“Journalist,” Ollie says to him with a smile. “Don’t mind the stares. It’s been a while since someone from the outside paid us a visit.”
The thought isn’t comforting. I wonder how many times an outsider came in and didn’t leave. Hopefully never. We keep walking.
The house—Tom’s house, I assume—is beautiful. Built anywhere else, it would be the envy of a neighborhood. Easily three thousand square feet, it boasts a wrap-around porch that spans the entire perimeter of the structure. Wind chimes hang in the trees that brush their branches against the roof. Two stories, it dwarfs the tiny cabins that the rest of the community is living in. I briefly wonder how long something like that takes to foster a nice healthy sense of resentment.
But these people don’t seem to resent Tom. They seem happy to be here. Here with him until the bitter end.
Which doesn’t seem to be too long a time from now. Not with those armored vehicles sitting near the cattle guard.
“Has anyone gone in or out since this all started?” I ask Ollie.
“No,” he says.
So, I’m the first. It’s an honor I never wanted. I think of Birdie and remind myself of why I’m here in the first place.
“You think there’s any chance I could get to see the pregnant girl?” I ask, treading the waters of the conversation lightly, hoping that an alligator doesn’t lurk in the depths.
Ollie looks at me sharply. There’s something in his expression, a brief plea. He wipes it away with a smile that’s less than happy.
“Doubtful. Jeff radioed in that we’d found a journalist, I think,” Ollie nods over at Jeff as we approach the house.
Jeff nods back.
“Boss wants her in the sweat lodge,” he says.
Ollie shrugs.
“I take that as a ‘no’ on seeing the pregnant girl,” I say.
“No can do,” Ollie responds. “But I’ll take you to the sweat lodge.”
And with that, we turn and leave the other two.
The walk to the sweat lodge seems to stretch on endlessly. The idea that Tom is waiting there hovers behind me like a demon breathing down my neck. I wipe my palms on my jeans, keenly aware of how nervous I am and hating myself for it.
“Why the sweat lodge?” I ask Ollie, trying to make light conversation—trying to make this seem like anything other than what it is.
“Tom thinks it levels the playing field. He thinks we’re all equals in there,” he shrugs.
It’s as good a reason as any and I’m not in a position to argue, so we walk on.
The sweat lodge is a circular structure. It looks like someone cobbled it together fast and in a hurry. Arced beams support the weight of the walls and a wool curtain hangs over the only door in or out. Ollie points.
“He’s waiting for you,” he says.
The words constrict around my throat like a fist. My vision blurs at the edges and my heart thunders against my ribs.
I reach for the wool curtain and glance back at Ollie. And then I step into the past.
Inside, the temperature soars into the triple digits. The gloom of the darkness envelopes me in a moment that feels like a small death. I feel my skin as though it sits more tightly on my muscles in the heat. Three candles burn in the center of the lodge, providing just enough light that I make out the shape of a person across the room. A man.
Tom.
He turns, having heard me enter. His silhouette grows clearer with each step. The candles glow off of his face, which looks gaunt. He looks like a ghost. He wears glasses now. His hair is longer, around the shoulders.
I step forward cautiously, like a zoologist, returned to Africa after years gone, to meet the beast I’d raised from a cub. I hope he recognizes me.
And he does.
My heart rate quickens. He’s a different man now. He’s drawn and stressed. He’s not the same Tom that I knew. Whatever is going on here, he’s no longer in control. And it shows.
I watch as his expression morphs from stoicism into something softer. It’s as if his exterior melts. And the visage it reveals is heartbreaking.
Time has aged him. Time and whatever has passed during those years. His jeans hang from his hipbones. He rests a hand in his belt loop and steps forward toward me, the candles illuminating his face entirely now, casting shadows into the hollows of his cheeks.
“My God,” he says, breathless.
“It’s me,” I say with a sad smile.
“It’s you,” he repeats.
He takes another step forward. His face cracks into a smile. He’s grateful.
“I can’t believe this,” he laughs. “What are you doing here?”
“I saw. On the news,” I say. It’s enough.
Tom, though, assumes that my concern is for him.
“Ione, I—” he starts.
“We don’t have to do that,” I raise a hand to stop him. “I just needed to come.”
He steps so close now that only inches separate us. In spite of the time that’s passed, I can still feel it—that energy that passed between us so long ago—and I brace myself against it, like someone bolting a door to keep out a hurricane.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, his voice a glass about to shatter.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say. “It can still be okay.”
“It can’t,” he says, resigned.
“Tom, it can,” I say. “They just want to talk to you.”
He becomes sullen, retreating into himself, but then he looks at me again and it’s like life is breathed back into him. Like I’m an oasis and he’s been stranded in the desert. I don’t want to tell him it’s only a mirage.
He reaches a hand towards my own at my side. He touches it and interlaces our fingers. My body reacts. I let my wrist relax against his grip, allowing him to bring my hand up to his chest.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he says.
The words come out of me before I
