Miss. Wisconsin walked onstage, focused and strangely drawn in on herself. In a soft voice, she began,
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This story is about two women and a man, and it’s not a love story.
The first woman is beautiful, ambitious, popular. As a university student, she declines all sorority propositions and their philanthropic promises to head her uni’s Circle K chapter; as a graduate, she declines all offers of corporate six-figures to open a women’s gym in the center of town. The few moments she spends away from her daughter see her in her open-floored studios, teaching free pilates or self-defense lessons to women from all walks of life.
The second woman is not. She joins a sorority of about 50 girls and actually likes maybe five of them, scrapes through her bio classes, and escapes every weekend to the mountains to get high off her ass, convince herself she’s different than her bleach-blonde sisters, and sleep under the stars.
The man is me. I first hear about the women when they go into the hills and, to the best of the newscasters’ knowledge, disappear.
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It takes the first woman a week to return to society. She doesn’t expect her edible to hit so quickly and she certainly doesn’t expect Libby to be walking through the grass just one swerve-length away from the road at night, so she’s trapped in a horrible predicament when Libby slams into her hood–people will believe she’s a bad person if she lets anyone learn what she’s done, but she’s a good person so she can’t just leave Libby there. And so she tends to Libby’s wounds with her own hands, drives Libby to the safety of her family’s trailer deep in the highlands, and scrubs every speck of Libby’s blood from the inside of her car after leaving Libby securely locked away. The pearl-clutching media mocks the first woman for going into the hills without a spare tire or satellite phone, as a woman alone, what was Juliya thinking?, but then it leaves her to the privacy of her perfect life to bewail Libby’s undoubtedly tragic fate.
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Libby does not like being imprisoned in a trailer, no matter how many times Juliya repeats reassurances her that she’ll live out her natural life in peace and serenity. She screams (no one can hear) and kicks the twice-locked and heavily barricaded door (it doesn’t budge) and punches the plastic windows (the shattered plastic imbeds itself in her wrists and the shreds remaining in the frame tear her tendons). The first time she hurts herself trying to escape, she hates Juliya so much that she doesn’t even notice how strong and gentle Juliya’s hands are as she binds her wounds, how worried Juliya sounds as she repairs the windows, re-sets the alarm system, and asks Libby if there’s anything she needs (she needs Juliya to die, you flaming cunt).
But on the seventh disastrously failed escape, she lies on the trailer’s bed with her broken wrist tucked to her chest and crushed fingers weeping blood, and she feels the serotonin bloom of Juliya’s hand on hers before Juliya even turns away from the counter with gauze in her hands.
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Now, remember, this isn’t a love story. Libby and Juliya are both straight, anyway.
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“Why don’t you kill me?” Libby asks one day as Juliya sinks into the bedding beside her, reaching for her newest wound. During the first half year, she was so afraid of Juliya that she’d hide when Juliya visited, even if Juliya was just dropping off food. “I keep escaping. Why don’t you punish me? Threaten to kill me?”
Juliya grimaces, her hand pulling away from Libby’s, and Libby presses her wrist forward to close the distance. “I’m a good person,” she says. “I don’t kill people.” And so Libby, not fully satisfied, lays back and lets Juliya take care of her. (I ask her now what answer she wanted, and she admits that she wanted Juliya to say she’d never want to hurt her.) When she’s done and asks Libby if there’s anything she needs, Libby asks Juliya to teach her to knit. The next day, Juliya drops off a pile of acrylic yarn and some knitting guides before running off to volunteer at her daughter’s dance recital.
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Libby is so busy telling me about the moments Juliya was in the trailer that she doesn't tell me about the eternity she wasn't. It's not a big trailer, with only a 5x5 space for exercising, a cramped kitchenette, and a double bed indented on one side. Every inch of wall has been painted with what I think are supposed to be fantasy and sci-fi scenes; piles of assorted dog-eared thrift store books clutter each available surface. The windows are shuttered, except for one, which stares into a patch of woods too close to the trailer for most animals to bother with. I wonder how long Libby spent staring at the trees, scanning for movement like a housecat. I wonder when she gave up even trying to scream for help.
