The Baby Clause: A Christmas Romance

by Tara Wylde

  I worked at a place like this in high school, policing up chip bags and beer cans, shoveling lime down the long-drop johns. It was fun. They had a waterfall everyone used for showering, and a nightly hot-dog roast.

  This, on the other hand, bites the big one. I pull the duvet closer around me. It smells like mold, vomit, and wet paint, just like everything else from that godawful house. And it’s doing jack shit to keep me warm. My teeth are chattering.

  “We need... We need to build a fire.”

  “We can’t.” Joe goes to the window. Three out of four panes are cracked or broken.

  “Seriously, my toes are turning blue. And we’ve been up here for hours. No one’s coming.”

  “You don’t know that.” He cranes his neck to look at the sky.

  “We’d hear it if they were. Come on—untie my feet. I’ll get some water. If we just do a small fire, we can douse it right away if—“

  “They have drones now. Totally silent. We need to stay out of sight. Stay away from the windows.” He steps back.

  I think about telling him a cabin in the woods is easily the worst place to hide if someone’s seriously looking. It’s isolated. It’s obvious. And police helicopters have infrared. Staying out of sight won’t save you if they come looking.

  Maybe he’ll take me back to the city if I tell him that. We can lose ourselves in the crowd, and then I can lose him.

  Then again, maybe he’ll cut my throat: one less heat source for the cops to pick up on.

  I let myself entertain the fantasy that Nick really does know where we are, that he’s on his way, even now. It’s not totally impossible. He could have some...some secret Boy Scout training I don’t know about. He could be following our tracks even now, wending deeper and deeper into the woods. Or he could be here already, skulking outside, waiting for Joe to let down his guard.

  Joe pushes his way under the duvet, ruining the fantasy. I force myself not to shrink away as he cuddles close for warmth.

  “Remember this, Ellie?”

  “Hm?”

  “Last time we came to a place like this.”

  My head spins. I have literally no idea what he’s talking about. “You mean, when....”

  He nods like I’ve actually said something meaningful. “Yeah. When we drove up to Niagara Falls. We stopped at that place with the amazing fries, and that grackle flew off with half of yours.”

  “And you ate the other half.”

  “Well, you didn’t want them.”

  “They were all birdy!” I feel gross reminiscing with him, like this is even a good memory. I want to remind him why we went to the Falls, how it was meant to be his last big adventure, before he started fake chemo. How it cost me most of what I had left, after his fake biopsies and fake radiation already drained my real college fund.

  “The Falls were something else, though. Majestic. One of those things that’s gotta be experienced.”

  I nod. Can’t seem to dredge up anything to say about that.

  “There were like...five rainbows at once, and you couldn’t even look directly at the water with the sun shining through the mist. Like the whole air was sparkling. Remember what you said?”

  I wish I didn’t.

  “You said, let’s come back here every year. When Junior’s old enough to remember. You got him that Maid of the Mist bear. I still have that. Bet he misses it.”

  He never played with that stupid thing.

  “Let’s go back, once this craziness dies down, once we’re all back together.”

  Over my dead body.

  “We can finally have that wedding. Junior can carry the rings. We’ll do it on the Canadian side, and stay there after. Where no one’s looking for us.”

  I should encourage that. If the shit really does hit the fan, and we all end up on the run, the border cops’ll catch us. They’ll see how scared I am, pull us over, and the nightmare will end. “Canada, eh?” I put on my doofiest Canuck accent. “That’s aboot the best idea I’ve heard all day. Hoser. Loonies. Milk in bags.”

  Joe laughs. He seems to be relaxing. Maybe he’ll fall asleep. If I can wriggle out from under the duvet without him noticing, maybe he’ll freeze to death. Maybe I’ll freeze to death, too, staggering through the woods with no shoes or coat. He confiscated those after my first escape attempt.

  Then again, if he dies, I can take his shoes and coat.

  Maybe I can kill him.

  Probably not.

  He’s still droning on about the wedding, how I’ll wear a flower tiara, and Joey’ll have a tiny tux. How we’ll write our own vows, and exchange them under a white rose bower. It’ll just be the two of us, but that’ll be fine, because we don’t need anyone else to be happy.

