Chapter Thirty-Four
It was dark when Marianne rolled out of bed, her feet touching the icy wooden floors of the bedroom. The air was cold, the mugginess after the storm lifted in the wee hours of the morning, and Marianne pulled the covers off her legs and all warmth evaporated from her body. She cracked her knuckles, then glanced over her shoulder to where Owen was sleeping soundly like a rock on the other half of the bed – his bare back was to her, and she resisted the burning urge in her fingers to touch him. She stood, took in the presence of the room, and a wave of nausea hit her gut.
Today was the day.
She engrained the vision of him lying in bed half naked in her mind, determined to remember it in fear of forgetting. She swallowed a dry lump in the back of her throat, her face caked with salty tears and her eyes sore from sobbing her way through the night – what little sleep she'd gotten was sapped from her body as if energy for the rest of the world. Turning from him, she rubbed her eyes and wondered about her glasses, which she'd left in the bathroom with her duffle.
Closing the door quietly, she padded into the bathroom and closed the door, flicking on the lights. Showering would wake Owen, so she voted against it and instead rummaged through her bag for some clothes, deodorant, and some perfume. Shedding her clothes, she noticed the bandage on her thigh Owen had situated and found it was stained with blood. Muttering under her breath, she rummaged around the bathroom, finding nothing; until she resolved to look in the mirror above the sink. Opening it carefully, she was surprised.
It was clean and organized – but oddly stocked. In place of a normal toothbrush and toothpaste and other daily customs were bandages, peroxide and a variety of other wound-care necessities. A needle and threat were also there, along with – oddly enough – 3.0 nylon, used to stitch up wounds, and gauze. Her brow furrowed uncharacteristically, reasoning this was some strange form of Navy PTSD, and grabbed the gauze and antiseptic.
She redressed the wound, which was still open and slightly oozy, but not bad enough to be concerned. Discarding the old materials, she dressed in a black v-neck t-shirt, a pair of khaki shorts that went mid-thigh and rubbed the dressing, and a pair of hiking boots. From the front pocket she retrieved a white bandanna, and once piling her hair into a mound of curls with tendrils in every direction, she folded the bandanna into a wrap and tied it around her head, knotting it firmly in place. Her curls spilled over it as if she were Rambo.
Marianne repacked her duffle and slung it over her shoulder, a chill running down her arm. Dropping it in the kitchen, she made her way back to the bedroom to grab her cell phone, and once inside she found Owen's blinking a notification – glancing at him and then the nightstand, she pocketed her own and grabbed his. Two messages –both from Dr. Bartlett:
Delta's pulled through the night – she's a trooper, and already strengthening. 4:04AM.
Results are back – Marianne was right. 4:36AM.
Frowning, she checked the time – ten to six. She had hardly any time before daylight, and she needed to get her essentials from her bungalow and, she wanted to say goodbye to Barry, Sophie, and the raptors, determined that Masrani and Claire would keep true to their word and get her and Alan off this island before the day was over. The thoughts of a trip with Nick and Ian and Alan made her heart drop at least six stories.
Alan. He had been right! All his research had been right! A giddiness darted into her spirit and briefly replaced all grief and sorrow and tragedy that had nested itself in her gut. A smile crept onto her lips as she replaced the phone, keeping the messages for Owen to read himself. She could still fight this, back in the States, once she had everything Barry had faxed over. She could still fight InGen's corporate head in San Diego. She could still get them to pull out with Hoskins and make sure her girls were safe from others and others were safe from them.
Marianne stopped as her eyes connected with Owen on the bedside, her hand still hovering over his phone. She hated sneaking around the dark, but she had no alternative: way too much to do before sunrise. It hit her then, in her guts, and spiked up to her heart: her girls. She'd never laid claim to ownership of them before – it had only been four weeks.
A lot can happen in four weeks, she told herself. A lot could – like Owen. Her job. All these secrets and heretics of the company. Everything could happen – everything could crumble and yet still build slowly around her life. Her mouth parched as she let her eyes wander over Owen's body, taking in the intricate details, warmth pooling in her belly. Images conjured up in her mind that she knew any mother would grimace at but she couldn't help it.
Marianne smiled softly in the darkness, hunkered down next to his sleeping form, and rested a hand against his face tenderly, her touch almost an airbrush. His freshly shaven face was already stubbling, and he still smelled terrifically of peppermint and earth. Something twisted in her chest and she let her hand fall.
