The long way back, p.19
The Long Way Back, page 19
Rachel has set out a crate with gloves, trowels, and packets of seeds, as well as several black trays filled with delicate seedlings. The wicked-looking hoe is once again in her hands, and as Eva watches, she stabs it into the ground and begins scoring a thin line in the earth. Eva can’t imagine how Rachel expects her to help, but before she has a chance to ask, the morning is torn in two.
A sharp crack echoes off the trees.
It’s quickly followed by a second, and then a third. One more. When an entire volley of retorts accompanies the sudden flight of several dozen birds from the canopy of the surrounding forest, Eva’s brain finally catches up with her ears. Gunshots.
Her reaction is raw instinct, a primal urge that compels her to make herself as small as humanly possible. Eva is out in the open, a prominent target in any position, but she flings herself down anyway and covers her head with her hands as gunshots ring out across the shallow valley.
They’re not hunting—they can’t be. Eva knows that any quarry the shooters might be tracking is long gone by now. The incessant rat-a-tat of bullets—automatic weapons?—ensure that any deer, elk, or black bear are either racing through the underbrush or riddled with holes by now. She should run. She should…
But Rachel’s laughing. At first, Eva is convinced that Rachel is crying and they are united in their fear, but a quick glance dispels that fantasy. The gunshots persist—lesser now, but still puncturing the perfect morning—and Eva’s captor is nearly bent double with glee.
“Good God in heaven, you’re pathetic,” she says. “Look at you!” Rachel screws up her face and cowers, covering her head with her arms in a mockery of Eva’s protective pose.
Eva can hardly hear her over the rush of blood in her ears, but Rachel is clearly unaffected by the gunshots, so Eva slowly pushes herself up. Squinting toward the back of the property, she realizes that beyond the row of Morton buildings and the makeshift parking lot, there’s a tall, wooden fence of sorts. The shots seem to be coming from behind it.
“What’s going on?” Eva asks, her voice breaking. She doesn’t want to need Rachel for anything, but she has to know.
“Training,” Rachel responds with a smirk. It’s not much.
“Training for what?”
“War.”
War? Eva thinks of the soldier who chased her and brought her here. The camo and combat gear, the tall fence with the razor wire. Underneath and in between the barrage of constant discharge, she can now make out the sounds of shouting. Men are yelling quick, terse words that she can’t quite discern.
As Eva studies the compound she can see a sort of camp take form. Behind the house and the barn, the buildings look like barracks. And beyond the makeshift wall there’s camouflage netting slung from high branches and what looks like a climbing wall.
Eva is shaky and sick to her stomach, but she struggles to her feet anyway. It feels dangerous not to be upright, ready to flee, with such uncertainty around her.
“Rachel!”
Eva’s head snaps in the direction of the sound. It’s the man with the white hair, and he’s emerging from a side door in the barn. He strides across the grass toward the gardens with a grim look on his face.
Even at a distance Eva can feel power crackle around him like electricity. He’s unusually tall, well over six feet with broad shoulders and thick arms. His dress shirt is cuffed and rolled to his elbows, and his forearms are covered in pale hair that makes him appear to glow in the morning sun. But it’s his face that makes Eva’s breath catch in her throat. His features are chiseled and severe, his skin permanently bronzed from a long life lived outdoors. He’d be almost handsome if it wasn’t for his eyes—they are black holes, pits of gravity that draw her to him even as they make her feel panicked and exposed. The gunshots were better than his gaze on her.
“Dad,” Rachel says, and the word on her lips sounds both sacred and a little terrifying.
Eva flicks her eyes to the girl and realizes that she is standing straight and still, her back a rigid line that betrays a barely concealed fear at the sudden presence of her father. She’s clutching the handle of the hoe in both hands, her fingers white-knuckled.
“I’m sorry,” Rachel continues. “We didn’t get as far as we were supposed to. She slept late and I couldn’t wake her. I tried, I—”
“Rachel…” He’s close enough to touch her now, and as Eva watches, Rachel flinches just a bit. It’s a single full-body tremor that whispers from head to toe and then dissipates when the man reaches out and brushes her cheek. “I’m not upset about the garden. But I do question why you’ve dragged our guest out here so soon after her accident.”
