STILLWATERS

I'm not much for boats or water. Karen says, No surprise considering.

After everything, Karen's visitors still sometimes ask, "Were you scared you were going to die?" At first, the consummate journalist, eager to explain and connect, I would struggle. I’d swim deeper and deeper into my mind to find an answer for them. What was I thinking back when, back when

I don't remember.

I stand here at this window fingering the filmy curtain. The one spot where it's worn through. I look at the man-made lake, the blacktop that curves around its edge, the dock. The lake reminds me of places I've never been. I still can't find the words to describe their kind of trouble.

"I was not scared exactly. Not of dying. I guess I knew it was all over, me included. I just knew I was out to sea and there would never. ever. be such a thing as shore again. I knew I had to keep kicking. Imagine my surprise when I woke up here."

Just imagine.

Hitting rock-bottom is an expression I relearned this morning. My nurse Karen assures me it's a phrase I've used before. I don't remember that. So it's hard to believe her. I say it doesn't matter. What matters is that having hit rock-bottom, my. head. hurts.

The doctors warned me it would. I didn't understand what they meant until I felt my head split open. That's because you have to live pain to understand it. I get it now.

Visitors, somedays a steady stream at Stillwater, have trickled down to a few surprise drop-ins. At least once a day, Karen will usher in a woman and her toddler, or a man with a camera, or some priest who wants to know why I’m still alive, how I survived. Any one of them will stare when they think I’m away, lost in my thoughts. I turn my head and they drop their eyes. I wonder what they see.

I want to go to the lake now, Karen. No you don’t she says. Yes. It’s time.

I’m not much for boats or water. I know, sweetie. We’ve talked about this. Sit down for a minute. The doctor’s making rounds.

Karen? Yes. What’s out there? Water, hon. Just water. Take your pills.

I’m not much for water. Is that so? she says. I never would have guessed.

Do you want to know what happened? Do you want to know why?

I know why, she tells me this as she wraps my shoulders in a knitted afghan from the bed. You’re shivering. Thank you, but. Karen? Yes. Karen. Yes.

You only know the half of it.

*

Brook eased the Audi into the narrow space left by her new landlord in the garage. Are you kidding? First week there and he couldn’t leave her just a little room? She cranked the wheel and killed the engine wondering if her ass was hanging out. The door to the Audi blocked by the wall opened just enough for her to squeeze through. The inside seam of her pale pink suit jacket snagged on the jam. She yanked it free, then saw a grease stain. Shit. Back to the Carousel. She hated that place. It was full of battered women and downcast women and the smell, lord. Chances of her finding another size two? No way. Size two women don’t give away their suits to a clothing drive. They stockpile. Even the rich ones. Especially the rich ones. She should know. She was rich, once. Loved every minute of it. Wished she’d kept her damn suits, that’s for sure. She shimmied the length of the silver Audi wondering which dirt was dirtier, her car or the wall? The parking job was so tight, she actually had to straddle the corner of the car to get out of the garage. Doing so required stepping out of her stilettos and lifting her tight skirt to her hips. No way around it. In the middle of the feat her peripheral focus sharpened, landed on Old Man Pritchard sitting on his front porch, leaning forward to get a good leer at her white panties. The world is full of assholes. She grimaced at the floor but noted the bright side. Her legs looked shiny and tight. Kickboxing. Girl, it works. Thirty and her legs looked sixteen. Just to get Pritchard she first strapped on her stilettos, then tugged at her skirt. The old man practically fell out of his chair. Walking to the side door, she regretted having squeezed her swollen feet back into the tight leather. Every step screamed bunion, little toe. She tried not to limp, to keep up appearances. Like Queen B says: Pretty hurts. Pretty makes you feel more in control of your life. Inside her apartment she kicked out of her shoes, drew the curtain, and double bolted the door. She dug the emergency phone the police gave her from her purse and checked for a signal. Nerves taut, Brook listened to the pregnant silence around her. She double-checked 911 on speed dial. Off came the wig. Pulling at her clip-on earrings, she put the damn cheap things in a plastic champagne cup on the hall table. Ugly hall table courtesy of Rent-A-Buy. Still listening, she forced herself to shuffle down the hall, toward the bath, heart thumping, blood crashing in her ears. Since the threats started, even before the police helped her find this apartment, she kept all the doors open, always. The bathroom was miles away, but it was lit up by sun. That was good. Deep breath and exhalation and she was inside running the shower so hot it steamed. Once steam filled the room she felt better, not as cold. Her hair turned stringy as she sat on the edge of the tub fully dressed. It had been a rough week, probably the most terrifying of her life. She’d left everything. Everything but her Audi. She’d changed phones twice, moved out of her house across the city, filed a report. She had to finish this story. Her head drooped. At one point Brook thought she heard a noise, television maybe, or the refrigerator kicking on. She snapped to too fast, conked her head on the tile divider. Shoulders slumped, she held her elbows and determined not to cry. She got herself undressed and finally under the stream, now gone cold. She couldn’t continue to live like this. But she knew she had to, just a little while longer, for all the girls who trusted her, girls who said goodbye to their adolescence trapped on that island, who without her might not see justice.

