“You need to call Henry Martin,” Shannon says.
Malorie looks to her sister quickly. All day she’s known Henry Martin will not play a big part in the raising of this child. In a way, she’s already accepted this. Shannon walks with her to the living room, where boxes of unpacked objects clutter the space in front of the television. On the screen is a funeral procession. CNN anchormen are discussing it. Shannon steps to the television and lowers the volume. Malorie sits on the couch and calls Henry Martin from her cell phone.
He does not answer. So she texts him.
Important stuff. Call me when you can.
Suddenly Shannon springs up from the couch and hollers.
“Did you see that, Malorie? An incident in Michigan! I think they said it was in the Upper Peninsula!”
Their parents are already on Malorie’s mind. As Shannon raises the volume again, the sisters learn that an elderly couple from Iron Mountain were found hanging from a tree in the nearby woods. The anchorman says they used their belts.
Malorie calls her mother. She picks up after two rings.
“Malorie.”
“Mom.”
“I’m sure you’re calling because of this news?”
“No. I’m pregnant, Mom.”
“Oh, goodness, Malorie.” Her mother is quiet for a moment. Malorie can hear her television in the background. “Are you serious with someone?”
“No, it was an accident.”
Shannon is standing in front of the television now. Her eyes are wide. She is pointing toward it, as though reminding Malorie how important it is. Her mother is quiet on the phone.
“Are you okay, Mom?”
“Well, I’m more concerned with you right now, dear.”
“Yeah. Bad timing all around.”
“How far along are you?”
“Five weeks, I think. Maybe six.”
“And you’re going to keep it? You’ve already made this decision?”
“I am. I mean, I just found out. Minutes ago. But I am. Yes.”
“Have you let the father know?”
“I wrote him. I’ll call him, too.”
Now Malorie pauses. Then continues.
“Do you feel safe up there, Mom? Are you okay?”
“I don’t know, I just don’t know. None of us do and we’re very scared. But right now I’m more worried about you.”
On the screen, a woman, using a diagram, explains what may have happened. She is drawing a line from a small road where the couple’s car was found abandoned. Malorie’s mother is telling her that she knows someone who knew the elderly couple. Their last name is Mikkonen, she is saying. The woman on-screen is now standing in what looks like a patch of bloodied grass.
“God,” Shannon says.
“Oh, I wish your father were home,” their mother is saying. “And you’re pregnant. Oh, Malorie.”
Shannon is grabbing the phone. She is asking if their mother knows any more details than the news. What are people saying up there? Is this the only incident? Are people taking precautions?
As Shannon continues to talk wildly into the phone, Malorie gets up from the couch. She steps to the front door and opens it. Looking up and down the street, she thinks to herself, How serious is this?
There are no neighbors in their yards. No faces in the windows of the other homes. A car drives by and Malorie cannot see the face of the driver. He’s hiding it with his hand.
On the grass by the front walk is this morning’s newspaper. Malorie steps to it. The front-page headline is about the growing number of incidents. It simply says: ANOTHER ONE. Shannon has probably already told her everything the paper has to say. Malorie picks it up and, turning it over, stops at something on the back page.
It’s a classified. A home in Riverbridge is opening its doors to strangers. A “safe house” it says. A refuge. A place the owners hope will act as a “sanctuary” as the grim news mounts daily.
Malorie, experiencing the first real prickling feelings of panic, looks again to the street. She sees the door to a neighbor’s home open, then close quickly. Still holding the paper, Malorie looks over her shoulder back to her house, where the sounds of the television still blare. Inside, at the far wall of the living room, Shannon is tacking a blanket over one of the room’s windows.
“Come on,” Shannon says. “Get in here. And close that door.”