Which had to mean there was something on the computer he didn’t want her to see.
A pall of hopelessness settled over Liz. For a man who spent his days immersed in text, a digital trail had seemed likely to point in some direction. If it was blank, Liz didn’t know which way to turn.
And then she noticed an icon for another search engine. She clicked it, and a tab popped up on the screen.
WELL, THIS IS EMBARRASSING, it said. FIREFOX HAS CRASHED. WOULD YOU LIKE TO RESTORE YOUR LAST SESSION?
Paul hadn’t cleared his history; he’d just been using a different browser. And deleted emails notwithstanding, his ambivalent relationship with technology had allowed him to miss the fact that the Internet had crashed while he was in the process of shutting down.
Whatever Paul was doing the last time he’d been at this computer could be resurrected.
Liz let the arrow float over the options.
Yes, she clicked.
THE CHAT ROOM USER
Madeline Jennings sat on a huge purple bouncy ball in the waiting room. This office was brand-new, a softer, kinder breed of doctoring, and Madeline had fallen in love with it at her first appointment. In addition to the balls, which were supposed to prepare you for labor, there were ergo-something chairs she could actually get out of on her own, even at thirty-six weeks, with her belly as big as one of these balls. Women who already had children could let them wander off to a dedicated play space, close enough to keep an eye on, far enough away that the moms would get a little break. Madeline could imagine how appreciated that must be.
Not that she herself ever intended to do this again.
Her mother wouldn’t let her.
Cara Jennings sat beside her. She’d come to every appointment except for that first one. If her mother had come the first time, then Madeline wouldn’t be a patient in this practice, which considered bouncy balls a reasonable means of seating, and set out a tray of whole-grain muffins for expectant moms to snack on. Cara prepared Madeline’s meals with a ruthless sort of precision. Calories were carefully counted so that Madeline didn’t gain too much weight, and her mother didn’t believe in any of the health crazes that had hijacked pregnancy in recent years.
“My grandmother smoked every day when she was with child,” Cara would say. “Babies are hardier than we think. Children, too. They don’t need to be told that every single thing they do is wonderful. A little shaming goes a long way when they act up.”
But Madeline loved how they did things at Every Woman’s Care. She wanted her baby’s start to be pure and bright and colorful. And she loved the idea behind this practice—that everyone was entitled to a gentler kind of life.
There was a cluster of women as big-bellied as she, sitting on balls in another corner of the room. Their voices flitted from low murmurs to laughter; despite their obviously uncomfortable bulk, they seemed to be enjoying themselves. The women reached down frequently to touch their bellies—something Madeline had to stop herself from doing since her mother didn’t think it was acceptable to touch your body in public—and rolled back and forth, complaining about pains in their knees and their backs.
Cara Jennings didn’t approve of complaining either. Mumping and grumping, she called it. Just get on with things and your day will pass before you know it.
But Madeline didn’t want to kill time. She wanted to enjoy these days and the life growing inside her—a real life she’d created! It was a girl, she just knew it. But someone to moan with about the associated difficulties would’ve been nice, too.
Madeline took part in several pregnancy boards; they were the only place she could get any privacy from her mother. Online, she had a taste of the chat that the women here were indulging in. It could get a little grisly for her tastes—terms like mucous plug and perineal massage were bandied about as if people were talking about the weather—but Madeline still enjoyed the companionship. She made a mental note to ask about the topic she was now overhearing the flock of women discuss. Water birth. It sounded like such a peaceful way to enter the world. There was no sound under water. Madeline was fairly sure, though she’d been unable to bring herself to confirm this, that her mother intended to be in the delivery room with her. It would be nice to spare the baby a few extra seconds of hearing her grandmother’s voice.
Madeline wished she could waddle over to the group of women, make herself part of their easy laughter and equally easy bemoaning, and ask if any of them was considering a water birth. Was it dangerous? That wouldn’t be her mother’s objection, though. Cara Jennings would simply think it was nuts, one more way to try and up the ante of living away from a brute, bare-bones, just-get-through approach.
What’s wrong with a bed? Madeline could hear her mother say. Perhaps Cara would even make a rare joke, her flat lips forming a scythe. You made the baby in a bed. So have him in it.
You got through sex. You got through pregnancy. You got through life.
Madeline wanted more than that. The women over there seemed to have it. They even seemed to be enjoying their complaining.
“Madeline?”
The physician’s assistants at Every Woman’s wore colorful scrubs with pictures of ducks and balloons on them. The one who had just stepped into the waiting room—called the rest area here—was Madeline’s favorite. She was pregnant herself, and constantly touching her stomach, only half-consciously. Madeline was sure the PA wasn’t aware of the faint smile that bloomed on her face whenever she reached down to her round little bump.
Madeline got up awkwardly, feeling the ball slip away beneath her. It was headed right toward the clump of chattering women. One reached out and stopped its roll, giving Madeline a smile. Madeline flushed, and dropped her gaze. She looked at her mother, rising seamlessly from her chair.
The PA stopped Cara as she made her way to the door in front of Madeline.
