The Cabin at the End of the World Page 13

  She wonders if anything happened while she was asleep. She wonders if it’s possible she slept through an entire day and it’s now the next night instead of the same one.

  Wen slips out of her blankets and crawls to the edge of the mattress. If this were another evening under different circumstances, she would jump mattress to mattress, pretending they were rafts in a vast, cold sea, or the mattresses were rocks stubbornly maintaining their lifesaving heft and shape within a bubbling lava flow. Instead, she’s careful to not disturb Sabrina (she sleeps on her back with her arms over her head, dangling off the mattress, her mouth open slightly) and Adriane (she sleeps rolled up into a ball, like she’s hiding because she’s mad at everyone in the room; only the top half of her head sticks out from under her blanket, exposed to the cool night air).

  To her left are the screen slider and deck. The blanket covering Redmond ripples in a breeze like it’s considering a transformation into a wing and flying away. She wonders what Redmond looks like now. Is he all broken and mashed up, squished like a stepped-on caterpillar, or does he look the same as he did before but like he is sleeping? She’s never seen a dead body before. She has asked adults what a dead body looks like and the only one who somewhat answered her was Daddy Andrew. He told her a dead body looked like the person but not like them at the same time because there was something missing. She joked, “Like a nose or an ear?” and he laughed. Wen never felt more proud of herself as when she made one of her dads laugh. She asked him to explain what he meant, and Daddy Andrew pretended (she knew he was pretending and she hated when he did this to her) with loud hmms, a finger tapping his lips, chin rubs, and other I-don’t-really-want-to-answer-this stalling tactics. She thought he was never going to explain further, but she played it smart. She didn’t press, didn’t whine, didn’t demand. She waited him out. She waited until he shrank down a little under her stare, and he smiled the you-win smile. He said that the dead bodies he saw reminded him of slightly deflated birthday balloons, ones that hung around limply a day or two after the party. She didn’t like the answer and wanted to ask him more, but he said, “Don’t tell Eric we were talking about dead bodies, all right?”

  Wen doesn’t think Redmond would look like a balloon. Even though she didn’t see any of it, she knows they hit him repeatedly with the weapons, and she did see all the blood after and she could smell it. She heard him screaming. She heard it all and she can hear it now if she lets herself, those awful, hollow thumps and the final, wet crack that shook the floor and her legs. But what if it sounded worse than it was and he just got hurt badly and was knocked out like Daddy Eric? What if Redmond is alive and he wakes up? What if he’s awake now and waiting for someone to come outside, or he’s waiting for her to make a run for it and he’ll reach out and grab her and pull her underneath the blanket and she’ll be stuck there with him forever?

  She whispers, “No,” to make herself look away from the deck and Redmond. She crawls on all fours to the end table pushed up against the wall next to the bathroom. The yellow lamp looks black, like it’s its own shadow. She reaches up and tries to turn it on. Two, three clicks of the spinning switch, and it doesn’t work.

  “Hey, Wen.” It’s Leonard. “What’s up?”

  He sounds like he’s right behind her, and his shadow is heavier than a lead blanket, the kind they put over her chest for when she had x-rays, and she freezes with her hand on the lamp, willing herself to fade into the darkness of the night room.

  Leonard is not right behind her. He sits up on the couch. The springs groan under his weight. He asks, “Do you have to go to the bathroom?”

  Wen shakes her head.

  He says, “It’s okay.”

  Nothing is okay. She knows this. Wen shouldn’t say anything to him; she knows this, too, but she can’t help it. She whispers, “I want a light. I always go to sleep with a light on.”

  He says, “Come back to bed, and I’ll tell you why we didn’t leave one on for you.”

  There’s an echo inside of her, coming from far enough away that the speaker cannot be identified. It might be her voice, it might be one or both of her dads, or a mix, or someone else entirely. This voice repeats what Daddy Andrew said to her earlier. The voice tells her to run, to go onto the deck and never mind about Redmond because he’s not getting up ever again. Run now. Go outside and run and hide. Don’t be afraid of the dark out there. Be afraid of what’s happening inside and what will happen inside. It says, This is your only chance now now now now.

