Obstetrix(32)

I heard someone snoring. Natalie had stretched out on the couch, put her head on a pillow, and gone to sleep. Holly—well, she looked asleep, though it was hard to tell for sure. If there was a phone, a laptop, anything like that, somewhere other than the bathroom, now was my chance to search. And I could open the drawers to that dresser, and if I woke anyone up, I could claim I was looking for a blanket to drape over Natalie.

I crossed the room as silently as I could and eased the drawer open. Glanced over at the two women again. Reached to the back of the drawer—

And found a phone, secured with a strip of duct tape to the back of that drawer, just like I’d imagined.

Stifling my own gasp, I stuffed it in my pocket and gently closed the drawer, then shut myself into the bathroom. There was a towel hanging up, still a little damp, and I wrapped it around the phone as I pressed the on button, because sometimes cell phones chime when you turn them on. This one made no noise; it just vibrated in my hand as it started up.

I’d spent a lot of time thinking about what I’d do with a cell phone—specifically, I’d thought about whether my first move should be calling 911. Calls to 911 were routed to the local authorities; how well did those authorities get along with this cult? Would they arrive in force, or would they send a single person to check in and go away if the cult told them to? Would the cult cooperate or would they fight back? I was old enough to remember the Branch Davidians in Waco. It was easy to imagine a thousand ways that a 911 call could go horribly wrong.

But also: I was worried about being overheard, and when the phone came to life, it showed almost no service. Texts would probably work; a phone call might or might not.

If it had been locked, I would have had no choice but to call 911. But it wasn’t locked.

I sent my father a text. Dad? It’s Lizzie.

No response. My dad went to bed early these days because he woke up at five. With the time difference, he’d probably gone to sleep hours ago.

Don’t reply to this, I’m using a stolen cell phone. I was kidnapped. Someone lured me with a job interview and then drugged me. I think I’m in Idaho, near Terreton. On a cult compound. The minivan’s license plate is MJM-446, and I can walk around the compound but they won’t let me leave. This is the first time I’ve had access to a cell phone. They kidnapped me so they’d have an OBGYN. They kidnapped another doctor and then murdered her because she wouldn’t help.

I thought about what else I could tell him.

The compound is at the end of a long driveway and there’s a green gate. A big community building and a bunch of small houses. We’re far enough back from the road I can’t see traffic. I found a receipt from the Terreton One Stop, that’s why I think we’re near there.

Don’t reply to this.

Could I just keep this phone? Would they notice? I checked the sent texts: Holly appeared to turn it on once a week to send a quick text to her own parents, telling them everything was fine and giving an update on the kids. If she stuck to that schedule it would be a few days, but given that she was having a miscarriage I didn’t want to count on that.

I heard a rustle outside the bathroom, which sent a spike of fear through my body.

My hands were shaking, making it hard to text. I deleted my sent texts, marked Dad’s number as spam in case my dad replied anyway, and then turned the phone off and stuffed it in my sleeve.

Everyone was still asleep when I came out of the bathroom, and I got the phone back where I’d found it just in time; footsteps came up the porch. Natalie jolted back up into a sitting position as Sarah knocked quietly on the door. “Donna’s home with her baby,” she said. “You can go home and sleep, I’ll take over here.”

I nodded. A quiet young man escorted me back to my own house, and I lay in bed, wide-eyed from adrenaline, until it was late enough that I could imagine my father, hundreds of miles away, reading my texts. At least he’ll know I’m in trouble.

At least he’ll know I’m alive.



* * *



JOY WAS IN THE next day for a checkup. She was now far enough along that if she had a preterm delivery somewhere with a NICU, the baby would probably be okay, but of course, we had no NICU. She’d been having contractions, irregular but painful. I checked her cervix, which remained high and tight, just like you’d want to see at that point in someone’s third trimester. “These are Braxton Hicks contractions,” I told her. “Normal, even though they’re annoying.”

“They’re your uterus getting ready to do its job,” Sarah said brightly. I refrained from pointing out that it was a job we weren’t going to be able to let it do, given the baby’s position.

“I can’t sleep,” Joy said. “If I’m not waking up to pee, I’m waking up because of one of these contractions.”

“We could give you something like Benadryl, or Unisom…” I started to say, thinking of the zolpidem I’d seen in the medicine cabinet last night, but Sarah was shaking her head.

“Brother David doesn’t approve of medications in pregnancy unless they’re absolutely necessary,” she said.

“Hmm,” I said. That’s what I’d started saying whenever they told me something unhinged. “Sister Joy, are you still doing the usual amount of work?” She nodded. “I’m going to prescribe some extra rest for you. You can nap, or you can sit down with your feet up, whatever’s most comfortable. If you get a little extra sleep, so much the better, but we don’t want these contractions turning into preterm labor, and extra rest will help.”