Rough Deal (Coming Home to the Mountain)

Because when I close my eyes and float away and drift into that fantasy, I can forget the truth.

And the truth is this: the last four years I have been locked in this cabin with this couple who have convinced themselves I am their dead daughter.

When I was eighteen, I hitchhiked and thought they were giving me a ride one town over, but they weren't. Instead, they drove me to their house and locked me up in their home, binding me with chains so I was incapable of going anywhere.

I've been living like this for four years. Growing angrier as I’ve waited for the moment when I can escape.

This morning feels like every other day. Outside the bedroom window, I’m happy to see the snow has melted from the ground; the skies are blue.

Of course, I can't reach the windowpanes. If I could, I would put my fist through them. I would break the glass even if it meant my skin sliced open. I would crawl through that window, and I would let my feet touch the cold earth, and I would run free.

But the chains on my wrists only let me walk five feet in any direction, which means I am stuck in the middle of this room.

I put on the clothing that Marjorie set out for me. It's not like I have a choice in what I wear. They want me to be the daughter that they lost, Alice.

I am in her bedroom. In her bed. Reading her books and sleeping next to her dolls. In her time capsule.

And it is terrifying. What if I am here for the rest of my life? This room my only home?

I can't let myself get hung up on these details. When I do, I spin out of control and lose my grip on reality. The reality is this: eventually I will figure out a way to get out of here. Eventually I will find a way out. And then I will meet that man who's waiting for me.

I always was a dreamer.

When I was a little girl and my mom was still alive, she would tell me, “Prairie, you are the light I'm always looking for.”

My mom was depressed but she always told me that I was the sunshine she needed. I hung on to that. I still do.

I remember those words—to be the sunshine, be the light, even when everything seems so dark. That’s what I try to be right now.

I’m waiting, hoping, because eventually there will be a crack and the light will come in and I will be free.

I’m dressed for the day and I’m wondering why Marjorie hasn’t come in and told me it’s time for breakfast. Usually about now she carries in a tray with oats and juice and sets it down on my desk, telling me I should eat like a good little girl.

But the clock on the side of the bed says it’s 9:30 in the morning, which is already an hour later than normal.

One thing about Marjorie and Horace is they are regular. And while I know they’ve lost their minds, one thing they can keep track of is their routine.

I am their routine.

Something is off. I sit there, focusing, trying to listen, remembering that for the last few weeks Marjorie has looked more pale, weaker. Horace has been doing most of her chores.

I hear something.

There are the sounds of muffled sobs. Crying. I listen more closely, straining to hear. It's not Marjorie; it's Horace.

“Wake up,” he moans. “You can’t be gone. You can’t leave us. Alice and I need you.” He's weeping, his voice traveling through this drafty cabin. “This wasn't the plan. This wasn't the plan. Marjorie. My love. You need to wake up, just wake up!”

Marjorie is dead.

I press my lips together. Think, Prairie, think.

“Daddy,” I call out. “Can I help you? Maybe I can wake up Mommy. I can sing a favorite lullaby to her.”

This is a ridiculous thought. But I know he is as delusional as his wife was.

I hear the movement of the big man. His steps coming closer, down the hall, and then the bedroom door opens.

“Alice,” he says, “you're awake. I need your help. Can you help your father?”