  She can’t, and in her head, she tells the voice she’s sorry.

  Wen stands up, moving like a sunrise. She considers sitting with one of her dads but they are both asleep, their heads slumped forward. She walks the short distance back to her mattress and disappears under the blankets, remaining with her head covered. Her pillow is cold against her face.

  Leonard says, “We didn’t leave any lights on because it’s better for Eric’s head. He needs sleep and he needs it dark for his head to get better.”

  Why do adults keep telling her that dark makes heads better? She thinks they’re lying and that they lie way more than any kid ever does. Wen flips over and faces Leonard. He has his blanket pulled up to his chin so he’s only a big head. She says, “How do you know?”

  “Sabrina told me and she’s a nurse. The light hurts his head so after he sleeps in the dark he’ll feel much better in the morning.”

  “He will?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  Another lie, but it’s one she wants to believe.

  She says, “Then you’ll make us choose again.”

  “I won’t make you, but I will ask. I have to.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “I’m sorry. But I have to.”

  “I can’t be friends with you.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I have no choice.”

  “Who is making you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who is making you do this to us?”

  “God.” Leonard says the one-syllable word sheepishly and he has a strange look on his face. Speaking the word aloud brings him both great relief and terror.

  There’s a boy at Wen’s school who talked about God all the time and insisted that his god was a he. That boy was annoying and Wen avoided playing with him whenever she could. Daddy Andrew makes it a point to tell her about all kinds of religions and gods from around the world. There are so many it’s confusing, but she enjoys listening to the different stories even if some of them frighten her. She knows that Daddy Eric believes in a god and that he even goes to church by himself sometimes on Sunday mornings. He doesn’t invite Wen or Daddy Andrew to go with him and he doesn’t seem to like to talk about his god or religion so she doesn’t ever ask him. It’s almost like it’s this secret Daddy Eric keeps under his bed instead of the old pictures. Wen isn’t sure what she believes in and sometimes that fills her with anxiety and a desire to simply choose a random religion like someone might choose to become a fan of a sports team because of the mascot or the color of the uniform.

  She says, “I don’t believe you. Why do you keep lying to me?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “I think you’re wrong.”

  “I wish I was. I wish more than anything.”

  “Why would God make you do this?”

  Leonard sighs and shifts around under his blanket. “I’m not sure. I’m not. That’s the truth, Wen. It’s something I’ve thought a lot about, but I can’t do anything to change it, if that makes sense.”

  Wen blinks, and sudden and surprising tears fall from her eyes. She says, “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t think it’s supposed to. We’re not supposed to make sense of it. We’re just supposed to do.”

  “Your god is a killer then.”

  “Wen, no. It’s not like—”

  “And if we don’t choose, then something else bad is going to happen, like another terrible earthquake?”

  “Not ano
ther earthquake, but yes, something very bad.”

  “And a lot of people will die?”

  “People will die.”

  “I don’t believe you and I wish you would stop making this all up.”

  “I can promise you one thing, Wen.”

  “What.”

  “Your parents won’t ever choose to sacrifice you. I know they won’t and I wouldn’t let them do anything to you. I would stop them. I would protect you if I had to. That’s my promise. You shouldn’t be worried about that.”

  “Sacrifice means die, right?”

  “Yes, but one of your dads will be saving the rest of the world, Wen. Think about how many people out there—”

  “I don’t want any of us to die. Ever.” Wen sinks back under the blanket, covering her head. Leonard whispers her name, trying to coax her back out. She can’t help but imagine her dads as saggy balloons stuck in this cabin and never able to float away.

