The Variables

Darla pounded a weak fist into the door as her answer.

“I’m waiting,” Lou said with an air of calm that crept underneath Darla’s skin. She shivered.

“You can’t drug me, and separate me from my friends, and keep me as your prisoner, and expect me to want to cooperate with you…” Darla croaked to the flashlight beam. “You attacked us first. Unprovoked.”

“I thought you were Sweepers.” He sounded so apologetic. So sad. Darla hated him for it. He had the power to do the right thing and still he refused. She wanted to make him pay for his blind allegiance to a non-existent standard. She didn’t doubt that Lou thought he was doing the right thing, and in many ways that made her even angrier.

“We’re not the enemy. Why are you trying so hard to make us one?”

“You can’t blame me for wanting to protect my family.”

“This new world can’t be built on mistrust,” she seethed and she pounded her hand into the door a little harder. “You didn’t even wait to see if we were good people before you decided we were bad.”

He had no response to that.

“I won’t jeopardize my own needs just so you can have some answers,” she continued. “My reasons for refusing to cooperate outweigh your needless desire for answers that don’t affect you.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Darla,” Lou said.

She hated the way he said her name.

She heard him turn and the flashlight disappeared; his heavy steps traveled back up the stairs and the basement door slammed shut.

Squeak, squeak, squeak went the rocking horse. Ainsley sighed in her sleep. Or maybe she was awake. Darla didn’t know and she didn’t feel like needlessly waking her up just to see if she had been awake to start with. A second later, she heard Dean knocking. She crawled her way over to the vent and pressed her body against the floor. Her cheeks were wet, but she didn’t bother wiping them.

“This is a lost cause,” she whispered into the grate.

“I heard,” Dean said. He sounded like he was right beside her. She wished she could reach through the vent and hold his hand. “Jesus. Darla...we have to do something,” he continued. “We can’t stay here like this.”

“I know. I’m thinking.”

She didn’t move. She just stayed still against the ground, her ear to the floor.

“We’re going to find him, Darla. Teddy is still out there and we’re going to get to him. He’s safe and he’s waiting for us. Okay?”

“I’m not okay,” she answered. “I’ve never felt so weak. So stupid and weak. This is the one time I should be strong…and I failed. I misjudged this entire situation. How could I have failed my own child?”

“You’ll regain your strength...”

“Not just physically weak, Dean. Mentally. Emotionally. I don’t know if I have what it takes to do this. I don’t think I can be the hero.” She paused. “Should I tell him? Should I tell him about Nebraska and the soldiers and my son?”

“If you think it’s best,” he said quickly. His response was not what she had wanted to hear.

“We don’t know who those other people are,” she replied. “What prevents them from getting the information from us and checking it out before they let us leave? And blowing our cover? Or…launching a surprise attack. With Teddy still there.”

“Is that what you’re most afraid of?” Dean whispered.

Darla didn’t answer.

“Well,” Dean said after a pause, “Then it’s settled. They learn nothing from us. We hold our ground. We’ll find another way out.” They went silent. Then he whispered, “You think we’ll find my boy, Darla? It’s not fair, you know…it’s not fair that I just let him slip out of my life. I see that…I need to tell him that I should’ve fought for him. You think he’s okay?”

“I do,” she answered. But she didn’t know. She thought of the items in the room; she inventoried them in her head. And she thought of Lindsey, her potential co-conspirator coming down with di

He went quiet and Darla pressed her ear down harder.

“Dean?”

“Christmas. When I was about ten. My dad took me out to cut down our own tree, just me and him, out in some u-cut farm in the mountains. We were out all day trying to find the perfect tree. He’d keep saying, ‘Your mom deserves the best tree, Dean. Just the best.’ Finally, we found one...cut it down, strapped it up, traveled all the way home. It was dusk when we pulled in the drive, and my mom was there, in the window, with two mugs of hot cocoa. Big old marshmallows floating in just pure chocolate. I can still taste it. And I remember my dad setting that tree up in the middle of our family room and helping my mom string the lights.” Dean paused.

Darla couldn’t hear anything but her own steady breath against the floor.

“We had this Elvis Christmas record playing. And my parents were dancing...my mom in this pink robe and my dad in these tight bell-bottomed pants. They were just so happy...you remember what it felt like to see your parents just happy like that? God, I can just see them still. Elvis. The tree. And my mom hands me the tinsel, right? These stringy pieces of silver and gold and I string them all over. And she kisses my head. And says to me, ‘You remember these moments, Dean, and hide them in your heart. Because life isn’t always pretty and you’ll need bright shiny tinsel moments to get through, okay?’ I should’ve remembered that sooner, I guess. How it felt. Maybe it would’ve made me a better man. A better dad or husband. I knew what good looked like and it didn’t matter. I didn’t remember the tinsel, I guess. What a piece of wasted advice.”

“I said a good memory,” Darla said with a smile in her voice.

“Well, then, how’s this for cliché. The day Grant was born,” he amended. “He was a pink, ugly mess. And God, I miss that kid.”

“He’s a good egg,” Darla said. She picked at a loose carpet thread. “Good young man. From what I knew.” She knew him for a day, but qualifying it wasn’t important. It was what Dean needed to hear and she was happy to say it.

“I did okay sometimes,” was Dean’s reply. “You know, they tell you that you’re supposed to tell your kid that you’re proud of them so that they know it when they’re older. I didn’t do that. Do you do that?”

Darla hummed a yes. She did. She was a good mom. Not a perfect mom, but a good mom. She had never measured herself against the barrage of parenting barometers that modern society kept throwing her way. She was a good mom and she didn’t need a different mom sitting behind a computer to tell her that. Pressed against the floor, her ear to a vent, the rumblings of the house pounding in her ear, Darla knew that her current situation did not define her—she would reunite with her son. She would keep him safe.

The duo stopped talking. There was nothing more to say. Darla could hear Dean’s thick and steady breathing from the other side of the grate, and the movement of the rabbits in their pen. Dean’s isolation had taken a toll on his sanity—he had named the rabbits after various former baseball players and lamented when the Hales picked a beloved one to eat. Without natural light, the rabbits were small and skittish, but Dean had seemed to form fast friendships. Poor Buster Posey had gone up the night before last, and Darla was certain she could hear Dean praying for the bu

Between Dean’s heavy snores and the rabbits scuttling about, Darla let her mind wander. She laid back and stared at the ceiling, dreaming of escape.

“Someone’s coming,” Darla whispered through the grate, hoping that it would rouse Dean from slumber. She could hear steps approaching the basement door. Darla scuttled upward away from the vent. She grabbed the lantern and spun it around the room. She spotted the overturned lamp next to the coffee table, untouched since she had pounded against the ceiling. Ditching the lantern, Darla picked up the lamp and held it like a bat over her shoulder.