Saved

Keri Clark

Madeline had been enjoying a peaceful breakfast until Elliott walked into the kitchen and ruined everything.

“Don't you think all that sugar is bad for the baby?” her husband said. Another one of his rhetorical, you-can't-win questions.

Madeline looked up from her bowl of Cap'n Crunch, guilt nudging her. “Eggs make me queasy.”

“Everything makes you queasy,” he said, flicking invisible lint off his suit.

She took a deep, calming breath. “It's the hormones.” She pushed her chair back, poured the rest of her cereal down the disposal, and tucked the bowl into the dishwasher.

“So now you're going to starve yourself?”

She was too tired to argue with him. The baby had woken her at five-thirty with a soccer kick to the bladder and she'd been unable to fall back asleep. “Of course not. Don't be ridiculous.”

“I'm concerned about your health,” he said. “How is that ridiculous?”

“Elliott, please.”

“What? What is it you want from me?”

To love me again. “Nothing. Have a nice day at work.” Madeline retreated to the bedroom and closed the door, fighting the urge to scream her lungs out.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Five months ago, they'd grinned and giggled over the little blue plus sign. They'd joked about naming the baby Horace, after Elliott's grandfather. Or Bertha, after Madeline's great aunt. Elliott had surprised her with yellow roses, a jar of pickles, an engraved silver rattle. He'd insisted on driving her to the doctor's office for her check-ups.

But two months ago, Elliott had started to change. Now he picked fights with her constantly. He criticized her appearance and eating habits. And Madeline saw the doctor alone.

She sat next to the window and rested her hand on her firm belly. She felt the baby move and smiled. Her little goldfish. Maybe once the baby came, things would get better.

Oh, God, they had to get better. Because if her husband were having an affair, she would have to leave him. And if she left him, he would punish her. Oh, not physically. He would never raise his hand to her, let alone his voice. But he would make sure that his lawyer knew about her addiction to painkillers four years ago. He would do everything in his power to gain full custody of their child. Because Elliott had to win.

He always had to win.

* * *

Elliott leaned over the dining room table and tapped the small blue splotch in the corner of the map. “Here's where I'll be staying tomorrow and Saturday, then I'll hike out Sunday morning.” His long finger traced the squiggly green line that led from Snow Ridge Lake to the trailhead. “I should be back by three o'clock at the latest, okay?”

“I wish you weren't going by yourself,” Madeline said.

“Jerry's got his kids this weekend and Mark has to work. Am I supposed to rearrange my schedule to fit everyone else's?”

“But it's so remote.”

“I know what I'm doing, Madeline. I'm not an idiot. I've hiked solo plenty of times.” He pointed at the blue splotch again. “Do you want me to highlight the area for you so you don't forget?”

“Snow Ridge Lake . Back Sunday afternoon. I won't forget.”

He studied her for a moment and she wondered if he might kiss her . But then he straightened and said, “I've got to finish packing my gear. You should go to bed. You have dark circles under your eyes again.”

* * *

But Elliott didn't come home on Sunday at three. Or five. Or seven. Madeline dialed his cell number a dozen times, but kept getting his voicemail. She paced, ate dinner, paced some more.

By ten o'clock, a headache had crept behind her eyes. Had he gotten lost or hurt? Or was he playing some sort of cruel game with her? Perhaps.

She would decide what to do in the morning.

Madeline slept poorly that night and awoke with a feeling of dread. The house was dead quiet. She tried Elliott's cell again, then called his office, his best friend, and then his brother in Oregon . No one had heard from him, everyone was worried.

Fingers shaking, Madeline dialed the number to the ranger station.

“Did your husband tell you where he'd be hiking?” the ranger asked, his voice gentle. “Unfortunately, we don't issue permits in this area . . .”

Madeline thought about the emails she'd found on Elliott's laptop yesterday from a woman named Suzanne. She thought about her husband trapped in the mountains with a broken leg, or lying unconscious and dehydrated at the bottom of a cliff.

“Ma'am? Do you know where he might be?”

Her little goldfish wiggled inside her. “I'm sorry,” she said, stroking her belly. “I have no idea.”