  She makes a deal with this killer-god of Leonard’s, a god she doesn’t believe is real but is very much frightened of. She has this image of his god as all the black empty space between stars when you look up at the night sky, and this god of collected blankness is big enough to swallow the moon, the earth, the sun, the Milky Way, and big enough it couldn’t possibly care about anyone or anything. Still, she asks this god if she and her parents can please leave the cabin, can they please go home and be safe, and if it lets them, she promises she won’t ever complain about sleeping in the dark with the lights off ever again.

  Eric

  In the morning the others scurry around the kitchen making placemats out of paper towels and setting glasses and mugs on the table. They are purposeful, determined, and clearly anxious. The surreal, relaxed-family-on-vacation vibe from last night’s dinner is gone. If one of them was to accidentally brush up against the other, there’d be a bright and loud static-electric spark, which would then set off an explosion.

  Sabrina asks them all twice if they want coffee and how much. She obsessively glances out the small window above the sink to the deck, from which wafts a putrid, tangy, many-days-old garbage smell.

  Leonard checks his watch, claps his hands together, and says, “Okay,” to himself.

  Adriane stacks buttered, browned toast onto a plate and she shoos and mutters at the stubborn gaggle of flies buzzing the food, “Get out. Get the fuck out.”

  Wen sits at the kitchen table with the others but doesn’t speak to anyone. She looks down into her lap and her hands are clenched into fists, her thumbs cocooned inside.

  Andrew tells her it’s all right to eat. Wen doesn’t eat or drink anything, even when offered chocolate milk. Andrew tells her if she doesn’t feel like eating right now that’s okay, too. Eric adds, “Whatever you want to do,” which, given their current circumstances, is an unintentionally cruel thing to say.

  Wen deflates and sags into the kitchen chair so only the top of her head is visible above the table. Andrew and Eric loudly refuse offers of toast and water in solidarity.

  Eric’s head doesn’t hurt like it did the day before, though he is far from fully recovered from his concussion. His head is an overstuffed washing machine, wobbling off its track in the spin cycle. The room is too brightly lit when it isn’t bright for anyone else. His throat is dry and he regrets not drinking water when offered. He’s exhausted and struggles to remain awake even as the rest of his body screams and begs to be released from the prison of its sitting position. His arms and legs ache although the restraints have perceptibly slackened over the long night. He’s now able to pull his hands apart so they are no longer touching and he can stretch his lower legs a centimeter or two away from the chair; small but significant progress. He wonders if the ropes around Andrew have loosened as well.

  After the hurried breakfast, Sabrina checks Eric’s dressing and wound. She says it doesn’t look great and perhaps could’ve used a few stitches after all, but it isn’t infected. The others carry the blankets and mattresses out of the common room. They move quickly and efficiently, stagehands making short work of a scene change. Leonard drags Andrew, still tied to the chair, away from the front door and into the center of the room. The wooden chair legs scrape and screech across the floor, as percussive as a passing tractor trailer on a highway, leaving gouged parallel lines in the wood.

  When Leonard comes for Eric and his chair, Eric says, “No, please, dragging me like that will not be good for my head. I’m feeling better but not that much better. Untie my legs and I’ll walk. I promise I’ll be good.” Eric is an inept liar and always has been.

  Leonard towers above, as large and solemn as an Easter Island statue. He says, “Sorry, not yet.” He retucks his white shirt into his jeans, then bends and reaches for the chair’s armrests.

  “Hey, let’s pick him up, carry him instead. We can help you. We need him to be thinking clearly, more clearly than he was thinking yesterday, right?” Sabrina jogs over and stands next to Eric and his chair. Adriane comes over, too.

  Leonard says, “We don’t have much time,” but he acquiesces after a brief negotiation. The three of them lift Eric and his chair a few inches off the ground. He wobbles and pitches as they readjust, overcorrect, and shuffle-carry him. Eric considers twisting or leaning all his weight to one side so they might drop him for no strategic reason other than he can for the moment control what will happen to him. They set him down with Andrew to his right, the same area of the room in which he was moored yesterday. Having been returned to this spot is more than a little demoralizing, and it’s as though Eric’s dizziness and low-grade nausea is the result of time travel.

