He steps back and I turn to face him. “I don’t know.”
“Someone is very unhappy with you,” he says. “Our orders on this one don’t leave a lot of wiggle room.”
Declan gives Diane a nod. “Hands out,” she commands.
“I’m begging you—”
“Alice,” I say sharply. “It’s okay.”
Of course it isn’t okay. Nothing is okay.
Alice stands there, weeping silently.
Diane pulls a straitjacket out of her black canvas bag. As she slides it onto my outstretched arms, I have a feeling of utter hopelessness. Diane starts buckling and snapping things. I get a whiff of stale coffee on her breath, and I catch a glimpse of us in the hallway mirror. In that moment, I hate myself. My weakness. My indecision. Everything I’ve done has led us to this moment. Surely, at some point, I could have made a different choice, taken a different turn. When we got the box from Finnegan, we should have said no. That was an option then. To simply return the gift. Or when Vivian came to our house that first day and placed the contracts in front of us, we could have refused to sign. I shouldn’t have arranged a secret meeting with JoAnne. I shouldn’t have asked so many questions.
If I had made different choices at any of those crucial junctures, then Alice would not be standing here, terrified and crying.
Diane pulls the final strap between my legs and fastens it to a buckle halfway up my back. She is behind me now, and so is Declan. I can’t see them, but I can hear chains rattling, and I feel Diane sliding them through loops around my waist, then leaning down to attach the chains to a pair of restraints that she clicks around my ankles.
I can’t move my arms. I can barely move my legs. Alice is sobbing.
“I appreciate you two being so cooperative,” Declan says. “Diane and I were both happy to have drawn this assignment.”
It occurs to me that Declan may not even be in The Pact. Is this merely a job for him?
Diane is fishing through the canvas bag.
“Is there anything you two want to say to each other before we go?” Declan asks.
Alice doesn’t hesitate. She runs to me and gives me a long, soft kiss. I can taste the saltiness of her tears when she kisses me. “I love you so much,” she murmurs. “Be careful.”
“I love you.” I hope that my words convey all of what I’m feeling. I long to hug her, feel her in my arms. I wish I could backtrack to fifteen minutes ago, just the two of us together, Alice singing. If only we had checked the email when it dinged, if only she had answered the phone the first time it rang, maybe we could have escaped. Maybe we would be on 280 by now, speeding south, away from here.
How unforgivably stupid we’ve been. How innocent and naïve.
Then I see the fear in Alice’s eyes, and I suddenly know there is more, and it is not good.
“This can’t be necessary,” Alice protests. Her voice trembles.
Hearing her fear makes it all much more scary.
“I’m afraid so,” Declan responds. “I’m sorry.” It actually sounds like he means it. “This is written into the order. Not sure why, but it is. I need you to open your mouth wide for me.”
“No,” Alice whispers.
But I think of the gun, and I do what he says.
“Wider, please.”
I feel Declan’s hands pull something over my head. A ball gag is forced into my mouth, straps pulling it tight at the edges. As I bite down, I taste metal and dry rubber.
Alice is watching, eyes blank. Declan is fiddling with straps and buckles. Then something comes down over my eyes and I realize I’m wearing blinders, like a horse being fitted for the racetrack. I can see directly in front of me, but nothing on either side. I focus entirely on Alice. I try to speak to her with my eyes. Then something else comes down over my head—a black cloth. I can’t see a thing.
With each step, each descent into the madness of this process, I am struck anew by what I’m losing. Just days ago, I wished we could go back to how we were before—Alice and me, together, happy. Five minutes ago, I wished I could hug her. Sixty seconds ago, that I could speak to her. And now I wish desperately just to see her again. I feel her hand pressing against my chest, through the thick canvas of the straitjacket, but that is all. I’m drowning in the darkness. It is hushed for a moment, just the sound of Alice’s breath, her weeping, and her voice saying urgently, I love you so much. I try to focus on her voice, I hold on to it in my mind, fearful that they will take this too from me, this one last tether to sanity, to Alice.
