Tracey let out her breath in a rush of relief. Breathing hard and fast, she followed her captor as she removed the plywood from the opening and headed down the dingy passageway. They neared the entrance to where the bad spot was; Tracey’s legs failed her. She couldn’t walk toward that awful place. Paralyzed with fear, she breathed in rapid, noisy breaths. Her captor turned to face her, rolled her eyes, and yanked Tracey’s arm toward the wretched room.
“No!” Tracey screamed, blinded by her own tears. “I won’t do it again! I promise! I’ll be good!” she begged to deaf ears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, don’t put me in the bad spot. Please!”
Mummy began to pray, which scared Tracey even more than the bad spot did. “Hosea 9:7. The days of punishment are coming, the days of reckoning are at hand. Let Israel know this. Because your sins are so many and your hostility so great, the prophet is considered a fool, the inspired man a maniac.”
The rancid smell of urine, dead rodents, and fear pervaded the air of the dark room like rainwater seeping into the cracks of an old foundation. Tracey stood straight as a soldier, petrified. She felt a hand grasp her upper arm. Her captor’s fingers wrapped all the way around Tracey’s slim arm and squeezed—hard. Her other hand pushed against Tracey’s back, forcing her forward.
Tracey’s feet reluctantly disobeyed her desire to run away. The light from the lantern cast menacing shadows across the floor. Loose dirt, littered with rocks and pebbles, receded into a dark hole in the earth—the bad spot. Despite her best efforts not to, Tracey began to sob, “Please! Please! I’ll be good!”
Her captor pushed her forward, “You don’t appreciate anything!” Her words were robotic, as if scripted. “You’re a spoiled little brat, and you are going to learn to appreciate the things I give you!” Her entire body shook. “I saved you!” she said nastily, thrusting Tracey forward with such force that Tracey fell to the ground, just inches from the hole. Tracey tried to scramble away, clawing at the unforgiving dirt, struggling to move away from the hole, fruitlessly digging into the ground with knees and toes.
Her captor put her foot on the back of Tracey’s calf, successfully trapping her. Her captor yelled, “I saved you from being part of that horrible world! Part of the ‘people who don’t care’!”
Tracey wriggled and sobbed beneath her.
Her anger chillingly eased. “I’ll save you. You will be happy.” Just as quickly, her voice became terrifying, “You will learn to appreciate what you are given,” her final word was emphasized by her bearing down on Tracey’s already throbbing leg. Tracey yelped in pain.
In one quick motion, her captor removed her foot from Tracey’s leg, yanked Tracey several inches off of the ground, and dropped her into the hole. Tracey landed hard on her feet—her knees buckled and she sank down, her back up against the cold dirt. The narrowness of the cavity forced her knees against her chest, hindering her breathing. She looked up just in time to see the grate—made out of rough branches and leaves—placed over the top of the hole, evoking more tears of helplessness. As the board was eased over the top of the grate, eliminating all but a single beam of dim light, she pulled her legs in tighter to her chest. Tracey focused on the golf-ball-sized hole that was cut in the center of the rotten board. An air hole, Mummy had said. Tracey’s body flinched with each shovelful of dirt as it fell onto the board. She held her breath, afraid the dirt was going to clog the air hole, but too scared to reach up, for fear she’d be sealed in forever. Urine seeped in between her thighs, puddling beneath her. The light faded in and out of the hole. Tracey concentrated on the heavy thumps the dirt made on the board, the sound of random pebbles as they plunked against each other. One...two...three…four…She put her head down on her arms as bits of dirt fell upon her through the air hole. Five…six….seven…..eight…nine. Eventually Tracey was met with darkness, silence. Her pulse throbbed in her ear like an Indian drum. Her fear was so great that she felt as if her heart were actually breaking, piece by piece, torn out of her chest. Her stomach hurt. She was starving, though it felt like a rock was in her belly. Her tears drained the energy right out of her ravaged body, leaving her limp, inert—she gave into the exhaustion. Maybe not waking up, she thought, would be easier than being here.
Thirteen
Cole worried that his wife might be falling back into the unsettled place of her past. Tense and baffled, he watched her as they sat in their car in front of the schoolhouse. He rewrapped Molly’s injured hand, then put the car into motion to begin the short drive home. White Ground Road was dark, quiet. With no streetlights and the umbrella of trees blocking the moonlight, Cole drove carefully, his eyes bouncing between Molly and the narrow road that lay ahead.
Molly’s hands were pressed against her thighs, shaking. She looked as if she were intently focused, staring straight ahead. “Hold on, Mol,” Cole said, silently calculating the time it would take them to get home—or possibly to the hospital. “Cole, I don’t feel so great,” she said, nervously. “We’re almost home,” he said, squeezing her thigh. “Cole,” Molly said, fiddling with her hands, “Cole!”
The alarm in her voice caught Cole’s attention. He pulled over just beyond the Hoyles Mill Trail. Molly was holding her hands in front of her face, turning them, touching one with the other, as if she were making sure they were actually there.
“Oh my God! Cole!” Tears sprang from Molly’s eyes as she frantically grasped at her face, the dashboard. “I can’t see. I can’t see anything!” she screamed.
Cole instantly reverted to doctor mode. He reached for Molly’s face, placing his warm hands firmly on her cheeks and tilting her head up so he could look into her eyes. “Molly!” he said, sternly. “Can you see me at all? What do you see?” “I can hear you, but I think…I’m going…” Cole watched her eyes begin to roll up into her head. “Molly! Stay with me, Mol!” he demanded. “Can’t...feel—” Molly’s head fell back against the headrest.
Cole jumped into action. He ran to the trunk and rummaged frantically through the boxes and medical reference books. “Damn it!” he swore as he dug through the mounds of other insignificant crap in his trunk. “Yes!” he found his first-aid kit and ripped the plastic top open. He rushed to Molly’s door and flung it open. Molly’s body was shuddering, as if she were having convulsions. “Molly! Can you hear me, Molly?” he yelled. Cole tore open the smelling salt package and broke the ampule in half under Molly’s nose.
Molly’s head jerked backward. “My hand,” Molly’s voice was almost a whisper. Then suddenly she grabbed her wrist and screamed, “Cole! Fuck! It’s burning!” Just as quickly, her body shuddered, then went limp.
“Molly!” Cole yelled again, slapping her cheeks and instinctively taking her pulse. She was breathing, but her pulse was elevated. Cole raced to the driver’s side and threw himself into the seat. He slammed the car into Drive and sped off toward help.
Molly’s breathing hitched. “Molly!” Cole yelled, reaching over and holding her head back against the headrest. She lifted her legs off of the seat and curled up into in a fetal position. “Hang on, baby, hang on,” Cole urged. He gunned the engine up around the corner, turning fast into Hannah Slate’s driveway. He threw the gear into Park and turned to Molly, whose eyes were closed, but her breathing had become normal once again.
“Mol?” Cole’s words were laden with concern.
Molly opened her eyes. He grabbed her arm and looked over her bandage—he gasped. “Molly?” He reached up and pushed her bangs off of her head—no fever. He held up his finger in front of Molly’s eyes. She stared at it as if in a daze. As he moved his finger from right to left she moved her head to follow. He placed his hand firmly on the top of Molly’s head, “Follow, Molly,” he directed, in full physician mode. “Follow my finger with only your eyes.”