Sorenson continues looking at the photographs. Then she turns on her heel and heads out of the apartment.
— LEEENAHH!!
But I hear the door slam shut and she’s gone. I’m left to contemplate my last meal on this planet that isn’t jail food. I pick up one of the Big Macs (540) and large fries (540) and start to take bites, chewing and swallowing, letting the sugar, salt, and chemical toxins rush through me. Rendering me giddy. Making me want more. . then I feel something rising in me as my body rejects the poisonous shit. .
I look at the pile of vomit on the floor in front of me, through watery eyes. I need to do this. It’s my penance. I go to the bag and try again, this time small nibbles, feeling the rush of sugar and salt flooding every part of my body. So I’m eating and drinking factory-made chemical excrement, waiting for the sound of far-off police sirens to draw closer and the cops to come and take me away, to share the same fate as McCandless and Balbosa. Then, as the time drags on, I realize that it’ll maybe play out even worse; perhaps an unhinged Sorenson will be at a Home Depot, stocking up on power tools to torture and mutilate me, the way I did with Winter, or even destroy me, like I did Jerry.
I’m scared, and I’m pulling, pushing at this bracelet, at the obstinate pillar, screaming in anger and fear and frustration for I don’t know how long. She’s gone for ages and it’s pitch black outside. I’m on the mattress, all cried out, staring at the ceiling, floating between horrific thought and terrifying dream. I feel weighed down by a grief so old it could have grown in the Garden of Eden. Then the dread snap of the bolt in the front door as I wait for the end of my life, or at least this phase of it. The morning light is almost up when Lena reappears, looking frazzled and exhausted, heavy bag slung over her shoulder. — Lena. . what happened. . what did you do? Where did you go?
— Home. I had to stop off at the Home Depot to buy some new tools.
Oh my God, it’s going to happen. .
— Lena, please. . I back toward the steel support pillar.
She shakes her head at me as she lowers the bag. — I’m not gonna hurt you, she says contemptuously, making me feel like a pathetic fool. — I fixed everything.
— What. .?
— I cleaned up your fucking mess.
— But. .
— That’s all you need to know. We won’t mention this, or his name, ever again. You got that?
— But—
— I asked you if you got that.
— Yes, of course! But God, Lena. . I. . I really owe you—
— Big fucking time, she snaps, reaching into the bag, pulling out a carton full of warm, early-morning bakery goods and dropping them in my lap. — Now eat!
47. CONTACT 18
To: lenadiannesorenson@thebluegallery.com
From: mollyrennesorenson@gmail.com
Subject: Things I Need To Say
Lena honey,
We never told you just how proud you made us when you got into the Art Institute, then had your first exhibition while you were still an undergrad. Your father more than anyone. He tells everybody at the hardware store, and church, about how famous and talented his daughter is. As do I. I know he still keeps that article from the Star Tribune as I see him take it out his wallet and glance at it from time to time.
Why are we always so quiet and guilty in our pride?
Why can we tell other people those things, but not each other?
You’re so right, Lena, all those things you said were harsh, even cruel, but they needed to be said. All we really have in this life is each other, and we really should give those close to us our appreciation and support.
So I’m trying to follow your plan, although the fruit and vegetables thing is harder than you think — this is Minnesota, not Florida! Most of all is the news that I’ve stopped baking! I’ve been reading online about flour, and how it has bad qualities.
I’ve always wanted to learn a language and I thought, it’s never too late, so I’ve started beginner’s Spanish at the community college. So when I come visit you in Miami, I’ll be hablo española!
Whatever we go through, you are our wonder girl and we love you.
Much love,
Mom xxxx
48. ONE WAY OR ANOTHER
I FEEL TIREDNESS in every nerve and bone. But there’s a wave of exhilaration, pulling me up. My work, which is my destiny: it’s all going so well. This is what I was put here to do. I walk into the apartment and go straight to the bedroom. I can hear Lucy’s cries coming from the living room. — Lena! Why are you doing this?! It makes no sense!
I’ve stopped talking to her as it disquiets me. I don’t like to hear the gloating Hollywood villain coming out in my voice. Who can have such power over another person and not descend into showboating arrogance? As for her: after what we’ve been through, I wonder why she even bothers to try and work on me!
This bedroom she would sneak into at night; the inflatable mattress, the thin comforter. Her books; mostly sports science and obnoxious performance-management stuff. The few personal items: purse, makeup, clothes. Yes, she really was almost as much a prisoner here as me. The most amazing thing, apart from that horrible mess she left me to clean up back at my home, was the string of emails from “me” to my mother. The mail I always wanted to send, but never could. And they have changed my relationship with the woman, possibly forever.
As I’m putting on my new purchases, I realize that I’m wearing a matching bra and panties for the first time in, months, many months. What a sin for a single woman! My major item from my shopping trip feels strange. I start to walk; it’s so awkward and uncomfortable at first, then I relax, and I move down the hallway and push open the door.
Lucy stands there, yanking helplessly at the chain. — Why? she softly asks, those huge, manipulative eyes, almost batting. — Why are you doing this?
I move toward her. She seems not to notice my uncomfortable gait. I look at her. — Well, the question is why the fuck did you care about me, to the extent of wanting to do this shit to me? To the extent of ending up killing my fucking ex-boyfriend?
Lucy starts to blink rapidly, like she’s got a shiver in her eye. — I do care! And now you’re trying to punish me! Look at you! She points at my torso with her cuffed hand. — I gave you that!
— So now I want you to tell me why. I’m assuming that kidnapping your clients and keeping them captive is not the way you habitually deal with them, so why me? Either that explanation, or two hundred pounds. The choice is yours, I tell her. — Either path to freedom will do.
— I’ll go to two hundred, she sneers, — and be ripped again at 125 in two months!
I move closer to her. — Just tell me: what was in the kidnapping for you?
She actually steps back, but her blazing eyes are locked into mine. — What are you going to do to me?
I reach out and push her hair back from her face. She looks curiously at me, like she’s affronted, but she doesn’t stop me. So I step in closer to her and wrap my arms around her. — Something I wanted to do for a long, long time, I whisper in her ear, — but I didn’t feel worthy, and then my mouth is on hers and as I feel her respond, a slow yawning tremble spreads through my body.
— I wanna touch you, I tell her.