And then the pressure on my chest—Alice’s hand, that comforting presence—is gone, and I am being led through the kitchen—I can smell the bacon, feel the floor change from hardwood to tile. We are going down the back stairs.
“Jake!” Alice implores.
“Stay here, Alice.” Diane stops to answer her. “This is Jake’s punishment, not yours.”
“When will he be back?” she wails. There is no control in her voice now, no calmness, only desperation.
“Your job now, Alice,” Diane says, “is to go about your business as if everything is normal. Go to work. Above all, if you want to see your husband again, don’t speak to anyone about any of this.”
“Please don’t…,” Alice pleads.
I want to tell her so many things. But my tongue is immobile, my teeth jammed against the metal and rubber. My mouth is dry, my eyes sting. All I can manage is a guttural garble. Five syllables in my throat—I love you, Alice is what I mean to say.
Declan is pushing me roughly into the SUV. All hope drains from me.
As we pull away, I can’t see her but I sense her. I imagine Alice standing there, weeping, willing me to come back to her.
What have we done? Will I ever see my wife again?
66
I can feel the car make a right turn onto Balboa. I can tell from the sound of cars idling around us that the next turn is at a light, so it must be Arguello. I want to convince myself this is only a bad dream, but the chains bite into my ankles and the taste of rubber in my mouth is sickening. I need to try to figure out our route, commit it to memory.
We drive for some time before we come to a halt, and I know from the noise that we’re in Bay Bridge traffic. Then I can feel the bridge under the wheels. I can sense a change in the light in front of my face; then, without warning, the black cloth is lifted. I see the back of Declan’s head in the driver’s seat, Diane’s profile. A partition rises between the backseat and the front seat. From the darkness of the car, it’s obvious that the windows must be blacked out.
We start moving, more rapidly this time, and there is the rumble of the Yerba Buena Island tunnel. I sense a quiet movement beside me. I struggle to turn my head. In the shadows, I’m startled to discover a small woman sitting beside me. She’s in her fifties, I think. Like me, she’s wearing a seatbelt over a straitjacket, although she is not in head restraints. How long has she been staring at me? She gives me a sympathetic look. The sympathy is mostly in her eyes, but there is also a rigid smile, like she’s trying to convey that she understands what I’m feeling. I attempt to smile back, but I cannot move my lips. My mouth is so dry, it hurts. To be polite I should look away, perhaps, but I don’t. The woman looks wealthy—the well-done injections, the diamond earrings—but her glossy hair, mussed in spots, betrays some sort of a struggle.
I lean my head back clumsily, constrained by the straitjacket. I think of Alice.
And then I think of the kids. It’s not that I have this overwhelming sense that my patients can’t live without me. But for all the talk of adolescent resilience, teenagers are also fragile. What would it do to them if their therapist suddenly vanished? The most elemental difference between my teenage clients and the married couples is this: The adults arrive convinced that nothing I can say will change anything, while the teenagers believe that at any moment I might utter some sort of magical sentence that instantly wipes away the fog.
Take Marcus from my Tuesday group. He’s a s
ophomore at a magnet school in Marin. Marcus is an instigator, combative, always looking to get things off the rails. At our last meeting he asked me, “What is the purpose of life? Not the meaning—the purpose?” It was a tough spot for me; once he threw down the challenge, I needed to respond. If my answer missed the mark, I would expose myself as a fraud. If I refused to answer, I would look like a poser who was of no use to the group.
“Difficult question,” I replied. “If I answer, will you tell us what you think the purpose of life is?”
He jiggled his right leg. He wasn’t expecting that. “Yes,” he replied reluctantly.
Experience, time, and education have taught me how to read people and situations. I generally have a decent sense of what someone will say or how they will react, even why people do the things they do, and why certain situations lead to certain outcomes. Yet somehow, when I least expect it, I discover a hole in my knowledge. What I don’t know, perhaps what I haven’t even considered, is this: What does it all add up to, what does it mean?
