Held (13 page)

He vanished without warning. He said he’d come the next day, but he didn’t. He didn’t come back the day after that, or the next, or the next. I ran out of food on the fourth day, but my hostage-taker had brought me a box of canned food for emergencies. The labels had been torn off the tins, but there were stickers to identify them: corn, peaches, soup.

The cans kept me going for a day or two. Then the can-opener broke. It split into two and there was no way to fix it. I tried stomping on the cans, hitting them against the wall, pounding them on the edge of the sink, but they only bent out of shape. Then I lost interest and stopped trying. I wasn’t hungry anyhow.

I was afraid.

Not just afraid that my hostage-taker had died and that I would starve to death, but also irrationally afraid, the way you are when you’re little. I was literally afraid of vampires and monsters and alien creatures—afraid they’d suddenly appear in the warehouse. Every scary movie I’d ever seen came back to me with a vengeance. I kept expecting to see the slasher guy from
Nightmare on Elm Street
sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, grinning at me.

I was afraid to sleep because I was afraid of my dreams, I was afraid to be awake because I was afraid of the things around me. I knew I was losing my mind, and that my terror was the first symptom.

I tried to read, write, exercise, but nothing succeeded in calming me or distracting me from my fear. I clutched my monkey. I held him close to me and wouldn’t let him go. He was my only chance, I felt—my only hope for sanity. His sad eyes and friendly smile made me feel I wasn’t really alone. I wondered if feeling so attached to a toy monkey was in itself a sign that I was going mad.

I draped the towels across the table so they hung over the sides, and I sat under the table with my monkey, wrapped in my blanket and protected by the towel tent.

Everything terrified me. I tried to sing, but my voice frightened me. I couldn’t play any music because it all sounded spooky and malicious, like the soundtrack to a horror movie. I tried to read, but the words made no sense and I began to imagine that they were written in code.

I thought about my life, how short it had been, how sad Mom would be when she found out I was dead. Another part of me wanted to die, because I didn’t feel I could bear to live this way much longer.

I took out my lipstick and drew two streaks on either side of my face like a Native American. I remembered that red was the color of war; I hoped it would ward off demons. I was desperate enough to try anything.

I was afraid of suffering. I knew starvation was painful. Even if I somehow managed to open the cans, they’d only last another week, and then I’d have nothing.

I cried and hugged my monkey under the table. “You’re my friend,” I told him. “My best friend.” I kissed his soft fur and held him tighter.

I lost all sense of time. I drifted in and out of nightmarish semi-sleep and I had no idea whether an hour had passed or a day. A few times my nightmares turned into a wonderful dream and I was convinced I was at home, in my bed, and everyone I loved was downstairs with balloons and a cake, waiting for me to come down and celebrate my return. I felt Pumpkin’s paws on my chest and his tongue tickling my ears. I’d wake up shivering and sobbing.

I was sitting under the tented table, dressed only in underwear but draped in my blanket, when I heard the door opening. I was too dazed to feel either fear or relief. Through the narrow space between two towels I saw my hostage-taker striding into the warehouse. He walked toward me, crouched down, and peered in. “I couldn’t come. I’m sorry.”

He’d left the door open because he had a lot of things to unload. I froze for a second, barely believing my luck, and then, with all my remaining strength dashed out and began to run.

It was late evening, but there was still enough light to see the forest ahead. I couldn’t run fast because I was barefoot and weak and still clutching the blanket around me.

My hostage-taker came after me, lifted me off the ground, held me over his shoulder. I pounded his back with my fists, though I was dizzy and the ground seemed to be spinning.

He carried me back inside and shut the door. “As soon as you calm down we’ll go out for a walk,” he said. He handed me a glass of chocolate milk. Nothing had ever tasted so good.

Drinking the milk re-energized me and also renewed my anger. I sprang toward him and began hitting him on his chest and arms. I called him every name I could think of. “I hate you, I hate you!” I shouted. I wanted to kick him, but I wasn’t wearing shoes. Instead I bit his arm, hard. I was sure I’d hurt him and I was glad.

“You’ll feel better after a walk,” he said, trying to move away from me. “We can go to the forest.”

