The Microwave

I placed my hand on the sliding door of the bathroom I had been occupying for the past thirty minutes. With a towel wrapped securely around me, I closed my eyes and listened. I have become an excellent listener. I wasn’t used to having a bathroom door. The door itself brought me anxiety. I made a point of ensuring all three locks on the front door were locked before taking a shower. This apartment only came with one deadbolt lock. I had two more locks installed before moving in. Still, a part of me feared the unknown. That's why I've learned to listen. 

I unlocked the flimsy latch and quickly slid the door open. I stepped out of the bathroom and into my newly carpeted bedroom. I noticed that the apartment had in-floor heating as I stood motionless, taking in every inch of my bedroom before unrobing and dressing for the day. It took me twice as long to accomplish anything in my apartment as I was still trying to become accustomed to this new space. 

For years I dreamed of having a new space, to have any space that I could call my own. I had to believe I would. Faith was all I had for so long, it’s what kept me alive. That and the ability to listen carefully. This space wasn’t ideal, but I was determined to make it ideal. I became adept at making the best of what I was given, a mindset that truly promoted my survival. 

I made tea and curled up on a love seat that didn’t belong to me. I didn’t buy it, but I am glad someone did. All the furniture in my open space living room were donated and each piece matched each other. I could appreciate the effort someone put in to making me feel at home, and each piece of furniture provided comfort beyond comprehension. It didn’t matter where I sat in my living room, I physically felt comfortable. This, and so many other tender mercies in my life these past two weeks have not gone unnoticed.

This was only my second day in my apartment, and as my body was settling into being here, my mind could not rest. I was still on full alert. I would catch myself staring at the door with its three locks, waiting for someone to try to open it. Expecting someone to force their way in. No, it wasn’t just someone, it was him. I was expecting him to find me again. He said he would. Logically I knew he couldn’t, but when nightmares become reality for so long I learned to expect the worst and prepare for it.

My phone was still sitting on the kitchen counter, exactly where I left it when I first arrived here yesterday afternoon. To be honest, I didn’t even know what to do with it. I left it plugged into the wall as I had been instructed to do. I watched confused and unsure as it’s screen started to glow and then fade away from where I sat. Instinctively, I bolted toward the phone, trying not to spill my teas, as I tried my best to answer it. I had missed a call, whoever had called me had left a message, but I didn’t know how to retrieve it. Instead, I returned the phone call not knowing who I would be speaking with. 

“Nora, is this you?” The voice asked hesitantly on the other end.

“May I ask who is calling?” I replied just as hesitantly. 

“Janice West, I was told I would be able to reach Nora at this number.” The voice responded disheartened and a bit shook, “Peter! I think Constable Miller gave us the wrong number.”

Tears welled up in my eyes, knowing exactly who I was speaking to now. I gasped, trying to choke out a reply before my emotions took over. “Mom. Mom, it’s me.”

Uncontrollable sobbing started from both sides of the line. I haven’t seen my parents in what I have learned to be eleven years. It was impossible for me to track the time. My father took the phone and my sobbing became more intense.

“Nora, this is Dad. Constable Miller said he would be willing to bring us to you if you were up for it. We don’t want to rush you, but we have been waiting for so long-” his emotions got the better of him before he could finish his sentence. I have never heard my father cry.

“Yes, please. As soon as you can get here. How far away are you?”

“Oh sweetie, Constable Miller is on his way. We are staying at the Best Western by the airport, we flew in last night. We can be there in less than an hour. Nora, I can’t believe it. You sound so grown up. I am so sorry Pumpkin, I am so sorry.” he started to cry again.

“I love you Dad. I love you Mom,” was all I could say at this point. It was all I ever wanted to be able to say to them for so long.

“We love you so much, Pumpkin. Constable Miller is here. We need to go, but we will see you shortly.” My father choked back his tears and tried to collect himself. 

“I’ll be waiting.” I laughed through tears as the line went dead. I stood there with the phone to my ear, not wanting to say goodbye, but they were already gone. 

I was told I would be given this apartment for the time being. If I liked it or wanted to stay here permanently, that also could be arranged. Constable Miller told me yesterday night, after giving me a tour of my new apartment, that I needed to remain close as I would have to make more statements and witness in court. He didn’t have to say it, but I knew that meant I would have to see that man again. I had spent the past two weeks in hospitals, clinics, offices, stations, and vehicles. I was questioned, poked, prodded, examined, fed, and listened too. I still felt like a caged animal, but at least I felt safe now. 