“Mrs. Jennings, we spoke about this,” the PA said. Brief pat to her stomach, causing Madeline’s mother to frown. “Madeline is going to provide a urine sample and step on the scale. You don’t need to be there for that.”
Cara’s frown turned furious. “I’ll thank you to watch your language. Not because I give any truck to the notion that these babies can understand things in—what would you call it?—utero,” she went on with an expression of distaste. “But because bodily functions are best left behind closed doors.”
Madeline experienced a deep flush of empathy for this PA she so liked. Cara Jennings had made her seem as disgusting as if she’d given a sample herself, right here in front of everyone. But when Madeline caught a glimpse of the PA’s face as she tried to squeeze past, she saw that the PA didn’t look embarrassed at all. In fact, she was regarding Madeline’s mother as if she were the one who should be ashamed.
In the doctor’s office, Cara Jennings took a seat first. “Thank goodness,” she said with a snort. “None of those ridiculous playthings in here.”
It took Dr. Shelley a moment to get it. “Our offices don’t have as much space as the rest area because of the examining tables.”
Even those were extra padded, and had nice, soft blankets at the bottom. So you wouldn’t feel cold or exposed, Dr. Shelley had explained during Madeline’s first visit. Madeline curled her toes beneath the fleecy fabric now.
“But the balls are wonderful for pregnant women’s backs,” the doctor went on. “Are you keeping up with your exercises, Madeline? Kegels especially?”
Madeline nodded, feeling her cheeks stain. She glanced down at the globe of her belly, waiting for the reassuring moment when the ultrasound wand picked up the railroad beat of the baby’s heart. Maybe because she didn’t touch the baby all that often, Madeline had a hard time believing she was actually there. Cara spent so many hours overseeing things at home. Madeline had no trouble believing that she might come into Madeline’s bedroom at night and do something to take away the one thing Madeline had ever made for herself.
Dr. Shelley helped Madeline slip out of her gown, and hand
ed a ballooning shirt back to her. Cara had chosen all of Madeline’s maternity wear. I don’t know where pregnant women got the idea that it was all right to let clothing cling to their bellies, Cara had said in the store.
The doctor spoke in a low tone. “It’s getting close enough that we really do need to come up with your birth plan.”
Madeline had been avoiding this. She looked down at the tile floor.
Dr. Shelley switched her focus. “Mrs. Jennings?”
Madeline’s mother looked up sharply.
“I’d like to spend a few moments with Madeline,” Dr. Shelley said. “Alone.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Cara Jennings replied.
The doctor gave Madeline a small, encouraging smile. “It may not be. But your daughter is eighteen years of age, so unless she objects, I would ask you to step outside into our rest area for a little while. There are muffins and tea there you can help yourself to.”
Madeline continued to stare at the floor. Every row had forty-seven tiles, each speckled like an exotic bird’s egg.
“That’s quite all right,” Cara said, taking two quick strides toward the door. “I won’t be needing any tea.”
The door closed with a decided thunk.
Once her mother was gone, the room seemed to inflate and expand. It wasn’t cramped at all anymore; you could fit a million bouncy balls in here.
Madeline smiled at Dr. Shelley. “Do you think it’s a girl?”
The doctor smiled back, but it was fleeting. “We can find out. I told you that, right?”
Madeline shook her head. “I want to be surprised.” She allowed herself to touch her stomach lightly. “Besides, I already know.”
“Madeline,” the doctor said, “I was wondering if you had any sources of support besides your mother. Friends? Other parents-to-be you can talk to?”
Madeline thought about the women in the waiting room—the rest area—and shook her head again.
“How about the baby’s father?” Dr. Shelley asked.
Madeline’s face heated. “No. I don’t see him at all. My mother won’t let me.”
Dr. Shelley was silent for a second. “I see.”
Her face looked lined and drawn. Madeline would’ve done a lot to erase that expression.
“I go online,” she offered. “To visit the pregnancy boards.”
The doctor regarded her. “You have a computer? Of your own?”
Madeline nodded. After a moment she said, “My mother wouldn’t know how to use it.”
A look of such understanding passed between them that Madeline felt her eyes fill. She cried so easily these days. She reached down and patted the baby, letting her hand linger this time. The baby kicked, and Madeline’s eyes spilled over.
The doctor’s nails tapped out a percussive rhythm. She glanced away, then back at Madeline. Finally she located a Post-it pad and began writing something down. “You might want to reach out to these people the next time you’re online. Tell them I sent you. I’m giving you a password, which I’d ask that you not share.”
Madeline frowned, accepting the small slip of paper. “But I have plenty of places to go online. If anything, there are too many of them. I never know which to choose.”
The doctor’s face was grave. “I’m directing you to a particular thread on this site.” She pointed to two scrawled words. “I promise you won’t find anything else like it online.”
Madeline looked at the note. The password caused her eyes to fill again. It read: motherdoctor.
But the website url was just plain confusing.
PEW.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
One by one, windows were opening on Paul’s screen.
Come on, Liz thought, with a mental rub of her hands. I hope you really did yourself in, you bastard. I’ll hunt you down as if you left a road map.
Outside it was now deep dark. Liz flicked on another lamp.
This was the third night in a row she hadn’t kissed her babies goodnight.