  On the grand scale of injustices, this is minor, this is nothing, but... We planned a wedding together. He has to remember that—it wasn’t that long ago. I wanted family, tradition, everyone I loved in attendance. Candles, not roses. Wedding crowns, not flower tiaras. Dancing and singing for days. The way he’s ignoring all that only serves to bring it home: I’m not real to him. Not even his son is real to him. We’re all just...side-characters in the story of his life. He’s dreaming his dream, by himself. I’m not sure exactly when he stopped pretending to care what I think, but it feels like a long time ago.

  Outside, something rustles. Joe stiffens against my side. “What was that?”

  “Probably a squirrel. Want to shoot it?” Please be Nick. Please be Nick—please be someone! I prick up my ears, but there’s nothing more to hear.

  “Should’ve brought a gun....” I get the sense he doesn’t mean for squirrels...and I’m incredibly glad he didn’t.

  “Just ignore it. It’s freezing. I’m freezing.” And maybe it is Nick, scuffling around out there. It did kind of sound like a shoe in the dirt... Or maybe that’s wishful thinking. Either way, keeping Joe distracted isn’t a bad idea. “What about—what about after the wedding? The honeymoon? Would that be in Canada too?”

  He shoots me a suspicious look, but the bait’s too good. “Niagara-on-the-Lake. It’s like...Canadian wine country. We can get our own little place on the edge of town. Start a peach orchard.”

  Acres of peach trees in Canadian wine country. Yeah. That sounds affordable. “Sounds like heaven,” I murmur. I can’t keep the disgust off my face as I rest my head on his shoulder. Doesn’t matter. He can’t see from this angle.

  “It’ll be great,” he says. I can’t see his face, either, but I know the expression that goes with this tone of voice: dreamy, distant, enraptured. Back when I was eighteen, it made me weak in the knees. Thought he was some kind of sensitive soul. Especially when he got going on one of his speeches—Joe could make anything sound good. But now I’m tuning him out, straining my ears for the slightest indication we’re not alone.

  The woods are never silent. I used to be pretty good at distinguishing ambient sounds from human sounds, but it’s been a while. And I’m a city girl at heart. That scrape—that might’ve been Nick peering in the back window, or a low-hanging branch grazing the roof. And that tiny patter—a boot scattering pebbles? Or a mouse tripping across the stoop?

  I need to get the rope off my ankles. If there is someone out there, I want to be ready to make a break for it.

  “Quit wiggling.”

  Shit. Can’t move my arms with him battened onto me like a moth on a tree trunk. Got to get rid of him, at least for a minute.

  I cough. “Could you—could you at least get us some water?”

  “Didn’t bring any.”

  Seriously? “Then you need to find some before dark. There’s got to be a stream or something—I think I can even hear it.” There is kind of a rushing sound, off to the east.

  “Can you even drink stream water? Without getting sick?”

  “You can if you boil it.”

  “We’re not building a—“

  “We have to. At least when it gets dark. Or we’ll freeze to death. Nobody’s going to come out here at nig
ht, anyway.”

  “I said no fire!” He surges to his feet. For a second, I’m convinced he’s going to kick me. I scuttle backward till my ass hits the wall. “What the hell’s the matter with you? I’m just going to check the car. I think there’s some Gatorade in the back.”

  “Sorry....”

  He storms off. That wasn’t elegant, but at least I got what I wanted. He left the car half a mile away, under the canopy of what was once a picnic area. Hidden from any inquisitive drones, I guess. That’s got to buy me at least fifteen, twenty minutes.

  The second the door slams, I’m picking at the knots: slow and steady, no panicked scrabbling this time. By the time he comes back, I want to be sitting here with the rope wrapped around my ankles, in case he checks—but tied to nothing but itself.

  155

  Nick

  This place sucks.

  I thought the woods around the farmhouse were bad, but out here, this is a whole other beast. Even the road’s full of lumps and potholes, and there’s been a stone in my shoe for the last quarter-mile that will...not...shake...out. Must’ve got under the insole.

