Here and Gone

by Haylen Beck

  Mitchell unlocked the cell door, slid it aside, and tossed the bag of clothes across the floor to land at Audra’s feet. Audra stayed put, didn’t reach for it.

  ‘I need your clothes,’ Mitchell said. ‘I don’t want to have to get some of those state cops in here to strip you by force. The camera’s off, and I’ll turn my back.’

  She turned away and Audra opened the bag, pulled out a shirt, a pair of jeans. She found a sports bra that looked like it would fit well enough, two pairs of panties, and a single pair of socks. As quickly as she could, she stripped and dressed again.

  She brought her clothes to Mitchell, who bundled them into the clear bag and left them on the desk. Mitchell lifted the polystyrene container, the fork, and the napkin, and brought them back to the cell. Audra kept her hands by her sides.

  ‘Come on,’ Mitchell said. ‘You need to eat.’

  Audra stepped closer and took the box from Mitchell’s hand. She opened it and the aroma of beef and tomato and rice swamped her senses. Her stomach growled again, and her mouth filled with saliva.

  ‘Chili,’ Mitchell said. ‘Strange, isn’t it? The hotter the place, the hotter the food. You’d think people would want to cool down.’

  Audra retreated to the bunk, sat down, dug in with the plastic fork. She couldn’t help but give a moan of pleasure as she chewed.

  ‘I got you this too,’ Mitchell said, taking a plastic bottle of Coke from her jacket pocket. ‘Can I come in?’

  Audra nodded as she swallowed, as if she had any control over who came and went from between these bars. Mitchell indicated the camera in the corner.

  ‘We’re not being watched,’ she said. ‘But I know you won’t try anything stupid.’

  ‘They turned it off last night,’ Audra said.

  Mitchell crossed the cell, placed the bottle of Coke on the bunk, sat down beside Audra.

  ‘Turned it off?’

  ‘Whiteside and Collins,’ Audra said. ‘They came in here during the night and put a gun to my head. Whiteside pulled the trigger. I thought I was going to die.’

  ‘That’s a serious accusation,’ Mitchell said.

  ‘A serious accusation,’ Audra echoed. ‘More serious than taking my children, or less?’

  Mitchell leaned in. ‘Audra, you have to realize the position you’re in. Sheriff Whiteside and Deputy Collins have years of public service between them, unquestionable records. Sheriff Whiteside is a war hero, for God’s sake. He served in the first Gulf War, got medals and everything. You’re a former addict running from Children’s Services. How much do you think your word means against theirs?’

  The meat and rice in Audra’s mouth lost their flavor, turned to ash on her tongue. She dropped the fork into the box, wiped her mouth with the napkin.

  ‘Here,’ she said, pushing the food back at Mitchell.

  The agent took them. ‘Audra, I want to help you. Don’t pull away from me.’

  ‘Can I make a phone call?’

  ‘Whatever you’ve seen on TV, you don’t have an automatic right to—’

  ‘Can I make a phone call?’

  Mitchell closed her eyes, opened them again, and stood up. ‘All right.’

  She reached into her jacket pocket and retrieved a smartphone, entered a code to unlock it.

  ‘You’re aware there’s about a dozen cops on the other side of that door who want to tear you to pieces, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Audra said.

  ‘Well, then,’ Mitchell said. ‘Act accordingly.’

  Audra stood, walked to the far side of the cell, and tapped out the only number she could think of. A few moments of silence, then the purr of the tone, before a woman’s voice answered.

  ‘Hello?’

  Audra opened her mouth, found it empty. She listened to the hiss and whine of the signal travelling all the way from California. I should be there now, she thought. Me and Sean and Louise, out there by the sea. Not trapped here, not like this.

  ‘Hello? Who’s calling, please? If this is a reporter, I don’t want to—’

  ‘Mel?’

  Silence for a moment, then, ‘Audra? Is that you?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s me. It’s good to hear your voice.’

  ‘Audra, what’s happening?’

  ‘I need help.’

  ‘Do the police know you’re calling me? Are you calling from jail?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She forced a smile into her voice. ‘I know, it’s crazy, isn’t it? Me in jail. Mel, can you help me?’

