The Long Way Back, page 17
Eva’s hand is slick with tears, her finger throbbing between her teeth. She doesn’t even realize she’s biting it until the pain registers, and then she only clamps down harder because she’s afraid if she starts screaming she won’t stop. Even though she was furious with Zach only minutes before, she can’t stand to see him lying on his side, one arm thrown over his head and the other curled against his stomach.
Is this Zach’s father? The man who so indifferently turns from the heap of humanity at his feet and shakes out his fist? The thought makes Eva’s head spin.
But she doesn’t have time for sympathy. The white-haired superior barks an order, and at once the two men in fatigues leap into action. One jogs toward the house while the other heads directly for the shed. For her.
Eva has mere seconds, and she casts around looking for an escape. There’s a door in the back wall of the shed beside a leaning workbench, but piles of junk are stacked in front of it. She could never move it all in time, and even if she did it would make an unholy ruckus. Eva could jump in the truck and try to drive away, but she instinctively knows that in order to get out of the shed, she’d have to run over the man striding closer and closer. In this moment, she wants to be the sort of person who could do that, but she isn’t. Eva can hardly bring herself to squash a spider when one scuttles across her bedroom floor; she knows she won’t be able to floor the gas when she’s staring down a living, breathing man in the rearview. And what if they chase her? What if that SUV forces her off the road? Her only other option is to do what Zach told her to do: run.
Eva’s barefoot and breathless, but she’s also fast, and she prays for strength as she launches herself off the dirt floor of the shed and sprints for the open garage door. She has surprise on her side, and by the time the man in camo realizes what’s happening, she’s several paces ahead of him and racing for the trees. He shouts and starts after her, but Eva’s already in the shadow of the forest.
When she breaks the cover of the canopy, it’s instantly cooler and darker, and Eva wishes she had her well-worn hiking shoes, a windbreaker, a compass. Although she barely feels the rocks and sticks that tear at Zach’s socks, she knows that the cloth will be shredded and useless in no time. But she’ll take her chances.
Looking over her shoulder is a risk, but Eva has to know where her follower is. She’s surprised to see that the trees slowed him down more than she would have anticipated; she’s pulled ahead of him as he fumbles through the thick ferns and shrubs. Eva is smaller, lighter, and she would bet far more experienced off-trail than her pursuer, and she uses it to her advantage. Because she is wearing nothing but leggings and a flannel, and the man is clothed in a full, bulky uniform, she sets her path toward the thickest underbrush. He’ll get snagged on every branch while she breezes through. What she really needs is a hill, something sloped that she can climb like the rim of a bowl. Most people don’t know to spiral upward, to point their downhill foot outward to avoid rolling an ankle. Eva has seen many a novice hiker slide on scree and twist vulnerable joints because of improper footing. She can almost picture her stalker tumbling down a ravine while she scurries away.
It’s this wisp of a daydream that takes Eva down. She’s scanning her surroundings, looking for a rise or fall in the landscape instead of watching where she’s going. But the boulder is half hidden by brush anyway, and in the growing darkness Eva might never have seen it at all. When her shin cracks the sharp edge as she runs, the pain is dazzling. It explodes through her leg and drops her as surely as a bullet would. She knows she should be afraid, but the agony radiating through her bones overrides even her longing for escape. Eva gasps in the growing twilight as hot blood soaks through her leggings and turns the forest floor beneath her black.
“Got you.”
The man crouching over her brings reality into stark focus. Eva tries to scream, but the air is pinched out of her chest by shooting pain and unbridled fear.
“You didn’t have to run,” he says, tsking at her. “Doesn’t matter how fast you think you are, how tricky. I would’ve caught you in the end. But it looks like you learned your lesson.”
Eva whimpers when he lifts her leg and squints at the wound through her torn leggings.
“You’ll need some stitches, for sure. Is it broken?”
When she doesn’t respond, he pinches the soft flesh of her calf to get her attention. “Hey, can you move your foot?”
