Бентли Литтл - The Disappearance

Joan awoke in a bed.

She was in a room she recognized but could not instantly place. There were simple square end tables on either side of the bed, and against the wall opposite her stood a plain pine dresser. Glancing to her left, she saw a window.

It came to her then. This had been her bedroom. This was the room in which she’d grown up. There were differences now, such as the style of furniture, but the placement of everything remained the same as it had been throughout her childhood.

She sat up slowly. Her upper arms felt sore, as though they’d been squeezed too hard by careless fingers, and beneath the rough, shapeless cloth of her blouse, her bra was missing. There was an uncomfortable sensation between her legs, and when she pulled out the waistband of her pants and underwear, she saw that someone had stuffed a wadded cloth down there. Joan understood what had happened, and the only reason she had not been raped, she knew, was because she was having her period. Because she was cursed and unclean .

Thank God for small favors.

No. Not God.

She refused to thank God for anything.

There were voices coming from the living room, and for a disorienting moment, she thought that her parents were out there, discussing the events of the day, that they had never left the Home, that the past five years had been nothing but a dream. It was a moment of euphoria, for despite the fact that they were trapped here under Father’s rule, her parents were once again alive and well.

Then she heard the voices more clearly, and the man’s voice was not her dad’s and the woman’s voice was not her mom’s. Joan tried to get out of bed, but her head felt as though it had been slammed against a wall. Her brain seemed huge and swollen, and a heavy, crashing pain made her stop moving and cry out. Seconds later, the man and woman who’d been talking in the other room came hurrying in, solicitous looks on both of their faces. He was tall and clean-shaven, with longish hair parted in the middle. She was one of the Children, although the only indication of that was the fact that two of her fingers were fused together. Joan had never seen either of them before.

“Are you okay?” the woman asked, concerned. She was speaking the Language.

“Yes,” Joan said in kind, careful not to aggravate her headache by moving too much or too quickly.

“You must have been tired.” The woman placed a kiss on Joan’s forehead. “I’m glad you’re finally up, dear.”

Joan frowned. What was going on here?

The man smiled, patting her shoulder. “Hungry?”

They were pretending she was part of their family!

Joan recoiled. She didn’t know why they were going through this charade or what they hoped to accomplish, and without moving her head, she shifted her eyes, looking from one to the other. This was Father’s doing. Nothing happened in the Home without his approval, and he obviously wanted these two to act like parents to her, though whether they were doing so in order to obtain information or merely as part of some larger brainwashing scheme remained to be seen.

“Would you like some breakfast?” the woman asked.

“Why are you doing this?” Joan demanded, confronting them.

The woman tried to look puzzled, but she wasn’t a good enough actress, and Joan caught the sideways glance she shot her husband.

If he really was her husband.

“Doing what, dear?”

She responded in English. “Knock it off. I’m not a moron. Whatever I’ve been drugged with made me hallucinate and put me to sleep, but it didn’t make me stupid.” Her head was pounding, but she tried to ignore it. “What are you supposed to do? Guard me? Make sure I don’t try to escape?”

She’d seen through their deception, and they knew she knew, but they were playing their parts to the hilt.

“Our place is yours,” the woman said, switching to English also. “You know that.”

Fine . Joan pushed herself off the bed, stood and, despite the thunderous sound of blood thumping in her skull, walked over to the closet and opened its door. Inside were empty hangers dangling from a long wooden bar. She closed the door and headed out into the short hall that led to the bedroom that used to be her parents’.

“Ruth—” the woman began.

“My name’s Joan,” she said frostily.

The couple looked at each other, confused. Clearly, they hadn’t been given much information. They’d probably been chosen for this only because they happened to reside in her family’s old living quarters.

Joan walked into the bedroom, noting that the bed was flat against the east wall rather than being centered in the middle of the room the way it had been when her family lived here. These people kept no flowers—her mom always had a vase of cut flowers on the dresser and a potted geranium near the window—and to Joan’s eye, the room seemed depressingly devoid of decoration. The only nonfunctional item in sight was a framed photo of Father above the bed.

She walked across the room, moved to open the closet door.

“No!’ the man said, breaking character.

Joan immediately twisted the knob and yanked the door open. The closet was dark and, at first glance, appeared to be empty. Then she saw the wooden box on the floor. It was filled with black dirt, and in the dirt grew dozens of white mushrooms of various shapes and sizes.

She frowned. What was this?

“Don’t tell Father!” the woman begged. There was fear in her voice.

Whatever was going on, Joan knew she had the upper hand, and she decided to play it. “What is this? What are you doing?” she demanded.

“We only use them for ourselves,” the woman said. “We don’t share them.”

“They help us,” the man said.

She understood. These mushrooms were hallucinogenic. They might even be the source of whatever had been used to drug her.

“It’s my own soil. I made it myself. And the mushrooms just came up. It’s not stealing. I would never steal. They’re not part of Father’s crop.”

“They’re just for us,” the woman said.

Joan relented. Like herself, like her parents, these were people unhappy with the Home, people who wanted to escape but could not do so physically. Instead, they grew mushrooms in secret and ingested them in order to numb the pain and flee the reality of their lives in the only way they could.

“I won’t tell anyone,” she said. “But I need you to talk to me. I need you to tell me the truth.”

“We can’t let you go.” The woman started crying. “Father will punish us if we do.”

Joan’s muscles tightened involuntarily at the idea of punishment. She thought of the screams she’d heard on the night she and her parents had escaped. “What are your names?” she asked kindly.

The man sighed heavily. “I am Mark. My wife is Rebekah.”

“My name is Joan. It used to be Ruth, but now it’s Joan.”

“Joan,” Mark said, nodding respectfully. Rebekah was still sobbing.

“How long have you lived in the Home?”

“I came here as a child,” he replied. “My parents were Outsiders. Rebekah was born here.”

“I don’t remember you,” Joan said. “Did you know my parents?”

“I worked with your dad on the Farm sometimes,” Mark said.

Rebekah wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, banished her tears. “Your mom helped us in the Kitchen every once in a while, but we didn’t know them well.”

“You knew we escaped, though. You knew we got out.”

They both nodded.

“Do you want to get out?”

There was a moment of hesitation, as though they still weren’t certain they could trust her.

“You’re taking drugs,” Joan said. “Against Father’s laws. You’re spending your free time growing mushrooms in your closet and anesthetizing yourselves so you won’t have to think about your lives. You’re telling me you’re happy here? You don’t want to escape?”