The Marriage Pact (Viral Series)

by Mara White

  The doorbell startles me out of my fictional escape and I let out a small yelp. My empty plate falls off my knee onto the floor. I curse under my breath, while stepping over it. I swing the door open, ready to tell who ever it is to just go away and see Aubry.

  “Dude. Really?”

  I wrinkle my face. “Sorry. I was—”

  “Reading. Yeah? I know. I’ve heard it a hundred times,” she says. Her hands are on her hips and she looks annoyed.

  “I’ll grab my bag and we can go,” I say.

  She shakes her head no, sighs and marches past me into the house. “No. Nope. No can do. You need to change,” she says.

  I cock my head right and widen my eyes.

  Aubry crosses her arms over her chest and with a smug expression says, “I’ll wait.”

  ***

  When I wake, I am left with a feeling of disorganized nostalgia and terror that stays with me all day like a vice grip around my ribcage. I’m a wreck. Aubry calls multiple times and I send each one to voicemail. I shower three times and wish I had a mother to talk to, to hold me, to tell me what I should do, but I don’t.

  I grab the paper from the front porch that the paperboy tosses every Sunday morning, despite me not having a subscription, close the door and lock it behind me. Skipping my morning coffee, I grab a yogurt and open the classifieds. As I pour over them one jumps out at me.

  OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS

  Seeking live in summer tutor

  for 11-yr old girl. Great pay.

  Room & Board included. Interested

  women leave message at 555-774-0854

  Pocketville

  I could tutor. And I most certainly could stand to get out of town for the summer. I don’t think I could stomach seeing Anton any time soon and Aubry will wonder what’s up if I just stop coming over. I pick up my cell and dial the number. It rings once and goes straight to voicemail.

  “This is Nora Robertson. Um, I’m interested in learning more about the tutoring position in the classifieds, if it’s still available.” I leave my number and email address and hang up. The rap, rap, rap at the front door startles me and I fling yogurt on my pajama pants. Muttering curses, I peek out the kitchen window. Aubry. Tears prick my eyes. I want nothing more than to let her in, but I can’t. I can’t face her. Not yet. She will know something is wrong and there is no way in hell I’m telling her what happened last night. I duck down before she sees me and head to my room.

  I huddle in the corner, knees pulled up under my chin, eyes closed, holding a picture of my parents to my chest as I let out my hurt and disgust in silent sobs.

  ***

  Monday morning I have twenty six unread texts, four voicemails and six missed calls, all from Aubry. I blow out a breath and force myself out of bed. I pick up the plates and cups scattered by my bed and drop them in the kitchen sink. Today I have to function. I gave myself twenty-four hours. I gave him twenty-four hours. Now it’s time to dust my shoulders off and move forward as best I can.

  Charlotte

  The excitement I feel is inexplicable as I come to. It’s more like hysteria. I push my emotions back, until they are as small as possible. I blink stars away until I see Nora. I beg her not to leave me alone out here, but she only lies there in the broken glass and metal of the truck. A stiff wind whistles through the pines and kicks up dead leaves.

  “Nora,” I whine and jostle her again. There is a crunching in the snow near me. I turn my head too fast and a wave of dizziness claims me. I clutch Nora’s shirt and tug at it urgently. “Wake up. Wake up.” She doesn’t move. I look up and try to wiggle from the wreckage. I hurt everywhere. A boot lands in front of my hand. My eyes bug out. When I look up, I want to die. Holden reaches down for me. The sound that follows is like the sky being torn in two. It ends with a soul-deep scream that rattles bones. His eyes darken, his scowl grows more intense as he yanks me from the totaled truck.

  It is my scream.

  PRESENT

  Nora

  “What’s your name?”

  “Nora,” I whisper. My throat feels sunburned. Sweat soaks the hair covering my neck. Wind gusts hair across my face. Something drips from my head. Or onto my head. I can’t tell which. A blurry face appears over mine. Too close. “Nora, we’re going to lift now.” I stare at the grey sky. I shudder and worry about what might be watching from the thicket of woods nearby. I can’t nod and my mouth makes no sound. For a moment, I feel weightless. Free. I imagine it’s how birds feel soaring through the sky. Gravity quickly reminds me that something’s amiss. My leg feels like it’s on fire. I wince when I’m jostled into some kind of metal box. An ambulance. The sterile hygienic odor hits me like a brick in the face.