  ‘Jesus, the press have been calling me nonstop since this morning, asking about you. I only picked up the phone because I was expecting Suzie’s school to call. What do you want?’

  ‘I want help. Mel, I’m in trouble. Whatever you saw on the TV, I didn’t do it. The sheriff, he’s trying to set me up. Him and his deputy, they have my children. I think if I could get someone, like a private investigator, he could do something. If I had the money to pay him, I could hire one. But I don’t have any. I’ve got nobody else to turn to. Mel, can you help me?’

  Audra listened to her friend breathe, in and out, in and out. Mitchell watched, her face blank.

  ‘You want money,’ Mel said.

  ‘Yes,’ Audra said. ‘Can you help me?’

  ‘I’m sorry I ever met you,’ Mel said. ‘Don’t call me again.’

  A click, then a series of beeps.

  Audra stared at the phone. She wanted to smash it against the wall. She wanted to beat herself around the face with it. Instead she swallowed her anger, did not allow its destructive energy out into the world. She had done that too many times before and it never solved anything. She gripped the phone tightly between her hands and forced herself to think.

  Who else?

  Audra’s parents were long gone. Her one brother was eking out a living as a musician somewhere in Seattle. Even if they’d had any kind of relationship, he’d never kept a dollar in his pocket longer than it took to walk to the nearest bar.

  Who, then?

  ‘You done?’ Mitchell asked.

  ‘Wait,’ Audra said.

  She screwed her eyes shut, tried to think of someone. Anyone. Only one name came to her mind, and she would not dial that number. Not if her life depended on it.

  ‘You don’t want to call your husband?’ Mitchell asked, as if reading her mind.

  ‘What good would that do?’

  ‘He’s the father of your children.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Audra said. ‘He’s my husband. And he’s the father of my children. And he’s the kind of man who’d pay someone to take my children, just to try and break me. He’s been trying for a year and a half to grind me down. I won’t let him get me now.’

  Defeated, she went back to the bunk and returned the phone to Mitchell.

  ‘You have some thinking to do,’ the agent said, standing.

  Audra didn’t answer. She sat on the bunk, buried her head in her hands as Mitchell exited the cell and locked the door behind her.

  Memory bore down on her like a river on rock, wearing her away.

  The first months of her marriage to Patrick had been good. They got married at City Hall, only a handful of people present. Patrick’s mother was initially displeased, even used the term ‘shotgun wedding,’ but the idea of a grandchild won her over. And when Margaret was happy, Patrick was happy. Or as close as he ever came to it. Audra had grown used to his constant criticism by then, in the way one gets used to a toothache or an arthritic joint. But now his carping had become a nagging concern for the growing life inside her belly. Suddenly his two-bed-two-bath apartment in the Village was no good anymore. Patrick’s mother insisted that they move closer to his parents’ place on the Upper West Side.

  But we can’t afford it, Audra had protested.

  Maybe not, Margaret had said, but I can.

  It was then Audra learned that Patrick’s lifestyle was provided for less by his job on Wall Street than by his mother’s indulgence. It wasn’t that he lacked money; he was, by a
ny measure, a wealthy man. But not Upper West Side wealthy. So, when Audra was five months pregnant, they moved to a three-bed-two-bath in the West Eighties. Unlike her mother-in-law’s place, the apartment afforded no view of the park from its window, but it was still greater luxury than Audra had ever hoped to live in.

  Even with all that space, there still wasn’t a room for her to paint in. While Patrick’s mother picked out wall coverings and carpets, and hired the very best contractors to carry out the work, Audra moved her easel from corner to corner, ever cautious of spilling a yellow ocher or a burnt sienna, of letting a brush too near a drape, of knocking over a canning jar full of turpentine or linseed oil.

  Some days she didn’t paint at all. The smell made her nauseous, and the baby made it uncomfortable for her to sit in a working position. Some days became most days, and by the time Sean was born, she hadn’t touched a brush in weeks.