  Wen is on the couch. Eric didn’t witness her relocation from the kitchen table. Did she walk there on her own or was she carried, too? A blanket is pulled over her legs. Andrew is trying to get her attention and asks if she is cold, if she’s all right, if she wants to sit with him or Eric. She doesn’t answer and stares ahead blankly as though witnessing the horror awaiting their near futures.

  The others pace around the room, searching for something they forgot to prepare properly. They circle like carrion birds, squawking and muttering. Each asks the others how they feel and if they’re ready. One of them says, “I can’t believe we have to go through this again,” and another one says, “I know,” and another, “This is so hard,” and another, “I don’t know if I can,” and another, “You can,” and another, “We can and we must,” and another, “This isn’t like a bad dream but I wish it was,” and another, “It’s real, the realest thing I’ve ever done,” and another, “Let’s just get it over with,” and another, “We have to do it right,” and another, “We owe it to them,” and another, “Give them a chance to save us all.”

  Their positioning within the room shifts on some unseen, unheard cue. Adriane steps up between Eric and Andrew. Leonard and Sabrina retreat into the background.

  Leonard says, “I didn’t do a very good job of, um, presenting the choice, yesterday.” Leonard looks at his watch and then looks everywhere else in the room but at Wen. “You’ll be great, Adriane. I know it.”

  Adriane rolls her eyes and says, “Gee, thanks, boss. So, yeah, here we are again.”

  Leonard and Sabrina gather the same weaponized wooden staffs they used the day before. They are held with purpose, with the confidence of already having been wielded properly and successfully.

  Adriane is empty-handed. Propped against the woodburning stove, her cleaned weapon is a rustic decoration, something from an alternate bygone era, impractical as it is improbable.

  Adriane says, “We”—she pauses to look over her shoulder at Sabrina, who nods encouragement—“are here to present you with the same choice you had yesterday.”

  Eric says, “Look, we’re powerless here. It’s you three that have a choice, and a chance to do the right thing and let us go. You know letting us go is the right thing to do. You all seem like nice people who honestly don’t want to be doing what you’re doing. And the good news is you do not have to do this,
any of this.” Eric feels more in control, feels more like himself, and the nagging echo of the vision of the figure in light he saw yesterday is more easily dismissed as a hallucination, or perhaps a visual symptom of an acute ocular migraine, something that he has suffered in the past.

  Adriane twitches and rubs her arms, clearly uncomfortable speaking for the group. “No, we do have to. We don’t have a choice. Not like you. Even if we wanted to let you go, we can’t. It wouldn’t fly, man. We wouldn’t be allowed to.”

  Eric focuses on Adriane’s fidgeting, empty hands, and with her weapon across the room, it occurs to him that she is next. He almost says aloud you will be next. If he, Eric, and Wen again choose not to sacrifice any one of themselves, then the other two will kill Adriane ritualistically with their weapons like they killed Redmond yesterday. Does he have it correct? It feels right but it doesn’t make any sense and at some point they would have to stop killing each other, wouldn’t they?

  “So you guys have the same choice to make, and you have to make it now, same as yesterday. Same deal, right? I mean, you saw what happened on the West Coast.” Adriane points at the television, her outstretched arm reflected in the black screen. “How could you not believe us after watching all those people drown? We told you it was coming and when you didn’t make the choice, all those people died and died screaming, how could you see that and not—”

  Andrew screams, “For fuck’s sake,” and thrashes around in his chair. “None of that had anything to do with us or you.”

  Eric says, “Purely a coincidence.” The lack of conviction in his voice is obvious, so obvious the three others look at him as though they’re seeing him for the first time, as though they’ve made a discovery.

  Andrew says, “No, it was not a coincidence. It wasn’t. You knew the Alaskan earthquake had happened already, before you came out to the cabin, and there was the tsunami warning and you planned your little visit here accordingly—”