"I'll see ya later, chief." Her voice was almost dead against the night, and she stood, dipped to kiss his forehead gently, and hustled towards the door soundlessly. She closed it into place, checked the house for anything she may have left, and headed outside. Tossing the bag into the Camaro, she found the keys in the ignition where Owen had left them the night before. Her messenger bag was half open in the backseat, and she reached for it – taking her knife, she situated it around her unwounded thigh and made sure the Beretta was out of sight on her waist. Her hand brushed alongside the picture frame, and she took it out of the bag. A half smile played on her lips before a pang of hurt stabbed through her chest. She undid the frame, took out the picture, and folded it, placing it inside her pocket by her phone.
She climbed into the seat, turned the key forward past accessory, and pressed the brake. She checked behind the car, made sure her pathway was clear, and slipped the Camaro into neutral; scrambling out as it began slightly rolling backwards. Moving to the front of the car, Marianne pushed hard and low, her boots sliding in the mud, and the car moved backwards until she was far enough away fro the bungalow to be safe. Slipping inside, she turned the key over and the muscle car roared to life – without hesitation, she put it in drive, looked to the bungalow one more time, and turned the wheel. Pressing the gas, she roared away from the place, leaving it in her rearview.
She packed for a good hour, all the essentials she'd need with her when she left this afternoon. The rest of her things, she'd assumed, would be shipped to her. Her phone vibrated halfway through loading her car, and she found a text from Alan – asking her if she was okay. She cleared and ignored it, packing the Camaro and doing a once-over before she left the bungalow.
It was quarter to six when she arrived at the paddock. Light was beginning to breach the horizon in a beautiful display of colors and dimness, tickling the tops of the trees with promise. The air was cool still, and Marianne had grabbed a longsleeved flannel from her closet and rolled the sleeves mid-elbow before she'd left. The Jeep she'd driven Alan, Malcolm, and Nick in was gone; as was the truck, so she'd assumed maintenance and the garage had come for them already.
Marianne parked and sat in the quietness. She watched the paddock, still against the morning, wondering how she was going to leave this place behind. In four weeks this had become her home – the next level of her life, the next step. This, oddly enough, had become her career: her work devotion was here and her passion was in that cage. She'd only bonded with the raptors briefly, but they were a part of her – her healthy and hearty respect for them had twisted and transpired into a strange devotion and love for them, as if they were pets.
Popping open the door, she stepped out of the Camaro and rounded the paddock, her feet sliding in the mud. The coolness of the air chilled her legs, but she more paid attention to the heavy smell of rain and jungle, the morning calls of birds and shrieking of monkeys erupting on the air. A breeze tickled the tendrils of hair about her face, and she came to the main entrance gate to the paddock. She stopped, laced her fingers through the caging, and listened. Silence. Pure silence from the inner paddock.
Instantly a barrage of memories came rushing back to her – memories of her first day four weeks ago came to mind: the interview, the fall – the pig. Owen's brash reaction. Her "interview". The fact that she'd never felt a man's muscles before until rolling with him in the dirt – the fact that she'd never been more terrified than staring such animals in the face behind him. Or, the fact that she'd never met someone so crazy.
She brushed aside some curl and turned from the main entrance, stuffing her hands into her pockets until she came to the observation room where Delta was recovering. She found tire tracks, but no vehicles, and assumed that Dr. Bartlett had called it a night and had gone home.
Her card no longer worked for scanning, but she pinned in Owen's number (which she had memorized during her time with him) and it opened. After fumbling around the darkness a few minutes, she managed the lights and the room illuminated, the cage Delta was contained in illuminated by monitors – now silenced. Stuffing her hands into her pockets, she stopped at the cage and found it propped open. She slipped inside, found the wheeling chair empty beside Delta's table, and noticed the animal was awake.
Instantly, Delta's body bristled and she began snorting furiously, rage keeping her alive and alert. Marianne found the chart as she walked by the table, and found that Dr. Bartlett had made good progress notes – a fresh bandage had been applied earlier that morning. Now it was only slightly stained with blood, which was a good sign. Marianne also noticed the narcotics drip had been reduced according to the chart, and she replaced it on the counter. Delta was huffing and squirming on the table, her body racked with tense trembles and vibrations, her breath laced with venomous hisses and screeches.
The panic in the atmosphere broke Marianne – would these girls ever stop being so untrustworthy? Owen had told her they hardly even trusted him most days, and that it was to be expected with wild animals – foxes, he'd said, were still untamed; despite 7 or so generations of domesticity. The wildness in them was still rampant, and it was still rooted deep within their veins and instincts. They were programmed that way, created that way he'd said. Marianne had wondered if that wildness would ever subside and if these animals would be able to trust them.
She seated herself on the chair and wheeled herself towards the table, her heels squeaking on the linoleum floor. Delta went rigid, then thrashed under her restraints, the monitors showing elevated heart rates and beeping in alarm. The blaring red on the bandage told Marianne poor Delta should be incapacitated, but the steady amber eyes focused dead-center on her reminded Marianne that Delta was in this to survive – wounded or not. She was a threat to the wouned animal and she would react in instinctual, defensive manners.
