Every Breath You Take (23 page)

She found herself staring at her parents’ wedding picture, thinking about what her mother felt when she was pregnant with her. Beautiful, sunny, hopeful Laura, having no idea she’d be dead soon.

Of course, there was never any way of knowing what would happen tomorrow, or the next day. For all Natalie knew, tomorrow her string could disintegrate.

“Just be,” Jason would always whisper to her when he saw her tensing up, shutting down, getting worked up, tapping her finger against the perpetually half-empty glass.

Just be . . .

S
he smelled . . . photo paper. Old, peeling photo paper that had been in the bottom of a shoebox or trapped beneath the cracking cellophane of an ancient photo album.

Natalie swiveled her head from side-to-side to escape the rotting scent, but it followed her. Her eyes fluttered open to see Joey sitting on the bed, leaning over her.

“You’re so beautiful when you sleep,” he whispered.

She sprang away from him while trying to make her mind focus. He’d left. She distinctly remembered his leaving after only one assault as opposed to the countless ones he was usually good for. She looked around. There was no food. Was it morning? Afternoon? What did he want now?

“How long have you been here?” she murmured.

“Not long. I got—” Joey hung his head down and took a deep breath. “I mean, I
have
a surprise for you.”

Natalie frowned. The constant self-correcting of speech—almost like he was trying to make himself sound like a different person—sounded unnatural to her ears. She wondered if it felt unnatural to his lips. She kept her own mouth shut, waiting instead for today’s new torture. The last few days, he’d been seized by the notion that interrupting her sleep at night was no longer enough—that he had to have her before every meal in addition to the nightly peep shows he forced her to perform in exchange for food. If it were just her, Natalie wouldn’t do it.

She’d do whatever she had to for her baby.

She took a deep breath and forced a smile. “What is it?”

He waved the photo in front of her face, and it took Natalie a few moments to realize what it was. It was her mother cradling her from her hospital bed, that mouthful of pearls beaming at the camera. One of so many pictures she thought were lost to her forever. Here. Now. Flapping between Joey’s fingers.

“Mama,” she whispered, her eyes misting over. She grabbed for it, but he snatched it back.

“Come on now. What do you say?”

“Please, Joey . . . may I have the picture of—” her voice broke. “My mother.”

He smiled then flipped the picture toward her. Natalie reached out to catch it as it floated down into her palms. She held it to her heart, her eyes closed as she rocked back and forth in her own world.

“You’ve been so good these past few days, I thought I’d give you a treat.”

“Where are the rest of them? Where’s everything else? My baby books, the letters, my mother’s diary—”

“Shh, shh. All in good time now. You keep being good, you’ll get some more.” He leaned close to her. “If you’re bad, you won’t get anything.”

“Okay, Joey, okay. I’ll be good. I swear.”

He mashed his lips against hers, his tongue poking between her teeth and jabbing her own. She held her breath and let her tongue go limp against his, hoping that would be enough to placate him. He leaned back and smiled, indicating his approval of her cooperation.

“I’ll let you enjoy your little present. I’ll be back later.”

He slithered out of the room, and Natalie resumed staring at the picture, the memories of it leaping back. She’d memorized every picture he’d stolen: every crease, every spot, the fuzzy images in the background. Over time, the details faded, and those stacks of pictures became smelly rectangles full of shapeless blobs.

She picked apart the features, determined to recommit them to memory. She slid back down into bed and traced the outline of her mother’s face.

“Mama,” she whispered.

“T
here has to be a way out of here, something I haven’t thought of. Something I’ve missed. Maybe the walls aren’t solid after all. Maybe that’s why he’s got all these pictures all over the walls, to hide something in the walls, something that would let me escape. Oh . . . no. What’s he gonna say when he sees all this blood all over my hands? I can’t let him figure out that while I was trying to unscrew the light fixtures, I sliced my fingers open. I’ll make up something, some story. What am I going to say? I had some hangnails. That’s it. I had some hangnails and broke another nail on the bathroom counter, and he wouldn’t give me any nail clippers or anything the other day when I asked so I had to tear them out with my teeth. He’ll believe that. He will.”

