7

Rather than sleep parked in the road, Uma pulled the car up the drive that divided Ms. Lloyd’s property from Ivan and Jessie’s. Set between the houses, the driveway disappeared into a forest, which seemed a tiny bit safer than sleeping out where anybody driving by could see. Luckily, she had a scraggly wool plaid in the backseat, but she hadn’t a thing left to eat or a red cent to her name.

The gas gauge was almost on empty, which didn’t bode well, but Uma would make do. She had to.

She left the car off, wrapped up in her threadbare blanket, and closed her eyes against the inky nothingness beyond. Of all nights to sleep out here, tonight took the cake—the unseasonal heat wave had come to an abrupt end, and not even a sliver of moon was left to keep her company.

She should go up to the house and knock again, bang on the door hard enough to force Ms. Lloyd to open up. Who in their right mind left a person to spend the night out in the cold like this? Someone who’s deathly afraid of the outside, that’s who.

After the initial heat of anger wore off, Uma felt a little bit sorry for herself—which was dangerous. Self-pity hadn’t brought her a darn thing thus far. Whenever she let it overtake her, things took a swing for the worse.

Like the time, shortly after she’d left Joey, when she’d turned on her phone to call her mom. She’d been living in a women’s shelter, the first of many, and all she’d wanted was to hear a familiar voice, maybe tell her that she missed her, maybe let out a whiny little “mommy” in the hopes that she’d drop whatever chant she was doing and fly home to take care of her daughter, give her a hug.

It had taken nearly ten minutes for them to find her mother, no doubt at the other end of the ashram, and when she’d finally gotten on the line, Uma had instantly regretted the impulse that had led her to slide the battery back in the phone and call.

“Oh my God, Uma, there you are. Where on earth have you been? How could you let us worry like this?”

“I’m fine, Mom. I had to get someplace safe.”

“Safe? What do you mean, safe? You left home. You took off with no indication of where you’d gone! He said you hurt him! He’s had the police out looking for you, Uma Crane!”

“I’m sorry you worried. I’m fine, though, so please ask him to call off the cops.”

“I’m not the one you should apologize to, am I?” Her mom’s voice got higher as she carried on. “You need to hang up right now and call Joey. Call that boy right away. Are you crazy, leaving him like that?”

“No, I’m not going to call Joey.” Uma took a deep breath. “He hurt me, Mom. If anyone should be apologizing, it’s him.”

“Oh, honey, he’s sorry for the fighting. He wants to make it up to you!”

Uma’s mild irritation curdled into something harsher. Why wouldn’t her mother listen? She never listened.

“You should really take a step back and think about this.” The voice crackled through the line. “You’re messing up the best thing you’ve got going on.”

It was all so familiar, she couldn’t even respond, couldn’t tell her own mother what Joey had done to her and then have her minimize her pain. Mom, the peace-loving hippy, was also Mom, the lover of men—except for her father, that is, at the end. No matter what happened between Uma and Joey, it would always be Uma’s fault.

Her mom’s voice softened. “Do you need anything?” She did care, after all, in her own fashion.

“No. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

“Where are you, honey?”

“I can’t tell you that. He’ll come and—”

“Joey’s a good man, Uma. You should give him a call. You can’t leave the poor boy hanging, waiting for you like this. It’s cruel.”

“I’m not calling him, Mom. He hurt me. Badly. I need help.”

“Oh, Uma, there you go again, exaggerating things. Don’t you see that you won’t get what you want this way? Listen, darling, Joey and I talked yesterday. You’re lucky, because he says he’ll still take you back. He’s not angry about how you just up and left like that.” Her voice had lowered into the best friends register she’d always tried to use. “He’s hurting, sweetie. He’s really hurting.” Uma could imagine her expression: eyebrows up, tight little smile. Her empathetic face. People loved it. She could draw you in with that, make you feel like she’d do just about anything for you. “Tell me where you are, and he can come get you.”

That was the thing about her mom. She’d help anyone in need, and she’d reach out, lend them her last five bucks or invite them over for dinner. She’d barbecued tofu for more strangers than Uma could count growing up. She was good that way.

Why the hell wouldn’t she take the time to pay attention to her own daughter?

Uma had taken air in and let out a shaky, nearly crying breath. Easier, in the end, to let it go. “I just wanted you to know that I’m okay, Mom. I’ll be fine.”

“Oh, Uma. You’ve…” Her mom paused, maybe searching out the right words for an apology. Maybe she’d offer to fly her daughter to India, have her join her there for healing meditation and yoga. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. “You’ve had us in quite a state” was all her mother said.

Every part of Uma had sunk with disappointment. She shouldn’t have let her hopes get up, but she had. She always did. “Yep. Well, I’d better go,” she finally bit out between stiff lips.

