But all I care about is keeping her safe. Keeping her with me.
Twenty minutes later, she appears on the camera in the bathroom. She's carrying a plastic bag from the pharmacy, and the look on her face makes my chest tighten. She looks terrified. Her eyes are red-rimmed like she's been crying, and she's walking slowly, like every step takes effort.
I see her take test after test. I watch her curl up on the bathroom floor, crying, and I want to go into the room, scoop her into my arms, and carry her out. I want to take her homenow… but that would only make things worse. I need to come up with some way to make it seem as if I’ve found her without letting her know I’ve been watching her all this time. This won’t work if I traumatize her all over again.
Reluctantly, I put the car in drive and head back to my apartment, mind spinning over every possibility, every plan that I can think of. This needs to be foolproof. I have to protect her, and I have to protect myself from the consequences of keeping her. I have to not only keep her safe, but keep her hidden.
I have time, surely. She won’t leave Boston yet, not after finding this out.
I just need a little time.
—
I barely getany sleep that night. By the time I see the sun rise outside of my apartment, I’ve made my decision.
She needs my help. I can’t wait to devise some plan that will enable me to convince her to come with me and tell me the truth about what’s happening without alerting her to the fact that I already know everything. I’m going to need to ask forgiveness later.
I'll go to her today. Talk to her. Explain that I know about the pregnancy, that I want to help. That I can give her everything she needs.
She'll say no at first. I know she will. But I'll convince her. I have to. The alternative—letting her stay in that motel, alone and struggling and pregnant—is unacceptable.
I get dressed and drive to the motel. By the time I’m pulling up around the back, I catch sight of her walking down the sidewalk, hands shoved in her pockets, her head lowered. She’s already left, and she’s going… somewhere. The determination in her stride makes unease prickle at the back of my neck.
I put the car into gear and follow her on instinct, staying half a block behind. She doesn't look back or notice me. She's too focused on wherever she's going.
She goes a block, then another, and turns left. I follow, keeping close without alerting her, but she’s so preoccupied that I barely need to worry about it. And then I see her turn again, striding toward one business in particular, and my stomach drops.
She’s heading toward the women’s health clinic. Maybe she’s just going for a checkup that will let her pay in cash, but I also know why else she might be going. Why a desperate, terrified woman who doesn’t know who the father of her baby is, and who has been assaulted endlessly in ways that could have resulted in that pregnancy, might go there.
My stomach drops. I could be wrong, but every instinct I have tells me that she’s going there to terminate the pregnancy.
Panic floods through me, sharp and cold. I speed up without consciously deciding to drive faster. She's half a block from the clinic now. I can see the building—plain brick, discreet signage, a few protesters with signs on the sidewalk. She's going to walk through that door, and it'll be over.
I can't let this happen.
I was going to talk to her. Convince her. But there's no time. I pull around, driving faster toward the parking lot, intent on intercepting her. I park as close to directly in her path as I can, and wait for her to walk by. The moment she approaches, I yank on my baseball cap, pulling it low, and step behind her.
I don’t want her to know who I am yet. We can hash that out when we’re back at my apartment, not out in public. I don’t want to frighten her, but I don’t know what choice I have at this point. I need to get her and get out of here.
Quickly, I reach out as she passes by, grabbing her. My hand closes around her arm, firm but not bruising. She gasps and tries to pull away, but I'm already pulling her back toward my chest, maneuvering her toward the car. She kicks and tries to fight, but she’s weak, and it’s effortless to get her into the car and quickly get inside myself, locking the doors as I accelerate forward.
She shrieks, lurching up to hit the back of my headrest. "Let me out!" Her voice is sharp with panic. She tries to grab my arm, and I twist around to look at her before I can stop myself.
She lurches back the instant she sees my face, her own going white. She scrambles back against her seat, grabbing for the door handle again, even though there’s no way she’s getting out.
"Svetlana, stop." I keep my voice low, calm, even though my heart is pounding. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"Let me go!" she nearly screams it, and my jaw tightens.
"I'm not going to hurt you.” I look back at the road, trying to focus on the drive before we end up in a wreck and everything gets worse. "I just need you to listen to me."
“Fuck you!” she spits out, and I wrench the steering wheel to one side, pulling into an empty parking lot of an old, shitty, closed convenience store.
I throw the car into park and turn around, meeting her eyes. She looks panicked, almost feral, and it hurts to see her like this because of me. But she’ll understand. Surely, she will.
“Stop fighting me,” I say quietly. “I’m trying to help you. Please, just stop until we get back to my apartment, and we can talk.”
She lunges toward me… to do what, exactly, I’m not sure, but she looks like she wants to cause significant pain. “Fuck you!” she screeches again, and I grab her wrists, holding her still. It’s not difficult—she’s too weak, too malnourished. The realization makes me angrier—not at her, but at the situation, at the world that's left her like this.
