Emmy Laybourne - Savage Drift

Astrid looked not at all right. The circles under her eyes were worse. She looked gaunt and so pale. I noticed that when she wasn’t holding Rinée, she had her hands on her belly almost all the time, now.

She went up the stairs, slowly, to fetch bawling Rinée from her crib.

I stepped outside.

It was twilight now and I saw that, down the street, one house had its lights on. It was a small, curving cul-de-sac. Maybe six houses on the street altogether. Only two appeared to be inhabited.

Jake was nowhere to be seen.

I read the note. It was addressed to me, so it was kind of messed up that Astrid had read it first, but okay.

His scrawling handwriting slanted across the page:

Deano,

When I watch the two of you with baby Rinée, I get it. You’re good at it. You were born to be a dad. I don’t mean that as a crack. It’s a compliment.

What’s best for her and what’s best for the baby is all that matters now and it’s you.

Please tell Astrid that I will always have love for her in my heart, but that I’m not the guy for this job.

Me going away is the best gift I can give all three of you. So I’m giving it.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking I should go check on my mom.

I went upstairs.

Astrid was sitting in the glider, with Rinée on her lap.

“Did you even look for him?” she asked me crossly.

“I don’t think he wants us to stop him. I really don’t.”

She just looked at me and I saw her fight her tears down.

Her reaction was so intense. For a moment, my old insecurities swarmed up—did she still love him? Did she love him more than she loved me, somehow?

“Dean,” she said, interrupting my downward spiral. “I know he’s a screw-up. But he’s my friend.”

I blinked.

“I just don’t want to lose any more people.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I get it.”

She closed her eyes and rocked Rinée, who sat sucking on her thumb and twisting the fingers of her other hand in Astrid’s short blond hair.

Dinner was okay. I used the recipe off the inside of the label on the can of mushroom soup. Astrid only picked at her dinner, though Rinée seemed to really like it.

Astrid didn’t seem to be in a mood for talking. I, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to shut up.

“Tomorrow I’m going to take the hose outside and clean up around the house. Then maybe make some signs and post them around, just about Rinée and that we’re here.”

I didn’t mention the other bedroom upstairs. I was sure she’d seen it.

A room done in blue plaid with a lot, a serious lot of Legos. There were vintage Lego sets on shelves on the walls—Star Wars pieces and some kind of giant futuristic Egyptian space pyramid. It was the room of a boy. A boy who hadn’t made it home.

But maybe he would.

“I think we end up staying here awhile, maybe there’s a way to write to Alex and let him know where we are.”

Astrid was just moving her food around on her plate. She took a little sip of orange juice.

“I could just use totally fake names. He’d know my handwriting,” I went on. “And that way he won’t worry.”

Rinée was banging her spoon on the tray of her high chair.

Astrid leaned her head on one hand.

“Hey,” I said. “Maybe you should go back to bed.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “My back hurts. And my head. I guess I’m just exhausted but maybe… maybe we should find a doctor tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course. That should be the first thing we do.”

Durr, what was wrong with me.

“Don’t worry about it,” Astrid said. “I’m fine. Do you think you can give Rinée a bath? She could use it.”

I told her I was pretty sure I could manage it. Of course, I had no idea how to give a two-year-old a bath, but I’d figure it out.

The bath was uneventful, except for the fact that I got soaking wet.

After I got Rinée down, I thought about my own shower. No way was I going to put on my dirty clothes, so I threw my own, and Astrid’s, into the washer.

I decided not to wash the safety suits. God knows what the fabric was made of in the first place. And I didn’t want to damage the whistler.

I hung one suit on a coatrack near the front door and one on a hook in the back of the master bedroom door. If another drift came through, I hoped the whistles would alert us in time.

Once I got our wet clothes in the dryer, I got in the shower.

Oh man, did it feel good. I stunk of sweat and terror. Down the drain it went, along with a lot of grime.

There was a knock at the door. But before I could say, “Come in,” Astrid pushed in, rushed to the john and threw up.

I shut off the water and stepped out, wrapping myself in a towel.

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

She looked up at me and started to nod yes, but was overtaken by another wave of puke.

I pulled on a pair of the husband’s pajamas. They were stupidly the wrong size. Both too wide and too short, but I didn’t care.

“What can I do? Tell me what I can do?” I asked her.

“Get me some water,” she said. And I did, but after that, I didn’t know what to do.

She was curled on her knees, her belly nestled into the space between her legs. Her forehead pressed to the cold floor of the bathroom.

“What can I do?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

I tried to get her to drink more. She’d take a few sips, then puke them back up.

“Just leave me alone,” she told me.

They had Gatorade. I found crystals in the back of the pantry and I made it for her. She drank some. Then puked it up.

“Just leave me alone!” she growled.

I went to get our clothes out of the dryer. I got dressed.

“Maybe we should go to the hospital,” I told her, from where I stood in the hall.

She reached out with one hand and swatted the bathroom door shut.

I spent the night sitting on the bed, terrified.

Astrid spent the night in the bathroom, vomiting and sleeping on the floor.

Something is wrong.

I can’t move my arms or legs.

And it’s very bright.

It’s very bright and I don’t know where I am and I can’t move my limbs.

My heart is flooded with panic and everything amps up.

White ceiling, dotted with LED cans. Walls are pale green. No windows.

My arms and legs are buckled in leather cuffs, tied down on a bed. There’s an IV going into my right arm. The insertion point is taped neatly—a square of semitransparent white tape against my cocoa skin. My knuckles are bandaged up.

There is also a bandage on my left hand. I can’t remember why.

I hear voices arguing outside my room. They are what woke me up.

“I am telling you, Savic, this girl is the key.”

I am clean.

This hits me.

Someone has washed me.

I could cry for relief and for shame.

“You cannot, you will not perform tests on an underage minor without legal consent!” Heavy accent. Maybe Russian?

My head feels light. I can’t feel with my hands, but I think they have cut off my hair.

My mouth is dry, dry, dry.

“Hey!” I croak.

They don’t hear me.

“How the hell do you think I’m going to find her parents, Savic? This girl has what we need, don’t you see? Look, I’ll get her to sign the consent form. It’ll stand up. It’ll be fine.”