After some time of getting lost in my thoughts on the kitchen floor with my phone loosely hanging in my hand, I pulled myself up and started to pace my living room with my now lukewarm peppermint tea. I experienced an array of feelings; I felt ecstatic to see my parents, but terrified to answer the door when they got here. I felt panicked and paranoid that this was his way of finding me again, but I reasoned out the probability of that happening. 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

That’s not possible, there is no way that could be my parents already. I just got off the phone with them. I didn’t buzz them in. Constable Miller promised me that no one could get into the apartment unless I buzzed them in. I stepped away from the door and put down my tea. Waiting in horror for whoever it was to go away or try to break in. 

“Hello, I’m your neighbour in twenty-six across the hall. I baked you some cookies.”

I approached the eye hole of the door and saw a young woman, holding a plate of cookies. I opened the locks quickly and slowly opened the door, but held on tightly in case I needed to retreat.

“Hi, I’m Cadence. I heard someone new moved in yesterday. I just wanted to welcome you to the complex and let you know that if you need anything, feel free to knock. Everyone on the second floor is great. Twenty-one is a cop and his dog, they’re never around during the day. Twenty-two is Mr. and Mrs. Andrews, they both work at the University. Twenty-three is Sarah and Linda, they’re sisters going to university. They usually carpool in the morning if you need a ride that way. Twenty-four is Walter, he’s a chef and works nights. He claims that he sleeps like the dead, so you don’t need to worry about waking him during the day. You’re twenty-five and I’m in twenty-six. I’m a writer, so I work from home. I will probably be your best bet if you need something in a pinch.”

 “I’m Nora. Thank you for the cookies.” I accepted and placed the plate inside my apartment quickly while keeping my eyes on my visitor. 

“Great to meet you, Nora, we are happy to have you. Like I said, if you need anything, I am usually always home.”

“What do you write?” I asked curiously.

“Fiction, mostly youth fantasy series. I have had a few series published and now my publisher is hounding me for more.” Cadence’s answered sincerely, but managed to remain humble. 

“I would love to read your books.” I confessed, remembering my love for books.

“Yeah?” Cadence ran back into her apartment and came storming back out with an arm full of books. “They are all yours. I have more copies than I need. I was afraid no one would buy them, so I bought ten copies of my books when I first got published. Turns out I didn’t need to. They sold themselves, thankfully.” 

“Thank you, I am sure I could pay you.” I offered, letting down my defences. 

“Nope, I was looking to donate these anyways. They are just taking up space here. Honestly, I prefer the Cursed Ocean series, but I’ll let you judge for yourself. Let me know what you think when you are done. And you won't insult me if you don't like any of them, so be honest. The critics hate my work, but the books keep selling off the shelves. So what do they really know anyways?”

“I am happy to hear that, congratulations.” I smiled, not knowing the last time I genuinely smiled with a stranger.

“So what’s your story?” Cadence asked.

“I don’t have one.” I lied on the spot.

“Of course you do, everyone has a story.”

I didn’t know what to say. Where would I start? Do I tell her that I was lured out of a mall at fifteen years old and kept hostage in a locked basement for eleven years? Do I tell her that I never thought I would see my family again and that every day I wasn’t sure if I would live or die? Would she believe me if I told her that I was never physically harmed or abused, but mentally destroyed? What would she say if I told her that I was merely a middle-aged man’s property to have and to look at, but never touched?

What would be the possibility that my story was covered on the local or national news and that Cadence would recognize my face or name as being the twenty-six-year-old who managed to escape her prison and the man who kept her hidden for almost half of her life? Would my story include the years of trauma and PTSD that I have been told I would live with for the rest of my life? How could I find the words to explain how I appear fully functioning, but I am not able to make a single decision or movement without fear that I will be taken again? 

How do I explain that heated flooring is amazing and how I wished the carpeted floor of his basement would have given off heat instead of coldness that chilled me to the core? How would she react if I told her that this has been the first day I have been able to move around a living space without having to wear socks? That I have the option of showering with the door closed, and how that terrifies me. How I have no idea how to use a smartphone because I have only learned of their existence as of a week ago when a psychologist pulled one out of her pocket to check the time. Or how badly I have missed having a microwave.

Instead, I offered a compromise. “I’m not quite ready to tell my story, but when I am I promise you that you will be the first to have it in full.”

“I am intrigued. I will hold you to that. It’s great to meet you… I’m sorry, I know you just said your name, but I forgot it.”

“Nora, my name is Nora.”