“I thought… Tamar said…”
“Is Tamar in charge?” he asks, pinching Rachel’s chin almost tenderly. Eva recognizes that move—it’s classic Zach, and the thought makes the earth shift under her feet.
“No.” Rachel lowers her eyes.
“No, she’s not. Remember that, Daughter. And consider how you would like to be treated if you were a stranger in a strange land. Miss Sutton is our guest, not our prisoner.” At this, he turns toward Eva, and she shrivels beneath the force of his full attention. “Hello, Eva. It’s nice to finally meet you, my dear.”
When he extends his hand, Eva reaches out not because she wants to, but because she can’t imagine doing anything else. Her fingers are dwarfed by his massive hand, and in the warm grip of his welcome she feels embraced and important and seen.
His eyes crinkle at the edges when he says, “I’m Abner Brennan; you can call me Abner. It’s my pleasure to welcome you to the Gates of Zion. We are so blessed to have you here.”
For the first time since Zach yelled at her back at the cottage, Eva does feel welcome. Abner is smiling at her with his impenetrable eyes, and she could nearly forget that he is someone to cringe away from. But when she glances at the snug knot of their hands, she can see that his knuckles are purple and split.
This man hit Zach. Viciously.
Rachel is trying to bully Eva into submission, and Abner has apparently decided to use a softer, but no less manipulative approach. He’s trying to make her feel welcome so that she’ll let her guard down. She’s just not sure what he—or Rachel—wants from her.
Eva shivers a little and Abner’s expression changes. The congenial half smile melts off his face and his eyes become hooded. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’m dizzy,” Eva admits, pulling back her hand so she can wrap her arms around herself. It’s not a lie. Neither is: “My leg hurts.”
He softens. “Of course it does. I hear you hurt yourself quite badly. Come. I’ll take you inside and get you something to drink. Have you been given anything for the pain?”
Eva shakes her head, panicked at the thought of going anywhere with this man and confused by his behavior. But he’s already slipping an arm around her waist, and when he lifts so that she doesn’t have to bear her full weight on her wounded leg anymore, she feels a rush of relief. It’s clear he likes her like this: needy and docile.
“That’s better,” he murmurs. And then he’s leading her away from the gardens, away from Rachel and her bladed tools, her cruel smirk.
“What am I supposed to do?” Rachel calls, her voice almost plaintive.
“Finish planting.” Abner doesn’t even turn around. Instead, he gathers Eva closer and walks her toward the farmhouse. “I’ve got you,” he says, only for her ears. “You’re going to be just fine.”
Eva thinks about Zach slamming the door of the bedroom at the house in Little Moose. Of the way the key clicked in the door when he locked her inside. She thinks about hiding in the garage and then running through the forest, her heartbeat a drum in her chest. Her mind flashes through every horrifying moment since the second she reached for Zach’s hand on the Summer Moon. And though she has endured more horrible things in the last few days than the entirety of her life before, nothing compares to Abner Brennan’s arm around her, his breath in her hair.
COLLEGE APPLICATION ESSAY #41
Pick a quote that describes a lot about you and explain why you connect with it. Choose a quotation that admissions officers won’t see over and over and stay away from individuals who are constantly quoted.
“You’ve got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your wings on the way down.”
Annie Dillard
I have jumped off cliffs. Literally and more than once.
In the Pacific Northwest, I dove off a thirty-foot ledge into a glacier-fed river and nearly drowned. The water was so cold, so incredibly shocking in its intensity, that when I broke the surface, I gasped. It was a natural reaction, my body believed it was the most logical thing to do, but clearly, a deep breath while fully immersed in a body of water is ill-advised. I swallowed a mouthful of ice-cold water, and half of it ended up in my lungs.
It’s amazing to me how something can be so cold it burns. It’s amazing to me that from the top of the ridge, the boulders beneath the bottle-green water looked like tiny pebbles. And it’s amazing to me that even though it would have been easier to sink, everything inside me wanted to rise.