“Tranquility, Uma, my sweet child.” She said it fondly, but Uma was still resentful.

“Yes. Right. Hari Om, Mom.”

“Blessings.”

After hanging up, Uma had sat there in the shelter bedroom, waiting for the knot in her chest to unravel. The single bed beneath her had been threadbare but neatly made, like the others. She’d shared the room with two other women, all victims of domestic abuse.

No, not victims: survivors. I’m a survivor, she remembered thinking, although she hadn’t felt like one. Because this was what life had come to. This.

Her mom and Joey teamed up against her. They made quite the pair, the two of them. Master manipulators, both, doling out enough guilt to last a lifetime. Uma’s breath had started coming faster, and she’d gotten that tunnel vision, squeezy-eye thing that told her a panic attack was not far behind.

At some point, one of her roommates—Carla—had come in and found her rolled into a ball on the floor, clutching her phone in one hand, her other hand a bloody mass of tooth marks. She’d called one of the shelter volunteers, and they’d calmed Uma down.

When the police car pulled up in front of the shelter that evening, it hadn’t even occurred to Uma to be scared. At the time, she’d had no idea to what lengths Joey would go to get her back—or to get back at her. She’d been sitting in the den with a few of the women, staring blindly at the TV, when Carla had come in, grabbed her arm, and drawn her quickly through the kitchen to the back door.

“Cops are here,” Carla had whispered, out on the stoop. “You gotta go.”

“What?”

“You said your ex works with the law?”

Uma had nodded.

“Well, girl, you gotta go. He knows where you at.” Uma still hadn’t budged when the woman hung her purse over her arm, then nudged her toward the back gate with a final, hissed “Go!”

Uma had gone without thinking, following the orders of someone who’d been running from abuse for a lot longer than she had. Finally, at the gate, she’d looked back at the house, seen the blue lights of the police car reflected off the neighbor’s siding, and realized that there really was no choice: she had to get in her car and run faster, harder, farther.

Curled up in that same car, the closest thing Uma had to an actual home, the oppressive weight of Joey’s presence was everywhere. At one point, she’d considered stealing a new license plate, but she’d never been much of a rebel, and the idea of getting caught had been too scary. In New York, she’d been lucky to meet a fellow survivor who’d given her a place to hide.

God, she wished she were back there, warm in Benny’s tiny bunk instead of freezing in her car.

I can’t do this, she thought before taking a deep breath to quiet the screaming in her brain. She reached for something else, some other emotion than fear and anxiety and hopelessness to brighten her outlook.

And then, as if by magic, the sound started—that nocturnal, metallic clanging. In the perfectly dark car, it echoed like some kind of prayer bell chased by the smell of smoke on the chill air. Something about the sound, the smell, the rhythm, within the perfect, moonless vacuum, brought an aura of peace.

It cleared her head of those fuzzy, messy emotions, until something new emerged—a sensation so unfamiliar that it took Uma a while to identify it.

When it finally coalesced, she recognized it for what it was: anger.

Good, clean anger, sublimating weak and wretched into strong and firm. Without clear intention or thought, she wrenched up her sleeve and ran cold fingers over the lines scrawled there. She couldn’t see them in the dark, but the words were there. A part of her now.

“Fuck you,” she whispered. She’d never said that aloud. Not to her mother or to Joey or to the woman she worked for, who wouldn’t even provide shelter for the night. It felt so good that Uma had to say it again before turning the key and revving the engine. “Fuck you all.”

* * *

The sound of an engine idling in his driveway set Ive off. He didn’t mind hunters on his land—there were a few guys who asked him for permission every year. Poor guys living in trailers who needed the meat to survive, to keep their families alive. That was something he understood firsthand. He’d started shooting squirrels for dinner before he hit puberty. That was what you did around here when you were dirt poor and had no other choice. The guys who hunted on his land bagged enough venison to last them all year. Ive was glad to help.

But it was too early in the season for most hunters and too late at night. Not to mention, he had NO TRESPASSING signs posted every few feet. The only assholes out this late at night were drinking and shooting. Or fucking. And he wasn’t interested in dealing with either on his land.

Grabbing his shotgun from beside the door, he headed out into the night. It was dark and cold. Truly, a stupid night to be out, whatever your reasons. As he walked down the drive, the adrenaline rushed through his veins, gearing him up for a confrontation. It was good, just what he needed—someone to yell at, maybe a little brawl to get the aggression off his chest.

He caught sight of the car—not a hunter. Her car.

All the fight went out of him, but if possible, the adrenaline buzz got even louder. What the hell was she doing out in her car on a night like this? The engine shut off.

