Take Me With You(60)

I nod.

“Looks like she's put you to work, that's good. You can't just read books by yourself all day. We have to keep working on our project, okay?”

“What project?” Scoot asks.

Dad pats him on the back. “Go get your mother, will you?”

He looks at us suspiciously but runs towards the house.

“How's mom been? Acting strange?”

I shake my head. I need to protect us from spies.

“I worry about you here.”

I look down at my feet, at the bits of manure stuck on them.

“Alright, well, I won't force you out of here. But you should tell me if she's hiding anything.”

I can't tell whose side he's on.

“Let's get in the house. You need a bath. Have you eaten?”

I shake my head.

“Well, then you need food too. You are gonna need all the energy you can get for tonight.”





He's locked me in again. The room has no trace of evidence of the previous week's insanity except for the crack in the bathroom door. I thought I had at least chinked his armor, but every day is like a new one for him. I never know who will be walking through that door. But before I can further analyze my predicament, hunger burns through my belly. The bag of dried meat he gave me was just enough to hold me through the night. Just as always, I know nothing. I don't know when my next meal or visit will be. Time doesn't exist here.

I make my way to the bathroom. I ran out of water the day before and in a moment of wishful thinking, I yank on the chain from my shower, hoping for a trickle. I don't expect the water that drenches me. “Shit!” I hiss as I jump back. This is good, though. He filled my water stocks!

I look down at my naked body and decide I should just finish the job, pulling the cord all the way and hoping into the stream of water. I open my mouth, hydrating myself and my baby.

My baby. Our baby.

I clear my mind of the thought. The responsibility I am undertaking. I don't want to think about how I am using this child as a tool for my own survival. Or how I am bringing it into a terrifying and uncertain world. I can't afford to labor over moral ambiguity. I can only focus on what needs to be done for survival.

I close my eyes and soak in the warmth of the water when I hear footsteps. He wants me to hear. He can be a damn ninja if he wants, so when I hear him, it's because he's either taunting, doesn't care, or maybe in this case (I hope), showing some kind of deference to my space.

I push the door open with my toes to peer out as I rinse off.

He's there, in his full glory, face exposed, dressed in a well-worn t-shirt and jeans, setting a tray of food on the table. My stomach goes queasy, unsure of how to act around him after last night. Now that I can see his face, he's so human, and it's like I am getting to know him all over again.

He must know I am watching, but he doesn't acknowledge me. Maybe it's weird for him too. Then he moves out of my line of sight. He can't be leaving so soon. I turn off the shower and grab my towel, chasing towards the door like a curious puppy. He's already gone.

I sigh with disappointment. I have to build on last night before he erects his walls again. But the door reopens, and he's back, this time with another small table.

I freeze, standing there, dripping wet, wrapped in my thin towel, caught staring at the door from which he departed.

“Good…morning,” I utter awkwardly, like some girl who is seeing a boy she first kissed the night before.

He nods. This is the first time I have gotten to see him in the light of day. Some of his thicker scars are almost opalescent with the sun shining through the skylight. But the sun shines on his other features just as brightly, and he is even more handsome than I thought.

He sets the table against a wall and steps back out. I wait patiently, wondering what he has up his sleeve. This time he returns with…a record player. A record player!

I haven't felt like this since my grandmother surprised me with a trip to Disneyland when I was ten. I desperately try to play it cool, but a smile fights its way to the surface, and then I'm just grinning like a fool.

He places one album upright, behind the player, against the wall. The soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever. It's a small glimmer into who he might be. I doubt he had time to go buy it this morning, so it must be from his own collection. I never would have guessed.

I run over to the record player, but he puts a gentle hand on my forearm and points to the other table.

Eat.

Of course. The excitement had made me forget the pain for a moment. The plate is loaded with fruit and bacon—a rare treat—hard boiled eggs, toast, oatmeal and pulpy orange juice. This is a feast by the standards here. I grab the toast first and take a few eager bites.

“Thank you,” I say through a full mouth.

He doesn't say anything, but looks at me, almost coyly, from the corner of his eyes. As I shovel oatmeal into my mouth, I observe the small pleasure he has afforded me. Maybe something did change last night.

Unlike my other feedings, he doesn't leave, instead, he sets up the record player and then sits in his chair. Once I have enough food in my belly to slow down, I figure I should say something for the both of us.

“You like the Bee Gees?” I ask.

He shrugs.

“Did you see the movie?”