  Everything is a watery blur from behind the rain-streaked windows of the ambulance doors. People have a deep-seated craving for a sense of family, belonging, identity. I squeeze my eyes shut. Looking back, I realize that he probably interviewed lots of different girls for the job and picked the one he thought would be easiest. It wasn’t just the girl he choose but the life she came from as well. “Nora, stay with me.” The paramedic’s voice is deep and oddly soothing. It pulls me from my thoughts. I open my eyes, slide my gaze from the ceiling to him. I want to know what he looks like but my eyes won’t focus enough to get a good look. He pokes at me with something, as if I am a large bug to be inspected. My body screams with pain. It feels like there's a noose around my throat so tight, stars dance in my eyes. I’ve experienced this before though. I can survive. Life's made me numb. I squeeze my eyes shut again. “Nora, can you hear me?”

  “Nora ...”

  I jolt awake — disoriented. Lotte? Tubes snake in and out of me. I’m covered in soft blue and don’t feel gritty with dirt anymore. The steady beeps of nearby monitors hurts my ears. So much white noise. A symphony of electronic background sound that’s headache inducing. I’ve been too used to the quiet of nature for too long. The door to the room is closed. I don’t like closed doors. Panic jumpstarts my heart. I’m trapped. Again. My leg is hoisted up and in a cast. I squint, trying to recall the proper name for the contraption. My sternum aches and I have white lights dancing in my peripheral vision.

  The door opens. Please be Lotte. A man in a gray suit enters the room. I lift my head slightly. “Hello, Nora.” I don’t know who he is. I squint at him as he surveys me while chewing a nail. It’s strange to think of the unexpected turns a person's life can take. “I’m Detective Salve. And I need to ask you some questions.” I feel my face wrinkle in confusion. “Do you remember what happened?” he asks.

  I drop my head to the thin pillow, stare at the ceiling, as he pulls a chair next to the bed. “I was in a car accident.” My voice is a raspy whisper. When I chance a look at him again, he’s nodding.

  “Yes. That’s good. Do you need anything?” he asks. Not from you.

  “Water,” I answer. And Lotte.

  “Sure thing. Hang on.” He stands, the chair legs scrape across the floor and I cringe at the noise. When he returns, he holds a small cup of water out at me, a straw plunged into it. He’s younger than Holden by maybe three years from the looks of it. I wonder how long he’s been a detective. His brown hair is close cropped and his nose has a bump in the bridge. He has nice eyes and an easy smile. A nice face, Angela would say. I take the cup from him and chance a small sip. It’s hard to swallow but I manage. I set the cup down on the table next to the bed.

  “So, Nora, what’s your last name?” he asks.

  I sigh and say, “Robertson.”

  Detective Salve lifts an eyebrow at me. “Really.”

  I lick my dry lips. “Really,” I mumble. I realize how close it sounds to the famous Nora.

  “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen.” He eyes me then. Takes me in. “What’s your date of birth?”

  “March 19th, 1997.” I know what he’s thinking— I look younger than I am. I always have. I’m barely twenty anyway.

  “Do you want me to call your parents?” I s
hake my head.

  “I don’t have any,” I answer. Like most people who grew up without parents, over the years I have collected little tidbits of life knowledge, scraps and bits from friends, parents, teachers, and employers. Anyone who offered up a touch of wisdom and I kept them like fabric remnants, so that I could someday crochet them into a nonsensical afghan that might somehow make my life better — easier. But that is the problem with crocheting— it’s full of holes. Right now, I’d kill to have a parent. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know where Lotte is. I don’t know if I’m close to home or close to the farm.