He leaned his gun on a nearby tree and, without thinking it through, rapped his knuckles on the passenger window, hard. Immediately, he recognized his mistake. He thought he’d frightened her before? Jesus, what an idiot. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her, but the vague shape in the car looked like that painting of a scream. White face, gaping mouth, hands thrown in front of her as if to ward him off. He stepped back from the car, willing himself smaller.

“It’s Ive, Uma. The neighbor.”

She stayed against the opposite door but slowly lowered her arms.

“You okay?” he called, yelling to be heard and trying his damnedest not to sound scary. How the hell was he supposed to do that? “Need somethin’?”

The white hands fluttered like birds and her voice came through the window, sounding strangled. “I’m fine, thanks! Good!”

Fine? No, she looked scared and cold and in a real bad way. He pictured himself coming out here in the morning and finding her frozen in her car.

“You want to come on over to my place and warm up, Uma?”

“I…I’ll stay here.”

Shit. He couldn’t very well force her, could he?

“Would you let me in?”

“I’d rather not.”

This time, he could hear the trembling in her voice. Just scared? Or cold too? Damn, it must be thirty fucking degrees outside. No way she’d survive a night out here.

“Go away!” she yelled, and he almost smiled. Man, he liked her spirit. It was the same thing that had made her get back up and fight in self-defense class. Only, on a night like tonight, that spirit wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

“You can’t stay out here, Uma. It’s fuckin’ freezin’.”

“’S fine,” she said, her voice thin and high. She didn’t sound fine at all.

“Come on. You gotta turn on the car or get out.”

She shook her blurry head at him. “No gas!”

“Hang on,” he said, then grabbed his shotgun and took off for his truck. He left the gun there and returned a couple of minutes later with his gas can.

“Uma,” he called, rather than knock on the window again. Didn’t want to freak her out any more than he had to. “Pull the lever,” he said.

“What?”

“For the gas. Pull it.” Once she did, he poured the gas in, closed the cap, then called, “Okay, start it up,” and made his way to the passenger door, where he knocked on the window again. Gently. Maybe, just maybe, she’d let him in and then, if he played his cards right, he could get her out of the goddamn car and in front of the fire. “Can you please unlock this?” He bent down, purposely making his silhouette shorter, less intimidating, and bringing his face closer to the window.

She finally hit the unlock switch, and he slid inside, briefly blinded by the overhead. Her car was small. A Honda. He’d noticed it parked out front the past few days. It hadn’t really fit into the local landscape. Around here, upper-class folks drove nice Hondas, SUVs, and hybrids, while the crappy ones went to meth-heads. Everyone else drove American.

It was a tight fit. He was like one of those origami swans folded in the front seat. The woman watched him through squinty eyes as he fiddled beneath it and slid all the way back, but even then, he felt like a giant. Probably not great on the scary-guy scale. A glance at her gas gauge showed that she was at an eighth of a tank.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, sounding slightly peeved. Why did he like that so much?

When he asked “Where’s your coat?” she didn’t answer, so he went on. “You’re gonna spend the night out here in nothing but that? No way. Hell no. It’s thirty degrees outside.”

“What do you care?”

“Can’t have you dyin’ on my land, now, can I?” The words were gruff, he knew that, but he loved her attitude. Loved the way she wouldn’t just give in.

“This is your land?”

He nodded, then turned to look out his window. “Can’t see for shit tonight. Bad night to spend out here.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t my choice.” She shivered visibly, despite the tepid air finally blowing through the vents.

“Here, give me your hands,” he said. She complied, and he gently closed his fingers over them. “Ah, hell, you’re freezin’. We gotta get you outta here.” Before she could react, he grabbed her keys from the ignition, hating himself for making her do things she didn’t want to do. But he couldn’t exactly let her freeze, could he? “Let’s go.”

He put on his big man’s voice—the firm one that brooked no argument but was gentle when focused on a skittish animal. She stiffened by his side, clearly infuriated, but he hadn’t left her with much of a choice.

Oops. Maybe not the best idea.

Fuck it. This was about her safety. He’d deal with the rest later.

That thought made him nervous. In a good way. Besides, he’d rather see her mad than scared.

By the time he walked around to the driver’s side door, she’d opened it and seemed to be having trouble getting out.

“How long you been out here?”

“Since I got back from self-defense class.”

“You jokin’?” He’d been kidding about her dying on his land, but a couple of degrees cooler, and a person could expire in less time than she’d sat out in this goddamn tin can. Ive went from worried to almost crazy, but he forced his movements to slow.

“Come on,” he said, his voice as calm as he could manage. “Let’s get you out.”

“I’m fine, Ivan. I’ll be—”

As she managed to stand, Uma started to collapse.

He caught her just in time and swung her up into his arms, frantic, but still careful. She was shivering hard.

He held her tight against him, wishing he could take on some of that cold, and made his way up the drive, back toward the forge, excited and anxious and completely uncertain about what the hell he thought he was doing.