  I haven’t even been walking that long. Got out of the car when I saw the “Camp W—k-nd-r” sign, not knowing where they’d be hiding, but this place is bigger than I thought. Bigger and emptier. So far, I’ve passed a tumbledown snax stand, a basketball court with two decent-sized trees erupting from the tarmac, a sign marked “SWIMM—G H—E,” and what’s got to be Joe’s car, cleverly concealed under one of those depressing covered picnic areas. The roof’s collapsed on one side, and most of the picnic tables are in the ditch. Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in years.

  Worst of all, it’s getting dark. I wasn’t sure at first: the canopy’s pretty thick here, even in winter. But, no. The sky was more of a...more of a gull wing gray, half an hour ago. Now I’d call it gun gray. With a hint of blue. Like an old lady’s hair.

  There’s something up ahead, though. The road’s been widening out for a while, and there’s a clearing, with a trailer and a cabin. And the creepy skeleton of a swing set. The chains are still hanging there, but the seats are gone.

  They’ve got to be here: the trail doesn’t go on past the clearing. I veer off into the trees. There’s a layer of wet, rotten leaves underfoot—eugh. I don’t remember it raining recently. Maybe it never gets properly dry here, with the canopy keeping the sun off the earth.

  I squidge around the edge of the clearing till I reach the trailer. There aren’t any lights on inside, but I sidle up anyway. Most of the windows are missing, the curtains hanging in water-stained shreds. I steel myself—if they’re in there, and he happens to be looking up just as I look in, there won’t be much I can do about that. But I don’t hear anything. Maybe they’re asleep.

  I edge up to the nearest window, peering through at the most oblique angle possible. My precautions are wasted: there’s nothing inside. Somebody’s stripped this thing to the bones. Even the floor’s rusted through.

  Got to be the cabin, then. If not there....

  If not there, I’m out of ideas.

  They’re there. She’s there. I can feel it. I fade back into the woods, and now it’s really getting dark. Sun sets fast this time of year. It wouldn’t take much to get lost out here, hopelessly turned around. I keep my eyes fixed on the cabin, now little more than a black heap in the gathering dusk. What are we even going to do, if she’s there? Run into the pitch-black forest and hope we don’t break our necks?

  We’ll stick to the road. We’ll be fine.

  Assuming we can deal with Joe—that’s another thing. I didn’t even think to bring a crowbar, or a decent-sized stick.

  The swing set’s between me and the cabin. The chains are swaying in the wind—so, not totally rusted stiff. They’re just hooked on—if I could lift one off without rattling it....

  Yeah. That’s what I’ve got to do. Can’t go in empty-handed.

  My heart’s in my mouth as I stalk toward the swing set. I’m totally exposed. If Joe chooses this moment to open the door or peer out the window, even the dark won’t save me. Something my first-grade teacher used to say pops into my mind: quickly, quietly, and neatly! He said it every time he gave us something to do: and how do we practice our letters? Quickly, quietly, and neatly.

  All right, Mr. Adams. This one’s for you. I suck in a deep breath and hold it, keep it held as I shimmy up the pole. From here, I can just reach the nearest chain.

  The wind picks up a little, sighing in the trees. Now or never: this’ll be my best chance, with the rustling of the forest to cover any sound I might make.

  I let out that breath and lean out into the void. I’m spread out against the last light of day, hanging off the top of the swing set like a demented ape. This is as bad as it gets. I won’t be able to pull myself back once I get that chain in my hand. I’ll have to drop down with it, hope the thump doesn’t carry.

  Metal scrapes on metal as I ease the chain off its hook. I almost let go of it, but I remind myself it can’t be as loud as it sounds in my head. No one’ll hear. Quickly, quietly, and neatly. I roll the chain all the way off the hook, and drop.

  My shoes thud and scrape in the dirt: clumsy landing.

  The chain crumples at my feet. The jingling’s deafening—this was a terrible idea. Katie probably heard it back in Manhattan.