  “Is there other family I could call?” I stare at the ceiling again. A nurse comes in and explains that she’s taking my vitals, upping my fluids and asks if I need anything for my pain level. I want the detective to leave. He gives me an uneasy feeling. Men aren’t to be trusted. They have hidden dark needs they want filled. He wouldn’t want me talking to any men. Dara, the nurse, writes her name on a whiteboard and tells me to let her know if I need anything at all. She gives Detective Salve the side-eye as she leaves. I decide I like her.

  “Angela Clark,” I croak.

  “Sorry?” Detective Salve says.

  “Call Angela Clark.” I give him the phone number and wait for him to leave. We’re not done yet. He told me that. But at least the unidentified girl in the car wreck has been identified. I buzz the nurse. She’s quick.

  “My head is killing me.” Dara nods, while simultaneously darting around. She reminds me of a butterfly with their erratic flight patterns. She’s dainty and delicate looking. Before I can blink twice, she’s handing me pills and the cup of water from the table. I swallow them down quick.

  “You should really try and sleep. The doctor will be around to fill you in soon.”

  I bite my bottom lip and try to make myself comfortable before I close my eyes. I shouldn’t close my eyes. I feel guilty for not getting up. For not finding Lotte or asking about her but if I’m here—safe, she’s probably here— safe. Scared but safe.

  When I sleep, my brain doesn’t hurt. The world is quiet. At least it used to be that way. Sleep was a heavenly escape. I didn’t dream. Sleep provided me sweet escape for eight hours. It’s dark out when I wake. Rather, when I’m roused from sleep.

  “Ms. Robertson.” An unfamiliar voice. I blink a few times before rubbing away the sleep crusties. My mouth is dry again. My leg throbs. My chest aches. Is this a broken heart? I stuff the idea way deep down— for Lotte.

  “Nora,” I scratch out. He tucks my chart under his armpit and hands my water to me. I drink the remaining liquid. It’s not enough. I’m somnolent and feel desiccated.

  “Nora,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re aware of the car accident, yes?”

  “Yes,” I answer. The road was uneven and icy. I remember screaming at Lotte to hang on as I yanked the wheel and slammed the brake pedal.

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” he says and a part of me wants to laugh but I don’t. “You shattered your femur and part of your patella. You sustained a nasty contusion on your sternum and a serious concussion. It was estimated that you were pinned under your truck for at least three hours before help arrived, which is partly why you’re dehydrated and suffered moderate hypothermia.”

  “Okay. Where’s Lotte?” I ask.

  He stares at me a beat. “Who’s Lotte?”

  “Charlotte,” I say. “She was in the truck with me.”

  He pinches his lips closed. Swings his tongue around his teeth behind his bottom lip. “As far as I know, there was no one else recovered at the scene.” He looks everywhere but me. Recovered. The word doesn’t sit right with me.

  “That can’t be right. She was in the truck with me.” I close my eyes, recall what I can. I know she was with me.

  He stares at me intently now. Then, “Tell you what? I will ask around for you. Maybe I’m wrong.”

  “When can I leave?” I ask.

  “We need to do a couple more CAT scans, get your fluids up and monitor your break. But outside of that — soon.”

  Now I do laugh. “That doesn’t sound very soon.”

  “It’s all relative,” he says with an easy grin. “Also, the EMTs didn’t recover any personal effects. Do you have health insurance or an emergency contact on file?”

  I frown and shake my head. “I already spoke with a detective. He’s calling someone for me but I don’t have insurance,” I groan. “Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all. Just another step to take. I’ll send someone up to get you officially admitted and work out payment options with you. I expect you’ll be moved upstairs out of emergency shortly.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “You arrived,” he looks at his watch. A big fancy one. One that looks expensive. I can hear the ticking from my bed. It’s amazing how much more you use your other senses after months living in the woods. “Fourteen hours ago. Most of that was spent in surgery to set your femur and get the screws in place.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you have any questions for me, Nora?”

  My gut clenches. “No. I’m fine.”

  The better I begin to feel, the more rested I am, the worse my panic becomes. He’s still out there and Lotte is missing. I am in deep trouble.

  Read on for a preview of Missed Connection, where the Viral Series began

  This story was inspired by a real Craigslist missed connections post.

