Again, he apologizes. I pause long enough to think.
“I suppose I can wear these to town,” I say.
He looks at me now, curious. “Town?”
“To make the call on your cell phone. We talked about that last night—about driving to town where there’s a signal. I need to call my family. I need to let the police know that I’m safe—I left my car… and my phone…”
“Oh, right,” he says. But he does not say yes. He does not move toward the door and the truck and the road that will take us to town.
I feel apprehension now. I won’t call it fear. I can’t.
“Can we go, then? To town?”
My voice is firm. He can’t keep me here. He can’t make me stay one second longer. He can’t just take my clothes, and she can’t just crawl into my bed while I’m sleeping. They can’t…
“I can go to town,” he says now. “But I really need you to stay here with Alice. It’s not safe without the phone working or the power. Lots of trees still weak. Some are close to the house.”
No,I think.I am going to town! I am going home!
I shake now, head to toe. It’s in my cheeks and on my tongue as I try to shape words in my mouth.
“We can bring Alice with us. Like last night…”
“She has allergies, remember?” He says this like I should feel ashamed. Like I have been inconsiderate of this poor little girl. “She gets sick when she goes outside. I had to bring her last night because no one was here to be with her and I needed to fill the tanks and get the water. There’s no need to take the risk today.”
I struggle with this information. It comes at me fast. I cannot get my clothes. I cannot leave this house. I cannot call my family. Disbelief bleeds into acceptance and acceptance triggers fight or flight, adrenaline. I feel my skin flush and burn. My vision is unclear, muddled now with floating white circles. I breathe.
I breathe.
He turns to leave and Alice steps into me, clinging to my waist. She looks up at me with that smile and those wide eyes.
“You can make me breakfast!” she says cheerfully.
My hand reaches out before I can stop it and grabs the man’s shirt. I look at him, pleading.
He pulls away and walks to the dead phone. There’s a notepad next to it, and a pen on the counter. He grabs them both and brings them to me.
“Here,” he says. His tone is now cheerful, just like Alice’s.
“Write down the names and numbers of everyone you want me to call.”
Yes!
I write furiously—names and numbers. John. Nicole. Evan. A few close friends from my grief support group. I rip the paper from the pad and give it back to him.
He looks it over. “Can you write your name?”
“It’s just Molly,” I say. “They’ll know.”
“Write it anyway,” he insists. “Just in case. I forget things sometimes.”
I write my full name.Molly Clarke. I hand back the paper.
“Can you call them as soon as you get a signal? Tell them where to come get me? That I’m safe?”
The man’s face softens. It melts into a smile that is friendly and warm.
“Of course! It’s going to be just fine. I promise.”
