She shakes her head, shivering. “It’ll be a long time before I’ll even want painkillers.”
I push forward the other mugs. She accepts the coffee and rejects creamer or sugar. She sits up, blanket still over her shoulders as she wraps her hands around the mug. She leans over it, bathing in the steam.
I put the kettle back over the fire, in case she wants more. Then I look around.
“I should have a sweatshirt upstairs,” I say. “And socks maybe? I’ll run—”
A hard rap at the door. I open it to find Jen with a duffel bag, which she shoves at me.
“Clothing,” she says. “It’s mine, but it should fit. There are snacks in there, too. I’ll drop off a hot meal when I bring the baby.”
“Baby? I really can’t—”
“If you need me to take her a while longer, I will, but she’s fussy and cranky, and she wants her mommy.”
“Yes,” I say evenly. “Unfortunately, we have no idea where to find her.”
She snorts. “Whatever.”
“She doesn’t want me, Jen.”
“Well, yeah, she’d probably rather have Daddy. Typical female, already making eyes at the big, bad sheriff. But since he’s not here, you’ll do.”
When I start to protest, she says, “I’m not trying to get rid of her, Casey. Just take her, rock her a bit while April looks after … the patient, and she’ll fall asleep, and you can call me to take her back. She’s unsettled, and she needs sleep, and she’s not getting it until she sees temporary Mom or Dad.”
I pause and heft the duffel, turning toward the living room.
“And I’m sorry about spooking … the patient,” Jen says. “She just surprised me, that’s all.”
When I glance over, she says, “Yeah, I’m apologizing. To her, mostly. It’s like when I kicked your damn dog, I didn’t think. I just reacted. I’d never have done it otherwise.”
I nod. “Go ahead, and bring the baby.”
SEVENTEEN
I’m getting Maryanne into the clothing when my sister arrives. April walks in, sees what we’re doing, and says, “You can stop that, or we’ll just be taking it all off again.”
April glances at Maryanne and nods. It looks like a curt nod, but it’s simple efficiency, as she strides past us to set down her bag. Maryanne could be any patient in the clinic, just another job in April’s day, no greeting required.
We’ve fielded complaints about my sister’s lack of bedside manner. I direct the residents to Dalton, who reminds them that we spent the last fucking year without a fucking doctor, and now we have a fucking multi-degree neurosurgeon, and they’re complaining because she doesn’t ask how they’re fucking doing—which, considering she’s a fucking doctor, she’s going to find out anyway, isn’t she? That’s verbatim, although he may find an opportunity for another profanity that I’ve missed.
I think we should work on this with April. Dalton says no. Not a “Fuck, no” or even “Hell, no,” which means he isn’t adamantly opposed to a little gentle guidance, but since it’s not a lack of compassion, residents should adjust their expectations instead. As Dalton says, “They want a fucking hug? Talk to Isabel’s girls.” He has a point. He also said, “Would they complain so much if April was a man?” Ouch.
He’s right. I’m not sure I would have advocated for a softer touch if she were a man, and that stings. Especially when, as a cop, I’d been accused of not being “warm” enough, while no one ever said that to my male colleagues. It burns to realize I fell into the same trap, but it’s a reminder I need sometimes. Just because I advocate for gender equality doesn’t immunize me against promoting stereotypes. Even Dalton, who has never treated me differently than he would a male colleague, had an all-male militia until I arrived, and he’d never considered how that might discourage women from joining.
With Maryanne, though, I am glad of my sister’s cool professionalism. As April conducts a preliminary examination, Maryanne visibly relaxes. This is familiar. It’s what she would have expected for a routine physical. Check heart, check eyes, check throat, check teeth …
April checks the last as perfunctorily as the rest, without even a moment’s pause at the filed teeth. But then, after the quick assessment, she says, “Dental work will be required,” and Maryanne cringes, just a little.
“There’s a cavity at the back,” April says. “Possibly two. We have medication to help with those if they cause pain eating. The front teeth will require caps.”