“God . . . damn it, he’s got every picture in here glued and stapled to the wall. Why didn’t I think to check the walls again after I tore everything down? Stupid, stupid, stupid. I can’t really check the walls with all this shit all over them. That has to be why. There’s something with the walls. What if I tore those pictures down again? No, no. God only knows what he would make me do then or what he would do to me. But I bet that’s why he was so quick to put them back up. And making me do it with him, making me rub glue on the back of pictures like some fucking arts and crafts project on a rainy Saturday afternoon. For all I know, it
could
have been Saturday. Every time I ask ‘what’s today?’ or ‘what time is it?’ he just laughs. ‘Why do you care what day it is and what time it is? You’re not going anywhere.”

“The staples. Can I do something with the staples? But what? I already broke my nails on the stupid light fixtures. It would take me forever to pull the staples out of the wall. And he took the comb away. I probably could have used that. God, I can’t believe there’s not a . . . a bobby pin, a pencil, or anything in this room. Wait. A safety pin. Maybe he’ll give me a safety pin. No, a paperclip would probably be better. Wouldn’t it? How am I going to get my hands on a paperclip? No, no, it has to be a safety pin, because it’s got that pointed tip on it. Say I need it to hold up my dress or something. No, no, he’ll see through that.

Damn it.

“Okay, Natalie, come on, think. Think. You’re a smart girl. Valedictorian of your high school class. Okay, granted not like there was a whole lot of competition. But still, you got into the Ivy League. You
went
to an Ivy League school, so you’re not a dummy, you’re not a dummy. Joey had to have made a mistake somewhere. He’s fucked up somewhere. I just have to figure out where and use it to my advantage. There’s a way out of here, and I’m going to find it. Maybe tonight when he’s back in here raping me, he’ll fall asleep. What am I saying . . . he never falls asleep in here. Just talks. Nonstop.”

“Okay, keep playing nice with him. Get him to let down his guard and get that phone. Get that phone.”

Natalie ran her blood-encrusted hands over the walls one more time.

She looked over her shoulder, peered around every corner, jumped at every whisper.

And so it had been these last agonizing months, waiting, wondering what would happen now.

The last fragment of photo had arrived that morning. As she slid it into place and smeared tape across it to connect it to the rest of the jagged pieces, she couldn’t stop her fingers from trembling, almost as if lifting her fingers from the cellophane would precipitate his barreling through her door.

It was quiet, which made it worse.

All she could do was stare at the clock, the photo, the door, wishing Dina wasn’t out with her new boyfriend, which meant she wouldn’t be home that night, wishing Dennis wasn’t meeting with his poli-sci study group, which she knew would run well past eleven.

She was alone.

She sat huddled on the bed, the room throbbing with the sound of her blood slamming against her ears, of her heart battering her chest.

She was alone.

N
atalie wrapped her mouth around the faucet, slurping down the thin stream of lukewarm water as fast as she could without choking. She wiped her mouth on the hem of her t-shirt before dipping down for another long drink.

So far, water had been her one craving. She was desperate for it, ducking into the bathroom anytime she was alone to suck it down like nectar.

She was glad her body was cooperating and her cravings were limited to something she could actually quell on her own. She had fears of wanting lemonade or watermelon or cheese and being denied it just because it was something she wanted. Not to mention tipping him off to her condition. She desperately missed her packs of cinnamon gum. That was one she almost broke down and asked for several times, but in the end, just let it go.

Natalie took one more gulp before resuming her cardio workout of jumping jacks and skipping imaginary rope. She’d been antsy lately, the excess energy humming through her like a current. Pacing had ceased to soothe her, so she started doing aerobics, working up a sweat for what she hoped was at least a half hour. There were times when she thought about asking Joey if she could get on his treadmill but knew better. If she did, not only would he be watching her, but he’d likely be yammering on the entire time. One more way to insert himself into her life.

