by L. C. Shaw
“Haven’t you been taking these?”
“They make me sick.”
Jack exhaled slowly. “It’s important for you and the baby.”
She stuck out her tongue. “All you care about is the stupid baby.”
Jack gave her a withering look. “Stupid?”
She put her face inches from his and sneered. “Stupid. Just like its father. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
He grabbed her by the shoulders. “What’s the matter with you? How can you talk about our child like that?”
“Because, Jack, as you’ve pointed out, I don’t have a maternal bone in my body.”
He was speechless.
She goaded him. “Say it.”
“Say what?”
“Say you’re not cut out to be a mother.”
He turned his back on her and walked toward the door. “I’ll say no such thing.”
She ran up to him and grabbed his arm. “Be honest for once in your pathetic life. Maybe then we can start to change things. Say it!”
He spun around, defeat in his eyes. “You win, Dakota. You’re not cut out to be a mother.”
“Ha.” She was triumphant. “I knew you felt that way. Get out of here.”
When he got home that night she was nearly unconscious, but she was determined to hang on until he appeared, so that she could whisper the condemning words to him: “I guess I’m not cut out to be a mother.”
The lawyers advised her to plead insanity, and the court-appointed shrink had diagnosed her with bipolar disorder. Her attorney argued that the pregnancy hormones had sent her over the edge. She was more than happy to go along with them. She knew how to play the game. So here she was, waiting like a good little girl to see the useless doctor and continue to feed him the lies that would get her released. She had studied hard for her role as the improving patient and had no doubt her brainless doctor would soon let her out.
He opened his office door and called her in.
She bestowed her most enchanting smile on him. It was so easy. It bored her to death. She spoke her well-rehearsed lines, cried when appropriate, made her voice catch in the right places. He was nodding at her now, his facial expression one of earnest empathy.
She was a great actress. Her stint with Jack had been her longest-running role. Oh, the long seasons of depression left her bored, but the one thing that kept her going was her amusement at his clumsy attempts to cheer her up. He was pathetic, and his codependent behavior sickened her. When she was tired of being “depressed,” she would miraculously recover and become the Dakota he loved once again. What delight she took in the knowledge that his happiness was short-lived and at the complete whim of her moods. She threw herself into their lovemaking with one goal—to enslave him. She reveled in the sexual power she held over him. She broke him down, built him up, and broke him down again, all the while mocking him in her mind. She was sorry when the role came to an end, having grown fond of the game and crushing his spirit. She got her parting shot in, though—cutting the baby out of her stomach had been her idea—her masterpiece. She wanted to destroy him, make sure he would be no good for anyone else. She did so knowing she would have to pay for it, but it was worth it. The session was almost over.
She dabbed at her eyes with a balled-up tissue and looked at the therapist. Her lip trembled.
He stood. “Dakota, I’m so pleased with the progress you’ve made. I do think you’re ready to take the next step.”
She feigned grateful surprise. “Really, are you sure, Doctor?”
He smiled at her. “Yes, quite sure. You are ready. I’ll make my recommendations at your hearing.”
Dakota thought he looked pleased with himself. Soon she would be free of this place and back where she belonged. She had played her hand well and was ready, finally, to claim her reward. She couldn’t wait to be with him again. The only man she considered her equal and worthy of her devotion. Damon Crosse.
Chapter Thirty-Three
CROSBY HIT THE PLAY BUTTON ON THE VIDEO STREAMING on his computer. The latest episode of Teenage Wasted had been shot and edited, and he was taking one last look before it aired. These were college kids—eighteen and nineteen years old.
Two girls are sitting in a dorm room, talking.
“It’s easy, Mindy. And when you graduate, you have no debt.”
“I don’t know.” The other girl looks at her fingernails. “I don’t think I could do it.”
The first girl stands, brushing her long blond hair from her shoulder with a manicured hand. She walks to her dresser, opens it, pulls out a wad of cash and fans it in front of Mindy’s face. “Fine. I’m going shopping with my little tip here. You can let that cheapskate of a boyfriend touch you for free. I’m doing exactly what you are, but instead of being paid with dinner or a movie, I’m getting what I deserve.”
Mindy looks up at her friend. “How did you even find out about it, Lucy?”
Lucy smiles and sits back down. “That’s the great thing. It’s super easy and organized. It’s run by a girl just like us, and she vets all the guys. You can even pick from a picture and get a cute one. They’re older, but, you know, handsome. Just rich older guys bored with their wives. It’s fun really. They have these clubs on every campus.”