*

His whole body ached with arthritis. Pritchard shifted in his chair on the porch, trying to get some relief. How long would he have to sit here waiting? He dialed his stepson’s private number again, but this time the line disconnected and clicked after the second ring. Big wig Senator. So damned important he’s always got to keep everyone waiting. What does he do all day anyway? Isn’t he the boss? Couldn’t he just tell whoever he’s in a meeting with, hey, I got to go. My old man has a doctor’s appointment and I want to take him there myself. So I can say bill me, and wink-wink, the bills get lost along with the Medicare paperwork because I’m a big shot and everyone wants to be on my good side. That’s the line anyways.

These doctors rob you blind, so it’s really just Peter robbing Paul. No harm there. There’s got to be some perks for having raised an asshole. At least, that’s what Pritchard tells himself for putting up with this additional loss of dignity. People forget. He used to be important too.

U.S. Navy elite. But, when you get old, you are always waiting on somebody’s hand out or hand up. You take what you can get and that’s just the way it is.

Shock registered through his whole body and he let out a groan, gripping his legs. Another attack. When he recovered he saw the Senator getting out of his car. Finally. Huh. This fancy black car was a new one. Maybe the seats would be heated.

He stood up and turned to get his cane. When he turned back, the fancy black car was gone, in its place a silver Audi. Pritchard cursed as he watched his stepson drive away in the car that belonged to that new girl that moved in across the street last week. Hey. Hey. He banged his cane so hard against the porch, he toppled. White pain lit him up and he stayed lying on his side, not sure for how long. Pritchard managed to prop himself up on an elbow. When his vision cleared, he saw them. They didn’t see him. A man dressed completely in black in broad daylight coming out of the girl’s apartment with a giant black duffle over his shoulder. The fancy black car returned. The man threw the duffle into the back, climbed into the passenger’s side with the car idling. Pritchard squinted through the porch rails. Sure enough. It was the Senator’s aide at the wheel.

*

Senator Douglas smiled and the woman working reception at Stillwater swooned. Sure she would have fetched him the moon if he asked, she had to ask him to repeat himself. What an odd request, she remembered thinking. Not so much the two adjacent lakeview rooms. But him bringing his own round-the-clock nurse? I guess there’s some way to manage it. If Human Resources gives their okay. Did he have her paperwork? He did. Karen Moore, Certified Occupational Health Nurse Specialist. La-dee da. Karen’s headshot showed a woman mid-thirties with straight teeth and blue eyes. Nothing she couldn’t compete with, other than that pretty red hair. Was there anything else the Senator might need before he moved his father in next week? Well if I think of something, you’ll be the first to know, he said with a wink.

