When She Woke, page 21
Her life, which was somehow continuing despite the loss of Aidan. She was inexorably in motion, on her way to a fate that would not include him, and though she missed him still, she was conscious that something had shifted inside her since she’d seen him on the vid. Through some unknown agency, the roar of his loss had diminished to a loud rumble, and the waves had spent much of their fury. The hole he’d left inside her was beginning to knit itself closed, and if she squinted, she could see that one day far in the distance, all that would remain of it would be a ragged seam, sensitive to the touch perhaps, but no longer tender.
She and Kayla were walking into grave danger, Hannah had no illusions about that. But still, she felt more hopeful and less afraid than she had two and a half weeks ago, when she’d decided to accept Susan’s offer. Part of that was knowing they wouldn’t be actively hunted by the police. She fiddled with the ring Susan had given her that morning, tracing the smooth bulge of the stone with her finger—a fake opal concealing a tiny jammer that blocked the nanotransmitters. Kayla had one too, a moonstone.
“What if we get caught with them?” Hannah had asked.
“Say you got them in Chromewood,” Susan said. “Black-market jammers aren’t hard to come by.”
That was news to Hannah. Why, if jammers were so commonplace, had she never seen anything about them on the net or the news vids? She could think of only one reason: the government didn’t want to advertise the fact that such evasion was possible. If people knew that Chromes were going about unmonitored …
“But the good ones don’t come cheap,” Kayla said, surprising Hannah again. How would she know that? “Where would we get that kind of lana?”
Susan looked her up and down in sly appraisal. “The time-honored way. Say you bartered for them.”
Hannah bristled when she took Susan’s meaning, but Kayla merely laughed. “Yeah, I guess if you ain’t got money, there’s always honey.”
When it was time to leave, Susan and Anthony walked them out to the van. Hannah smiled when she saw for the first time the logo painted onto the side of it: NEW LIFE CHURCH. “Is there really such a place?” she asked.
Susan smiled back at her. “You’re standing in it.”
Hannah had expected to part with handshakes, but the couple hugged both her and Kayla warmly. The feel of Susan’s ample, motherly bosom pressing against her brought an unexpected lump to Hannah’s throat. She wasn’t exactly fond of these people, but they’d sheltered her, risked their lives to help her, shown her a sort of tough kindness. And they were a known quantity, whereas the road, and the people they would encounter along it, were a looming question mark.
“Thank you for this chance,” Hannah said. “If you hadn’t sent Simone and Paul for us that night—”
“It’s personal,” Susan replied. “And you earned it. Good luck to you.”
Her words came back to Hannah now, as she sat on the cold metal floor of the van. Had she earned it? By not having betrayed Raphael, had she made herself worthy of the gift of a new life, a clean slate? Did she not deserve punishment for what she had done, if not melachroming, then some other sort? The Novembrists would say no, that she’d committed no crime. Simone had tried to convince her of it one day, insisting that a fetus wasn’t a life, merely a bundle of cells that had the potential for life. Hannah could tell that the other woman truly believed what she was saying, that she wasn’t just being kind and trying to make her feel better (though she sensed, with some surprise, that kindness was part of it). Hannah didn’t buy it, though. Her own bones told her a different story.
And yet. She had paid, and dearly, for the abortion. She’d lost her family, her love, her dignity. She’d truly repented her crime. Was that not enough? The Bible said yes, that God was merciful, that repentance earned His complete forgiveness and His Son’s blood cleansed all sins. But if there was no God, or if He was indifferent, where did that leave her? The world was an unforgiving place; she’d seen enough of it to know. A thought bloomed in her mind. She rejected it, but it stole back: I have to forgive myself.
The van picked up speed, and Simone told them they could remove their hoods. Hannah did so gratefully, feeling claustrophobic. The sight of the two large wooden crates with which she and Kayla were sharing the cargo area didn’t help matters. On them, in big, bold type, was stamped: FOOD DONATIONS. CANNED AND PACKAGED FOOD ONLY. NO PERISHABLES. With two 120-pound exceptions. She and Kayla would have to hide inside them every time they crossed a state line or “frontier,” as Simone called them. Clearly, the crates wouldn’t withstand a thorough search by the border police, but Paul and Simone didn’t seem too concerned. The church logo had an immunizing effect, Paul had explained, and all the police had ever done was take a cursory look inside the van.