“Caps…”
“Unless you planned to grow new ones, which I would not advise.”
Maryanne snorts a laugh at this, and I relax. My sister has been attempting humor lately. That’s one of the biggest hurdles with her condition—she struggles to understand jokes, and her silence marks her as humorless. She’s working on that. The problem, of course, is that with her absolute deadpan delivery, people usually aren’t sure she is kidding.
“I hadn’t considered caps,” Maryanne says. “That would work, I think.”
“It would. I have one on my left upper lateral incisor. Casey chipped off the corner. She threw a baseball for me to catch, and her aim was atrocious.”
“What?” I say. “When was this?”
“When you were three. You must remember, Casey.”
“Not if I was three, I don’t.”
“That may explain why you never apologized.”
“I’m sure I did at the time.”
“No.” She pauses. “You did cry. Quite a bit. I suppose that’s an apology.” Her tone says she’s granting me the benefit of the doubt here. A lot of benefit for a lot of doubt.
“Well, I am sorry,” I say. “Very sorry.”
“I suppose an apology twenty-nine years late is better than none at all.”
Maryanne laughs, though this, I know, is not a joke.
“April’s right,” I say. “Caps will fix your teeth.”
“They will cover the damage,” April says. “They will not ‘fix’ them. Nothing can be done about that. They’ve been filed. Intentionally. Whoever did that to her needs to be arrested, Casey. It’s assault, at the very least.”
“I did it to myself,” Maryanne says, her voice very quiet.
April frowns. “For what purpose?”
“April…” I say.
“No, it’s all right,” Maryanne says. “I know you need to hear my story, Casey. Whether it’s to help with this baby or the poor dead woman or the hostiles in general, you need it. I’m just not sure it will make much sense. It’s like … a fever dream. I’d never done drugs. Well, nothing stronger than marijuana, but we didn’t consider that any more a drug than alcohol. I certainly never experienced hallucinations with it.”
“You wouldn’t,” April says. “Marijuana is not a hallucinogenic drug.”
Maryanne meets my gaze and the corners of her lips quirk, as if she’s figuring out my sister. She just says, calmly, “No, I suppose it isn’t. But I had friends who experimented with hallucinogens. Sometimes, what they experienced wasn’t so much a hallucination as a waking dream. It was real. Very real. That’s what it was like for me. It was real, and I had no sense that it wasn’t normal, that this wasn’t who I was.”
She stops. Squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. “No, that’s not … That’s not quite right. In the beginning…”
She looks at April. “I’m sorry, Doctor. You were conducting an examination. I’ll wait for this.”
April looks at me. I’d like Maryanne to continue—I’m afraid if she stops, she won’t ever restart.
I’m still hesitating when Jen opens the door, baby in one arm, dinner in a bag over her shoulder. I tell April to continue her examination, and I take the baby, who is indeed fussing, sucking on her lower lip, as if she’s a few seconds from crying.
“Is this the baby?” Maryanne says, rising. A smile spreads, a real one, her entire face lighting up as she forgets to cover her teeth. “The one who was with a former hostile?”
I nod. “The
woman wasn’t her mother, though.”
“No, she wouldn’t be. There…” She swallows. “There are no babies. They do not—”
She rubs her hands over her face, the move agitated, as if she’s trying to scrub a memory from her mind. She stops, forcing her hands down. When she speaks, her voice is lecture-impassive. “If we become pregnant, they make sure we do not stay that way.”
She catches our expressions and shakes her head. “No, not me. I had a hysterectomy a few years before I came to Rockton. I was spared … that.”
April and I exchange a glance. Then April says, “I would like to conduct a full physical examination. Given the circumstances you were living under, there could be damage that your hysterectomy would not have prevented.”
