by Samira Ahmed
I shake my head. “I can’t go to the clinic with you every day. I have work and—” I pause to catch my breath.
“You will have to quit your job.” “I’m not quitting anything.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If you want to buy something, we can give you the money.”
“That’s not the point. I love working at the Idle Hour. Anna and Richard count on me. It’s part of my life, and I won’t let you take that away from me, too.”
She steps toward me. “You talk like our home is a prison. Haven’t we always let you have what you want?”
My mom’s magical thinking allows her to believe that I have total autonomy over my life. My exasperation boils over. Everything in my life is a fight right now, and it’s exhausting. My parents’ fears shrink my universe to the four walls of this house. The world outside paints us all as terrorists. I’m blamed for events that have nothing to do with me. And all I want is to make movies and kiss a boy.
My mother sits down across the table. “Try to understand, beta. What happened to you yesterday was serious. God forbid, it could have been worse. And it’s too dangerous for you to be alone. When your father comes home, we will discuss the plans for next year—”
“I thought everything was settled for Chicago and living with Hina.” The option I protested vehemently against is now my only lifeline to freedom.
“Your father is thinking maybe we should reconsider … and have you stay at home.”
I rise from my chair. “Stay at home? And go where? To community college?”
Before she can answer, I run to my room and slam the door. Fury twists me into knots. I press my fractured elbow, grimacing through the pain, then grip it harder still to see how much I can bear.
The phone rings. Moments later, my mom shuffles to my door. There’s a quiet knock. Usually she barges in, but I know that in this instant, she doesn’t dare. She’s too afraid of setting me off. “Maya, open the door and talk to me like a normal person.”
“I’m changing,” I lie.
“Your dad called. I need to go in. Emergency tooth extraction. Will you be okay?”
“I can manage.”
“If you need anything—”
“I’ll call, and you’ll rush right home.”
My mom bites her tongue on the other side of the door. It’s a sea change. An ominous one. I hear her deliberate and heavy steps as she walks away and down the stairs. There has to be a clever way to turn the tide, but to my besieged brain there’s only one way out: the front door. I stare at the ceiling, my neurons on rapid fire.
Later, I text Violet telling her I need rest and will see her tomorrow. I call my dad’s cell. I know my mom is with a patient, so this is my best shot. “Dad? Yeah, yeah. Everything’s good. Listen, I’m going to spend the night at Violet’s. It’ll be fine. Yes. Her dad’s there. I … I want to relax a little, to take my mind off things … and … I don’t want to fight with you guys anymore. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Thanks, Dad. Khudafis.”
I slip the phone into my pocket. I smile, a plan taking seed.
World News Today Interview:
Charles Richmond, Branson family neighbor
Ethan was a quiet kid. You’d see him playing in the yard and so forth, usually alone. Always looked kinda … blank. Felt sorry for him with a dad like that. You’d hear him shouting at the boy and his mom. Stumbling from the car to the door, drunk. Never seen a man so full of hate.
One time, it was fall. I guess Ethan was late coming home for dinner, and the dad locked him out of the house. Kid couldn’t have been more than eight, nine years old. He was crying and knocking at the door. The dad yelled at him to cut it out, that he needed to learn his lesson. Show some respect.
That boy just sat there. Probably a few hours. A neighbor brought him a blanket and a sandwich. And someone must’ve called the police because when a couple squad cars came to the house, the dad stormed out. Yelling at the police to get off his property. That they were trespassing. Screaming at the neighbors to mind their own damn business. Then he turned around and walked right up to his own son and slapped him so hard the boy fell over. When the police tried to subdue him, he took a swing at an officer. They had him handcuffed and in the back of a squad car before the boy was even up off the ground.
They moved away the next month.
Chapter 20
I duck out of the backyard and through the neighbor’s lawn and onto the street, my elbow wrapped tight in a cloth bandage. My hair is tucked into a baseball cap; my old-school Wayfarers cover half my face. Resting my left hand on the handlebars, I grimace through the pain. Pedaling down Main Street, I figure I’m in the clear when I take the turn onto Old Route 72, heading straight to the Fabyan Forest Preserve. A few cars whiz by. I gulp the air as the breeze hits my face. Despite my loaded backpack, I’m light, free from gravity’s anchor. I cycle faster into my freedom, tiny beads of sweat popping up on my upper lip and brow, first hot, then cooled by the wind. I try not to think about what will happen when my parents discover I’m gone.