I looked around the circle of teenagers and I gave it my best shot:
“Strive to be all good, but know that you are not,” I said. “Try to enjoy every day, but know that you will not. Try to forgive others and yourself. Forget the bad stuff, remember the good. Eat cookies, but not too many. Challenge yourself to do more, to see more. Make plans, celebrate when they pan out, persevere when they don’t. Laugh when things are good, laugh when things are bad. Love with abandon, love selflessly. Life is simple, life is complex, life is short. Your only real currency is time—use it wisely.”
When I was finished, Marcus and the others were all staring at me, looking stunned. No one spoke. They had no response. Did this mean that I was right, or that I was wrong? Probably both.
As I sit here in the dark SUV with the stranger, I think of those words I offered to the kids. Here I am, in a terrifying situation of which I cannot begin to predict the outcome. I have loved with abandon, but have I truly loved selflessly? How much of this precious currency—time—do I have left? Have I used it wisely?
67
Hours pass, and I try desperately to stay awake. We must be somewhere in the desert. I can taste the dust in my mouth. My tongue is swollen under the gag, my lips painfully cracked, my throat parched. It’s difficult to breathe. I’m dying to swallow, but I can’t work the muscles in my throat.
From the bumps, I can tell we’ve turned off the highway. Drool has run from my mouth, down the straitjacket, and onto my leg. I’m embarrassed. I turn my head painfully to the right. The woman beside me is sleeping. Her cheek is bruised and cut. Whoever doesn’t like me apparently isn’t all that keen on her either.
Suddenly, the partition between the front and back seats lowers. The sun blasts through the windshield and I squeeze my eyes against the blazing light. The woman rustles beside me. I move my head to look at her, hoping to communicate something with my eyes, hoping for some connection. But she is staring straight ahead.
In the distance, I see the facility rise from the desert heat.
At an imposing iron gate, we wait for a uniformed guard to check our papers. I can hear him on the phone in the guardhouse, making a call, announcing our arrival. The gate opens and we drive through. As I hear it roll closed behind us, I calculate whether it is too high for me to climb. And, if I could, how long would it take? What would they do if I tried?
Then I think of the glass hallway I walked through on my first visit to Fernley: the resort on one side, the vast desert on the other. Escaping this place would be like swimming from Alcatraz. Once you’re out, how do you survive? The desert is too remote, too unforgiving. Without water, I’d be dead within hours. What is a better way to die: in a prison, at the mercy of your captors, or alone in the desert?
We drive through a second gate. Eventually, we park exactly where I got off of the plane last time. This time, though, I’m the one standing on the yellow line, looking tired and apprehensive. The woman stands beside me.
A gate buzzes open. A short guy in a black uniform yells, “Move. Walk on the line!” We shuffle up the narrow, fenced-in corridor, both struggling to stay on the yellow line that leads the way. The chains around my ankles dig into my skin, forcing my steps to be short. The woman moves quickly—her ankles must not be shackled—and I struggle to keep up.
At the end of the yellow line, we reach the building entrance. The door swings open and we enter. Two women in uniform take the woman off to the left. Two men flank me on each side, leading me the opposite direction. We go into an empty room, where they unshackle my waist and ankles. Immediately, I feel lighter. When they remove the straitjacket, my arms are numb. Maybe the gag will be next. I hope so. I’m dying to lick my lips, to taste a sip of water.
“Take off your clothes,” one of the guys says.
Soon, I’m standing here completely naked, save for the contraption around my head. My lips are numb, and I feel drool against my chin.
The two guys are staring at me, a little fascinated.
The pain in my mouth is so severe, I don’t even register the proper humiliation. I just want this thing off. I point to my mouth, make a pleading gesture with my hands. I motion that I need to drink.
Eventually, the shorter guy pulls some keys from his belt. He fiddles with a lock at the back of my head. When the gag slips free, I gasp. Tears of relief sting my cheeks. I struggle to close my mouth but cannot.