She hated her husband with a lethal, hot fury.
The machine finally stopped churning.
There weren’t as many windows as Liz would’ve liked—her husband’s last session must have been brief—but she clicked on the first with a small lick of hope, as if she were rolling dice. What did the kids used to say, playing board games? Mommy needs a new pair of shoes.
Mommy needs her children back.
Tears sparked in Liz’s eyes and she blinked.
It was a site about poly-culture farming. There was text and graphs explaining how the purchase of equipment invited debt and ultimate dependence on government subsidies, which in turn led to constriction of variety in crops. Pieces about how smaller yield paradoxically meant greater nourishment. The return of diverse small-scale farming for a new world order.
Liz had heard it all a thousand times before.
Her husband had been planning to bring the family to Junction Bridge on a supposed vacation, then abscond with their kids. And the night before they’d left he’d been reading what he always did, as if he wasn’t about to set off a nuclear bomb in their lives.
Liz clicked on the next window.
It was Eastern Ag’s website. The fall course schedule had a ticker-tape roster of the season’s football games scrolling along at the bottom.
One final window to open. Liz clicked on it.
Something fell over outdoors.
This time there could be no doubt, and Liz jumped in her seat. The hand she’d been holding the mouse with jogged, and Liz looked down in a panic, afraid that she had inadvertently closed the window.
She frowned at the banner at the top of the page. All capital letters spelling out one word. PEW. A password was required to get in.
Something else banged. The wind must be really picking up out there. Maybe it would finally cool off.
Liz Googled the three-letter term, getting links about a charitable trust. But those letters were in a different font, and not all in caps. It funded some sort of think tank, whose projects didn’t seem relevant, although Liz bookmarked the page for later.
Another noise came from outside, this one even louder, a great clawing of wood.
Their nearest neighbor, splitting logs? His house was too far away. They’d never heard anything from any of the houses out this way.
The noise had come from the direction of the gardens.
Jill or Lia maybe, arrived to do some work?
Liz was used to hearing things outside. Deer nudged at the fencing, smaller rodents crawled beneath. Branches cracked when bats or owls flew. The country was never silent; nature presented a constant backdrop. But the sounds she’d been hearing tonight had a different tenor.
A human one.
Liz left Paul’s computer behind, making sure the windows remained open.
In the midst of walking to the door, she began to run.
Outside, a child was crying.
The fields lay in shadows, gate securely fastened. The sign with Roots spelled out in twisting vines swayed back and forth, clattering in the rising wind. Liz jogged past it toward where she thought the crying had come from.
“Reid?” she called out, unable to help herself. “Ally?”
Clouds blew across the sky and suddenly it was as cold as autumn. Liz drew near the woods that bordered their house. She pushed branches back, trying to shield her face from the flutter of leaves. She needed a flashlight, and was cursing herself for her heedless rush outside. But what else could she have done? Even in the scant seconds that had passed, Reid or Ally—if that’s who it had been—might’ve been taken away.
A twig snapped beneath her feet. Liz stared at the occluded moon, which didn’t cast enough light to see into this tangle of woods, and bit back a sob of frustration.
“Reid!” she cried. “Ally! Are you there?”
There came a great leathery flap of wings, a bird taking off clumsily from the ground, disturbed by her presence. It wasn’t as close as it sounded�
�noise traveled in the night—but still, Liz had to work to quiet her heart.
Then a hiss emerged from a stand of trees to her right, and Liz spun around. She squinted, trying to see between mossy trunks. She wedged herself past a tall oak, its branches laden with leaves. She stepped into a space on the left.
A few yards off, a spear of wood had broken off another tree, leaving raw, exposed wood. That must have made the sound she’d heard from Paul’s study. Beneath the split, a child’s small form huddled on the ground, and beside him crouched a woman, commanding the child to hush.
Liz walked in their direction, picking her way over clumps of forest debris. The night had lost all potential and all threat. She moved incautiously, not caring anymore if she was caught unaware by a stabbing twig.
“Are you all right?” Her tone sounded dull in her ears.
The woman got unsteadily to her feet. For a moment, Liz wondered if she might be drunk. She looked down at the boy, who was perhaps four, his face dirty and tear-streaked.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “He fell.”
She said it as if climbing trees on someone else’s property was a perfectly reasonable thing to do in the night.
“Who are you?” Liz asked. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry,” the woman said again. “I suppose we’re a bit lost. I must’ve had the wrong address.”
“Do you live around here?”
Before the woman could respond, the little boy began to whimper. “Mommy, it hurts.”
Liz took a look at the child through the penetrating dark. There was a blotchy, wet patch on the back of his head. Head wounds bled a lot, she knew, but still, this required treatment.
“You’d better come inside,” she said.
Liz turned and led their small, injured caravan out of the woods.
She had locked the mudroom door, Liz recalled, ruing her earlier precaution. Had this been what she’d been hearing all night—a mother and child nosing around her house? Why would anybody do that? She left both of them waiting by the side so she could go in the front, then walked through the house to the mudroom. When she’d finally gotten the door unlocked, she opened it to find both of them gone.
Ruin Falls Page 11
