50
On the last dayof the life I imagined for myself, I woke up and begged the Lord not to take away everything He had given.
The distant mooing of Sassafras.That man was good.Bockbockbockbock. White noise.Thank you for the Inheritance.A wave of nausea—a reminder to go over the questions Doug’sPRfirm had sent over.Why don’t you show all the help you have behind the scenes?Homemade orange juice. A chorus of angels:Morning, Mama.Shannon in the corner, dark-eyed and twitchy. Dreaming of monsters. Pregnancy brain.What does tradwife mean?Big gummy smile. Caleb—half-man cowboy monster child—dipping me low, kissing me while the children cheered.You don’t understand women at all.Natural Dinner. Stupid nannies. Trip to Target. Vanessa, that pinched-mouth hypocrite. Gossiping about the pesticides at my barn while she shopped for pesticides to feed her own fucking children.Cunt.Another apology to the Lord. Another Angry Woman. Another forced pleasantry,so good to see you.Another day of wondering why it was so much easier to slap a smile onto my face than it was to peel that smile back off. Another long drive back home, through the mountains and past the farms and down the long dirt road to the nightmare—I mean dream—of my own making, the world I molded with my own bare hands. Playdough husband, playdough children, playdough life.Cheese!
Final question, Mrs. Heller Mills: Would you like to comment on these horrific allegations?
Homewrecker.
For what it’s worth: I don’t think you’re a bad person. I think you’re just confused.
Selfish little twat.
“It’s time to run.”
My husband, sweet and sour peach-brained cave idiot, staring at me with unabashed pride. Genuinely thinking his father believed in him.
“Let’s pray on it.”
Desperate for the day to end. Desperate for that feeling in my head to go away, that soft whining, the sound of a rotting house on stilts over rushing surf. I clasped my hands, bowed my head, pressed my thumbs hard against my forehead. Tried to ignore the anger, bubbling and foaming in my stomach. Tried to swallow the fear floating up my throat like mustard gas.We’re walking on thin ice now.Tried to breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Clementine’s voice in my head. Ringing, ringing:What does tradwife mean?
An hour later, Caleb was snoring and I was staring into the darkness, my thoughts running wild.Please, Lord, show me the way.
I couldn’t shake the feeling there was something that I’d missed.
51
The next morning,Mary packs quickly. I watch as her hands fly in and out of the little sack I’ll take with me on my journey. Two canteens of water, a chunk of my own shitty homemade bread. Four strips of salted fish. A big can of preserved peaches.
“Aren’t the peaches a bit heavy?”
“You’ll be happy for the sweetness,” she says, and though I’d rather not carry that weight, I can tell it matters to her that I take them, and so I say nothing. While she moves around the kitchen, I sit at the table, trying to memorize her face.
Something I’ve realized, in the moments since I began to pack: I will never step foot in this house again. I’ll do my best to help Maeve, I’ll try to find the doctor—really, I will—but I’ll kill myself before I ever return to this place. Which means I’m saying goodbye.
“You’ll stick to the woods,” Mary says. “Do you hear me? Stay out of sight.”
“But what about the traps?”
She doesn’t look at me when she says, quietly, “There’s—well, there’s only just that one.”
I breathe in quickly. “Mary.”
She gives me an agonized look. “If you’d known that, Mama, you would have run away again, you were in such amood,thoseweresuch bad days,and I just—” She lets out a frustrated groan. “I was just trying to keep you safe! Is that really so terrible?”
I could have escaped months ago. Before the weather turned cold. Before I was pregnant. All this time, while I’ve been staring out at the woods, imagining dozens or maybe hundreds of booby traps—there was nothing. Just leaves. I want to slap Mary, I want tokill her,but also, I feel a rushing tenderness for her, too.
Look at how soft I’ve become. A pile of jelly. I think it’s because I’m leaving, and because I will never see her face again, that I’m able to feel so much love for her.Silly, stupid girl,I think fondly.You trapped me here so easily, you clever child, you unbelievable bitch.
There it is, on the tip of my tongue: an instinct to sayI love you.
It’s true. I love her. I love her very much, this strange young woman. Maeve, too, and the boys. I’ve never said that to any of them. I consider saying it now.
Instead, I say, “Tell me where to go.”
This is what Mary has been keeping from me.
