The Cabin at the End of the World(41)
“And a lot of people will die?”
“People will die.”
“I don’t believe you and I wish you would stop making this all up.”
“I can promise you one thing, Wen.”
“What.”
“Your parents won’t ever choose to sacrifice you. I know they won’t and I wouldn’t let them do anything to you. I would stop them. I would protect you if I had to. That’s my promise. You shouldn’t be worried about that.”
“Sacrifice means die, right?”
“Yes, but one of your dads will be saving the rest of the world, Wen. Think about how many people out there—”
“I don’t want any of us to die. Ever.” Wen sinks back under the blanket, covering her head. Leonard whispers her name, trying to coax her back out. She can’t help but imagine her dads as saggy balloons stuck in this cabin and never able to float away.
She makes a deal with this killer-god of Leonard’s, a god she doesn’t believe is real but is very much frightened of. She has this image of his god as all the black empty space between stars when you look up at the night sky, and this god of collected blankness is big enough to swallow the moon, the earth, the sun, the Milky Way, and big enough it couldn’t possibly care about anyone or anything. Still, she asks this god if she and her parents can please leave the cabin, can they please go home and be safe, and if it lets them, she promises she won’t ever complain about sleeping in the dark with the lights off ever again.
Eric
In the morning the others scurry around the kitchen making placemats out of paper towels and setting glasses and mugs on the table. They are purposeful, determined, and clearly anxious. The surreal, relaxed-family-on-vacation vibe from last night’s dinner is gone. If one of them was to accidentally brush up against the other, there’d be a bright and loud static-electric spark, which would then set off an explosion.
Sabrina asks them all twice if they want coffee and how much. She obsessively glances out the small window above the sink to the deck, from which wafts a putrid, tangy, many-days-old garbage smell.
Leonard checks his watch, claps his hands together, and says, “Okay,” to himself.
Adriane stacks buttered, browned toast onto a plate and she shoos and mutters at the stubborn gaggle of flies buzzing the food, “Get out. Get the fuck out.”
Wen sits at the kitchen table with the others but doesn’t speak to anyone. She looks down into her lap and her hands are clenched into fists, her thumbs cocooned inside.
Andrew tells her it’s all right to eat. Wen doesn’t eat or drink anything, even when offered chocolate milk. Andrew tells her if she doesn’t feel like eating right now that’s okay, too. Eric adds, “Whatever you want to do,” which, given their current circumstances, is an unintentionally cruel thing to say.
Wen deflates and sags into the kitchen chair so only the top of her head is visible above the table. Andrew and Eric loudly refuse offers of toast and water in solidarity.
Eric’s head doesn’t hurt like it did the day before, though he is far from fully recovered from his concussion. His head is an overstuffed washing machine, wobbling off its track in the spin cycle. The room is too brightly lit when it isn’t bright for anyone else. His throat is dry and he regrets not drinking water when offered. He’s exhausted and struggles to remain awake even as the rest of his body screams and begs to be released from the prison of its sitting position. His arms and legs ache although the restraints have perceptibly slackened over the long night. He’s now able to pull his hands apart so they are no longer touching and he can stretch his lower legs a centimeter or two away from the chair; small but significant progress. He wonders if the ropes around Andrew have loosened as well.
After the hurried breakfast, Sabrina checks Eric’s dressing and wound. She says it doesn’t look great and perhaps could’ve used a few stitches after all, but it isn’t infected. The others carry the blankets and mattresses out of the common room. They move quickly and efficiently, stagehands making short work of a scene change. Leonard drags Andrew, still tied to the chair, away from the front door and into the center of the room. The wooden chair legs scrape and screech across the floor, as percussive as a passing tractor trailer on a highway, leaving gouged parallel lines in the wood.
When Leonard comes for Eric and his chair, Eric says, “No, please, dragging me like that will not be good for my head. I’m feeling better but not that much better. Untie my legs and I’ll walk. I promise I’ll be good.” Eric is an inept liar and always has been.
Leonard towers above, as large and solemn as an Easter Island statue. He says, “Sorry, not yet.” He retucks his white shirt into his jeans, then bends and reaches for the chair’s armrests.
“Hey, let’s pick him up, carry him instead. We can help you. We need him to be thinking clearly, more clearly than he was thinking yesterday, right?” Sabrina jogs over and stands next to Eric and his chair. Adriane comes over, too.
Leonard says, “We don’t have much time,” but he acquiesces after a brief negotiation. The three of them lift Eric and his chair a few inches off the ground. He wobbles and pitches as they readjust, overcorrect, and shuffle-carry him. Eric considers twisting or leaning all his weight to one side so they might drop him for no strategic reason other than he can for the moment control what will happen to him. They set him down with Andrew to his right, the same area of the room in which he was moored yesterday. Having been returned to this spot is more than a little demoralizing, and it’s as though Eric’s dizziness and low-grade nausea is the result of time travel.