by Jen Waite
The man studied the women huddled together. He looked at the gun. Counted in his head. He could use the bullets right now, easily, and it would all be over. Or he could just use one bullet, like he was going to do in the parking lot. He contemplated this. Ran his fingers over the gun, popped the cartridge out, and looked at the top bullet. He felt the air shift across the room before he saw her move. She was slow, the old one, but she made a good effort and she was almost to him by the time he had shoved the magazine back in. He held up the gun and pointed it at her chest. She froze, put her hands in the air, wheezing. The other woman was crying softly. He smiled. “Sit down.”
The grandmother turned slowly and walked back to the wall. She didn’t remind him at all of his own grandmother, the only one he ever met, who was scrawny and put plastic over the furniture so that his bottom would make a squeaking sound every time he sat down.
“You’re not all bad, you know,” she’d said gruffly once. He had thought he’d misheard because it came out of nowhere—he hadn’t kicked his little brother in the ribs or thrown a glass ashtray across the room. They were just watching TV, side by side on that squeaky couch.
He looked at her, contemplating her words. “How do you know?”
She didn’t look back at him, just kept staring at the TV. “Because no one is all bad.”
“But.” And with a rush of something that he’d never felt before, a feeling close to regret but not quite, he asked, “But how do you know?”
His grandma reached for the remote and pressed down on a button until the voices on the TV drowned out the thoughts in his head.
Now, he watched as the older woman slid down beside her daughter and granddaughter. The man could hear whispers between the two women. He shook his head and yelled, “Shut up!” The women fell silent, but he could still hear the whispers in his head and he slammed the gun on the ground and yelled, “Shut up!” again.
The man’s head throbbed. He wanted it to be over. He could do this small kindness for all of them, but especially for the girl. His grandmother was wrong. If she’d been right, he would have found someone by now, just one person, who was like him, whom he could talk to. It was a different kind of loneliness he’d lived with his entire life. Physical loneliness, he could stand. He did fine by himself in a cell. In fact, he preferred it when he didn’t have a cellmate. But the loneliness in his head, the loneliness of knowing he would never, ever be seen by someone else. That’s what made him want to claw at his temple until his head split open. The girl was supposed to be the answer. He looked at her again. She was still a lump, barely breathing. She wasn’t going to make it. If she hadn’t woken up by now, she must have some kind of brain damage. He’d come this far for nothing. He thought about the bullets in the gun again, more than enough, and stood. When he reached the women, he saw that they knew. The grandmother’s face was stone, but the mother’s face was relaxed, accepting. He looked down and his finger paused on the trigger. He lowered the gun.
The girl was waking up.
THE CABIN
THEA
She was between awake and asleep. She’d felt this before—this out-of-body feeling, of being here but not here. She was dreaming of being on a warm beach, the water lapping at her ankles. She’d never been to the Caribbean, but she thought this must be what it would feel like—the aqua water, smooth, tickly sand against her toes, and hot sun soaking into her shoulders. Someone was walking toward her from the other end of the beach. Closer, closer. A man. Light brown hair, handsome and lean. He wore white shorts. As he came closer, Thea could see that his lips curved up in a smile.
“Mr. Redmond,” she said. “I mean, Ted.” She laughed with him. “What are you doing here?”
“Thea.” He was so happy to see her. She beamed. “You’re such an old soul.” He beamed back.
Now they were in his classroom and this was real—not a dream—a memory. She looked around the room, touched the desk lightly with her fingertips, transferring her weight into the tops of her fingers. “Is this real?” she asked him.
“Thea, what can I do for you?” He stood up from behind his desk; he didn’t hear her question.
“I just thought you seemed kind of sad in class today and I wanted to make sure everything was all right,” she replied.
He smiled a sad smile. “You’re very perceptive, Thea. I have a family member who isn’t doing very well, and . . . sometimes I just can’t turn off my brain.” Mr. Redmond took off his fine, silver glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry. I know I probably shouldn’t be telling you this.” His voice broke. Thea’s heart broke at the same time. He was so sad. She had never seen an adult man so sad.