The days followed an ordered, staid pattern. He would come in every morning with breakfast—huge meals of eggs, pancakes, sausage, muffins, or oatmeal, none of it any good. The eggs were rubbery, the pancakes spongy, the sausage burnt, the muffins dry, the oatmeal runny.

Sometimes breakfast would be followed by his reclining in a chair at the foot of the bed and talking. Nonstop talking. Getting a word in edgewise wasn’t something she could do even if she was so inclined. She once tried counting the minutes in her head, but after ten times of counting to sixty, she gave up. On occasion, he would leave right after breakfast, claiming errands, leaving her to slip into sleep, a respite from him and the sheer, banging boredom of her days.

For lunch, she got sandwiches. Every day. Ham sandwich. Turkey sandwich. Tuna sandwich. Grilled cheese sandwich.

For dinner, there was chicken. Every day. Fried chicken. Baked chicken. Chicken strips. Chicken noodle soup. Chicken pot pie. Grilled chicken. Roasted chicken (Chicken. Jason hated chicken on the bone). She wept for the chickens as much as she did for herself.

And she had to endure his feeding her. Each. And. Every. Meal.

Sometimes, he would let her out so they could watch movies. Sometimes he’d lock her in the room where she could be alone with her thoughts. Alone to pace that dark room, all twenty-seven steps across and seventeen steps long. Alone to scramble for ways to stay lucid. Alone to think about Jason, missing him so much, her breath stalled in her chest. Alone to beg his forgiveness for bringing Joey into his life all so he could end it. Alone to cry about their lost future. Alone to worship at the shrine of her parents she’d built on the vanity from the mementos of her past he dropped into her grateful hands: the now-moldy stuffed pink rabbit that used to sleep in her crib with her; four worn, grubby pages from her mother’s diary describing the night Ricky proposed; her father’s football jersey, whose number Braxton High had retired long ago; a picture of the happy couple at their senior prom. Natalie would snatch these little treasures into her hands like they were gold coins, so happy to have something, some scrap to hold onto. Some little thing to help.

It was all preferable to the nights. He was insatiable, like a drooling, horny fox let loose in a house where she was the only hen. She almost didn’t feel the pain anymore, having become nothing more than a bag of bones strewn together by skin and a slit for his pleasure. She dozed in the corner until it was over and he slipped out of bed during what she suspected were the wee hours of the morning to do what, she wasn’t sure. Probably to go and jack off for another four hours.

Through it all, she’d been playing her part beautifully, not making waves, being the very picture of benign and blissful. Cooperative.

But it wasn’t enough. She needed a grand gesture, something to move the needle.

Natalie finished her fifty high knees, having accomplished her goal of wearing herself out. She pulled a pair of pants and a black t-shirt out of the closet before she headed into the shower, her mind on high alert.

She rubbed the soapy body puff into her elbow. Nostalgia. He was big on nostalgia and reminiscing about their grand past. Always “remember the time we did this” and “remember how we went here?”

A date.

She’d tell him she wanted to recreate their first date. He’d love that. He might do a cartwheel over that. A pizza date at the—what was the name of that place. Ban—? No, Big. Big Top Pizza. Had a guy balancing stacks of pizzas in either hand while riding a unicycle. That’s how she would butter him up. Maybe she could even get him to drink. She’d get him drinking, get him to let his guard down.

Natalie poured a glob of pink shampoo into her hand, groaning as she scrubbed the dirt from her scalp. That was it.

They would have a date.

N
atalie took a deep breath and looked over at Joey, who was enthralled by
Smokey and the Bandit
. It was their second movie of the day, having already watched something with Chuck Norris. Which made today “action day.” He liked to “theme” his movies, as he was fond of telling her. “Gotta have a theme, Nat. You know, like a double bill at the movies. Like, do you—do you remember that time. . .?”

Joey had odd taste in movies, ranging from syrupy-sweet sentimental romances to bang-bang-you’re-dead-interchanged-with-slash-slash-slash-you’re-dead films.

It was enough to give her whiplash.

She wanted to tune out, as she normally did, but today she had to be more alert and attentive than usual.

It was time to apply pressure.

“Joey?”