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There’s a few nooks and crannies that are painted more intricately than the rest, scenes layered over scenes. These were Libby’s hiding places. She hid when Juliya visited, shaking as she imagined Juliya looking for her. She hid when she thought Juliya might visit, heart pounding as she thought of Juliya grabbing her. She hid when she simply imagined Juliya visiting, crying as she imagined Juliya calling her name. I ask her when the last time she hid was; she says, “four days ago.”
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I don't truly think Juliya is a monster until Libby shows me the trailer’s one newspaper. "Missing UWSP student's parents bury empty coffin: "it's time to let our baby go." Libby says Juliya only gave it to her to reassure her that her parents weren't suffering, a year ago when her disappearance was six months fresh. She says that Juliya gave her a hug. She says that, as she cried herself to sleep that night, she hoped her sobs would be loud enough to draw Juliya in on a line of concern.
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According to Libby, Juliya originally brings Libby clothes, more clothes than one woman who never sees the sun needs, but she gradually stops as Libby fills her closet with knit dresses. One night, when Juliya drops off a new load of food and yarn, Libby gifts her a shawl. It’s beautiful, the culmination of months of work. Juliya thanks her and admires the stitchwork, and Libby’s face shines in the dim lantern-light of the trailer. But then Juliya tries to leave.
“Please,” Libby blurts, reaching out to grab Juliya’s wrist. Juliya jumps. “I…can I go outside? Just once.”
Juliya grimaces and slowly nods. She ties Libby’s wrist to her own, and when they step into the cool night air, Libby doesn’t try to escape. She just collapses onto the dew-specked grass, dragging Juliya with her, and drops her head onto her captor’s shoulder under the light of a thousand stars.
“What –” Juliya begins.
Libby whispers in a voice like a crumbling bridge swaying over a distant river, “Please. Stay with me.”
And so Juliya, good woman that she is, spends the night sitting under the stars with her captive. In the morning, Libby showers her with more knit gifts, and Juliya pries herself away without daring to turn her shellshocked face to Libby.
“How long ago was this?” I ask, letting Libby wrap her hand in mine.
“Three days.”
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Soon, too soon, Libby runs out of things to say. “So…why are you here?”
I shrug. It sounds dumb, compared to her story. “Juliya pointed a gun at me when I went to pick up my kid sister from her yoga class yesterday, and she brought me here.”
“Did she hit you, too? She says she doesn't get high anymore”
“No, I didn't witness anything. She just snatched me when my guard was down. My fault, really; I didn’t think Ms. Jefferson was someone to fear.”
“I’m not sure she is,” Libby says. “She never hurt me. I think she – I think she worries about me.”
“I’m sure she does.” It’s not a lie. “But…Libby, you know your feelings for her…they’re not healthy. You know that, right? She’s your captor; she can’t…she shouldn’t care for you. Not like that. This is a crime scene, not a love story.”
“I know,” Libby whispers. Tears on her cheeks glitter in the light filtering through the single unboarded window. “It’s just…I…I’m sorry, I know I’m dumb–”
“You’re not dumb.” I squeeze her hand. “But if she’s really the good person she claims to be, she’ll know this is unhealthy for you, Libby.”
She sighs and rests her head on my shoulder, and suddenly, I’m Juliya sitting under those stars, and I only now realize how heavy her head is when she’s too sad for her own fragile body. “I know,” she whispers again. “Maybe that’s why she kidnapped you, too.”
And I’m sure that soon, the weight of what’s been taken from me will crash down on me and sweep me away like they’ve swept away most of the girl besides me. But for the moment, I just wrap an arm around Libby, whisper, “I guess Juliya cared about you, after all,” and let her have her sad, beautiful smile.
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Miss. Wisconsin didn't wait for her applause (not that there was much) and quietly walked off-stage. "Jesus, who hurt her?" the oldest producer muttered.
The youngest producer had grown strangely silent during the story. "Well, we all need love," she said, with more introspection than the intern was expecting. The two other producers shared a look between themselves.
"Well, she went over time--" the middle producer began.
"I don't care," said the youngest. "We're keeping that one." The middle producer opened his mouth to rebuke her, but the intern brushed his hand and shook her head, and even he was smart enough to stay quiet.