“I’m sorry.” Her eyes filled with tears, too.
“Oh god, don’t you cry, too,” he said, and then he stepped toward her and put his arms around her. His hand rubbed a small circle on her back. He pulled away. “Thank you for asking. You’re a very special person. An old soul.”
Thea felt something nice spread through her body, but she didn’t smile because this was a serious moment. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Redmond,” she said again. She hid her shiver. “About your family member.” Before she could stop herself, the words were out of her mouth: “I lost my dad. He died when I was little.”
“I’m so sorry. Look, you can call me Ted when we’re not in class, ok?” He scribbled down something on a piece of paper on his desk and handed it to her. “Here,” he said with a smile. “In case you ever need to talk.”
She felt warm, like a sudden fever had overtaken her body. Her stomach hurt a tiny bit. “Ok.”
The classroom and Mr. Redmond faded away and she tried to hold on to the memory. Now she was in a cold, dark room. She heard a loud voice. She struggled to open her eyes. For a moment, she wanted her mom, then the feeling of betrayal snapped back into her body with force. She stopped struggling, sank back into the blackness. She was alone.
THIRTEEN YEARS
BEFORE THE CABIN
ANNE
Thea was born on December 10, this much Anne had told her, always with “Christmas came early that year!” tagged at the end. What she always omitted was that Thea’s due date was not really December 25 (though it made a cute story). No, her daughter’s scheduled due date was February 5. Two months away. They hadn’t even assembled the crib, put together the changing table, or procured diapers. Anne thought she had so much time.
She was going to leave Ethan, she really was—what she’d told Joseph that morning was true. That night at dinner, Ethan hadn’t mentioned a thing about finding her with another man on their couch; he had played the warm, doting husband as she sat there replaying Joseph’s skin against hers. Over the next weeks, she started to plan her escape, scrolling through craigslist ads seeking roommates, saving as much as possible from the weekly transfer from Ethan’s checking to hers, refreshing her résumé. She was going to tell her parents and her friends, too, to make it real, so there was no going back. And then she’d found out she was pregnant.
She took a pregnancy test while Ethan was at work, realizing with a start that she hadn’t had her period in more than two months. She’d been so preoccupied with her plan and thoughts of Joseph . . . But no, she was on the pill so she couldn’t be pregnant; it was impossible, or only .01 percent possible, according to the white leaflet. She held the pregnancy test between two fingers, one hand clutching the side of the bathroom sink, and when the second line appeared, she felt her groin clench in protest. She stood rooted to the tile floor, sobbing, and then she splashed water on her face, looked into the mirror, and made a decision. She would give Ethan one more chance. Maybe this baby would change everything.
The day of Thea’s birth was a Saturday. She and Ethan were sitting on the couch, his hand resting on her stomach, her feet resting on the coffee table. It was morning and he was in a good mood. He had closed a big deal that week at work—an investor he had been pur
suing for months had finally caved, dumping millions into Ethan’s asset management company. That morning, he couldn’t stop smiling. “Let’s go to brunch at Mars. I think a celebration is in order,” he said. The fancy place down the street with a five-course tasting menu. “One mimosa’s ok, right?” he asked, kissing her forehead. They were going to have a good weekend, she could feel it. And then a good week. And then a good month. He hadn’t always been angry, Anne told herself. In fact, in the years since they’d met, he’d been in almost a perpetually good mood. It was a joke at first that she used to make, “Euphoric Ethan.” Anne found it perplexing at the beginning, that he was always so cheery, so optimistic, and then, when she grew accustomed to it, it was intoxicating. It became one of the things she loved most about him—Anne was a worrier; the slightest hiccup could make her spin into obsessive thoughts (as a therapist she would label this as a pattern of unhelpful thinking)—Ethan could always convince her that everything was going to be fine. “Love,” he would say, “is this going to matter in a year? Or three months even?” He gave her the perspective that she so often needed; he was like a constant flow of Lexapro into her bloodstream. And since she’d announced she was pregnant, things had been better, much better, between them. Anne was starting to feel silly that she had come so close to leaving, to ending her marriage because of a rough patch.