  Looking back, Audra could remember that first week with her new baby with utter clarity. She had wanted to breast-feed, even though Patrick’s mother said nonsense, a bottle had been good enough for her son, and it would certainly be good enough for her grandson. But Audra had insisted, not that it was any of that old bat’s business anyway. She had spent days and weeks reading up on the topic, watching videos on a new website called YouTube, rapt by the simple beauty of the act. It might be difficult at first, all the books and websites said, but don’t worry, baby will soon get the hang of it.

  But Sean would not latch. And when he did, it hurt so bad it brought Audra to tears. And how he cried, his hunger driving him to sound like a revving chainsaw. No bottle, everyone said. Even if Audra expressed her milk, a bottle would ruin the chances of successful breast-feeding. So she had held Sean upright on her knee, tipping milk from a tiny cup into his tiny mouth. She sniffed back tears as most of the food that she had endured terrible pain to provide for him ran down his chin and his chest. And still he cried as Patrick and Margaret watched, their faces hard and unpitying.

  It lasted almost a week. The doctor weighed Sean, said he wasn’t too concerned about the lack of weight gain, that they’d figure out the feeding soon enough. But Patrick’s mother wouldn’t hear any of that.

  ‘You’re starving my grandson,’ Margaret said on the sixth night as Audra took a cup of expressed milk from the fridge.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Audra said.

  Tiredness made her mind a swamp, thick and heavy in her skull. She still burned and itched between her legs, even though the tearing hadn’t been too bad, and the bleeding had lessened over the last twenty-four hours. Her abdomen felt as though it had been used as a punching bag, like she’d been turned inside out, her breasts hard and aching, her nipples stinging. Every single minuscule action seemed like a grinding effort, but still she pushed on.

  ‘Listen to him, for God’s sake.’ Margaret pointed to the door, Sean screeching on the other side. ‘Just give him a bottle and be done with it.’

  ‘No,’ Audra said. ‘I want to keep trying. The doctor said he’s—’

  ‘I don’t care what the doctor said. I know what a suffering child sounds like.’

  Audra slammed the fridge door shut. ‘You think I don’t hear him?’ She tried to keep her voice down, but couldn’t. ‘You think I don’t have that noise drilling into my head night and day?’

  Margaret glared at her for long seconds before she said, ‘Please don’t raise your voice to me.’

  ‘Then don’t tell me how to feed my baby,’ Audra said.

  Margaret’s eyes widened. She marched out of the kitchen, the door swinging closed behind her. Audra cursed and poured a little of the milk into the small cup she used for feeding. A few seconds in the microwave, and she brought it out to the living room where Patrick waited, his hands in his pockets, Sean still squealing in the bassinet.

  ‘I thought you’d have lifted him,’ she said. ‘He needs comforting.’

  ‘What did you say to my mother?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘I told her to butt out. Not in so many words, but that was the gist of it.’

  Audra set the warmed cup of milk on the coffee table and took a muslin cloth from the folded stack. She shook it loose, draped it over her arm.

  ‘She’s very upset,’ Patrick said.

  ‘I don’t give a—’

  The back of Patrick’s hand rocked Audra’s head on her shoulders, left a hot ball of pain to swell inside her cheek. She staggered two steps to her left, her vision wavering, put her fingertips to the arm of the couch to keep herself upright.

  Patrick stood still, blinking, his mouth tight and small.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his lips barely moving. ‘I didn’t want to do that. I mean, I didn’t mean to. Please don’t be angry.’

  Audra waited for the dizzy waves to abate, then she said, ‘I need to feed the baby.’

  ‘Sure,’ Patrick said. He shuffled his feet, put his hands back in his pockets. His eyes on the carpet, he left the room.

  Audra sniffed hard, wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. Then she went to the bassinet, lifted Sean out. So small, so delicate, like a rose whose petals would fall if you breathed on it too hard. His cries softened as he nuzzled the skin of her throat.

  Try again, she thought.

  She brought him to the couch and lay down on her side, opened her dressing gown, and guided his mouth to her breast. He squirmed there, his tiny feet kicking at her belly. She placed her nipple at his upper lip, and on cue, his mouth opened.

  Please God, she thought. This time, please.

  His mouth closed around her, drew her in.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Please.’