Maryanne looks at her a moment before realizing what she means. She gives a short laugh. “No, oddly, that is another thing I was spared. Children are forbidden, but so is rape. Sex must be consensual.” She pauses. “Or as consensual as it can be under the circumstances.” Another pause, and a wan quarter-smile. “From an academic perspective, let’s just say it was as consensual as it has historically been for women. We knew the advantage of taking a mate, and we did so, and while I did not meet the love of my life, my relationships were, in some ways, healthier than the one I came here to escape. You may certainly conduct a full exam, Doctor, but rape trauma is the one thing I don’t suffer from.”
* * *
The baby sleeps, and Maryanne relaxes into the examination. I know from experience that bouncing back from the physical ailments is usually the easy part. The human body is a marvel of resiliency. The mind is an entirely different matter. On the surface, it has that same resiliency, yet even after we seem to be back on our mental feet, functioning and happy, the damage lingers, tucked down in the creases, impossible to scour clean.
The body repairs itself, leaving only scars where the skin can’t quite smooth away the damage. The mind does the same—it re-forms, it adapts, it builds bridges over the damaged parts. I can hide my physical scars with long sleeves and jeans, but I don’t. They’re part of who I am. Part of my history, and no cause for shame. I wish I could be as open with the mental scars. I probably never will be.
The physical damages make me look like a survivor. The psychological damage makes me feel like a victim. I know that’s wrong; I just can’t seem to get past the divide.
Maryanne’s scars will not be badges of honor. They do show that she survived trauma that would kill most people. Yet she won’t ever feel that way. When she’s ready to return to civilization—be that Rockton or Halifax—she’ll want help covering those signs.
In her examination, April suggests ways to conceal the rest of the physical damage. It’s reassuring for Maryanne, hearing her trauma discussed in the same way a cosmetic surgeon might suggest fixing a crooked nose. April doesn’t mean it to be soothing—she’s ticking off the boxes that will return her patient to optimal health. Yet Maryanne is soothed, and that’s what counts. Caps will cover her filed teeth. Plastic surgery will remove blackened tissue and make the frostbite damage less obvious.
Maryanne eats after her physical. As she does, while April makes notes, I say, “May I ask you questions?”
She smiles. “May I hold the baby afterward?”
“Certainly. I have a thousand questions, as you might imagine. But I want to begin with ones that April may be able to help me with.”
My sister looks up. She says nothing, though, just resumes her note-making.
“You say that your party was attacked in the night,” I begin. “The party who left Rockton with you.”
“Yes.”
“Were they the same people who took you away? Held you captive?”
She nods. “Yes.”
“Is there any chance they weren’t? I know you said it was chaotic. Is it possible you were attacked by one group and then given to another?”
I get identical looks of confusion from Maryanne and April.
Maryanne says slowly, “I’m not sure I understand…”
“Is there any chance that the people who attacked your camp were not the group you later joined? Or if there were any members you never saw again?”
“It really was a blur of faces, both at the attack and later.” She pauses. “Maybe if I had a better idea what you were looking for…”
I hesitate. As a cop, I would never share a theory with a witness. Not unless I’m trying to lead them into confessing themselves. Otherwise, it really is “leading.” Tainting their testimony. So I have to stop here and analyze. What are the chances that, if I give Maryanne a theory, she’ll intentionally or subconsciously shape her testimony to support or refute it, depending on her gut reaction?
She is a scientist. Whatever damage she’s suffered, she’s made incredible strides toward recovery. Her intelligence and self-awareness have fully returned, and I think I need to trust that.
“I’m not a psychiatrist,” I say. “Or a psychologist or an anthropologist or anyone else who might know more about human evolution and behavioral changes. But I struggle with the idea that people who leave Rockton—modern humans—can revert to something that … primitive in a few years.”
I adjust the baby to my other arm. “The theory in Rockton has always been, simply, that these people left, and because they left, they ‘reverted’ to a more ‘primitive’ form. That they were inherently more violent than the settlers, and they embraced that part of themselves when they left. I don’t think that’s how it works with people. I think there must be some … outside influence that at least escalates the process.”
“You’re completely right,” Maryanne says. “What happens out there isn’t a natural process of devolution. It’s the tea.”