Through the windshield Hannah saw a road sign fly past: SHREVEPORT, 170 MILES. She registered belatedly that they were traveling east on I-20, the same route she’d once taken with Aidan on that goldenlit day in October, in that other skin, that other life. How safe she’d felt then, despite the risks they were taking, how happy and carefree—all of it, an illusion.
Kayla drifted off, slumping awkwardly against the wall of the van, and Hannah took her friend by the shoulders and settled her head in her lap. Automatically she began stroking Kayla’s hair, just as she and Becca had often done for each other, usually when one of them was upset but sometimes just for the simple pleasure it gave them both. She felt a spasm of longing for her sister, commingled with helplessness. She’d told Cole she’d be watching over Becca, but that had been an all-but-empty promise even then. Now, Hannah was bitterly aware, it was an utter impossibility. Becca’s fate and her own hadn’t just branched, they’d been severed, irrevocably unjoined; Becca just didn’t know it yet. Hannah felt momentarily jealous of her sister’s ignorance, but then the feeling vanished. If bitter certainty was terrible, how much worse must it be to be the one who went on hoping and wondering, despairing a little more each day that passed with no word?
Hannah’s leg was growing numb from the weight of Kayla’s head, but she didn’t shift her position. She might not be able to keep Becca safe, but she was determined to do everything in her power to protect Kayla. And so, Hannah reckoned, was Paul, who kept glancing back at them with wistful eyes. She wondered whether they’d made love. Kayla hadn’t confided in her, but then the two women had had almost no time alone together since they’d arrived at the safe house. Kayla and Paul certainly could have stolen some private hours during the day, when Susan and Anthony were out and Hannah was sleeping. Imagining them together gave her a pang. To be kissed and enfolded in a man’s arms, to feel the warm press of his weight against her and hear his voice murmuring endearments in her ear—would she ever know that again? Looking down at Kayla’s sleeping face, Hannah hoped she had known it with Paul. After all she’d lost, and all she was faced with, she deserved some sweetness in her life. On the heels of that thought came another: And if she does, then just maybe, so do I.
They’d been traveling for several hours when Simone pulled off the highway and stopped at a juice station. The change in motion woke Kayla. “Where are we?” she asked, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Almost to the Louisiana border,” Paul said.
“I need to use the restroom,” Hannah said.
“Me too,” Kayla said. “And I’m getting hungry.”
Paul tapped on a cooler sitting on the floor between the two seats. “There are sandwiches and chips in here. Help yourselves.”
Kayla reached for the lid, but Simone stopped her with a curt, “Not now. We will eat after we cross the frontier.” She told Paul to charge the van while she went to get coffee and the restroom key.
“God, she’s a piece of work!” Kayla said, the instant Simone and Paul closed the doors behind them. “I’d bet money she practices that sourpuss expression in the mirror, except it would crack if she did. She—”
Hannah cut her off, aware that they didn’t have much time. “We need to talk. You’re not having any symptoms, are you?”
“No. But I’m not due for nine days yet. And hopefully there’ll be a grace period. If there isn’t …”
“Listen to me, if you start to feel anything, anything at all, you tell me right away. And don’t let on to the others.”
“Why not?”
“I heard them talking about it yesterday with Susan and Anthony. They think you’re a liability. Simone has orders to kill you if you go into fragmentation.”
Kayla’s eyes widened. “And what did Vincent say?”
“Who’s Vincent?”
Kayla’s hand flew to her mouth.
“That’s Paul’s real name?”
“Yeah. They all take the names of famous feminists. Susan B. Anthony. Simone de Beauvoir. Alice Paul.”