That Saturday morning, two years after they met and six months after their wedding, her phone buzzed and jumped on the coffee table. If she hadn’t picked it up, or if she’d left it in the bedroom where it usually stayed on weekend mornings, things might have turned out differently, but the phone was right there, in front of them and couldn’t be ignored. She reached out, her head still resting on his shoulder, and opened the message. Just thinking of you . . . hope all is well. Her cheeks involuntarily flushed. Ethan looked down and she felt his body still. “You’re still talking to Joseph?” His voice was measured, calm.
“No, not really. I haven’t heard from him in a while.” Her voice came out high. She was trying too hard, overcompensating. But it was the truth. She’d met with Joseph one more time after that morning to tell him that she couldn’t see him again, that she’d made a mistake. He tried to convince her otherwise until she finally interrupted, “I’m pregnant. Almost three months.” They’d only texted a few pleasantries since.
“Right,” Ethan said and stood up. He walked into the kitchen. “Come here.”
With the flick of his wrist, the gas flame burst up under the grate of the stove. That was one of the reasons she’d wanted this apartment—it was on her “pro” list, the gas oven. She’d always loved fire. She watched him slowly turn the dial back until the tops of the flame barely grazed the top of the grate. “Annie, come here,” he said again. “I’ve changed my mind about going out. Come keep me company while I cook.” She got up stiffly from the couch, pulling her feet from the coffee table to the floor and standing slowly, stretching her hands toward the ceiling, prolonging the moment. She watched him rummage in the refrigerator; he pulled out a half-used stick of butter, the paper lazily crumpled around the end. She slid into the kitchen; it was a bright morning, the sun shone so hard that even with the blinds only half open, the kitchen filled with pools of light. He opened the cutlery drawer and pulled out a butter knife. The dull blade sliced into the butter, cutting away a chunk. Ethan tossed it onto the griddle and it sizzled, the air filled with the smell of fire and butter. To this day, she can’t smell burning butter, a smell she used to love, without bile rising into her throat and tears pricking her eyes.
“I thought we were going to Mars,” she said, her voice bright, trying to match the pools of light on the kitchen floor.
“I’m not in the mood to go out anymore.” He picked up the heavy griddle with one strong hand and the butter slid around, coating the bottom uniformly. He took three steps toward her and closed the distance between them. He put one hand on her stomach, the other caressed her face. She looked into her husband’s eyes and smiled. “Why are you crying?” he asked.
She rubbed her eyes with her hands and laughed. “I’m not.” In truth, Anne couldn’t say why her eyes filled with tears that morning. Perhaps she already knew what was coming. Up until that day, he had never hurt her, not really. There were those few times he’d gotten angry, an anger that took her by surprise, an anger that sometimes seemed to come out of nowhere. But all couples fight (isn’t that what they say?), and Anne wasn’t wholly innocent; she had yelled back, sometimes egged him on even. And the fights had ended; things were back to normal. The darkness had evaporated so completely that she’d convinced herself it was gone for good.
“I really was looking forward to brunch.” Anne forced her eyes from the sizzling griddle back to her husband.
“Fine.” He turned around quickly, flicked off the flame. The hair rose on the backs of her arms, as the griddle crashed into the sink.
“Oh come on, Ethan,” she snapped back. “You don’t have to make such a big fucking deal.” She was angry now, too, and she felt safer in her anger.
“You want to go to brunch, so we’re going to brunch.” He walked past her, grabbed his coat from the hook on the wall, and opened the door. “Let’s go.”
