Across the room, Morrow smooths her ponytail, wishing for a mirror as she feels around for loose strands of hair and tries to secure them. She probably looks a sight. When Blythe tries to catch her eye, she looks away, embarrassed for reasons she can’t name. Because her attempt to escape failed? Because she looks foolish for attempting at all? She tells herself she should be proud she tried. It is more than anyone else in this room has done.
She would do just about anything for a cigarette right now. It is her dirty little secret, a habit she fell into without intending to. She’d smoked in college, like everyone seemed to, but quit almost as soon as she began. She’d never considered smoking again after that. Then one night last fall she’d walked outside to get the dog back inside the house and smelled the distinct scent of nicotine-infused smoke wafting through the air. She’d looked around for the source, fearful she’d find Maya and a friend, but spotted her elderly neighbor, Pat, instead, sitting on her back porch, taking in the view of the Intracoastal Waterway.
Morrow had nudged the dog inside the house, then stayed where she was, keeping her eyes on Pat, who seemed oblivious that she was being watched. Transfixed, Morrow had studied her neighbor’s series of actions: lifting the cigarette to her lips, the glow as she inhaled, the smoke floating into the air upon her exhale. Pulled by her senses and, she can admit now, motivated by loneliness, she’d crossed the yard and spoken to her neighbor, someone she’d only had a handful of conversations with since they’d moved in. She’d let their age difference negate the possibility of a friendship, assuming that she, a perimenopausal woman with family obligations, had very little in common with an elderly widow who lived alone. She’d been wrong.
Pat welcomed her that first night, invited her to sit. And though not on that first night, eventually offered her a cigarette. At first Morrow demurred. Then after one particularly bad night, she’d given in, puffing on the proffered cigarette like a rebellious teenager. But instead of hiding it from her parents, she was hiding it from her husband and child.
After that, smoking with Pat on her porch became a regular thing. Their nightly conversations—taking place when Kevin was on yet another business trip and Maya was locked away in her room reigning over the kingdom inside her phone—became a lifeline. Pat went from neighbor to friend, and now the smell of cigarette smoke reminds her of laughter, of long, meandering discussions, of secrets whispered. Which is why she’s craving a cigarette. It’s not just the nicotine; it’s what comes with it. If she had a cigarette right now, she’d be home. Her daughter would be in her room. She’d be telling Pat all about what has happened here today. She would be free.
Morrow rests her hand on her tote bag.I tried, she thinks.I tried to get back.
Beside her Sylvie whispers, “That was very brave, what you did.”
“I just thought we should try to get out of here any way we can,” Morrow quips.
Sylvie chuckles at that. “Well, it was certainly a good try. I wish I’d done it myself.”
Morrow catches herself thinking Sylvie is too old to attempt what she did. But if there’s one thing she’s learned from spending time with Pat, it’s not to count anyone out just because of their age.
Sylvie extends her hand. “I’m Sylvie. And you are?” Morrow pauses before answering. Somehow, learning the names of her fellow captors makes this seem more real. But, she figures, it can’t hurt. They are, like it or not, in this together.
“Morrow,” says Morrow.
“Morrow,” Sylvie says. “That’s a lovely name. Unusual.”
“My mother loved the bookGift from the Sea, so she named me Anne Morrow. I was called Anne until I reached my teens. Then I started going by Morrow.” She laughs at herself. “I thought it sounded more romantic.”
“It certainly does.” Sylvie nods. “I lovedGift from the Seaas well,” she says. “I actually made a needlepoint pillow many years ago with a quote from it.”
“Oh?” Morrow asks. “Which quote?” Morrow has read the book many times. It was what led to her campaign for her family to move here, her long-romanticized dream of living by the sea, of somehow becoming whatever her mother had intended when she named her. She wishes she could ask her mother just what that was, but she has been dead since Morrow was a teenager, since about the time she changed her name.
“It was about security in a relationship,” Sylvie answers. She shrugs. “About living in the present and not in the past or future.” A wistful look passes over Sylvie’s face. “I haven’t seen that pillow in years. I’d forgotten all about it till just now.” Sylvie looks at Morrow. “It’s funny how you lose track of things.”
Morrow nods, agreeing. In their nearly thirty years of marriage, she and Kevin have acquired and discarded several lifetimes’ worth of possessions. They keep a storage room they pay for each month, filled with things she couldn’t account for if pressed.
She sees Sylvie make eye contact with Blythe. “And you are?” Sylvie asks her.
“Blythe,” says Blythe, but softly.
“I’m sorry,” says Sylvie. “I couldn’t hear you.” She points at her ears. “These things ain’t what they used to be.”
Blythe smiles at that and says her name again, louder this time.
“Blythe,” Sylvie repeats. “Also a lovely name.”
“It’s supposed to mean ‘happy’ or ‘cheerful,’” Blythe says, then shrugs her shoulders. “Which is not so fitting right now,” she adds. She tries for a laugh, but it catches in her throat.
“I think it fits,” says Sylvie. “You look like a Blythe. No matter what the circumstances are.”
Blythe gives her a smile even as she thinks that this is not true. She once heard happiness is dependent on circumstances. Joy, however, is within you, existing beyond the circumstances, in spite of them. But Blythe’s name means “happy,” not “joyful.” Perhaps her name is holding her back.
Her mind returns to the dinner last night, crowded around Aaron’s family’s table, elbow to elbow with her mother, who sat stiffly, her disapproval wafting off her and onto Blythe, poisoning the air. Just weeks before, at Easter, Blythe had sat at the very same table, elbow to elbow with Aaron, smiling ear to ear as his nieces and nephews chased one another out the door to hunt for eggs. All the while she was thinking,This is exactly what I want. This is what I’ve always wanted.Only one thing had changed, and that was her mother.
Blythe thinks about the package once more, wonders again about getting it back.
“Morrow, Blythe, and Sylvie,” Sylvie says, pulling Blythe out of her contemplation.
Sylvie looks at all of them, then over at Nadine. “And we can’t forget Nadine,” she adds. Blythe sees this is Sylvie’s way of drawing Nadine in, of reassuring her that they don’t fault her for any of this.