My whole life is thinking. I don’t want to think anymore. I push ahead, pedal harder. The wind blows off all my old, scorched feathers, and my new wings let me soar.
The no trespassing sign in front of the Japanese Garden eases me to a stop. I walk my bike around the skeletons of dead trees and desiccated vines onto the dirt path into the woods.
Coming up on the stone cottage, I inhale the mossy loaminess, and my muscles relax for the first time in weeks, maybe months. I approach the entrance slowly. The door creaks on its hinges, opening to a dishearteningly empty room. I came here to be alone, but was secretly hoping I wouldn’t be.
It’s early evening. The inside of the cottage is dusky as the fading light rests at the tops of the trees. I fling my backpack onto the La-Z-Boy and pull out its contents—a towel, my swimsuit, dry clothes, the sling for my stupid arm, a couple sandwiches, a book, charger, disposable contact lenses and saline, my glasses, a toothbrush, toothpaste, antibacterial gel, and my meds. But no camera. The police still have my mini-cam, and the other one adds too much weight.
Sweaty from the bike ride, I dare myself to a quick solo swim. My arm throbs as I undo the bandage on my elbow and struggle into my bikini. The woods are more menacing than I remember. Of course they are. I’ve never been here this late before. Or alone.
Tiny waves flutter over the surface of the pond. Phil’s little blanket of beach awaits me. I leave my towel and sneakers on the sand and wade in up to my waist. Besides the slight stirring of the wind through the leaves, there are no sounds. I’m alone. Literally. Metaphorically. And in all the other ways I don’t know quite how to name. I inch forward, urged on by the pond’s lovely coolness against my bruised and tired skin and a curiosity to see how far I will let myself go. The water ripples in arcs around my body as I creep forward. Swimming isn’t an option with an injured elbow, but I might be able to float with my left arm resting on my stomach. I shouldn’t drown. I’m ninety percent sure the odds are in my favor.
With the water chest high, I push myself up and onto my back, my right arm bobbing at my side. Letting my neck relax, I open my eyes. I float in the delicious stillness of the world around me, briefly forgetting every moment that brought me to this one.
A branch cracks in the distance. I pull myself to standing. Goosebumps cool my skin. The encroaching gloam calls me to shore. As I rush back to the cottage, the towel pulled tight around me, an imagined series of newspaper headlines appear in the air in front of me, light bulbs flashing and popping like in a 1940s black-and-white crime scene, Humphrey Bogart smoking in the background.
I run into the cottage and shut the door. No lock. Dripping across the warped wooden slats, I search the small back utility room for something to jam against the door. The old boards that Phil apparently uses for firewood aren’t long enough to wedge between the doorknob and the floor. I scan the room; my eyes fall on the recliner. It’s the heaviest thing in the cottage. I pu
t my shoulder to the footrest of the chair and heave, grunting as I push the chair toward the door. With only a few feet to go, I look up and pause.
Bathroom. Damn it.
I pull a few tissues out of my backpack and step outside. In a matter of minutes, it will be completely dark, and once I secure the chair against the door, I can’t imagine walking back out to pee, and I’m not about to go the Laura Ingalls Wilder nighttime bedpan route. So I go around to the back of the cottage, though no one is there to spy on me. I pull down my bikini bottom and squat, forcing myself to sing, so I can relax enough to go. I allow myself a chuckle at this absurdity. Already missing the wonders of modern plumbing, I walk back to the cottage.
Before I lodge the chair against the door, I pull the lever at the side to set it at full recline. The chair will be my desk, lock, bed, and entertainment center for the night, so I want to make it as comfortable as faux cracked leather allows. Using only my good arm is awkward, but I stack firewood on the sills of the two windows that are missing their panes. With my rustic security system in place, I change out of my wet bikini, dry off, and pull on a T-shirt and yoga pants.
