child doesn’t play like she used to and her husband travels, but she doesn’t tell Jill that. She just tells her what will make her feel better about her own mess. That’s what friends do.

  “What are you up to?” Jill leans against the jamb, tugging the door closed a little more behind her.

  “Oh, uh, I made some cookies and thought I’d bring them by. I made them for Caroline, but the batch was way too big, so I thought I’d share. Everyone likes chocolate chip, right?”

  “Yes, everyone. It’s so nice of you to think of us. Thank you.” She reaches for the plate and Marcy sets it on her upturned palm.

  Marcy stands there for a few seconds, smiling, waiting. Movement behind Jill’s head draws her eye. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company.”

  Jill’s brow furrows. “Company?”

  “Yes.” Marcy nods toward the interior of the house. She sees a blonde head dart by.

  Jill glances left and then returns her attention to Marcy. “Oh, no. That’s just Sabrina. She’s our nanny.”

  “Oh! You have a nanny?” Jill nods. “I didn’t know. How nice for you.”

  “Yeah, she’s pretty great. A lifesaver when it comes to last-minute changes of plans.”

  “I’m sure! A good babysitter is hard to find.”

  “You know, any time you need someone to watch Caroline, Sabrina would be happy to keep an eye on her for you. She’s really great with kids.”

  “What a kind offer. I may take you up on that.”

  “Fine by me.”

  Silence erupts between them, but after a few uncomfortable seconds, they both begin to speak at once. “Well, I should go—”

  “I would invite you in, but—”

  “Sorry. You first.”

  Jill smiles. “I was just saying that I would invite you in, but I’d hate for you to pick up whatever bug Cheyenne’s been fighting.”

  “I can’t stay anyway. I need to get back to Caroline. I just wanted to bring the cookies.”

  “Thank you again. Let’s get together soon. Maybe another wine night.”

  “Sure. You’re welcome any time.”

  “You might regret saying that.” She winks and laughs, and Marcy thinks it’s the cutest thing. Jill might not be a raving beauty, but she’s attractive in her own way. Once they’re better friends, Marcy will offer her a makeover. She will turn Jill into a showstopper, a gift from one best friend to another. In fact, it gives Marcy something to look forward to, something to plan. Caroline isn’t into all the feminine stuff, so she’s excited to have someone to do girly things with.

  Yes, Jill will be the neighbor and best friend Marcy needs. They’ll raise their families side by side, train their husbands side by side, and drink wine and laugh along the way. It will be a glorious life they’ll lead.

  The Coves was definitely a good choice for them. Maybe their best choice yet.

  Chapter Nine

  I read an article about the various methods of psychological torture once. Tactics that were employed on American soldiers captured behind enemy lines. There was an interview with one ex-Marine who said that, as a prisoner of war, the psychological torture was far worse than the physical abuse he’d endured. At the time, I found that hard to believe.

  But not now.

  I was beginning to understand.

  My thirst was becoming almost unbearable, but it wasn’t the worst thing. The worst thing was the dark. The absence of light was more disturbing than I ever would’ve guessed it could be. It made no difference if my eyes were open or closed. The blackness was absolute.

  I found myself blinking repeatedly, like my vision was just foggy or delayed, but it never cleared. I never saw anything. It was like the whole world had disappeared and had taken every speck of light with it.

  The lack of interaction with another human was getting to me pretty badly, too. I felt desperate for somebody. Anybody. Another voice, another body, just another person. I didn’t even care who.

  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I didn’t want my kidnapper to come and visit me. I didn’t want interaction enough to endure rape for it. I hoped it would never get to that point. I found myself whispering or quietly singing, just so I could hear something. Something that didn’t sound creepy, like the drag of my chains on the concrete or the peel of my damp skin when I moved. I didn’t know how long a person could survive this way without going completely insane. I hoped I didn’t have to find out either.

  The heat and lack of sleep on top of everything else only aggravated my situation. I didn’t know how long it had been since I’d passed out from dislocating my shoulders, but my mind was starting to play tricks on me, so I assumed it had been at least two days. And that meant I was coming up on probably my third or maybe even fourth day without water. But I’d be damned if I’d let myself go to sleep and miss someone coming or going from my little hellhole. No, if there was even a ten million-to-one chance of me being able to escape, I was going to take it.

  Once I was able to stand without puking or passing out, I tested the limits of my chains four additional times. Not one detail changed. I kept hoping I’d go a slightly different direction and find something, anything that could help me. Something I could use as a weapon, a water dish I’d missed. A latch or switch, something I could trigger. Like a concealed lever on the wall, an indented button on the floor. I scoured every inch of my prison that I could reach, but I didn’t find anything. Not one damn thing.

  When
I sat, it was harder not to doze off, so I busied myself with mental games. I ran through every outlandish scenario I could think of for why someone would kidnap me and keep me in a room like this. Psychological experiment. Revenge. Some sort of bizarre fetish. I went through why I was taken, too. Why me—a nobody from nowhere. I wasn’t rich. I wasn’t married to anyone rich. Didn’t even know anyone with kidnap-worthy wealth or importance. I led a boring life. Happily married. Event planner. Mother of one son. Driver of a minivan. Fun blonde. Baker of too many mediocre meals. I could see no reason that I should be targeted for something like this. I never arrived at a conclusion, but the endless loops of thought kept me busy, kept me awake. I suppose frustration and futility have their purposes.

  What I knew for sure was that I wanted to go home. So much that I couldn’t even think about my family or my house or even my hairbrush without crying. Eventually, though, my sobs were dry. Tearless. In my hazy, drowsy, semi-lucid state, I knew that was bad. Bad, bad, bad.

  At some point, I started to wonder if I was dead. If I’d made some exceedingly poor choices in life and this was my eternity.

  What if this was all there was? Forever. Darkness. Aloneness. Heat.

  Maybe this was hell.

  It sure felt like it.

  Then I began to think that if I were dead, maybe I could leave. I thought about how a spirit could get out, where I’d go. Maybe I could go back in time, back to before. Before this, before mistakes, before many things. Just… before.

  My mind sifted through memories. Some I recognized as my own—my high school prom with Dave Jenkins; the pianist at my wedding with the really bad hair; the first time I heard Dalton laugh; the pretty sundress I bought for our beach trip this year. But some felt slightly contrived. Or maybe foreign. Like they belonged to someone else. Franken-memories—a bizarre blend of fact and possibly fiction. Pieces from different people and different lives, all woven into the same quilt.