Crosby stopped the video. It was just enough to titillate and get people thinking. What they were doing was illegal everywhere in the US—everywhere, that is, except for where it was filmed, in Nevada. He had no doubt that men of a certain age and resources would begin googling to find willing college girls. Cash-strapped girls would do the same. He sent an email to his YouTube contingent and closed the laptop. It was so easy to manipulate people, especially with the public appetite for reality television shows. If anyone bothered to read the disclaimer, they would see that it was a scripted reality series and mostly fabricated, but it didn’t matter. As long as other people were doing it, it legitimized it for the masses. It wasn’t even difficult to get sponsors any longer. The public outcry was easily drowned out by the advocates of whatever outrageous idea they put on film. Set the right context and people bought into anything. After the show aired, there would be a plethora of videos of good-looking young women singing the praises of such a service. They would be actors, of course, but no one would realize that. Students would begin prostituting themselves, convinced that it was no big deal. They had no idea of the permanent damage it would do to their self-esteem. That would be something they wouldn’t realize until they were in the thick of it. And by then, it would be too late for many of them. Once they’d serviced their first client, they’d feel so bad about themselves they wouldn’t have the emotional reserves to stop.
Of course, there wasn’t really such an escort service on every college campus. Yet.
Chapter Thirty-Four
TAYLOR WAS AWAKE BEFORE DAWN. THEY COULDN’T LEAVE for the library until it opened at nine. But she was going stir-crazy. She fed Beau, then went to the bathroom and got dressed. When she came out, Jack was awake.
“Everything all right? You’re up awfully early.”
“Of course everything is not all right. My husband’s dead, our lives are in danger, and I don’t even know what we’re doing. What if this is just a huge wild-goose chase? And when it’s all over, then what? I thought I had a good life with Malcolm. Turns out he was a liar, too.”
Too? Jack thought. Was that how she saw him? A liar? “Come on, Taylor. I know you’re grieving for Malcolm, but time will heal.”
Anger flashed in her eyes. “Is that what you think, Jack? Time will heal? Let me tell you something—it doesn’t heal. It only numbs the pain tearing your heart apart until you can’t feel anything anymore. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” She glared at him. “You and I were supposed to be together. But you went off and married that psycho!” She ran back into the bathroom, slamming the door.
Jack sat shamefaced, Taylor’s words ringing in his ears.
Maybe it was a good thing that Taylor had gotten angry. It wa
s time they cleared the air. He wanted to explain about Dakota, but how? He barely understood it himself, and he had no excuses for what he had done. He couldn’t blame her for hating him. Despite their roller-coaster relationship, it didn’t occur to him to leave Dakota in the beginning. No matter how low she sank, how nasty she became, he stood by her and opened his heart again when the loving Dakota returned. He held no grudges, never threw her heartless words back at her. For her part, she seemed to have amnesia regarding her black spells. There were never any apologies, no pleas for forgiveness. She accepted it as her due that he would be there, on the other side of her depression, waiting for her return to him. His friends told him he was crazy, that he should leave. It was out of the question. Was he happy, they wanted to know? Happy? Had he ever been happy? In those rare moments of self-reflection, he would admit that yes, he had been happy—when he had been with Taylor. She’d been the only bright spot in a childhood marred by many seasons of melancholy and moroseness.
How had he failed to see it? He’d replicated his childhood when he’d married Dakota—it was the same wretched, unpredictable, insanity-filled life. Each pregnancy his beautiful Irish Catholic mother—with a poet’s soul and a mournful heart—had endured had plunged her deeper into depression, her emergence from the depths more arduous with each subsequent baby. Jack was her second. For as far back as he could remember, she had always been pregnant. When he left home at eighteen, he had five sisters and a mother barely functioning. He’d begged his father to do something. Get her help. Stop knocking her up. They were Catholics, his father reminded him. Birth control was a sin. His father rebuked him for interfering with their “personal business” and insisted there was nothing wrong with his wife that a little time wouldn’t cure. Taylor had been Jack’s only mooring. How different both of their lives would have been if he’d kept his word to her. God knows he had paid the price for his mistakes—was still paying it every day. But that did nothing to alleviate Taylor’s pain or to absolve him for causing it. Taylor came out of the bathroom.
“I’m sorry, Jack. I don’t know what got into me.”
He shook his head. “Don’t apologize. You were right. I should have never married her. To say I’m sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it, and I don’t know what I could ever say to make up for what I did.”
She ran her hands through her hair.
“It’s water under the bridge. Long time ago,” she said quietly. “The stress of all this, it’s making me a little nuts.”
“No, it’s not. Taylor, can we please talk about it? I can’t stand to have this huge thing between us. I know what I did was unforgivable. I’d like to at least try to explain.”
“I don’t think I really want to rehash it all. I know things didn’t turn out well for you, and I’m sorry.” She looked down.
He didn’t mince words.
“Are you talking about the baby?”
She looked up. “Yes.” She ran her thumb back and forth over her fingernail. “How could she? I’ll never understand it.” She shook her head.
Clearing his throat several times he finally answered. “She blamed it on me.”
“What?”
“She hated being pregnant, gaining weight. She used to berate me daily about what I’d done to her.”
Taylor said nothing.