The cottage is dark, but I find my way to the flashlight Phil keeps on the mantle. I hunt for the lantern and matches I spotted in the back room. The lantern is actually battery operated. I’m going to alternate between the lantern and the flashlight to conserve power. I light the candles above the mantle. If Phil were here, flickering candles and dancing shadows might be romantic, but I struggle to picture this place as anything but menacing.
Though the evening is balmy, I shiver, overtaken by a slight chill. I throw on a hoodie over my tee and unroll the sleeping bag Phil keeps in the corner. I unleash dust and a mustiness scents the air, but my thread count options are limited, so I unzip the sleeping bag, spread it over the chair, and then inflate the camping pillow. Using the mirror from my half-empty compact, I remove my contacts and push my glasses onto my face. Stepping into the middle of the room and looking around, I’m pleased with my handiwork.
My arm stings, my shoulder aches, the bone bruise on my thigh is now an ugly purple-black, and I’m hungry. I take a painkiller with a tiny swig of water and scarf one of my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while standing in front of the fireplace watching the candlelight flicker against the glass of the votive holders. I figure the candles have an hour or two of life left. Yawning, I head to the recliner, placing the lantern at my feet and pulling the sleeping bag around me.
Drawing my legs to my chest, I rest my chin on my knees and begin to cry. A montage flickers in the darkening room. Brian. Phil. The dream-crushing rules of my parents. Kids in senior hall, leaning together, whispering. The pitying stares. I take off my glasses, wipe my palms across my eyes, and let them close, grateful the painkillers will dull all the aches with sleep.
The golden morning light enters the cottage through the crevices in the piles of wood I’d stacked on the window ledges. I rub my eyes and move my head from one shoulder to the other, stretching my stiff neck. The lantern faded out in the middle of the night. Using my right hand, I pivot the recliner away from the door in time for me to run out behind the cottage to pee. This time, I don’t need to sing to distract myself, but I know an extended stay at the cottage will be impossible from the plumbing standpoint alone. I’m tempted to call home, but my phone is dead. Apparently chargers are useless without actual electricity.
For breakfast, I devour the other PB&J from my backpack along with a can of peaches from Phil’s stash. I switch into shorts and a T-shirt and sit in the recliner, thinking. The good daughter in me knows I should head home. Maybe I still have a chance to slip back, unnoticed. But I don’t want to.
Guilt digs its claws into me, but if I go home, confessing my lie before figuring out some astonishingly clever next steps, I’ll be under total house arrest until I turn eighteen in June. And the great American emancipation of eighteen offers few alternatives for me. There’s no way around it; I’m totally dependent on my parents for college tuition. Even if I work full-time all summer and with the money I’ve already saved, I won’t have enough to live on in New York for three months, let alone pay for school. I can’t go home. Not yet. Not without a plan. But right now, I need more supplies. Like food. Especially potato chips. Because nothing tastes better with stress than salt.
There’s an old garage station and mini-mart a mile farther down Route 72. My parents never go there. It’s 9:00 a.m. I’m too afraid of wiping out on my bike with the groceries. If I walk, I can be there and back in an hour, and then I can stay put in the cottage. Once my parents realize they’ve been duped, there will no doubt be an all-out search. They’ll probably call the police. I fled yesterday because I didn’t want to think anymore. In retrospect, further thought might’ve been helpful.
The one-pump station feels ominous. It looks like the gas station in The Birds. I’m even eyeing the old man in the red plaid shirt at the counter with suspicion. If I see a canary in a cage, I’m running.
I scurry up and down the aisles, piling things into a red plastic basket. I dump my supplies onto the counter: travel-sized toothpaste, shampoo, soap, a big bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips, a can of Coke, a liter of water, two Snickers bars, a loaf of bread, peanut butter, strawberry jam, Twinkies, gum, batteries, an apple, and a plastic rain poncho. The man slowly rings up each item on an antique cash register and then places it in a paper bag. I tap my foot impatiently while I peer out the plate-glass windows, scanning the sky for seagulls.
“Be careful, dear,” the man says as I step out, the bells attached to the door jingling. I feel guilty for painting him with my paranoia.
With half a mile to the cottage, the skies open up. By the time I walk in the cottage door, water permeates my bones and a pain pierces my thigh. I heave my backpack onto the counter, unload it, and scarf down some food. The chips are mostly crushed, but the burn and tang of the salt and vinegar sates me as I gulp down the Coke. I inhale half the bag. My hunger allows me to temporarily forget that my left arm is on fire.