Wheezing, Eva lifts herself to her elbows and carefully flexes her foot back and forth and side to side. She doesn’t want to give this stranger the satisfaction of obeying, but she also doesn’t dare to defy him—not when she’s prone on the ground, injured. Not when she can see the dull glint of a gun tucked into the belt at his waist, a hunting knife strapped to the other side. He’s about her mom’s age, square-jawed and freshly shaved. Up close, he’s generic-looking and doesn’t seem so frightening. In fact, he’s holding her leg gently, studying her with what seems like concern.
“Let’s get you out of here,” he says with a sigh. “Though you certainly didn’t make it easy for me.” Then he slides his arms beneath her and picks her up as if she is a small child, like she weighs nothing at all.
The man marches back to the clearing, Eva’s trembling body in his arms and her blood staining the sleeve of his dusty uniform.
COLLEGE APPLICATION ESSAY #28
Henry Drummond is quoted as saying: “The people who influence you are the people who believe in you.” Share about someone who has influenced your life. How have they helped to shape the person you are becoming?
It should come as no surprise that the person who has shaped me the most is my mother, Charlotte Greer Sutton. I could write much more than a mere five hundred words on all the various ways she has molded me into the woman I am. But I fear the vast majority of these essays will focus on the inspiration of the applicants’ beloved parental units, so I’d like to turn my gaze in another direction.
Because I was bullied as a preteen and spent the bulk of my formative years on the road in a vintage Airstream trailer with my single mother, I wasn’t afforded many opportunities to make friends. Sure, I can have a stimulating conversation with a total stranger, and often enjoy thought-provoking exchanges with “friends” that I meet online, but an in-real-life bosom buddy? Not so much. Six months ago I would have told you that I don’t even know how to make an honest-to-goodness friend. I wouldn’t have dared to try.
But then Zach came into my life. Our relationship evolved in the most natural, unassuming way. I didn’t even realize he was becoming my best friend until we were wholly invested in each other’s lives and completely inextricable. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m no relationship expert, but it seems to me that the best friendships are often the ones that take you by surprise—and sometimes between two people who seem ill-fitted at best. I suppose they do say opposites attract.
I knew Zach was someone special when, a few weeks after we met, he took a damp paper towel (we were having an impromptu picnic in the front seat of his car) and began to gently, almost tenderly, wipe it across my cheeks, my forehead, my closed eyes. “What are you doing?” I asked him, too stunned to move. And he said, “I want to see you.”
My skin is freckled. I’ve spent years in the sun and wind, hiking trails and swimming and even dirt-biking when given the chance, and the elements have left their mark on every inch of me. I’m tough and muscled instead of thin and willowy. And goodness knows I’ll never be a porcelain-skinned supermodel. But when Zach looked at me, makeup-free and stripped down to my essence, I realized that I would never want to be.
When someone sees the real you—and not just accepts you, but loves you for who you really, soul-deep, are—it changes everything. Suddenly you don’t have to act anymore, to be something and someone that you’re not. It frees you up to live authentically and wholeheartedly. And though I’m still learning to live in this new (old!) skin, I’ll be forever grateful for the man whose influence is allowing me to be, well, me.
CHAPTER 13
SUNDAY–MONDAY
They speed down the highway, through a warren of gravel roads and two-track lanes that cut precariously close to the trees. Eva is stretched across the middle seat of the dark SUV, her leg wrapped in an old towel that the soldier commandeered from the house back in Little Moose. Of course, she doesn’t know if he’s actually a soldier, but because she also doesn’t know his name, she’s come to think of him as such. He’s wearing the uniform after all.
When the soldier looks over the passenger seat from time to time to check in on her, she makes sure to avoid his gaze. She’s not sure what he’s looking for. Is he afraid she’ll whip a weapon out of her ruined leggings? He’s already patted her down and confirmed that she’s not hiding so much as a tissue. Or maybe he’s worried about her jumping from the moving vehicle. Unfortunately, not only are the child locks engaged in the back doors (Eva quietly tested them), she’s completely incapacitated. Her shin is so swollen it bulges from between the folds of torn fabric when she dares to remove the blood-soaked towel to peek. She doubts she could put any pressure on her left leg at all right now, and the thought fills her with dread.