She crossed the threshold of the door without looking at him, anger radiating from her body. At the top of the narrow metal stairs (one of the items that made the “con” side of the list while they were apartment hunting), she half turned her head to say something—she can’t remember now what she was going to say. “Lighten the fuck up,” maybe or, if she’s being more generous with herself, perhaps she was going to try to make amends with a kiss, a kiss that would have turned the morning back to what it had been before her phone buzzed—but she never said anything. Her scalp was on fire, her hair yanked so hard backward that she gasped and her eyes bulged and then shut tightly.
“Did you fuck him?” She heard her husband’s voice, soft, calm, in her ear.
She could have said no. She could have said of course not, don’t be silly. But even in that moment, the moment before she lost consciousness, she was more angry than afraid, and she spit out a “Fuck you” before her head jerked forward and the ledge of the first step slipped beneath her boots; her body followed her stomach down, down to the landing. She felt a snap followed by enormous pressure. She lifted her head slightly and said, “Help me,” before she threw up out of the side of her mouth.
THE CABIN
THE MAN
He wondered what it would feel like, to feel for another human the way the mother felt for her daughter. He understood what it looked like. He saw the anguished look in the mother’s eyes while she watched her daughter’s limp form, and he saw the hot rage when she stole glances at him; yes, he understood the look of it, but he still wondered what it would feel like. He had warm feelings toward his own mother; he appreciated her cooking and the way she adjusted his hat in the winter, pulling it down over his ears and then sweeping his hair under the sides. He was grateful when she pretended not to notice the bruises and bite marks on his little brother. He was surprised when he went away and didn’t miss her, barely even thought of her. The man looked at the mother now, sitting across the cabin, her eyes closed, head against the wall, hand on her daughter’s forehead, and he thought about how weak it made her, to have these feelings for another person, but still . . . He tried for a second to feel what she felt. He directed his eyes toward the girl—but as soon as he looked at her form, it was all images and sounds in his head, thrashing and screams and groans and his breathing sped up and his hands shook a bit. He made himself sick with these thoughts but they kept coming, and they were stronger than him.
The man put his head in his hands. It was the mother’s fault. That bitch drove into the parking lot at the exact moment he was about to end it. That wasn’t his fault at all. He was trying to do the “right” thing, to be good. “Be good today,” his father had said to him every day before school, and
he heard his father’s disappointment, fear, and hope all mixed up in those words. As if it were that simple, as if he could simply turn off the thoughts and the voices. He had learned how to hide them from other people, but he couldn’t find the switch to turn them off. And even when he tried to do the right thing, it always turned out to be not the right thing. Like the parking lot. He had gone back to a parking lot a second time; it felt like divine intervention, when he saw the sign for the nature reserve. He would do it in the parking lot, except this time to make things right. And then the woman had messed everything up. No matter what, he was going to suffer, either by doing the wrong thing or by doing the right thing that turned out to be wrong.
He had met a man in prison who told him that everyone, at least every man, wanted to do what they did, deep down in the most buried parts of themselves. It was nature, the nature of man, he said. Only not everyone was brave enough to go after what they wanted. “We’re being punished by a society that doesn’t want to admit what people really are,” his friend had preached, his voice booming over the din of the cafeteria. “We are the sacrificial lambs, so they can all go around pretending, living normal lives, but never really living. They’re all like us deep down, at the core. We are pure, my friend. We are what nature intended.” The man had listened, spooning soup into his mouth, and wondered if that was really possible. Maybe he wasn’t so different from other people after all. Did everyone have a little bit of what he had? The types of thoughts and voices he’d heard since he could remember? He didn’t ask to be filled with thoughts of dragging women to dark places and watching the fear in their eyes as he held them down. But the thoughts came from a place he couldn’t control and he felt like a bottle his whole life, being shaken up, until he was ready to explode. Up until the age of twelve, he was able to mostly lash out at his little brother, who would scream and cry but not tell anyone when it came down to it. Then he began to notice girls in a different way and the urges morphed. It was difficult to imagine other people having those urges. Maybe if they had, he would have had friends.