I have jumped off cliffs. Figuratively, more times than I can remember.
I am not risk-averse, and though my more natural tendencies might lean toward inertia, my mom made sure that I would never find myself flightless and floundering. My mom is an adventurer and risk-taker, and everything I know about wing-building (and all the rest) has come from her.
In some ways, we could not possibly be more alike. We love the new and novel, we live for the next opportunity to step far outside our comfort zones. And over the years of living and adapting and becoming the women that we were always meant to be, we have become something new entirely. Yes, I am her daughter, but I am also her sister, her best friend, and, at times, her competition. I am her biggest fan and her toughest critic, her eager devotee, and a vicious detractor. She raised me the very best way she knew how.
And yet. People can change a lot in two and a half years. I was barely fifteen when my mother and I hit the road full-time in a vintage Airstream trailer, and seventeen and a half when we made Landing, Minnesota, our home. I am no longer the naive, bullied little girl who spent many nights curled up beside her mommy. And I am no longer the delicate fledgling she still seems to think that I am. How do you tell the one who taught you everything that you can take it from here?
My mother gave me these wings, but I think she’s afraid to let me fly. And so I take to the sky in secret when she’s not looking. When I can dream and plan and explore the woman I am becoming in my own right. It’s far from perfect, but there’s joy in that, too. In the way that I fall and mess up, ding a wing and rise again. It’s glorious and heartbreaking. It’s a cliff I never dreamed I would have to throw myself from.
I wouldn’t change a thing.
I would change everything.
*507 words. Close enough, Mrs. A? If not, can you help me find some words to cut? I feel this one in my bones and each time I hit delete I die a little…
CHAPTER 15
MONDAY
Abner takes Eva into the farmhouse. In the kitchen he pauses, grabbing a Coke from the fridge and a couple of ibuprofen from the cupboard beside it.
“I’m sorry I don’t have anything stronger,” he says, offering her the two blue pills. “I’m sure Tamar has a prescription or two, but she’s pretty possessive of her medicine cabinet.”
“It’s okay,” Eva demurs, accepting the medicine as if it means nothing at all. In reality, she’s practically buzzing at the prospect of a little pain relief. And a Coke! What she would give for some onion rings from Mugs to go with it. But she yanks her thoughts back from the edge before she loses it completely and focuses on the ibuprofen. Her leg is keeping time with her heart, a sickening twinge of agony for every single beat.
Abner screws off the top of the Coke bottle with a satisfying pop. “Here,” he says, offering it to her.
“Thank you.” Eva is ashamed of the gratitude she feels. Pain relievers? Coke? She wants it so bad she’s trembling. Why is he being so nice to her?
Two pills in her palms and then on her tongue. A long swig of sugary caffeine that hits at the base of her skull like a drug. “Thanks,” Eva says again, meaning it. “I feel better already.”
“I’m glad to hear it. You’re our guest, Eva. I’m sorry if Rachel made you feel differently. If last night made you feel differently.” He cringes. “It wasn’t supposed to be that way.”
Eva isn’t sure what he means. The horrifying approach of the SUV? The way he backhanded Zach so casually? Or maybe he’s talking about the frightening race through the trees and how his soldier hunted her down like an animal.
“It’s okay,” Eva says, not meaning it.
“No, it’s not. We’re better than that. You must be scared to death.”
The fact that he’s named it, that he’s willing to admit how this all must feel to Eva, is enough to undo her. Tears glint on her eyelashes and she resists the urge to sob. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t, but I think I can remedy that,” Abner says kindly. “And I also think I can help you with that leg. A vicious bout of sciatica forced me to use crutches several years ago. Why don’t you wait here while I see if I can track them down?”
Eva nods, quietly elated at the thought of crutches. Anything to take the pressure off her leg.
Abner disappears around the corner in the living room, and Eva hears a door open, followed by the sound of heavy footfalls on stairs. Of course there’s a basement. She wonders what’s down there and wishes she would have feigned unease at the thought of being alone. Maybe he would have taken her along.