With the exception of Susan B. Anthony, the names were unfamiliar, and even she was just a face on an old coin in Hannah’s father’s collection. Something tugged at her memory. “Rafael,” she murmured, making the connection. Not Raphael, the archangel of healing, but Rafael Patiño, the governor of Florida, assassinated soon after he’d vetoed the Sanctity of Life laws passed by the state legislature. Hannah had been twelve. Her parents had had one of their rare arguments that night, when her mother adamantly refused to pray with her father for the governor’s soul. Becca, the peacemaker as always, went to soothe her, while Hannah knelt with her father on the living room floor and prayed. Afterward he put his hand on the crown of her head and told her she was his good girl. She could feel it now, a phantom of that warm, approving weight, and it twisted her heart into a tight, dry strand.
“Hannah!” Kayla gave her arm an impatient shake. “What did Vincent say?”
“He argued with them. But in the end, he agreed that you couldn’t be allowed to jeopardize the mission.”
“Then he was playing them,” Kayla said. “He’d never let Simone hurt me.”
“I don’t know, Kayla. I couldn’t see his face, but he sounded like he meant it.”
“And I’m telling you, he didn’t. He couldn’t have.”
Kayla’s certainty, and the undisguised tenderness that infused it, irritated Hannah. “Just because you’re sleeping with him doesn’t mean you can trust him,” she said.
“I do trust him, completely. I know him, Hannah.”
“Like you knew TJ?”
Though the comment must have wounded her, Kayla didn’t show it. She just looked at Hannah steadily, with a quiet dignity that filled her with chagrin. Who’s the caustic bitch now?
“I’m sorry,” Hannah said. “I guess I’m jealous. Not because you have Paul—Vincent—but because you have someone. Because you’re not alone with this.” She gestured at her face. “I know it’s small of me.”
Kayla gave Hannah’s leg a forgiving squeeze. “Love’s a bitch, isn’t it? It spoils you for being on your own.”
“Yeah.” And for being with anyone else, Hannah reflected. Even after all that had happened, she still couldn’t imagine ever loving another man. She wondered, not for the first time, whether loving her had spoiled Aidan for being with Alyssa. Hannah had never asked him about their relationship, whether they were intimate. She’d hoped not. But now that she was out of the picture, he would almost certainly go back to his wife’s bed, if he hadn’t already. If he’d ever left it in the first place.
Hannah saw Simone leave the mart and stride toward the restroom. They had a few minutes at most.
“Listen,” she said, “there’s something else I have to tell you. Some of the other women they’ve sent this way have disappeared. They plan to use us as bait to try and catch whoever’s behind it. Simone suspects someone named George, but Paul thinks it’s two women named Betty and Gloria.”
Kayla’s face was troubled but unsurprised. “I know. I was going to tell you. Vincent told me last night. He said to be on our guard, but not to worry, he’ll be watching over us.” She paused and looked at him out the window. Softly, she said, “He talked about coming to Canada and finding me there. I think he’s in love with me.”
“Do you love him?”
Kayla sighed. “I don’t know. I love the way he looks at me. I love how he touches me, like I’m …” She trailed off, searching for the right word.
“Like you’re something fine. Something incredibly precious.” Hannah’s eyes burned, and she squeezed them shut. She would not cry.
“You still love him, the guy who got you pregnant.”
“Yes.” Even if he no longer loves me. “But it’s all jumbled up with anger and hurt. It’s not clean anymore.” Kayla let out a short laugh. “Is it ever?”
“I thought it was, in the beginning, but who was I kidding? He was married. Still is.”
“That how come you never say his name?”
Hannah didn’t answer at first. She hadn’t said it aloud in six months and had never spoken it to anyone but him. “Reverend Dale,” she’d said, but not his first name, the one she cherished. The one that was forbidden. She’d held it behind her teeth like a coiled snake for two years. Long enough, she decided.
“His name is Aidan. Aidan Dale.”
“Whoa! As in Secretary of Faith Aidan Dale? The Right Reverend Holier-Than-Thou?”
“He’s not, actually. He’s one of the humblest people I’ve ever known.”
“Holy crap! Aidan Dale. He must’ve been scared shitless you’d talk.”
“No. I think he wanted me to name him as the father. He practically begged me to at my sentencing.” Hannah heard a thunk and looked outside. Paul/Vincent was unhooking the charge cable, and Simone was headed their way.
