Awakened by the cold, she stretched. Her back felt good. She did a few yoga poses. Her face and teeth felt gritty. As she ate, Lena thought about her mother. For the first time in a long time, she considered what kind of person her father might have been. Deziree never spoke about him. All Lena ever knew about him were the differences between her and her mother: Lena liked doing math; her ears were very small while her mother’s and grandmother’s were big; she had always been a little distant from religion; the ugly second toe on her left foot; her stubby eyelashes; her looser curls. She couldn’t imagine what she would do now if she met her dad. The idea of it no longer made her feel emotional, only curious. The time in her life when it might have mattered to have a second parent was over.
When Lena got bored thinking about him or all the possible types of people he could be, she did multiplication tables. More yoga. Wondered what was the point of this? Was it a test to see how much isolation it would take to make her feel moderately nuts? Was it something about survival? And how were they watching her? She went to the four corners of the cabin but couldn’t see or feel anything that wasn’t wood. A nap. More multiplication. A small meal of a granola bar. There were 24 in the box, but she wanted to be measured even though her stomach wanted her to be reckless. The night was windy, but she slept through most of it.
In the morning, there was a tablet next to her and more bottles of water in the box. Lena used the smallest amount she could in an attempt to wash her face, but she knew whatever she did had made it worse. She tried to ignore the tablet as long as possible. There was no possible way it could be a part of something positive—they weren’t going to let her watch a fun movie or scroll through fashion blogs. Lena drank some more water.
She picked it up. The screen was so bright that Lena closed her eyes, but still saw bright white spots across her vision. There was a survey for her to fill out: On a scale of 1–10, with 1 being negative and 10 being excellent mental health, how do you feel? Using the same guidelines, how do you feel physically, with 10 being the best fitness of your life? On a scale of 1–10, with 10 being the utmost level of trust a person can feel, how do you feel about Great Lakes Shipping Company? The next screen asked her if, for an undisclosed monetary reward, she would reveal the secret she was told. It felt as if this was all a test of her ability to be discreet. The choice was easy: Lena selected no. The screen faded to black.
A video played. It had no sound, the footage in gray scale. She watched herself sit at a long desk. A man with his back to the camera was speaking to her. On-screen Lena nodded at something he said. Then the man leaned across and slapped her. It didn’t seem hard. Her reaction on camera was more stunned than angry or in pain. He slapped her a second time, a third, again, again. More force with each slap. On-screen Lena did not fight back. The footage was too grainy to see if part of her nose or the eye closest to where he was slapping was swollen. She noticed her fingers were gripping the table as if to steady herself. The man paused. He said something to On-screen Lena. She said something back. There were a few moments where nothing much happened. She continued to grip the table, but her shoulders and her neck relaxed. It gave her an uncomfortable pleasure to see that whenever this was recorded she had refused to cry. Then the man lunged. Grabbed her by the throat. Lena dropped the tablet. Her mouth was dry. She watched as he choked her and she kicked and pushed and scratched. The video faded away to another questionnaire.
Do you remember the events of this video, yes or no?
Lena’s hands shook as she picked no.
Do you recognize the man in this video, yes or no?
No.
Does this video make you doubt your commitment to Lakewood?
When her grandmother had started talking to her about sex, Lena had expected it would come with Not until you are 30, Not until you are married, It is a sin. She expected the vehemence that so many of her friends were getting from their mothers. Deziree’s role was almost always Good Cop. She would be the one who later, after grandma had scared her, would come in and be reasonable. She would talk about condoms and safety and emotions and being ready. But her grandmother had surprised her. She had spoken about saving yourself, not for marriage—although that would be great and really what Jesus preferred—but for someone who respected your body as much as you did. Her grandmother had said it was better to love your body as much as possible before letting someone else have access to it. That they could permanently damage in unexpected ways how you saw yourself. Lena could still remember exactly how her grandma sounded because it sounded as if she was telling a secret. Her grandmother didn’t apply the idea of respect only to sex, but to other situations: what she ate, how she dressed, even something as small as crossing the street.
Lena couldn’t remember the man’s hands on her throat or the fear she must have felt.
Does this video make you doubt your commitment to Lakewood?
Lena pressed no.
10
Another day passed. The tablet disappeared while she slept. Lena made a mental list of all the things she would eat when this was over, repeating it every time she started to feel hopeless or wild: macaroni and cheese, chocolate donut, a salad to feel responsible, a pizza with green olives, a whole pound of really fresh red grapes, a chicken, another chicken, a tequila shot for every day I was in this nightmare. She kept dreaming about white chocolate mochas, though she didn’t like sugary coffee drinks. Drinking them, bathing in them, peeing them—between dreams of someone punching her in the face. Lena visualized a storm or a fire or a band of rogue beavers looking for wood to destroy this cabin and set her free. They could not penalize her for acts of nature.
Another morning, this one rainy. The sound of it on the roof made it easier to be alone. She was pacing back and forth trying to focus on her feet, her hands, pushing away all thoughts when the door to the cabin swung open.
“You can come out.”
She rubbed her eyes, let them adjust to the light coming in before stepping outside. Waiting for her was a man Lena didn’t recognize. She stepped out, slipped a little on the wet ground. He tried to grab her and hit Lena on the shoulder.
Later, she would consider what happened and realize he was trying to keep her from falling. That she had been more affected by being alone, by the video, than she understood. But in the moment, his hand ignited a flight instinct. Lena turned, ran. Darted between trees, ducked under branches. There were still leaves on the ground from the previous fall, white flowers and long blades of grass poking up, all slick. She fell. It took a moment to realize how she was suddenly on the ground, another painful half-second to register her right wrist had connected with a large root. And had there been a snap? Her throat and face were hot. Lena thought no, I won’t cry, but her eyes were already leaking.
She stood up. Her wrist stayed at an angle that made it look like something from a nightmare. Lena took a few steps. Every part of her wrist was keening, telling her to stop moving. She stood still.
The man approached her, taking large, slow steps. He was young, white, dressed more like he was going to a dive bar—hooded sweatshirt, expensive-looking boots—than like he was part of Lakewood. Lena considered whether he was a part of it; maybe he was just a local who had come across the cabin while hiking. Then she noticed the clipboard he had squeezed under his armpit. Her forehead was wet. Lena reached up with her good hand and felt it. Blood on her fingertips. The man’s eyes were dark beneath his glasses. He was saying, “Easy, easy, easy.”