*

Brook woke in the dark, cinder block on her chest, the zipper of the nylon bag pressed against her face. Airborne, she felt her body turn midair. The smack as she hit the surface of the water nearly caused her to black out, but she willed herself awake, as the cement dragged her what seemed like miles down into icy cold. A pocket of air trapped by the nylon allowed her brief seconds. The plunging block hit rock, the nylon ripped, she did not stop to think. She kicked off of the jagged rock, whiplashed, kicked toward where she thought the surface of the water might be. Eyes wide in the black, she felt her air gone. Nothing for it, her body decided to go ahead and breathe. Despite the water that pushed into her lungs, she would not stop. kicking.

*

Today is a lucid day, I hear Karen say. She is reporting to someone, not a doctor. She puts down her phone to fuss with papers, with bottles of pills. I smile at her, then turn back to the window.

How long have I been here? The flimsy curtain in my hand brings back a strong memory: a silk robe, worn by a young girl, fourteen maybe fifteen years old. What was her name? Linda? Leesa? She hated the short silk robe. They made her wear it until it was threadbare. They wouldn’t let her leave the mansion. They kept her on the island. They found her on the street. They found her in the spa. They found her in rehab. They found her online. There were a lot of girls.

There were a lot of girls. I say aloud. He was recruiting and grooming them, I say louder. Karen doesn’t look up. He wasn’t alone. There is something very important I need to remember.

I look out at the lake, allow my gaze to trace the blacktop trail to the dock. Another memory washes through me. A different lakeshore, hard corrosive sand, mostly shells. A paramedic’s white gloves, her face smashing into mine. My ribs breaking. Retching lake water. Bright sun. An ambulance cot. The dark inside of the helicopter. Shivering under the silver mylar blankets. They ask my name. The day. The date. I don’t know. I still don’t know.

It's a lucky thing we found you. How did you survive that? They say this over and over. Freak accident. Miracle. Something important, something bigger than myself.

Nylon. The lake. A cinder block. Jagged rock. Kicking. I was kidnapped from my new apartment. They found me, hurt me. Who? Who found me? How? Snapshots of faces. The police. The landlord. The rehome director. Another thought comes to me from the edge.

-the police, the landlord, the rehome director, he must know them. He’s currying favors. They’re protecting him. Helping him.

I grip the sill. You feeling okay, hon? Karen asks. Need something for the pain?

Maybe later, I say.

*

Lying in bed in Room 14 of the Stillwater Convalescent Home, Pritchard feels invisible to the entire world. I’m likely to rot here before anyone comes to see me. His friends were mostly dead, who was going to come see him, ever? Not his asshole stepson, that’s for sure. And yet, this morning, the Senator couldn’t stop patting himself on the back, reminding him and anyone who would listen how he pulled so many strings to get him here. Got him this room with a view. Got him this round-the-clock private nurse. Neither of which he’s seen yet. What he has seen is a steady stream of visitors to Room 15.

He presses the Attendant button. They’re busy. When someone finally comes, he asks her who is in the next room, who do people keep coming to gawk at. The receptionist tells him the story. Some journalist with a freak head wound, who survived hypothermia and drowning two weeks ago. Paramedics found her on the beach inlet across from the channel that was miles wide. People don’t understand how she made it, and she can’t seem to remember. We know she was writing a story on a guy they let off easy for sex trafficking charges last year. The nurses here say she was running from the mafia or whomever. They probably thought they killed her and then bam, she turns up here. I bet she’s got a bunch of people shitting themselves, hoping she doesn’t turn up more information.

It’s so good that your son is taking care of her. It’s good to have friends in high places.

Is it. Pritchard wobbles away. He’s not so sure. How did he let his stepson move him out of his house, talk him into this place?

Something tells him to go take a look in Room 15. He sticks his head in and sees his stepson’s fiancé Karen pocketing pills. Pritchard guffaws.

“Got a little side-hustle, Karen? I could use something to eat before you all starve me to death around here.”

Karen scowls. Before she pulls the curtain closed, he recognizes someone else. The girl who moved in across the street from his house. The one the Senator’s goons took out in a body bag. Damn. She is the journalist everyone’s talking about? What’d they do to the kid? An eight-inch gash made her look like she’d been scalped.