At least she’s alone with the two soldiers. The white-haired man and Zach are following the SUV at a short distance. The older man is behind the wheel of Zach’s truck, and her (former?) boyfriend slumps in the passenger seat. She can’t see them well, but the light of the dash creates a halo out of the old man’s snowy hair behind the steering wheel.
Eva has dozens of questions, but pain and fear prevent her from asking a single one. Instead, she tries to focus on mapping their route, clocking turns and looking for landmarks so that somehow she can find her way back to civilization when this is all over. They’re driving farther and farther into the wild, until Eva is sure that they have left the known world behind entirely. She worries that even if she manages to escape, she’ll never make it home.
When they finally stop in front of an old field gate, Eva feels dread splash through her like ice water. The soldier who carried her out of the woods hops out to swing the gate wide so they can drive through, but instead of getting back into the vehicle, he walks slowly in front as they crawl down a small ravine, over a shallow creek, and around a sharp bend. Almost immediately, Eva can see that there’s a second fence and another gate. This one is chain link, towers over the soldier’s head, and is topped with razor wire. A guard in matching camo fatigues stands holding an AR-15, which he swings behind him so he can shake the soldier’s hand.
“Welcome home,” the driver tells her, twisting around so he can grin at Eva. He hasn’t said a word to her, hasn’t even acknowledged her presence, and his declaration now sounds ominous. This is not her home. Eva is not staying here.
In seconds, the guard has entered a code into the keypad near the gate, and they’re driving through the perimeter. The guard waves almost cheerfully and tries to catch a peek of the inside of the SUV, but the windows are tinted and the evening smudged charcoal around the edges. Eva is relieved to be hidden.
They drive through more forest, but it thins as the vehicles climb a small rise. And there, at the top, Eva can finally see their destination spread out before them. The bones of an old homestead stretch across the gravel lane. To the right there’s a sprawling white farmhouse with a wraparound porch and golden light glowing in every curtained window. It’s warm and welcoming, with black rocking chairs, an oversized porch swing, and a chocolate lab standing sentinel in front of the apple-green door. To the left, there’s a red barn with peeling paint and a smaller, sun-bleached shed. There are freshly tilled gardens cut in neat squares, and wild lupine rimming the outbuildings. The whole scene is completely incongruous with the guns and camo, the razor wire and security. Eva can’t make the pieces fit.
But behind the foremost, idyllic scene, a new tableau unfolds. In the glow of several yard lights, Eva can see a trio of what look like new Morton buildings. They’re set like wooden blocks in a row, with small windows, doors on either end, and worn paths leading deeper into the property. There are no utility doors and no sign of machinery at all, but figures move back and forth across the darkness, walking and talking and carrying out tasks that she can’t begin to guess at. Beyond the buildings, everything becomes a bit of a blur, but if Eva squints, she can make out rows of trucks, wooden structures, and acres of dark forest.
“What is this place?” Eva doesn’t realize she’s spoken out loud until the driver of the SUV laughs.
“We’d tell you, but then we’d have to kill you.”
“Don’t tease her,” the soldier who chased her scolds. “I’m already afraid she’s going to die of a heart attack before Tamar can take a look at her leg.” Turning to Eva he says, “Welcome to our little slice of the American dream: the Gates of Zion. But that’s kind of a mouthful—we just call it ‘The Gates.’ ”
Eva isn’t sure what she suspected, but it certainly isn’t this. This is a bustling community in the middle of nowhere, well cared for and almost normal-looking. If she is going to be trafficked or held for ransom or recruited for some crazy cult, she would have predicted a much darker, more menacing setting. Not a farmhouse with rockers and pretty, patterned curtains in the windows.
