9. Audra
A few days later…
I don't know how much longer I can keep lying to myself.
It's been over two weeks since that tearful heart-to-heart with Pete. Two weeks since he sobbed, promised to do better, and swore he'd finally make things right. And nothing has changed. Not one damn thing. He still works late and leaves early. I feel like I'm already single.
Tonight I'm telling him it's over. I'm going to look him in the eye and say I'm sorry, but I'm leaving.
I've got the whole plan worked out in my head.
At the end of next month, Mom's renter's lease expires, and we'll get the house back.
Mom and I will move in there. Until then, well, things will be awkward, but I hope Pete won't have a problem with us staying here.
I'll sleep on the couch, because Mom refuses to share her bed with anyone.
It's not going to be easy, I know that, especially financially.
Without Mom's rent money coming in, it'll be tight to cover her insurance, but it's doable.
We won't have a house payment. I'll start picking up shifts as a dealer at one of the casinos on the Strip.
That extra money will help, and eventually I hope to quit the vet clinic and just deal full-time.
Mom being home alone during the day? I'll figure it out. I always do.
The reports from the hospital came back—along with the first of the bills—the doctors still couldn't find anything wrong with her, no stroke, no clot, nothing they could point to and say there, that's the problem.
Which somehow makes everything worse. Because now she's convinced they missed whatever is really wrong with her.
"They never listen," she mutters from the couch as I set her tea on the coffee table. "Doctors think they know everything."
I force a tired smile. "I'm sure they checked pretty thoroughly, Mom."
She waves a dismissive hand. "They didn't run the right tests."
Of course they didn't. They never do.
I sink into the armchair opposite her, exhaustion sitting deep in my bones. The last few days have been a blur of pharmacy runs for meds she won't take, follow-up calls with specialists she'll cancel at the last minute, and hovering over her every time she clears her throat too loudly.
Pete is about ready to leave for the day, and I feel a tight heaviness in my chest. Already dreading the conversation waiting for me when he walks back through that door tonight. This time, I'm not backing down.
He glances at his laptop before he closes it, and I feel compelled to ask, "Still the same application?" He nods, distractedly. "Four and a half million dollars buys a lot of paperwork."
"You said they had the money."
"They do."
"But?"
He rubs the back of his neck. "I don't know, I just don't have a good feeling about this… it's too complicated… to spread out."
I have no clue about this, but I read something similar somewhere, so I throw it out there, desperate to connect with him. "Don't all big companies do that?"
He rubs the back of his neck and admits, "Yeah, I suppose so."
Mom scoffs from the couch, pulling my attention back to her. "They don't know what they're doing," she repeats, blissfully unaware that Pete and I have shifted our conversation to something other than her.
"I have to go, honey," Pete rises. Kisses mom, then me. Mom beams, like the order he doles out kisses is the most important thing, and she's always first.
I grab my purse too. "I'll head out too, Mom."
"So early?"
I have a lot of time to make up, and I like to go in an hour early just to prove that I'm still there and reliable. "Yes, lots to do. Do you need anything?"
"No, don't worry about me. I'll be dead in a few weeks anyway." She smiles—actually smiles—at me.
I sigh. This is nothing new either. She's been dying for years. I kiss her. "Love you, Mom."
"Love you too," she replies, which is new. Before Pete and his family, I didn't even know this was a thing people did. Pete's dad was the first person to ever say I love you to me without any romantic interest. It just wasn't something Mom and I did.
Outside, the sun is already up and hot. I squint when I hear the sound of a motor and catch sight of Pete's car just before it goes around the corner, followed by another car.
I narrow my eyes. We live on a cul-de-sac.
I know all our neighbors, and I've never seen this car before.
Easy, Sherlock, I tell myself, probably just one of those private Amazon deliverers.
Getting into my car, I try to shake the feeling that I'm being watched that I've had ever since the ball.
Some days, like today, I even think somebody is following me, and now I'm projecting that feeling onto Pete.
You are your mother's daughter. Maybe you should take a Xanax.
That advice feels right. The problem is that Xanax zonks me out, and I wouldn't be able to go to work.
I buckle up, ignoring the niggling voice in the back of my head.
I've gotten good at ignoring inconvenient things, like the ingrown toenail that's been bugging me the last few days.
And of course, it's on the inside, a place I can't reach no matter how hard I twist. Time for a pedi.
I try to perk myself up and fail. Because a pedi costs as much as one of mom's copays.
According to my big toe, it seems necessary, though.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur. Annette brings in one of her feral cats—she likes to trap them and have them spayed—but it's too busy to talk for more than a few moments.
The boss is on me from the moment he walks in, handing me a stack of files he put sticky notes on last night.
He really takes his four-legged patients seriously.
I ruefully shake my head. More seriously than the real doctors do for Mom.
For lunch, I use some of my allowance—I'll never save up like Pete—and my coworker Becky and I order Chinese through Uber.
The afternoon is not getting any better.
An emergency is brought in by a frantic woman who ran over a stray dog, and I have to reschedule several appointments to make room for the poor pup.
The boss takes out his spleen and declares it a success.
The woman is all too happy to pay four thousand dollars for a dog she doesn't even own, yet.
She leaves him overnight, promising to come get him in the morning.
Looks like the dog's luck has changed. The amounts of money people drop for their pets always surprises me.
Of course, I'd drop it too, if necessary.
Luckily, Mom's cats are pretty healthy, and they won't tolerate any other animal in the house.
Not that I have that kind of money, but there are tons of people who take out credit just to care for their beloved animal.
Something I know Pete would have a fit over. Even if we could afford it.
It's after seven by the time I finally lock up and exit into the alley behind the office to take the trash with me on the way to my car. I call Mom to tell her I'm going to be late.