“So you can kill me when there’s no one around?” I stomped to the bed, held my monkey against my chest, and draped the blanket over my head so I was entirely hidden. I heard him moving around, cleaning up, putting stuff away.

“I’m just going to bring more things from the car,” he said. I heard the door opening and shutting.

I peeked out from under the blanket and saw a plate with a snack in the shape of a face: diamond cracker eyes with olive pupils, a brie nose, a comical raisin mouth turned up at one end and down at the other.

The face only made me angrier, and I pushed the plate away.

But I couldn’t resist for long. I started nibbling on the snack, and I felt my anger slowly dissolving. I’d never been good at maintaining anger. Much as I wanted to stay angry, much as I was determined to be angry until doomsday, I always gave in. Anger just wasn’t any fun; it was too draining. I had no idea how anyone could sustain it for extended periods, though I knew that some people did. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live that way.

My hostage-taker returned with the last of the groceries.

“We can go now,” he said, handing me the black hat.

I pulled on my jeans and we stepped outside. I felt dazed and disoriented. It was late evening, but the sun had not yet set, and the sky was palest blue with streaks of gold. I noticed that my hostage-taker was carrying a flashlight—did that mean we’d be staying out until dark?

It was bliss being outdoors. I walked next to my hostage-taker, my monkey still in my arms. We reached the forest and I leaned against one of the trees, pressed my head against the bark, and took a deep breath. My body seemed to be feeding on the sweet night air and I felt the tension seeping out of my limbs. It was over—I was alive after all. And I was no longer afraid of indefinable things. Or at least not as afraid as before. My hostage-taker’s presence kept the ghouls and vampires at bay.

I felt happy. It was the kind of happiness that comes from being rescued or from something awful coming to an end.

I turned toward my hostage-taker and folded my arms around him. I rested my head against his white cotton shirt, my monkey dangling from my hand. I felt immeasurable love for him. I wanted him with all my being, I wanted him more than seemed humanly possible. I’d never been truly in love, but now that it had happened, there was no question about it—what I was feeling was love. Whatever I’d felt in the past—guys I’d thought were cute or wished I was dating—all that was a kid’s infatuation compared to this.

I knew there was a good reason he hadn’t been able to see me, and I was afraid for him. Yes, he’d done something incredibly stupid and wrong, but he did it because he thought it was the right thing.

“I love you, I love you,” I murmured.

My hostage-taker didn’t return my hug, but he didn’t push me away. I was too desperate.

“Definitely the embrace of an athlete,” he said.

“Former athlete,” I corrected him. But he was the one who felt strong and sturdy against my body, and for a moment it seemed to me that I couldn’t tell us apart; I couldn’t tell where his body ended and mine began. I wanted his strength to flow into me and for my love to flow into him. My face was pressed against his chest, and I could hear his heart beating under his shirt. It made him seem unbearably vulnerable.

“I’m sorry I bit you,” I said.

“Let’s sit down,” he said finally and carefully extricated himself from my grasp. We sat on the ground and I flattened my hand on the uneven surface. The earth was as alive as I was, and I was sure it could feel me as intensely as I felt it.

“I couldn’t come before,” he said. “I would have, but it wasn’t possible.”

“I was sure you’d been killed. And that stupid can opener broke.”

“Yes, I saw. I’m very sorry. I’ll bring a new one that won’t break, but this won’t happen again, I promise.”

“How much longer will I be here?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about school?”

“I’m sure they’ll make allowances. I’m supposed to transmit a message from your high school in fact.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because it’s a charade,” he said, pronouncing the word so it rhymed with
fraud
.

“What do you mean, charade?” I asked, imitating his pronunciation of the word.

“Messages sent to you, by all sorts of groups, jumping on the opportunity to exploit the situation. Maybe not your high school, but there’s politics involved in almost everything else.”

“Do you hate Americans?” I had to clear away obstacles to how I felt about him, I had to know that he was who I thought he was. I wouldn’t be able to love him if he was full of blind hatred.

But he said, as I knew he would, “How can I hate people I don’t know?”

“What about your friend?”

