The Marsh King's Daughter(71)

The idea of my father continuing to my house while I play dead at the bottom of a cliff might sound counterintuitive, but it’s the only way I can think of to separate myself from him. The deer trail we’re following takes the long way around the wetland behind my house. The moment my father is out of sight, I’ll cross the creek and climb the slope on the opposite side, cut through the marshland below the beaver pond, circle back to the trail ahead of my father, set up my ambush, and do what I have to do. I don’t want to hurt my father, but he brought this on himself. He changed the rules of our game when he shot me. Now there are no rules.

If my father doesn’t continue on to my house and decides instead to follow me down the cliff intending to pull me out of the river and drag me up the hill and force me to keep going as his prisoner, I’ll be ready. I’ll lock my arms around his neck and choke him with the handcuffs; pull him into the creek with me and drown alongside him if that’s the only way to stop him.

But I’m betting it won’t come to that. I know how my father thinks. His narcissism is going to work now in my favor. A narcissist can alter his plan to allow for changing circumstances, but he can’t change his endgame. My father wants to possess my girls even more than he wants me. By leaving the marsh, I chose my mother over him. By choosing her, I disappointed him. Kidnapping my daughters gives him another chance. He can mold and shape and coerce them into the new and improved versions of the daughter who betrayed him. All of which means that my father will go after my girls with or without me.

I hope.

I stumble once to set the stage. Fall to my knees and put out my arms to catch myself even though I’m wearing handcuffs because that’s what a person who’s not thinking clearly would do. The pain that blasts through my shoulder when my hands hit the ground makes me gasp. I cry out, curl into a ball, stay still. I could have choked it down if I had to—my father trained me well when it comes to enduring pain—but I want him to think I’ve reached my limit and am ready to break.

He kicks me in the ribs and rolls me onto my back. “Get up.”

I don’t move.

“Get up.” He grabs me by the cuffs and hauls me to my feet. I cry out again. This time, the cry is real. I remember all of his past acts of cruelty: smashing my thumb to teach me to be more careful, torturing The Hunter for no reason other than that he could, handcuffing me in the woodshed when I was a toddler when he got tired of my following him around or asking questions. There’s no way I will ever let this man get near my husband or my daughters.

“Now walk.”

I walk, scanning the trail ahead for the best place to make my move. Every tree and rock calls up a memory. The boggy place where Iris picked a spring bouquet of trillium and mayflowers. The place where Mari turned over a rock and found a red-bellied salamander. The rocky outcropping where Stephen and I shared a bottle of wine on our first anniversary and watched the sun set over the beaver pond.

I stumble over a tree root. Twice is enough to establish a pattern. More than that and my father will become suspicious.

A break in the trees ahead looks promising. The slope is steeper than I’d like, a hundred feet to the bottom and close to sixty degrees, but it’s covered in bracken ferns and not scrub pine. I doubt I’ll find anything better.

I trip over nothing, then stumble toward the edge like I’m trying to stop myself from falling and throw myself over. Headfirst, because what person in her right mind would do such a thing?

My wounded shoulder slams into the ground. I bite my lip. Keep my arms and legs loose while I tumble down and down.

It takes longer than I expected to reach the bottom. At last I crash to a stop on a clump of branches the current pushed together, my face inches from the water, and stay still. I try not to think about how much I hurt as I listen for sounds of my father. Remind myself I’m doing this for my family.

All remains quiet. When my gut says I’ve waited long enough, I lift my head enough to scan the top of the cliff.

My plan worked. My father is gone.

—

I SIT UP. The pain that blasts through my shoulder makes me gasp. I fall back, close my eyes, try to breathe, sit up again more slowly. I unzip my jacket and slide it off my wounded shoulder. The good news is it looks like my father’s bullet only grazed the skin. The bad news is I’ve lost a lot of blood.

“Are you okay?”

Calypso is sitting on the creek bank beside her brother. They look exactly as I remember. Cousteau still wears his red watch cap. Calypso’s eyes are as blue as a summer day. They’re wearing work boots and overalls and flannel shirts because, I now realize, at the time I created them that was the only kind of clothing I knew. I remember how I used to make up stories about our adventures.

Cousteau stands up and holds out his hand. “Come on. You have to hurry. Your father is getting away.”

“You can do it,” Calypso says. “We’ll help you.”

I push myself to my feet and assess my surroundings. The creek isn’t wide, no more than twenty feet, but judging by the angle of the slopes on either side, the middle is deep, possibly over my head. If I weren’t wearing handcuffs, I could easily swim across, but as it is, I can’t even put out my arms for balance. “Helena Drowns Because She Can’t Swim While Wearing Handcuffs” is not a story I’d like to tell.

“This way.” Cousteau leads me down the stream to a fallen cedar that spans the creek. It’s a good idea. I step into the water on the upstream side of the log, bracing myself against the log to keep from being swept away. Broken branches and fallen leaves litter the bottom. The branches are slick. I take my time; place my feet carefully. The log shifts from my weight as I lean against it. I try not to think about what will happen if it breaks loose.