At breakfast the next morning, I asked Jesse if I could tag along for her work shift. Ben's expression was borderline hurt, frowning into his coffee mug, but our conversation last night felt a little too personal, and I needed the space. I hadn't meant to keep letting myself slide into these intimacies.
Jesse was rambling excitedly as we rounded the last curve of the trail to what she had described as the fiber arts building. It was more expansive than I'd expected. Just corrugated steel painted white, but the window and door frames were a cheerful teal, with a little floral motif added along the top of each opening, and the overall effect was more welcoming than I would have imagined such utilitarian architecture could be.
Inside, flowy white curtains in a loose weave filtered the harsh morning light. A candle was burning, lavender. The smell reminded me of the spray my friend Anna liked to mist over her bed and couch. Someone had music playing through a portable speaker, and women milled about.
At another time, I might have been irritated by the gender trope. The women knitted in the sweetly painted studio while the men hung around the machine shop? It was such a fucking cliche. But today I found my cynicism had run dry. It felt so fucking
good
to be in this soft, feminine space. I exhaled a deep breath and let it wash over me like a balm. I hadn't realized I needed this.
A large, smiling woman in a peasant dress approached us, crushing me in an overly familiar hug and laughing at the surprised puff of air she squeezed out of me.
"This is Joshyah," Jesse explained, peeling back one of the woman's arms and spinning so it wrapped around her instead. "Justin's wife. We call her Shy."
Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. "
It's funny because she's not actually shy
."
Joshyah pulled away, chuckling and swatting at Jesse. "I'm so glad you came," she told me, looking like she meant it. "I've been hoping to meet you. And it's easier to start to know people if you both have busy hands."
That sounded right, and wise. I found myself open to being schooled by this soft, motherly figure.
"Have you worked with textiles before?"
I laughed. "I made a potholder out of cotton loops about 18 years ago. Does that count?"
"Close enough," she smiled. "The principles are the same."
She turned, gesturing for us to follow her into the sprawling studio. "We can teach you the details."
----------
I was there for ages. There was so much to see; it was kind of incredible actually. Wool was cleaned and spun into yarn. Yarn was balled up for knitting, or stretched onto a loom for weaving. That's where I'd spent the majority of my day, running the shuttle back and forth between warp threads.
I'm not a mindless person, so it's hard to explain why my most comfortable tasks at the homestead were simple, repetitive things. I guess my emotional landscape was so cluttered and confusing, I was grateful for the respite.
I wove several yards of the gauzy fabric they were using for curtains. Joshyah explained they used it for a lot of basics: light shirts to reflect the sun, blankets and household linens. They weren't making much clothing yet, most people still ordering from outside, but she considered it an important education to establish.
By the time I got back to Ben's house, I felt light and refreshed, but he was pacing. It seemed like an overreaction to a day's separation, but I guess with Ben, it was hard to pin down how he would react to anything involving me.
I went to him, tried to settle him with a hand on his elbow. He snaked his arms around me, always so snug. I imagined they grew longer where I couldn't see, wrapping around and around and around. Like that stretchy comic book hero that grossed me out as a kid. This didn't feel gross though.
His kiss on my hair tonight was sort of perfunctory.
"So," he started, and then stopped. "In
six
days you'll decide?"
Was he asking for more time? He must know in his heart I couldn't stay. I didn't want him to ask for more time, didn't want to draw this out.
"Six," I confirmed, my voice resolute.
He stepped back, fidgeting.
"But right now, there are people worrying about you."
The reminder felt like a punch. I nodded, thinking of Lisa. She would have expected a call several days ago. By now, yes, she would be very worried. Would she have done anything about it? I couldn't really think of what there would have been
to
do. She knew my rough route, knew I was camping along the way. But there were at least nine different states I could have plausibly passed through. To call authorities in every one of them would have been a very un-Lisa-like response to a tardy check-in.
Still, if I had lost or broken my phone, which was not an altogether uncommon occurrence, I definitely would have checked in via landline by now. So yes. Lisa would be scared. By now even Chris might be anxious.
"Yeah. My aunt especially."
Ben went back to pacing, running his hands through his hair.
"I don't want your people scared for you. And I don't want you worrying about them worrying."
When he turned around again, he was tugging several items from his pants pocket. My phone, I realized. And the battery. And the SIM card.
I must have gasped audibly, because he suddenly looked panicked.
"You said six days, remember? What happens then happens, but at least six days, ok Sky? I want you to call her, I want to do something right by you for once, but please don't do anything rash."
He set the items on the counter, and then stepped back. I felt weirdly proud of him, knowing how hard that must have been.
I felt shaken. Literally, I guess, because my fingers were vibrating as I awkwardly reassembled everything. I powered it on, stared at the home screen a minute. Nine missed calls. Twenty eight unread texts. I couldn't quite bring myself to click on any of them.
Maybe it was petty, but it struck me that those were kind of pathetically low numbers for someone who had been drugged and dragged out to the desert over a week ago. A chagrined laugh croaked out of my suddenly dry throat.
I wish I'd planned for this. It honestly hadn't occurred to me he might let me make a call; I'd assumed he'd tossed my phone in Wyoming. I didn't have anyone's number memorized to call without it, so my only escapist fantasies had centered on dialing 911.
What should I say to Lisa? There was no middle ground. Either I would tell her I'd been kidnapped, and where, and would do so while sprinting away from Ben as quickly as my little legs could carry me, or I would... lie for him, I guess. Or if not outright lie, at least it would require smoothing over his violence in a way that I absolutely was NOT ok with.
The weird thing was, Lisa was an unapologetic romantic. If anyone would understand this unreasonable hesitation I felt to throw him under the bus, it would be her. She was always trying to make me see the gray in what I swore was a black and white world.
Still. It wouldn't exactly do to say
well, I was drugged and transported to a kind of separatist utopian homestead in the desert, but the people here are actually sweet and idealistic and amazingly hard working and knowledgeable, and not cultish at all, and the guy who dragged my ass here is actually strangely gentle and intuitive and has the body of a Chippendale and together we are experiencing both orgasms and intimacy at a magnitude I frankly didn't think I was capable of. And it's totally not Stockholm syndrome, I'm sure.
