Obstetrix(29)

Outsiders never came to the ranch, as far as I could tell. It was possible someone came in once every six months or once a year and I just hadn’t seen them come yet, although if there was some necessary service that happened periodically, like propane delivery or septic-tank pumping, they’d probably have the foresight to keep me under guard while it was happening.

Just in case, though, I managed to filch a sheet of printer paper, tore it into neat quarters, and used my pen to write a note, which I kept in my bra so it would be ready to hand if the opportunity presented itself to give it to someone:

HELP. My name is Elizabeth Gwinn. I am a doctor and I was kidnapped by this group from my home in St. Paul, MN. Please call my father at 701-555-8246 and tell him where I am.



One “Marketplace Day,” I got whisked away from sanding to attend to someone who’d injured himself with a woodworking tool. My first thought was that if he’d severed a limb, they would surely have to take him somewhere else to get care, and if I’d thought about it in advance I could have written a note to slip into his clothes where some other doctor would find it. It turned out to be an ugly gash from a chisel slipping, and not an injury from a bandsaw; I cleaned it out, stitched it, and gave the injured man a tetanus shot. And then I wrote myself a second note, just in case:

HELP. This person is part of a group that kidnapped me. My name is Elizabeth Gwinn and I’m a doctor who was taken from my home in MN. Please call my father, Lt. Colonel (Air Force, retired) Sam Gwinn, 701-555-8246. Tell him I’m alive.



In that note, I tried really hard to make sure I wouldn’t put this hypothetical other doctor in a quandary about patient privacy that would discourage action. If I could get them to call my father, this would put other pieces into motion—law enforcement, warrants, whatever—that would obviate any dilemmas around HIPAA.

Ink can fade quickly, especially if you’re carrying it next to your skin, but I took some of the pre-cut patches from the mending basket, and sandwiched the notes inside a thin layer of cotton broadcloth to protect them.

I had a final idea for a note. On a piece of paper I wrote simply 701-555-8246 SAM.

If I had the opportunity to beg someone here for a favor, anyone who left, anyone who might have access to a phone, ever—I could give them my father’s phone number. Maybe that would be enough. Maybe.

During the day, the cult kept me busy. At night, in bed, was when I had time—not to think, exactly. I had time to think during the day, to observe and consider whether I might be able to grab one of the four-wheelers without being seen right away, whether I could plant a “help me” note somewhere that it would fall out while Emma was grocery shopping without her noticing, a thousand possibilities that passed through my head and ended in that won’t work. At night, I had time to stew. I had time to marinate in my anxiety, to face all the what-ifs I could just avoid thinking about most of the time when there was work to be done and I could keep moving. What if I never get out of here? What if no one’s looking for me? What if years pass, and I never have an opportunity, or what if they break my spirit so badly I can’t even try?

Thinking about my father sometimes turned into imagining someone at his funeral, some family friend delivering the eulogy because I wasn’t there, talking about how he never recovered from the disappearance of his daughter. My parents had a series of miscarriages before they had me, and although they’d both wanted a bunch of kids, wound up settling for one.

Some nights I would find myself thinking about the day I was kidnapped, beating myself up for drinking that soda, for going to the interview. For not coming up with a better plan in the car, like getting my hands on a phone to call 911. Sometimes I’d feel a surge of fury at the people at the gas station who laughed when I tried to climb out, who just took the word of my kidnappers that I was a drug addict on my way to rehab, because they were white and respectable and middle-class looking.

Any of these spirals was just … not good. It wasn’t good for planning, it wasn’t good for sleeping, there wasn’t any point to it, and I knew it and that didn’t help. I started trying to deliberately redirect my thoughts when they’d get caught in one of these tracks, telling myself, I have to stay ready, but I will get out of here. Sometimes I would bring a page from The Onyx Dagger into my mind’s eye, the one where I’d underlined a single sentence in crooked blue ballpoint: there must be a way.





CHAPTER 6




MY THIRD MONDAY IN Harvest, I got through all the pregnant women in the morning, letting me linger in the community after lunch when Emma and Jason arrived with the groceries. I pushed aside my mug of coffee and went to help unload. My current goal was to try to spot where the keys got stored, and acting generally helpful in situations where everyone was pitching in was in line with my general goal of soothing everyone into relaxing their guard around me.

I was not directly monitored all the time: they clearly trusted the weather, and the isolation of the ranch, to keep me from getting far if I suddenly took off. I was never alone with my patients: Sarah was always there as well, with the sole exception of timid Chloe. Sock mending and wood sanding happened in groups; I’d wondered whether Emma could be persuaded to send a message to my father—just let him know I’m alive, he’s old, he deserves to know I’m not dead—but I’d never had an opportunity to talk with her without several other people present.