“Look, I know you think you can trust Paul, and I hope you’re right. But promise me you’ll talk to me first if you start to feel anything funny.” Kayla gave her a halfhearted nod, and Hannah gripped her friend’s arm hard. “Promise. And stop calling him Vincent, don’t even think of him as Vincent. If that slipped out in front of Simone there’s no telling what she’d do.”
“Okay, Sergeant Payne, I promise.” Kayla smiled, and Hannah felt a rush of love and gratitude for her. And to think, if it hadn’t been for the horrible Henleys, they wouldn’t have found each other.
Paul drove them around to the side of the station where the restroom was. Kayla went first, then Hannah. The room was filthy and rank with the smell of urine. The walls were covered in graffiti: EMILIA ES UNA PUTA; FUCK ALLAH AND THE CAMEL HE RODE IN ON; STOP THE BLOODSHED, KILL MORALES!!! The drawings were even more disturbing: a Blue being lynched, his eyes bulging and his tongue hanging out, above hangman-style letters reading B L U E C O L L A R; a robed Chinese man with a Manchu-style queue holding his penis, peeing on an image of the earth. Six months ago, Hannah would have felt a mix of revulsion and shock that anyone was capable of such ugliness and rage. Not that she’d been oblivious to the violence that existed in the world; she was a city girl, albeit a sheltered one, and her father’s near-death in the terrorist attack had disabused her of any notion that she and those she loved were invulnerable. But she’d thought of that as a freak occurrence, something from another, distant reality that had intruded on her own. Now, looking at the sordid scrawls, the revulsion was still there, but the shock was absent. In the world she inhabited now, hatred and violence were commonplace, and she was uncomfortably aware, not just that it seethed in the hearts of people all around her, but of her own capacity for it.
When she returned to the van, Simone was in the passenger seat, and the crates were open in the front. Kayla was already inside hers, sitting with her knees pressed to her chest. Hannah’s nervousness must have shown on her face, because Paul said, “The opening is hinged, see? And the crate locks from the inside, not the outside. To let yourself out, you just flip this latch.” He demonstrated. She glanced at Simone. The other woman gave her a hard, assessing look. Hannah took a last breath of fresh air and crawled inside. Paul swung the door closed, and she fumbled for the latch and locked it. Soon afterward, she felt the van moving. “You okay in there?” Paul asked.
“I’m feeling mighty perishable,” Kayla said, “but other than that I’m dandy.”
Hannah smiled. “Me too,” she said, discovering it was true. The pitch-blackness helped; she couldn’t see how confined she was. But the crate also had a pleasant, sawn-wood smell that reminded her of her father’s shop in the garage. Carpentry was his hobby, and Hannah had always loved to watch him work. One of her favorite possessions was a dollhouse he’d made for her when she was five. Becca had gotten one too, and every year for their birthdays and Christmas he’d given them one or two pieces of miniature furniture, meticulously crafted to look like the real thing. The tiny dining room chairs were stuffed and upholstered in red velvet, the tiny dresser drawers could be opened and closed, the toilet lid raised and lowered. As she got older Hannah had started to make her own decorations, needlepointing miniature rugs and sewing little curtains and bedspreads. Even after she outgrew the dollhouse, she never packed it away. It held pride of place in her bookshelf, a vivid reminder of her father’s love for her.
Another cherished thing that she had lost.
Paul called out a warning as they approached the checkpoint. They slowed, and Hannah held her breath. She could almost feel the eyes of the police scouring the van, deciding whether or not to stop them. Her lungs were beginning to burn when she felt the van accelerating, and Simone said, “We’re through. You can get out now.” Hannah’s breath escaped in a loud whoosh.
Simone passed out the food. Hannah’s appetite, which had been nonexistent since she’d seen Aidan on the vid, had returned, and she wolfed down the sandwich. Wordlessly, Simone handed her the other half of her own. As Hannah ate it, she studied the other woman, thinking what a puzzle she was: harsh and ruthless one minute, kind and generous the next.
