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Survival Instincts
Author: Jen Waite


To Vivienne,

I love you infinity.

 

 

THE CABIN


   ANNE


   You look at me and ask without speaking. Protect me, your eyes say. But this is the cold truth. From the moment you were born, the only thing I knew for sure was that I couldn’t protect you. Not really. Not completely. Even before you were born, I couldn’t stop a man from hurting you. Imagine for a moment that I was able to keep you safe and sound, wrapped up in the warmth of the womb for those long nine months, and then safe beyond that, beyond my body. At some point I would have still had to set you free and wait for the world to unleash itself on you. All parents understand this on some level, especially those of little girls. Right now, though, I hope you believe that I can save you. Because when I tell you to run, when I open my mouth and command you, softly and firmly, you can’t know what I know. That in the end, I can’t protect you; no one can.

 

 

FOUR DAYS

BEFORE THE CABIN


   ANNE


   The day Anne decided to go to the cabin was also the day she took Thea clothes shopping at the mall. Her daughter’s pants didn’t fit; the size 12s, the ones she had just bought because Thea had grown out of her size 11s, rode up around her ankles. Thea, long and lean and all arms and legs, like a colt, was growing so quickly these days that her age no longer correlated with her size.

   “Do you like these?” Anne asked, holding up a pair of bright yellow stretch pants. Sometimes she could lead her daughter with the tone she used. Lilting up at the end—“Do you like these?”—and a touch of excitement in her voice. Thea barely glanced before responding, “Ew,” and shifting her eyes toward a gumball machine near the entrance of the store. It didn’t always work, the lilt.

   They wandered around the store, a coffee in Anne’s hand, a smoothie in Thea’s, with the leisurely, aimless gait reserved for a half-empty American shopping mall. It was Tuesday afternoon, and Anne had scheduled her last client for the 1:00–1:50 p.m. slot. Afterward, she picked up Thea from school early and they’d gone straight to the mall, a move she’d hoped would spare them from the after-work crowd—the crowd that Anne was usually lumped in with—parents hell-bent on accomplishing last-minute shopping, dragging their kids from store to store, tinged with frantic desperation. The move had worked; the mall was nearly empty when they arrived.

   “Ok, well, let’s hurry up and find some stuff you like.” Anne switched to her best authoritative mom voice. “School is letting out soon; it’s going to get crowded in here.” And turn into the tenth circle of hell, she thought, scanning the entrance as teenagers started to ooze in; high school kids skipping last class or the entire school day. She watched a girl and a boy, who couldn’t be older than fourteen, dart their tongues in and out of each other’s mouths and caress each other’s facial piercings. Anne let out an audible grunt of disgust. Do your parents know where you are? The teenage girl was wearing a shirt that looked like a bra and the boy wore pants that sagged down almost to his knees, revealing yellowed boxer shorts. Anne swiveled her eyes down her own body: white button-up shirt, gray trousers, sensible black flats. She touched the edge of her head, tucking stray brown hairs into the bun at the nape of her neck. She looked back to the girl and boy laughing into each other’s mouths. What a curmudgeon you’ve become. “Hey, sweets, off your phone.” She plucked Thea’s twelfth birthday present, an older generation iPhone, out of her daughter’s fingers and dropped it into her purse. So much for being less curmudgeon-ey.

   “Mom!” Thea glared as if she’d just been sentenced to a week of collecting litter on the highway.

   Anne smiled back. “Focus, Thee.”

   Anne ran her fingers along a rack of embroidered blouses and her thoughts shot forward to tonight; after dinner was made, homework was done, and Thea was tucked into bed with her night-light and a Nancy Drew Mystery (Anne’s old set that Thea had looked at skeptically, eyeing the wilted pages and dusty spines, but she now was on the fifth book in the series), she would put on comfy pj’s and thick socks, pour herself a glass of wine, build a fire in the living room, and sink into the sofa. They’d been moved into the new house for six months now—an old white farmhouse set on six acres of land—but she hadn’t had time to throw a housewarming or even veg out with a glass of wine. She was still getting used to the vastness of the new house, all the open space, creaking wood floors, and bare walls. There was so much still to furnish and decorate; tonight, she told herself, she would just enjoy it. This was what she had been working toward, after all, for the past eight years.

   She had opened her private therapy practice five years ago, after completing a three-year master’s program, in Charlotte, Vermont, a quiet town that bordered Lake Champlain. When she opened her doors, she didn’t have a single client, only a handful of friends who promised to pass the word and the hope that there were others who were looking for a light in the dark. The first few years she steadily built her clientele, eventually moving from a sparse white office off a dirt road into a beautiful brick building in the center of town, which housed the services of other mental health professionals. And she found that she had guessed correctly—there was no shortage of people seeking help in disengaging and healing from abusive relationships, even in a little Vermont town. Six months ago, to coincide with Thea starting sixth grade, Anne had made another leap—moving herself, her practice, and her daughter to Burlington, where she could charge twice the amount per hour and (she hoped) begin a new chapter. At $120.00 per fifty-minute session, and her client list steadily growing, Anne was doing well, very well; the new house with four bedrooms, hardwood floors throughout, and three fireplaces was physical proof of how far she’d come. It would be even more satisfying if her daughter hadn’t changed so drastically in the past few weeks, from a kind, inquisitive, horse-obsessed kid into an angsty, volatile preteen. At first, Thea seemed genuinely happy and excited to start fresh; she loved Burlington, she raved about her school and the small group of friends she’d made (three other nerdy, kind, wonderfully weird girls), and she talked incessantly about how much cooler the teachers were at her new school. But about a month ago, something changed. Anne still saw glimpses of the Thea she knew, but her daughter’s under-the-breath comments and disdain for everything, especially Anne, seemed to be increasing daily. Anne tried to remember what age she’d gone through this phase and could have sworn it was much, much later than twelve years old.

   Pulling her own phone from her purse, Anne watched Thea sort through a pile of jeans. The idea of going away for the weekend had started to sprout that morning when she and Thea had fought, once again, about the no-social-media-until-you’re-eighteen rule. Her daughter had said that she was worse than Voldemort, to which Anne had replied, “I believe you mean He Who Must Not Be Named.” Thea had not thought that was funny.

   Anne was aware of the irony that she felt completely at ease, even masterful sometimes, empowering her clients to form healthy boundaries and to break free from toxic relationships, but when confronted with the fact that her twelve-year-old daughter seemed to be developing a hatred for everything Anne said and did, she reacted like a teenager herself, awkward and insecure. She had done some quick research at work in between clients and an idea had begun to blossom: a girls’ getaway.

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