  No pain. Pressure, yes, but not the stinging pain she’d felt before. She watched as Sean’s jaw worked, up and down, his cheek filling out. Then a pause. Then a swallow.

  ‘Yes,’ Audra whispered. ‘That’s it, little man. That’s how you do it.’

  Tears rolled across her cheek into her hair.

  ‘Good boy,’ she said.

  Over the next hour, Sean drank his fill. Even when Audra turned to her other side, moved him to the other breast, he latched on again, kept suckling, and she giggled with joy, the heat from her husband’s hand forgotten.

  When Sean was done, almost passed out from gorging, Audra poured the cup of expressed milk down the kitchen sink and brought her son to the bedroom. She swaddled him in a clean muslin cloth, and he barely stirred as she lowered him into the crib by her bed. The bedclothes swallowed her up, the pillow drawing her head down into its cool embrace. She closed her eyes and knew nothing until sunlight through the bedroom window touched her face.

  Audra dragged herself upright, untangled her limbs from the sheets. She checked the clock by the bed: just past six in the morning. How long had she been asleep? Seven hours at least. She reached for the crib, looked inside, found it empty.

  ‘Sean?’

  She had felt fear before in her life. Those times she hid from her father, hearing his heavy footsteps on the stairs as he came looking for her, his belt in his hand. Or the time she had gotten stuck on a climbing frame, couldn’t find a way down, and no one was around to help her. But this – this was different. This was a cold dagger in her chest, twisting at her core.

  Audra threw the sheets off and ran for the door, her bare feet slapping on the varnished floorboards. She pulled the bedroom door open, out into the hall, calling her son’s name.

  Margaret and Patrick looked up at her as she burst into the living room. Smiling. Why were they smiling?

  Then she saw Sean in Margaret’s arms. The teat of a bottle in his mouth. His cheeks bulging as he sucked, exhaling from his nose after every swallow.

  ‘What is that?’ Audra asked, pointing.

  ‘It’s formula,’ Margaret said, her smile widening. ‘Look at him go. Such a hungry boy.’

  ‘Mom brought it over during the night,’ Patrick said as if it was a tremendous kindness. ‘It’s his second feed. He’s been belting it down.’

 
; ‘I couldn’t bear to hear him cry like that,’ Margaret said. ‘Not when there’s a Duane Reade right around the corner. Did you know you can get it ready-made now? In a carton? Just like orange juice.’

  Audra’s hand went to her breast. She still felt her son there, the warmth of him.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ she asked.

  ‘It was no trouble,’ Margaret said. ‘Like I said, the drugstore’s right there, it’s so easy to make up. You just put it in the microwave and—’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  Sean flinched at the sound of her scream. The smiles left Patrick’s and Margaret’s faces. They stared up at her.

  ‘I want to feed him,’ Audra said.

  ‘If it means that much to you,’ Margaret said, taking the bottle from Sean’s mouth, holding it out to her. ‘Here, go ahead.’

  ‘No!’ Audra clutched at her breasts. ‘I want to feed him. Me.’

  Margaret turned the corners of her lips down in distaste. ‘Really, I don’t see what’s wrong with—’

  ‘Give him to me,’ Audra said as she crossed the room, her hands outstretched.

  Margaret stood and said, ‘All right. But remember, your baby’s health is more important than your pride.’

  Audra took Sean from her, gathered him in close as he snuffled and mewled.

  ‘I’d like you to leave now,’ she said.

  Patrick shot up from the couch, his mouth open, but Margaret waved at him to be quiet. ‘It’s all right, dear, she’s bound to be emotional. The first weeks are always the hardest.’

  As she walked to the door to the hall, Audra said, ‘I think you should know something.’

  Margaret stopped, turned to her with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Last night, your son hit me.’

  Margaret looked to Patrick, who looked at his feet. ‘It’s hard on the father too, but he shouldn’t have done that. Though I imagine you deserved it.’

  She left the room, silence in her wake until Patrick spoke, his voice quivery and wet.

  ‘Don’t ever do anything like that again,’ he said.

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘What happens between us stays between us,’ he said.