But then it hits Eva that she’s alone in the vast house. Glancing around to make sure that no one is hiding in a doorway or down a hall, Eva hobbles back toward the mudroom and the photo on the long wall.
It’s a canvas as big as a coffee table and filled with dozens of people. There’s Abner at the very center of the shot, holding a giggling toddler on his hip. Eva can’t tell if the child is a boy or a girl, as he or she is sporting a pair of corduroy overalls and has genderless, short curls the color of a copper penny. But every other woman or girl in the picture is easily identifiable by her dress. The garments are ankle-length and universally unflattering, a sort of uniform that renders them all similar and shapeless.
The gaggle of people around Abner and the toddler are all young, and there are so many small children that Eva wonders briefly if he runs some sort of home. But there are pairs of twenty and early thirtysomethings, and as Eva studies the picture, she thinks that she can group them into families. She would bet that there are five grown children with their spouses and kids gathered around. Rachel is there surrounded by a gaggle of preteens. And then—Zach.
He’s on the edge of the group, separated from what Eva assumes to be a sister by a sliver of blank space that makes it look as if he has been photoshopped in. The way he leans away from the cluster of his family speaks volumes. His smile looks fake, and doesn’t reach his eyes, and Eva’s heart contracts in spite of herself.
“I see you’ve found the most recent Brennan family portrait.”
Eva starts, and the sudden jerk of movement sends her leg into spasms.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Abner says, putting a steadying hand on the small of her back.
Her skin boils where he’s touching her, but Eva doesn’t dare to move.
“Here,” he says, passing over a pair of aluminum crutches with his free hand. “I tried to adjust them for your height, but we may have to tweak them a bit.”
Eva accepts the crutches and uses them as an excuse to pull away from Abner. She’s never needed crutches before, but she’s seen it done enough, and when she slides them under her arms and shifts her weight to the hand grips, the stress on her leg is almost immediately alleviated. Eva can feel the muscles in her jaw soften in relief.
“Good?” Abner asks, smiling. His mouth pulls slightly to the right side, just like Zach’s, and Eva can’t stop herself from recoiling a little.
“You have a big family,” she says, so he won’t ask her about the sudden chill in the air.
“Eleven children.” There’s an entire symphony of pride in his voice. “Five in-laws, and a baker’s dozen of grandchildren. We have three sets of twins.” He points them out to Eva, but she’s barely paying attention. “Sadly, my long-suffering wife passed away a few years ago.”
“Where does Zach fit?” Eva sneaks the question in while he’s still admiring his descendants.
Abner slides just his eyes to give her an assessing look, and for a moment Eva is convinced that he won’t answer her. But then he admits, “Zechariah is fifth in line.”
Zechariah. Not Zach. It’s a dusty, old-fashioned biblical name—a small side step from the much more common Zachary and yet somehow vastly different, infused with significance. If he had introduced himself as Zechariah instead of Zach at Mugs the afternoon they met, would Eva have paused? Would she have asked him questions about the origin of his unusual name and discovered more about who he was and where he’d come from? Would she be here right now, a veritable prisoner—no matter what Abner says—on a compound in the woods of Northern Minnesota?
“Where is Zach?” Eva dares to whisper, rebelling with that one small syllable. It feels like a dangerous question, but Abner just ignores her.
“Come,” he says, holding out his arm in the direction of the kitchen. “Let’s sit down. I have a bit of time before lunch and the Gathering.”
Eva has so many questions but she isn’t sure that Abner will want to answer them. Or that he’ll be truthful if he does.
His office is beyond the living room, in a wing that looks over the far lawn. They are on the opposite side of the property as the barn and the gardens, and looking out the tall windows, Eva can see a lush, rolling yard that descends gently to a wall of trees. It’s postcard perfect, downright pastoral, and paired with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that surround Abner’s desk, Eva is momentarily convinced that nothing sinister could be at play in such a lovely setting. But then she reads the spines of a few of Abner’s books. There are theological treatises shoulder to shoulder with books that warn of dark agendas and hidden enemies, as well as socialism, Marxism, and tyranny. It’s a paranoid, threatening collection.