EIGHTEEN
“The … tea?” That’s all I can manage, and when April asks, “Who provides the tea?” I am grateful. Then I’m immediately shamed by that gratitude, because I’m only glad that I’m not the one asking what might be a stupid question.
“No one, right?” I say to Maryanne. “They make it themselves.”
She nods. “From a root and plants. I don’t know the exact ingredients. The shaman is the only one who can make them.”
“Shaman?”
“That’s what I’d call her now. They don’t have a name for any roles. The shaman conducts rituals and makes the teas.”
“Teas?” April says. “More than one?”
Maryanne hesitates. “Maybe? I always thought of it as the same tea, but in two concentrations. One is for everyday drinking and the other is for rituals. They both…” Maryanne rubs her face again, this time paired with a convulsive shiver. When she speaks, her voice is lower, professorial detachment evaporating. “They make everything okay.”
Neither of us speaks. After a moment, Maryanne says, “May I go back?”
When I tense, she manages a wan smile. “I don’t mean go back into the forest. I mean may I go back to my story. That will make this easier, and possibly more comprehensible, if such a thing is possible.”
“Of course,” I say. “Whatever works for you.” I glance at my sister. “You don’t need to be here for this.”
She starts, as if from sleep. Blinks. Pauses. Then straightens, saying, “If we are discussing the effects of a potential drug, then I do believe I need to stay.”
She doesn’t actually need to stay, and I realize I have, inadvertently, achieved exactly the thing I’d tried to so many years ago. I have brought April something that catches her interest. Still, I have to ask Maryanne if she’s okay with April staying. She is.
Maryanne continues. “I told Casey that the hostiles attacked at night. They killed the men and took the women. Two of us. We were initially separated. A classic technique: Separate, isolate, and disorientate. I woke in a cavern—too small to sit up in. I had a guard. He wouldn’t speak to me. Wouldn’t even look at me. They’d only bring water. I was in that cave for days, maybe a week. By the time they hauled me out, I was starving and feveri
sh and half mad with fear and confusion. They gave me food and the tea. As soon as I drank the tea, I knew it was drugged. Everything became … unreal.”
She shifts her position. “That’s the best way to describe it. It took away the fear and the dread. When they put me back into the cave, I slept soundly. The next day, they brought me out and offered me food and more tea. I only wanted the food. That wasn’t an option. Both or nothing. I refused the tea for three days, until I realized my choices were that or starvation. I drank, and they let me stay outside the cave with the group. It felt like I was in a trance. Doing as I was told earned me food and sleeping blankets and a spot by the fire. The chores were like being at camp. Gather wood. Cook. Clean. Sew. A few of the men paid me extra attention, but they didn’t bother me. They were trying to get my attention.”
“As a potential mate.”
“Yes. During my more lucid periods, I’d remember to be afraid. To want to escape. The best plan, however, seemed to be to do exactly what they wanted. Just keep drinking the tea and being a good girl, and I’d get my chance. Then they brought Lora.”
“The other woman who’d been taken with you.”
She nods. “Lora wouldn’t drink the tea. They brought her to show her how well I was doing, how much better shape I was in. I tried to persuade her to drink and bide her time, but to her, I was weak, surrendering when I should be fighting. She was a twenty-five-year-old wilderness guide, tough as nails. I was a middle-aged academic. We … we’d never really gotten along. She fought them every waking second and eventually, they fought back. They beat her. They gave her only enough water to survive. Then they took away her clothing. After a week, she escaped.”
I raise my brows, and Maryanne nods. “Yes, they let her escape. I realized that later. One of the men tracked her. A week later…” She swallows and rubs her face. “They took me to see her. To see … what was left.”
I tell her she doesn’t need to continue, but she says, “No, this is part of the story.” Another few minutes of silence before she says, “She’d collapsed. Exhaustion. Hypothermia. Starvation. She couldn’t go on. The tracker had tied her to a tree. Then he put tea beside her. Drink the tea, and he’d give her food and clothing. She didn’t, and so he left her there, and I…”
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