He showed up one day when I was halfway out the door of my apartment.
“You,” he said, and I froze.
Nine months was a long time, more than long enough to build someone up in your head, exaggerate their features and just how bad they really were. That was what I had been sure I’d done with Russell Snow, made him out to be scarier than he really was. And yet here, face-to-face with the disturbing man, I saw I hadn’t exaggerated at all. His face really was a hard-lined, too-pale mask with eyes of dust and stretched-out lips.
“You have seen him, haven’t you?” he growled.
I stood there speechless for a minute, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“N-no…”
His icy gaze slid to my bulging belly, and he sneered.
“Better not be lying to me.”
And then he left, leaving me trembling and fleeing back inside my apartment. As if I didn’t have enough things to worry about with my due date in a little under two weeks. Now I had to worry about Russell Snow taking out his frustration on me, due to his inability to find Brock.
Yet even as I sat there on my kitchen floor, terrified, tense hands resting on my restless belly, I smiled. Snow still hadn’t caught Brock. There was still hope, still a chance. If only I could find him…
By that night I still hadn’t ventured out of my apartment. My sleep was agitated, a series of tossing and turning and sequences of dreams. Disconnected images slipped past: Brock’s look cutting through me, his house, those cookies, those paintings. Mid-dream, I sat straight up in my bed, suddenly completely awake.
Those paintings! Of course, why hadn’t I thought of that? They could have held a clue about Brock. Hell, his whole cabin could have been chock-full of clues, and I had never thought to go back to it.
Next thing I knew, I was stumbling into some baggy sweatpants and an equally baggy sweatshirt. Then, after throwing some supplies into my backpack, including a flashlight and some granola bars, I raced out the door of my apartment.
I didn’t check what time it was; I didn’t care. With this latest revelation about Brock’s cabin, I had to go search now. This was the father of my children; it couldn’t wait. I had to find him.
My car rumbled to life unwillingly, but I set out nonetheless, driving into the dark night. A glance at my phone revealed a missed call from Tiffany (who always seemed to have a sixth sense when something big had happened) and the time: 3:47 a.m.
It didn’t matter. I flicked on the radio, and the Rolling Stones and I drove along the darkened streets, toward the cabin destination that would, hopefully, show me the light.
Getting to Nederland took longer than I remembered. Or, maybe it was just how uncomfortable everything was while pregnant. Bathroom breaks were a must almost every hour, while I kept a water bottle and a stash of snacks parked beside me the entire time. And yet still I ached; still I was bloated and hungry and thirsty, but not the normal kind. It was the kind that was perpetual, integral, something that couldn’t be fixed.
I was hardly surprised. I hadn’t had what you’d call an easy pregnancy. The first two or three months had been a whirlwind of throwing up and crying, while the next had been an endless binge-fest, which wasn’t the worst thing, except how my body had swelled so considerably that it no longer felt like mine. And yet, it had been worth it. As I drove, turning down the road of the path to the cabin, I could feel my babies’ excited kicking.
“Yes, we’re going to see Daddy’s old place,” I told them, and they kicked some more.
It was strange. Carrying these oh-so-fragile little beings within me frightened me, especially going on this potentially dangerous Daddy search, and yet it made me feel reassured, less alone.
I could do this. For my children, I had to.
Making it to the cabin was an exercise in patience. It not only took longer than I expected, but it took longer than I could have even feared. The forest was one unending black void of grass and trees and shrubs, all of which were too close to my car. I rapidly exhausted my granola bar supply, while my water met a similar, quickly finished fate.
By the time I did finally pull into the darkened dirt parking lot, I had been seriously considering turning back altogether.
But, just in time, there it was, barely visible in the pale yellow of my headlights: Brock’s cabin.
I turned off my car. I told myself I could do this.
Then I got out my flashlight, slung my knapsack onto my back, and waddled out of my car.
I walked up to the old cabin, the one with the bashed-in door from when Russell and his men had broken their way in. From when Mommy had betrayed Daddy. I stepped over the door carefully, swallowing my guilt and blinking back tears.