“This is as far as you come,” her soldier says when they pull around the farmhouse and come to a stop beside a small building. It’s hidden behind the big house, but there’s a brick path that leads from the pocket-sized structure to the back door. It looks like an oversized garden shed that has been repurposed, and the tiny windows beside a narrow door are glowing. “They’re expecting you.”
Eva has no idea who they are, but her heart seizes. “Please,” she says, finally finding her voice. “I just want to go home. Please let me call my mom.”
“That’s not up to me.” The man hops out of the passenger side and opens the door so he can reach Eva. Without hesitation, he grabs her off the bench seat and hoists her into his arms. The movement is so sudden and jarring, a wave of nausea rushes over her. Eva pinches handfuls of his uniform in her sweaty palms and tries not to throw up as he strides across the lawn. She wants to resist, to kick and fight back, but she’s underestimated both his easy strength and her own overwhelming fatigue. Instead of freeing herself, she swoons, so that when he steps over the threshold of the shed, Eva’s world is tilting and out of focus.
There are voices and hands, the caress of warm air that smells of laundry detergent and floor polish. Eva doesn’t even know she’s cold until her skin prickles at the change in atmosphere, and she wishes for a blanket, a roaring fire, a mug of something hot and steaming. Almost immediately, one of her wishes is granted when she’s lowered to a stiff mattress and a blanket is pulled across her upper body.
“I’ll let you take it from here,” the soldier says to someone that Eva can’t see. Then his hand is heavy on her shoulder for a moment. “You’ll be good as new in no time,” he tells her, but she’s not reassured. “I’ll see you around.”
By the time the room stops spinning and Eva can take in her surroundings, a woman is already at work on her leg. The stranger is wearing a long, denim skirt, a red, cable-knit sweater that looks handmade, and a severe bun that drags her hair away from her sun-spotted face.
The woman is straddling a stool beside a wooden chair that contains an amateur-looking surgical kit. A few gleaming silver instruments, rolls of gauze, and a dark bottle of iodine are all laid out on a bleached white towel.
“No,” Eva says, taking it all in. She pushes herself up on her elbows and is rewarded with another head rush that makes the room tip.
The woman picks up a pair of slender scissors. “You’d rather I leave this gaping open?” She motions to the gory mess that is Eva’s shin. Blood still seeps from the flapped open, V-shaped wound, and her leggings are soaked through. The towel is unsalvageable. “You’ll have an infection by tomorrow.”
“Then I should go to the hospital,” Eva shoots back, trying to keep her head lifted.
A second pair of hands press her back into the pillow, and Eva finds herself looking at a girl about her age. She is also dressed in a long skirt and thick sweater, but her waist-length, dirty-blond hair has been woven into a single braid that curls over her shoulder. Her eyes are a pale, icy blue, and they glare at Eva.
“Be still,” the girl hisses. “You’re lucky she’s looking at you at all. If I had my way—”
“Rachel!” the woman interrupts. “Enough.”
The girl—Rachel—bites her bottom lip, but when the woman turns her attention back to Eva’s leg, the girl rolls her eyes. It’s a look Eva can read perfectly, even in her diminished state: you don’t belong here and I hate you.
The snick of the scissors fills the charged air between them, and Eva winces as the woman cuts at the fabric of her leggings. The lycra is stuck to her skin in places, glued by dried blood and matted with dirt and leaves, and the tugging makes her eyes water. Still, she curls her body so that she can see what’s going on—she doesn’t trust Rachel or the woman.
“Can you move your foot? Your knee?” The woman helps Eva point and flex her toes, then bend and rotate her knee. After a few minutes and some more poking and prodding that makes Eva gasp in agony, she says, “I don’t think it’s broken. But you do need stitches to close the wound.”
Eva’s stomach clenches into a fist, but before she can squeak out a single word, the woman goes on.
“I’m going to be honest with you: I don’t have any local anesthetic. So you have a choice. Either Rachel can hold you down, or I can give you a light sedative. I don’t have many pills left, so I’m not going to waste one trying to force you to take it, but it’s yours if you want it. It’ll make you drowsy and forgetful. You likely won’t remember anything about the procedure at all.”
