I'll Be You(48)

And then I let myself out.

The night was mild, with a faint breeze that lifted the hair on my arms. My car was parked right out front—presumably Caleb had driven it for me? It seemed unlikely that he would have let me drive myself. I got in it and then sat there for a long time as I surveyed the street: stucco apartment buildings painted in pastel colors, sturdy sedans parked out front, fairy lights hanging from balconies. A pale gray sky, washed with moon.

What was I going to do now?

I wondered, fleetingly, if any bars were still open.

Call Tamar. Tell her what’s going on. She’ll help you. But it struck me how selfish that would be, to ruin someone’s sleep so that they could make you feel better about yourself. If I really wanted to feel better, I should do something to make myself feel better.

I remembered Caleb’s words about God at dinner last night: The force that helps me when I’m trying to help myself. What was my reason for pushing forward, for trying to find the light inside a darkness of my own making?

And suddenly, through the murk of my hangover, I saw that I didn’t want to be Charlotte’s alcoholic aunt.

I closed my eyes and remembered Charlotte looking up at me, a mole crab crawling across her palm, wonder in her eyes. I’d disappointed everyone else in my family, but not her. Not yet. I could still be her hero. I could even bring her mother back to her.

I looked at the keys in my hand and a thought flashed into my head. Drive back to Ojai and break into the compound and kidnap Elli by force. But this seemed like a terrible idea, too.

Instead, I started the car and drove aimlessly down the block. I turned left, then right, then left again, unsure exactly what neighborhood I’d landed in, until I saw a freeway on-ramp looming ahead. An invitation to drive somewhere farther away. Flee. To another city. Another state. Somewhere like—

Somewhere like Arizona.

Why not? I still had the list of addresses tucked in a pocket in my purse. Seven hours there, seven hours back, I’d be home by the evening, with a decent excuse for my parents to explain why I’d vanished overnight.

I yanked the steering wheel to the right, and hit the gas hard, accelerating up the ramp onto the deserted late-night highway. The stars twinkled overhead and the date palms shivered in the ocean breeze. I snapped on the radio and the tuner settled on a Chopin étude in a minor key. The highway stretched ahead of me, clear and open, full of promise.





15




NUMBER 825 JOSHUA TREE DRIVE was a modern Southwestern home in an upscale Scottsdale neighborhood, designed from monumental plinths of pale pink adobe that seemed to hold up the blinding blue of the Arizona sky. It sat on an island of lush grass, which was shockingly green against the sunbaked terrain. A hundred feet past the house, the lawn ended abruptly, as if you’d come to the end of the world. There, the Sonoran Desert began: a stark landscape of desert scrub pierced by saguaro and ocotillo cacti, with occasional shocks of purple sage and bright yellow marigolds that had gone crisp in the heat.

It was another rich person’s house. If GenFem was indeed the connective tissue between these three homes, it was clear that they were recruiting members with an abundance of disposable income. Or perhaps they were responsible for the disposable income: a manifestation of the success of their “Method.” How was I to know.

I pulled over in front and surveyed the neighborhood. The houses were set far apart, with meticulous drought-tolerant landscaping in between. No one was out on the sidewalk—the midday sun was far too severe—and the houses were shuttered against the heat, curtains drawn tight. The few cars parked on the street clearly belonged to the help: beat-up hatchbacks, a plumber’s truck leaking oil. The owner’s luxury cars, if they weren’t parked at their offices, were probably tucked behind the doors of their three-car garages.

My own car’s temperature gauge read 109 degrees. Outside, the air shimmered, deceptively soft. I shut off the ignition and within seconds, my car was an oven. I could feel the sweat pooling between my breasts.

My entire body ached from the long drive. All those hours in the car had helped clarify something, bring my focus away from my own solipsistic woes and back to something fundamental: Help Charlotte. Bring her mother home. But now that I’d finally stopped, a muddiness began to seep in. The penumbra of last night’s drunken petulance, the shame of it all. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a ghoul. My face was puffy, my hair greasy, my shirt covered with cheese dust from the Doritos I’d eaten for breakfast. I still had last night’s makeup on, and there were black crescents of smeared mascara in the pockets under my eyes.

I rummaged around until I found a stray container of baby wipes next to the car seat and gave myself a refresh—across the face, under the armpits, between my breasts. A fresh coat of mascara, some lip gloss. There. I still looked limp, but at least I no longer resembled a streetwalker. Whoever lived in this house might be cult members, but they were clearly rich cult members. And judging by my bizarre phone call with Michaela Blackwell, I might be walking into a confrontation.

I arranged my face into the correct balance of friendliness and concern, looked in the mirror, adjusted it. I prepared to perform.

The heat hit me like a wall once I stepped out of the car, undoing in seconds all the cosmetic fixes of the last few minutes. It felt like the air had sucked all the moisture out of my bones; it was so dry I couldn’t even sweat. Sweet Jesus, how could anyone live here?