  No time to think: I scoop the chain into my arms, stretched out to keep it from rattling. Four giant bounds take me back to the treeline. I dart behind...something green and prickly? A Christmas tree? Going to call it a fir. I dart behind a fir and wait.

  Nothing happens. They’re not here—they can’t be. If they were... If they were, wouldn’t they have a light on? Or a fire? It’s cold as hell—of course they would. And someone would’ve come out when I went crashing into the dirt. A cold feeling settles around my heart. What if Joe figured I’d check his browser history and sent me on a wild goose chase? He could’ve dragged her off in the opposite direction, or anywhere, really.

  Still, I have to at least check. I take my time looping one end of the chain around my knuckles, and the other over my arm. Maybe Joe is there, and he did see me, and now he’s loading his gun, setting his sights, waiting for me to venture into the clearing.

  I loop all the way around, shuffling my feet to keep from stepping on anything that crackles or snaps. It’s close to full dark by the time I make it. The cabin’s a vague crouching hulk looming over me. And just my luck: when I press my face to the back window, it’s too dirty to see through. Which leaves the front. The front, where I’ve ninety-nine percent convinced myself Joe’s cozied up to the window, double-barreled shotgun poking out of it. Ready to blow me away.

  I’m not sure “Well, I’ve come this far!” really covers this type of situation.

  But... I have come this far.

  I feel like James Bond, sliding around the cabin with my back pressed to the wall, chained fist cocked. Would it even be safe to punch someone with that? Obviously it wouldn’t be safe for them, but I mean—for me? Would I break all my knuckles? Maybe I should use the other end, wield it like a whip.

  It occurs to me I haven’t been in a fistfight since junior high. And I didn’t win then.

  Too late: there’s the window. I can’t see any gun poking out, but maybe it’s inside.

  I flatten myself to the wall and ease forward, squinting into the dark.

  Nobody’s there. Probably...maybe... Nobody’s there. I can’t see anything, but....

  I inch closer.

  No one’s in the window, but someone’s in the cabin. I can hear breathing that isn’t mine: heavy, labored breathing. Sleeping breathing, almost a snore.

  I’ve been tiptoeing around like an asshole, and Joe’s... Yup. A glance in the window confirms it. There’s a pale, whitish lump in one corner, which resolves into two figures huddled under a duvet. One’s Joe, and he’s asleep, head thrown back, mouth open wide. The other’s Lina. And she’s looking right at me.


  156

  Elina

  A quick pinch to my forearm confirms it: I’m not dreaming or hallucinating.

  He came—he really came.

  Nick beckons me from the window—c’mere!

  I check on Joe. He looks like he’s out for the count. But how sure can I be? I reach for the rope at my ankles, completely loose now, and he stirs and groans.

  Nick frowns and holds up a finger: wait.

  Nervous energy sings through me. I want to hurtle into the night and never look back. But I’m not sure I could outrun Joe at the best of times, let alone barefoot over dirt and gravel. I shoot Nick a hard look: hope you have a plan.

  He doesn’t look like he has a plan. He’s just standing there, looking from me to Joe and back again. Well, if he doesn’t, maybe I do. I’ve had all day to think about it. I ease my arms out from under the duvet. When I’m sure Nick’s focusing on my hands, I point at the back window. He glances over there, and back at me. I make a mushroom cloud sign, both hands springing apart like a bomb’s gone off between them.

  Nick shakes his head.

  I repeat the mime: Come on! What’s so hard? Go out back; make a noise! Distract the fuck out of him!

  He shakes his head again, and draws his finger across his throat. That’s pretty clear: he thinks Joe might hurt me if he thinks we aren’t alone. Honestly, I’m not sure he won’t. I shrug: Out of ideas, then!

  Nick makes a circle with his thumb and forefinger and ducks out of sight. I hear sneaky footsteps mincing away from the cabin, then sprinting ones plunging into the woods. He can’t be... He wouldn’t just leave me here... Would he?

  No. He made the okay sign. That means... That has to mean....

  I just have to sit tight. He’s coming back. He’s probably... He’s got to be.... What?