Marianne locked her stare with Delta, stopping just beside the table. It was cold and unforgiving, just like the look in Delta's eye, but Marianne ignored it. She became vulnerable to her in that moment, softening her own stare and gently raising a hand to rest on Delta's head. She panicked, shrieked, and Marianne pulled back only slightly, wincing. The monitor went ballistic, and Marianne reached to switch off the alarm.
Once she had, the room was quiet save for their breathing. The smell of animal, jungle, blood and bleach swirled together in a haze around Marianne's senses, but she didn't mind. She focused her eyes on Delta and held her stare for a long few minutes, unwilling to give in and back down. She blinked, replaced her hand again, and whispered.
"Shh, Delta honey," her tone was endearing and soft, not it's usual raspy pitch. She swallowed thickly, leaning toward the animal, and Delta's mouth parted and she let out a guttural hiss in protest. Marianne didn't falter and lowered her forehead to Delta's snout, which was restrained. "It's just me. Marianne. You remember me."
Her trained amber eye was as focused as it could be, she reasoned. She touched her forehead to Delta's skin and felt its warmth, and breathed in the scent of reptile and jungle, mixed with dead flesh and medicine. Delta bristled rigidly again under her touch, but Marianne just cooed her softly. "It's okay, Delta. I won't hurt you." A tear rolled out of Marianne's cheek and a sob hithed in her throat, but she choked it down. Crying would do nothing but upset Delta and she didn't need that.
They sat there for a long time, probably around ten minutes before Marianne felt the raptor relax. The quietness and dimness of the cage was lulling, and Marianne was tempted to drift to sleep, but knew it would be an impossibility. Delta let out a snort and Marianne raised her head to look at the monitor – it wasn't radically out of control and protesting, just lowering and showing improved heart rates and pulses and oxygen intake. Leveling readings.
Surprised, Marianne looked to Delta and found that the raptor was no longer staring terrified at her – she wasn't even focused anymore; her eyes looking about and only focusing on Marianne when she reached out to touch her again, but it wasn't an alarmed or terrified look, no. It was a normal look, one that she would've given Barry or Owen.
Which surprised Marianne. In four weeks she'd hoped to accomplish something with these raptors, but in reality Owen had told her it was unlikely. It took years to get them on board with humans and to the point of even being in close proximity. The barrier would be present for years, Owen said. Marianne knew they barely trusted him or knew what he was to them in how many years, much less begin to trust her. Marianne had looked forward to those years of bonding and imprinting, but they'd come crashing down in a realistic wave of regret and fact:
She had minutes, not years.
Marianne ran her fingertips along Delta's skin, her eyes wandering over the animal and taking in her form and presence. She'd never touched one of the girls before, and she doubted she'd ever lay hands on another dinosaur again. Her heart picked up the pace and her fingertips began to tingle, her making a mental note to remember this feeling and store it away for another time and another place. She wanted to remember this forever – she wanted to remember Delta and what she felt like and looked like and sounded like and was. Another tear sneaked down her cheek behind her glasses and stained the collar of the flannel shirt. Her pocket vibrated. Pulling out her phone, she looked down at the text message window:
Alan: Let's talk.
Her stomach dropped. She didn't want to talk to Alan, or Owen, or anyone. In all reality she wanted to hide under a rock and stay there in the dank darkness, not having to face the world. She didn't want Claire and Wu to escort her off this island - she didn't want to see the shame in everyone's eyes. Her heart rolled over at the thought of spectator's and employee's pointing and whispering - she didn't want to hear Alan's "I told you so's" or Malcolm's jibes of encouragement, or Nick's remarks. She didn't want to go back to Montana and face everyone she'd so confidently said goodbye to and waved away.
She didn't want to go back home. This was her home; with Owen and the raptors and Barry and Sophie. The research and the exhilaration of new life and what the day might bring as it came and went. The awe she felt everytime she looked at one of the animals. The way her stomach fluttered with butterflies around Owen, the way her body went hot when he touched her.
This. This was her home.
Marianne steadily stood, bend cautiously, and planted a kiss on Delta's nose. The animal bristled by her sudden change of movement, but didn't move when Marianne stroked her head tenderly. She turned her face to look into Delta's eyes and focused there a moment before she closed her eyes and sniffled, "Remember me, alright?" She kissed the animal's snout again quickly, "Remember me. Please. Because I'm not going to forget you."
With a sniffle and a pat, Marianne turned from Delta and slowly left the cage and then the observation room. She only stopped in the doorway of the hangar to look back on the cage and bat away tears with her lashes.
And as she left the paddock, Marianne Randal knew she was leaving a part of herself with it.