The tall guy points. “Showers are through there. Take your time. When you’re done, put on the red jumpsuit. Exit to the rear.”
I step through a door. There are five sinks on the left, five showers on the right, a bench in the middle, no doors, no curtains. I go over to the middle shower. Part of me believes that the water won’t turn on, that this is just a cruel psychological prank.
I turn the knob. Miraculously, water pours down. I shiver as the icy water hits my skin. I lift my head and gulp it down, mouthful after mouthful. Abruptly, the water goes from frigid to scalding. I jerk back. Then I piss into the drain and watch the dark yellow swirl through the steaming water and vanish.
I pump the plastic soap dispenser, and pearly pink liquid spits into my palm. I scrub off the grime of the drive. The water is tepid now. I wash my face, my hair, everything. I stand under the spray, eyes closed. I want to lie down and sleep for an eternity. I don’t want to get out of the shower, I don’t want to put on the jumpsuit. I don’t want to go through the door. Every door I go through is just another door I will have to go through to escape this hell, if that’s even possible.
Eventually, I turn off the water and step out of the shower. A red jumpsuit and a pair of white underwear hang on hooks on the wall. Beneath the clothes is a pair of slippers. I put on the underwear and jumpsuit. The fabric is oddly comfortable, just the way Alice described. The suit fits me perfectly. The slippers are too small. I put them on anyway and step through the door.
I find myself in a narrow room. The woman I traveled with is standing in front of me, next to a chair, wearing a blood-red jumpsuit identical to mine. Block letters on the front spell out the word PRISONER. There is a tall table next to the chair. With its elegant marble top it looks out of place. In the center of the table is a wooden box. I shudder to think what it contains.
The woman reaches up and pats at her hair self-consciously. Her skin is still damp from the shower, but her hair is dry. “There’s no way out,” she says.
She’s right. There are no other exits. I turn back toward the door I came through, but it has already shut. I think of JoAnne in the shrinking glass cage and begin to panic. I move the handle, but it won’t open. We’re trapped.
I turn in a slow circle, surveying the room.
“Please sit,” the woman says tentatively. When I don’t move, she repeats, “Please.” Her eyes are red, and I can tell she’s been crying.
I walk over to the chair and sit.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Why?”
She’s qui
et for a minute, and then she begins to sob.
“Are you okay?” I know the question is absurd even as I ask it, but I want her to know that I understand how she’s feeling.
“Yes,” she says. It’s clear that she’s struggling to regain her composure, her dignity. She opens the box and begins rummaging around. Hearing the sound of metal on metal, I feel queasy.
“What’s in there?” I ask, afraid of the answer.
“They gave us a choice,” she says. “One of us needs to walk out of this room with a shaven head. They said I could decide. They said that if there was a single hair remaining, they would shave both of our heads and something worse.”
“You’ve decided?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
A shaved head. I can live with that, no problem. The more disturbing question is why they’re putting us through this. If they’re giving her a choice, they’re likely to give me one too. What will my choice be?
68
As the razor buzzes over my scalp, I think of Eliot and Aileen. JoAnne had called them Eli and Elaine. Maybe the Portland paper had the names wrong. Maybe JoAnne did. Either way. Is it possible that I misheard? Our ears often hear what they expect, rather than what is said.
I remember another couple who disappeared while kayaking in the ocean. It happened somewhere north of Malibu, a couple of years ago. They were considered missing for weeks, until their two-person kayak was found with a jagged bite in the hull, bits of shark teeth still embedded in the fiberglass.
What if someone from The Pact read that story and considered it a plausible narrative for a couple like Eliot and Aileen? What if Dave’s wife’s cancer was also just that—a plausible scenario?
I think of the 107 people searching the shores of Oregon for signs of Eliot and Aileen’s disappearance. That’s the number the newspaper article gave: 107. I think of them all walking the length of the long beach in single file, heads bent, searching for clues buried in the sand. If I disappeared, would 107 people show up to look for me? I’d like to think so, but probably not.
The Marriage Pact Page 27