  Missed Connection

  A Novel by K. Larsen & Mara White

  May 2016

  Alarms beeped. Machines chirped. He couldn’t quite place why the noises were familiar. His throat was dry and his body ached in the worst way possible. When he tried to open his eyes, he panicked. They seemed to be sealed shut.

  “Mike,” a voice called out. Something squeezed his hand. “Mike, you can do it. Open your eyes.”

  He struggled to do it. Mike forced his eyes open. The room swirled with light. Blurry shadows appeared before they sharpened and focused. Doctors, nurses and his sister.

  “Oh, thank God!” Kim, his sister, leaned over and rested her head on his hand, which she was also still holding.

  “Mr. Blackard, I’m Dr. Hemphill, do you know why you’re here?”

  He shook his head, he thought, no. There was a great weight resting on his chest and he wanted to bring it up to the doctor but the man just kept speaking. “You were hit by a drunk driver, and Life Flighted here to St. Mary’s Hospital in critical condition. During surgery, you suffered a massive heart attack but you’re a very lucky man, Mike. A heart became available and we were able to transplant it in you.” Mike blinked three times. He was sure he’d misheard the man. The steady rhythm in his chest was his. It couldn’t be someone else’s. “You’ll remain in the hospital for a week or two, and then you’ll be closely monitored at an outpatient transplant center for about three months. We can talk about all of this a little later. Right now, just rest while we check your vitals.”

  “Kim?” He croaked out. His sister lifted her head. Tears streamed down her face.

  “I thought I’d lost you.” Sadness filled him. He didn’t want her to worry. She had kids and a husband at home who needed her. She should know that he’d never abandon her. His throat felt too dry to speak. He patted her hand and looked at the ceiling. Someone else’s heart. Inside him. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of it. Mike believed that the human heart was where the soul lived and not all souls were good. He closed his eyes. He had, apparently, plenty of time to feel out this new heart during his months of recovery. As his sister stroked his hand and softly spoke encouraging words, Mike drifted to sleep. Tiny anchors and azure eyes filled Mike’s dreams.

  While she’s in the bathroom, I chug one last bottle of water before we head out, per Bridget’s request. I’m happy and feeling good. Bridget and I had a great time tonight at our engagement party. She’s laughing up a storm as we get into the car. As we pull out to make the hour drive h
ome, she cranks the radio. “Regulate” is playing. We both sing along and laugh. Bridget holds my hand between good songs. Her new engagement ring sparkles every so often and makes me feel proud. Snow has started to drop down from the sky. The back roads are dark and twisty and unlit but it’s the fastest way home, which is still another ten minutes out. The moment I hit the brakes, I know something is wrong. It’s like my brain isn’t talking to my leg fast enough or maybe the road is too icy. I stomp down harder on the brake. I stomp down. Bridget screams next to me.

  I gently hold the matchbook between my thumb and index finger in my pocket. It’s worn and frail now, but it still anchors me. I’m standing next to the truck in the driveway. I blink twice.

  Doctor’s appointment.

  Groceries.

  Unloading.

  Right.

  I hate it when I zone out like that. I’ve been fatigued lately.

  “Hey, Dad,” my son says, as he brushes past me with bags of groceries. I grab an armload and follow him in.

  “Luke—” I say, as he sets them on the counter. He turns and pushes his too long hair from his eyes. I need to remember to get him to the barber.

  “You ready for a night of fun, old man?”

  I laugh and shake my head no. “It’s just a birthday. No need to get crazy.”

  “Yeah. Well, a birthday means cake, at the very least. Oh, can I have twenty bucks? Dillon and Max and I want to go to a movie later.”

  “Who’s driving and what movie?” I ask, while putting dry goods away.

  “Dillon’s mom is going to drive us and I don’t know yet.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “You don’t know yet?” I wait expectantly for his response, even though I know it’s not worth it. It’s rare that teenagers have answers to anything these days.

  “What? We’ll just decide when we get there,” Luke shrugs. If I try really hard. If I dig down to the recess of my forty-five year old brain, I can almost remember what it was like to be a fifteen year old boy.