“What happened had nothing to do with politics. It was about power. Weak people can’t resist the seduction of power, and they can’t resist abusing it.”

“You have power over me, too,” I said.

He didn’t answer. He seemed very tired suddenly.

I stopped talking. Maybe he’d fall asleep and I’d be able to stay outdoors longer. I realized that I no longer wanted to escape. If I escaped now, he’d be caught.

He read my mind. “We can’t remain out here for too long. These woods aren’t part of the property.”

“Just a few more minutes. My monkey needs the fresh air.”

“Have you given him a name?”

“Abducted monkeys don’t get to have names. They become anonymous, just like me.”

“You’re far from anonymous,” he said.

“I don’t know what I would have done without him.” I planted a loud kiss on my monkey’s head. “Where did you find him?”

“Just a kiosk. I was lucky to spot him in my rush.”

“It’s funny,” I mused. “When I thought you weren’t coming, the most ordinary things became demonic. Music, my own voice, a tube of toothpaste. I fell into a sort of madness—ordinary things were transformed into something grotesque or evil. But what if the way we see things, as harmless and safe, is just as arbitrary? What if it’s only more practical to see the world as neutral, and that’s why the people who experience a harmless world are the normal ones?”

“We should be getting back.”

“Just five more minutes,” I begged. “If I were a botanist, maybe I could figure out where I was according to the type of trees. But I don’t want to know. I’m glad I can’t identify them.”

“So am I.”

“I feel like Pirate Jenny, with this black floppy hat. Do you know that play?
The Threepenny Opera
?”

“Yes.”

“We put it on last year at my high school. Guess who I was. You’ll never guess. Mack the Knife! It feels like a hundred years ago.
When we encounter / A different sort of person / Our
dispositions worsen,
” I sang. “
We squish them up and feed them / To
lions.
Don’t worry, I didn’t sing alone, there was a chorus and we sang together.”

“Your boyfriend mentioned that play.”

“My boyfriend? I don’t have a boyfriend!”

“Chad, I think his name is.”

“Chad! We only had two dates, and they were a disaster. Is he going around telling people he’s my boyfriend?”

“I think there was some dispute … I didn’t follow it.”

“I can’t believe that creep is saying he’s my boyfriend. I’ve lost control not only of my life but of my entire past. And it’s all your fault. I nearly lost my mind because of you. You’re lucky I didn’t try to kill myself.”

“You’re a very strong person.”

“You need strong nerves in gymnastics. But I went round the bend while you were gone. Oh my God!” I cried out.

“What is it?”

“Oh God, my face! I totally forgot!” I touched my face and felt the streaks of lipstick on my cheeks. I threw my monkey at my hostage-taker and ran back to the warehouse. He followed me inside and this time he locked the door.

I knew when I came out of the bathroom that my face was red, and not only from being scrubbed.

“There’s nothing unusual about face painting,” he said.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I muttered.

I looked through the food he’d brought and helped myself to bits of everything: triangles made of baked dough and stuffed with cottage cheese, a spiced rice dish, salad, couscous, baklava. He sat at the table and watched me. He looked completely exhausted.

“Why don’t you lie down?” I suggested. “I promise I won’t stab you in your sleep.”

He hesitated, but his fatigue won out. “Maybe just for a few minutes,” he said.

He stretched out on the bed, placed his hands on his chest, and closed his eyes. I put a CD in the player—I’d labeled all the disks by now—and “Heart Skipped a Beat” filled the room.

I went over to him, sat cross-legged by his side, and gazed at his face. He opened his eyes and they interlocked with mine. He seemed to be looking at me with less reserve than usual.

I began to run my fingers gently along his arm. He pushed my hand away, but instead of letting go he held on to it. He didn’t just clasp my hand in his, thumb over knuckles; he interlaced his fingers with mine. The gesture made me deliriously happy. I felt as if his entire body had encased me; I felt loved and protected.

I leaned down and brushed my lips against his. To my amazement he slid his tongue into my mouth. But the kiss only lasted a second or two. He threw himself back abruptly, sat up, and even more surprisingly, covered his face with both his hands. He’d never shown me that side of him—a side that was not in complete control of the situation.