"So apparently is your husband," she mutters into the phone as I open the lid to the trash.
"What do you mean?"
"He's not home, and I can't get a hold of him. I could be dead for all you and he…"
I tune her out and look at my phone for the first time all day.
No messages, no calls. A funny sensation runs through my stomach.
A feeling I can't quite name, premonition?
That's not like Pete. He doesn't know what I want to talk to him about tonight, not even that I do.
Usually, he checks in at least once or twice during the day via text.
And he always, always calls that he's going to be late, even now when it's almost a given that he won't be home before six thirty, when he should be home at four.
Usually, I check my phone during lunch, but with the trauma emergency, there wasn't any time today.
"Did he not check on you?" I ask, dropping the trash to the ground, unable to find the will to lift it over and into the bin.
The nagging sensation in my stomach intensifies. For some reason, the car I saw this morning comes back into my mind.
"No, I had to make myself a sandwich," Mom complains.
Pete works five minutes from the house. Mom is so anxiety-riddled that Pete always comes home for lunch, ostensibly to make himself a meal he doesn't have to pay for, but also to check on Mom and to make sure she eats. He'd never not show up without telling her.
"Did he call you?"
"No, he didn't. He's not answering either. Neither were you."
I see five missed calls from Mom. Shit. Today was really not my day.
Mom keeps ranting in the background while my mind goes to all kinds of wild scenarios, and then I hear footsteps.
All the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
The feeling of dread in my stomach intensifies.
I don't want to look up, but I do it anyway.
A small cry escapes me when I stare into the barrel of a gun.
"Drop the phone. Not a sound."
I drop the phone from where Mom's voice is still prattling on about the injustices of the day, fighting the feeling to pee my pants. The eyes of the man holding the gun are black abysses, empty of all emotions. "Walk."
I don't think I can, but somehow, I put one foot in front of the other. "I don't… have any money."
He doesn't answer, which somehow makes it worse.
"Audra?" My mom calls; she must have finally realized I'm not listening or answering. "Audra?"
I want to yell for her to call the cops. But one, I'm not sure I'd survive long enough to finish my sentence, and two, by the time the cops would arrive… if Mom even figures out where to send them… I'd be long gone.
A car sits idling at the end of the alley. It's the same car I saw this morning. The same one that followed Pete.
Oh my God. Sweat breaks out all over me.
"Get in."
I look around, but there is nobody here. The strip mall where our office is located is deserted after six, and after seven, it's a regular graveyard.
I turn and look at the man again, to… what?
Plead? Beg him to let me go? One look at his face tells me how futile that would be.
So I climb into the car, clutching my Gucci bag for dear life, thinking that any beat-up purse right now with a gun inside it would do me a lot more good than the cherry red leather.
The man scoots in next to me, and the driver takes off without a word.
I watch the neon lights fly by. Drunken tourists. A cop issuing a ticket to a speeder. Life goes on, while I'm sitting in a car with two strangers, a gun trained at me. Think Audra. Think.
But aside from the surrealism of the situation and the question why running through my head, I can't think of a single thing I could do. We stop at a traffic light. I try the handle, but, of course, the child lock has been engaged. The button to roll down the window doesn't work either.
Aside from the heavy breathing from the man next to me, there is not a sound. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't even tell me don't, as if he was expecting me to try. Which makes it worse. Because it means he's a pro. He's done this before. Why runs through my mind again. What do they want?
I should ask. But my throat feels tight, like invisible fingers are squeezing it closed.
The car keeps moving through the city. Outside the window, life goes on as if nothing has changed.
Neon lights blink. Tourists spill out of casinos laughing too loudly.
A couple crosses the street holding hands, arguing about something trivial.
Normal.
Everything is normal.
Except my life has just tilted off its axis.
My hands are trembling in my lap, but my mind feels strangely… clear. Too clear. Like the moment before a car accident, when everything slows down. Think.
Pete. The thought slams into me so hard it almost knocks the breath out of my lungs. Do they have him, too? Is that why he didn't text or call today? Why he didn't come home during lunch like he usually does?
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
Maybe they took him first. Maybe he's already… I force the thought away before it can finish. No.
No. I may be about to divorce him, but that doesn't mean I don't care about him.
My stomach twists when the car turns off the main road.
The bright lights of the Strip fade behind us.
The streets grow darker. The buildings get lower, and soon the tourists disappear entirely.
We drive through a part of the city I barely recognize.
Warehouses. The kind of place I'd avoid, even during the day.
Chain link fences topped with barbed wire.
Most of the buildings are dark, but a few have security lights buzzing overhead, casting sick yellow pools across cracked asphalt. The driver slows.
My heart starts beating harder now. Not faster.
Heavier. Like it's bracing itself. The car rolls into a narrow alley between two massive concrete buildings.
No windows. No people. Just darkness. The engine idles for a moment.
The man next to me finally moves. The gun shifts slightly.
There is an audible click; the driver must have disengaged the child locks.
"Out," he says. His voice is rough. Flat. Like this is just another Tuesday for him.
I open the door. Warm night air rushes in.
For a moment, I don't move. Not because I'm refusing.
But because something strange is happening inside me.
The fear is still there. Huge. Crushing.
But underneath it, something else is waking up.
Something sharp. My senses feel… louder.
I hear the buzz of a broken streetlight.
The distant rumble of a truck on the highway.
The slow, steady breathing of the man beside me.
Even the smell of oil and metal in the air feels stronger.
Like my body has decided panic isn't useful, so it's choosing something else. Survival.
I step out of the car. The gravel crunches under my shoes. The warehouse looms in front of me like the mouth of a cave. Dark. Waiting. A thought slips through my mind, almost calm. If Pete is here… I need to be strong. Because whatever happens next… I know Pete is not going to save me.