I find a shake-activated ice pack in Phil’s first-aid kit and hold it against my left elbow. When Phil shared his desire to be an EMT, it seemed strange to me then that he would ever have to hide a part of himself. But we all have secrets, hopes that stay locked deep inside, trapped by our fears of the world’s judgment.
The cold pack makes me shiver, and I realize I should have changed out of my wet clothes before eating. Slipping them off with one hand, I leave them to dry on the mantle.
Dressed only in my bra, underwear, and flip-flops, I step outside to let the water wash away the dirt, pain, and bitter disappointment that courses through my body. I close my eyes to the sky; the rain falls on my face, each drop pushing the only possible answer to my question deeper into my skin, into my muscle memory, so my courage won’t falter when I need it most. I have to face my demons, and I can’t do that from a cabin hidden in the woods.
The rest of the afternoon unwinds in slow motion. I wrap myself in a towel and crawl onto the chair, draping the sleeping bag around me. The rain slows, and beads of water collect in the palms of green leaves in the trees, trailing to the edge of each leaf and plopping onto the roof. My heart beats in tempo. I close my eyes and drift off.
It’s late afternoon when I wake; the sun emerges from the clouds, highlighting the tender greens all around the cottage. The shadows from the trees shift in the soft light, and the smell of wet earth infuses the air. Without my camera or a functioning phone, I look out the door, etching the scene in my mind. An impulse draws me to the pond. Not bothering to change into my swimsuit, I hurry along the path, hoping to edge out dusk.
Leaving my shoes on the sand, I creep into the pond up to my shoulders, my bra and underwear sticking to my goose-pimply body. The storm has churned up thick, dark water. Mud oozes between my toes, and I visualize a million leeches crawling up my legs and digging their suckers into my skin. I make a beeline for the shore. Gross. I brush away my illus
ory bloodsuckers.
I speed back to the cottage, resolving to face my parents. It’s the only choice. But the horror movie suspense-buildup scene I’ve manifested distracts me. A girl walking through the woods, alone, half-naked, as the late afternoon sun plays with the light, twigs and branches cracking in the distance. No one is here. I’m alone. My thoughts don’t reassure me. But soon, for better or worse, I’ll sleep in my own bed and use a real toilet. Parental authoritarian rule comes with creature comforts.
The cottage door is ajar. I stop. Every hair on my body stands on end. I’m sure I closed the door, but maybe I didn’t. My brain feels fuzzy, my thoughts thick. I can’t remember what I did before leaving for the pond. A part of me wants to run, but the other part, which envisions sprinting down the road in nothing but a wet bra and underwear, decides the wind pushed the door open. My heart thuds against my rib cage. I stand at the threshold, listening to my own breathing. Closing my eyes, I recount Wes Craven’s rules for surviving a horror film. Maybe being a virgin is going to pay off after all. Virgins always survive. I place one clammy palm against the grain of the door and push.
The creak of the rusty hinges startles me even before I can react. I have an intruder—
“Phil?” I gasp.
“Maya. Jesus. Are you okay? Half the town is looking for you.” I’ve never seen Phil’s face look so drawn before—his eyes are dull with dark circles under them. He tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
I take a few hesitant steps toward Phil, who stands at the fireplace. “I know … I … I’m fine … I needed time … Phil, I’m sorry … for everything.”
This could be a perfectly fine freeze-frame ending.
Except it’s not.
So I watch the scene unspool. I’m the audience, staring at the big screen. Phil takes three steps toward me, wraps his right arm around my waist, and pulls me to him. His left hand cradles the side of my face, and his warm lips kiss mine in a frenzy. I hug his neck with my right arm and balance on tiptoes to reach his lips. The worn weave of Phil’s jeans rubs against my naked thighs. I picture us in a black-and-white movie. Lovers about to be separated by war and continents and the rat-tat-tat of machine guns. My lips part as they graze Phil’s. Every blood vessel under my skin expands, throwing off heat and warming the space between us. Phil brings his hands to my hips and pulls me closer still.