Now he understands. Why his stepson took such an interest in him now after all those years of silence. He was keeping an eye on the girl. The Senator was protecting powerful people from the fallout of this girl's story. Or, the thought comes to him, the Senator is protecting himself. Why bring in his fiancé?

Pritchard returns to what he saw: Karen pocketing pills. Could she have been switching up that girl’s meds? Keeping her from remembering what could bring the Senator and his friends down?

He needed to get them out of here. Fast.

*

Brook hung up from her call and couldn’t help but jump up and down. What amazing luck. On the cusp of being moved to cover real estate by her boss, her story on this old trafficking charge was finally, finally gaining traction. Leesa Robinson’s interview went better than she could have hoped, and now she was pulling in other girls with similar experiences who wanted to talk. Really wanted to talk. Her schedule for the next week was booked solid with interviews of girls sounding off about how easy this financier got off after being convicted of federal sex trafficking charges. How many would this be now? Two or three dozen at least. And the ages of the girls, sadly kept decreasing. Looking over her preliminary notes, Brook realized this thing went much deeper and much higher than anyone thought. If only the judge and the attorney would return her calls and grant an interview.

Her phone buzzed. The number read Private. How promising. She purred, “Hello. Brook Jeffers. How can I help you?”

Very sexy, the voice of Senator Douglas rolled over her in waves that brought a shiver. He apologized that it had taken so long to get back to her on such an important issue. His aide finally had given him the multiple messages she’d left over the last few weeks. When the Senator requested she indulge him in discussing finer points of the new Justice for Victims of Trafficking bill over dinner at a Michelin three-star restaurant, Brook knew her luck would only get better.

Brook found herself swept up in a flurry of high-powered parties with politicians and socialites, meeting new people on the arm of the good-looking Senator D nearly every night that week.

It was the party at his home where Brook saw her luck finally run out. Above the reclaimed tigerwood mantle hung a framed oversized photograph of the Senator with his fiancé, a pretty redhead with bright blue eyes wearing scrubs and a remarkable smile. When he later refused to admit anything was the matter, Brook let him know it was best he stop calling. When the Senator became insistent she return his calls, she changed her number. When his number “Private” showed up again, she changed her phone service completely. Better safe than sorry.

The Justice for Victims of Trafficking Act passed unanimously. A colleague covered the story, accompanied by a lovely photo of Senator Douglas leading the charge. Good for him. He’d win a lot of political points for this one. Despite this small victory, Brook knew the work on her story was far from over. With so many interviews and so many new girls, her article was fast becoming a book, an expose. How many people were actually involved? She doubled down with the same question that had plagued her from the beginning: how is it that a man charged with federal sex trafficking involving minors gets to serve only 18 months? How high did this go? How far?

*

An old man who looks familiar enters her room. “Got a little side-hustle, Karen? I could use something to eat before you all starve me to death around here.”

How does she know him? The memory is on the edge of her thoughts. Then, a bolt of electricity passes through her. The old man called her nurse Karen-

I recognize Karen. She’s D’s girlfriend. Longtime girlfriend. Fiancé. Does she know about the sex trafficking ring? Of course she does. Fear trickles and turns to sweat inside my gown. Where is D? Is he here? In control? My body starts to shake and I cannot stop. I’m in danger, I know that.

I lock eyes with the old man. He mouths something I can’t translate. I follow his gaze. The cart. He was looking at her cart. The pill bottles and charts. When Karen, angry and territorial pulls closed the curtain to my room, I grab a pen from her cart. I write on my palm: no pills and replace the pen atop the stack of medical charts. Brook Jeffers. Finally, I remember my name. So many other names flood my memory.

I remember why I hate water. I remember everything.

*

Pritchard loses no time in calling his navy buddy. You know that journalist who broke the story on a national sex trafficking ring? My stepson is after her. Once he knows I know what he did, he’ll be after me too. He took my house. I’ve got nowhere to go. He’s probably going to try for power of attorney. We are going to need witness protection out of state, possibly out of the country. I need you to get us out of here.

If you can do it, get us on a boat. Better make it international waters.