“The day it happened, we’d had a fight. She kept egging me on, trying to get me to say that I thought she’d be a terrible mother. I finally did. I’ve never seen a look of triumph like the one on her face that day. When I came home, I found her in the tub. The water was so red from all the blood. And the baby . . . Right before she passed out she told me it was all my fault.”
Taylor was horrified.
“Jack, don’t you see that she’d planned it all along? No woman is going to cut a child out of her stomach just because of a few words her husband says. No sane woman.”
He put his head in his hands. “I know that intellectually. But I still feel responsible. She killed my child just to spite me. That’s how much she despised me. How could I fall for a person like that?”
Taylor pursed her lips. “How did you?” It came out as a whisper.
He was anguished. “I wish I knew. It was the worst mistake of my life. Will you ever be able to forgive me?”
She closed her eyes and finally answered, “I don’t know if I can.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
THE INSTITUTE, DECEMBER 1975
MY BABY IS GROWING. I AM INFORMED AT MY WEEKLY EXAMS that all is going perfectly. The heartbeat is strong, and I’m gaining just the right amount of weight. How could I not, with my diet so carefully controlled? I am visibly pregnant now. The months are dwindling down to my delivery, and I’ve still found no way to even attempt an escape. Instead, I sit and rub my belly and talk to my baby. Despite the fact that this nightmare is something I could never have imagined, I feel a love for this child growing inside me. I allow myself to imagine a different life. One in which I have a loving husband eager for the child’s arrival. A life in which I will get to watch my child grow up. I glance down at my stomach and at the gray cotton shirt and black stretch pants Crosse has provided. A drab uniform of solid colors and practicality. Dreams of beautiful maternity clothes, a loving husband, and joyous expectation will all go unfulfilled.
It has been a week since he told me about going to my parents. I haven’t seen him since, have been left on my own to do nothing but worry. Even though I tried not to show it, when he first told me that my mother refused to turn over the coins, I was wounded. How could she not do anything in her power to save me? All because of a legend about some pieces of metal? Because that’s what it must be. Legend. An inanimate object has no power. Right? But now I wonder. Dunst is a renowned scientist. That’s what got him his entry into this country. And he believes in the power of the coins, that they healed him. I wish I could do some research, find out more about the coins and their history, but all I have to go on is what they tell me. And if my mother and father, who I know with certainty do love me, wouldn’t give them up, then maybe, just maybe, they do contain the power he claims. It’s hard enough to sacrifice your own life for your faith—but the life of your child? The only way that is possible is to have an unshakable belief that to betray your faith would have monumental repercussions and that the stakes are truly of eternal significance. Now that I am to become a mother, I already feel an overpowering love for my baby. I would lay down my life for this child without a second thought.
So are my parents fools? Is their faith misplaced? I am beginning to think I am the fool. When did I give up on my faith? I search my memory and try to remember what it was that turned me away. Did something happen to shatter my belief? Some terrible trauma that made me realize there was no God? I can think of nothing. The reality is, I just drifted away. There was no defining moment, no reason other than it was easy to walk away. I gave my allegiance to myself and to science. I didn’t think I needed God or anybody else. Is it too late for me to turn back now? I kneel by my bed, the way I did as a little girl, and clasp my hands together.
“Dear God, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I hope you can. If there was ever a time I needed to know if you are there, it’s now. Please give me a sign, anything, that you exist, that you love me, that I’m not doomed to die in this place with no hope of a life after.” I stay that way for a long while, my head bowed, my spirit still. Then I feel my baby move. It is nothing more than a flutter at first, so subtle, I’m not sure if I imagine it or not. But then, another movement—this time stronger—and a kick. I look up and whisper, “Thank you.”
* * *
I pray every day now. Last night, I felt a peace wash over me, covering me like a warm blanket. It was comforting and strangely tangible, emanating from a source outside of myself. My hand goes to my neck, and I grasp the christening cross that I’ve worn each day of my life since I was thirteen. Until now it had ceased to hold any significance, other than nostalgic. But now, it is my most p
recious possession, my only real possession, and merely feeling it against my skin fills me with hope. I think of all it symbolizes and make myself meditate on its meaning. It was taken from me when we first arrived but was with my belongings when I was moved to this prison. I wonder why he has allowed me to keep it, but I don’t dare ask for fear he will take it.
With every fiber of my being, I rebel against the lies he tries to instill in me. That I carry within me the continuation of evil. I won’t accept it. I hold fiercely to the belief that I am connected and forever bound to the God of the universe. Damon may hold my body captive, but he will never touch my soul. How ironic that I owe my salvation to the man who imprisons me. Would I have turned back to God if I’d been allowed to continue on my chosen path? Education was my god. Medicine was my god. And yes, I even made myself into a god. What a terrible thing pride is. If it were only my life to be lost, I could almost be grateful, for in losing it I have found it. What grieves me with unrelenting desolation is the knowledge that I am leaving my precious child, alone and unprotected, helpless to resist the evil that will encapsulate him. I will pray for this child until my dying breath.
