All That She Saw

by Alana Terry

  I can’t do it. Can’t leave him here like this. I think I hear him call my name. “Jennifer.” Then I think about the pictures I saw. I think about Henry’s dead daughter, about how he’s kept me prisoner in his basement. I remember the vaguest notion of a mother and father who loved me once upon a time, and I realize I want to see them again.

  I desperately want to see them again.

  I know they’re out there. And I know I don’t belong trapped in a basement for the rest of my life.

  I have no idea how long I’ve been walking. It feels like a lifetime. The houses are set back in the woods. All I see are driveways. One road turns to another. I can’t keep the directions straight. I might be walking in circles for all I can tell. I think it must have been an hour, maybe more. Maybe whole days have passed since I ran away from Henry, since I abandoned him alone in that basement to die.

  The shadows are long, the evening chilly when I spot a woman walking her dog. My eyes want to spill over with tears. How long has it been since I’ve seen another human being? Seen an animal of any kind?

  My legs threaten to collapse beneath me the moment she comes into view. I wave my arms. She raises her hand but then stops.

  “Help,” I call out, certain now that my legs can’t carry me another step.

  She jogs toward me. I don’t know if it’s my stress or my fear or my physical weakness, but I’m only half conscious when her dog comes up, sniffs me once curiously, then licks my face with a warm tongue.

  His kiss makes me start to sob.

  The woman kneels down. I can’t understand the questions she’s asking me, but I hear the worry in her voice.

  “I need help,” I tell her.

  “What’s your name?” she asks.

  I nearly answer “Jennifer” before I remember. That’s not me anymore. It never was me. “My name is Anastasia,” I answer. “Anastasia Reynolds. I want to go home.”

  CHAPTER 20

  “Anastasia,” my husband snaps.

  I gasp in a desperate breath of air. “Russel?” My voice is hoarse. Like I’ve just been strangled and my windpipe has been bruised.

  “Anastasia.” He repeats my name. It sounds strange coming from him for some reason. “Are you all right?”

  The children are looking at me with fearful expressions, even the older ones. I glance around, half expecting to find myself facing a very alive Henry or locked in his basement again.

  But that’s not what I see. I’m in the airport. My husband and children — my family — are here staring at me worriedly. Two others, an official-looking man and woman, are standing far too close, asking me questions, feeling my wrists, talking to each other in hushed tones.

  “I’m all right,” I tell them. I don’t know if they’re EMTs or airport workers or what, but I can’t breathe when they’re crowding me like this. “I’m all right,” I repeat. I’m not sure who I’m most trying to convince, but I do know that none of them believe me.

  It’s okay. I don’t even believe myself.

  “We should get you to a doctor or something,” Russel says. “Is there someone who can give her a checkup?” he asks.

  I don’t hear the woman’s response. I’m too busy reminding myself that I’m here. I’m alive. I’m safe.

  More strangers approach. An old lady asks if Russel needs help watching the kids. My head is spinning, my whole body clammy.

  “I think she’s coming down with something,” Russel tells the concerned onlookers.

  I convince my husband in no uncertain terms that I will not be pushed through the airport in a wheelchair. He gives the gate attendants what must be his dozenth apology, then he gathers the children from where they’ve been seated, watching me fall apart.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Andrew asks.

  “Mom’s just a little tired,” he says, “that’s all.” Russel looks over at me, his eyes full of concern. Of fear. Of love.

  I shouldn’t have kept this from him for so long. I had no reason not to tell him before. Do I have the courage now to make things right? Or will that only make everything so much worse?

  Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I’m certain that’s the question he’ll ask when he learns the truth. And then, even once I come clean, how will he believe anything else I tell him from now on? He wouldn’t trust me. I wouldn’t trust me if I were in his shoes.

  The Bible says to tell the truth, right? But it also says that we need to work hard to make our marriages last. So what am I supposed to do?

  We’re early enough into the relationship. There may be cause for an annulment. I’ve looked it up. We were both in our right minds getting married. Neither of us were coerced or anything like that. But the state will annul a marriage in the case of fraud. Does lying about my past count as fraud? What about the fact that I never told Russel about my infertility? I was pregnant when I ran away from Henry’s. Neither of us knew it at the time. I miscarried the week after my rescue. My mother insists it was the shock. My father believed it was a merciful act of God. Either way, the resulting hemorrhaging and complications have left me unable to bear children.

  I was too riddled with guilt over having left Henry to die that I hardly thought about the other life I lost. Never mourned the inability to ever conceive again.

  I tried telling the policemen where Henry’s house was, but I’d been walking for so long before I found help. I couldn’t retrace my steps, no matter how hard I tried.

  I told them he was sick. I told them he was old, he was weak, he was having a heart attack or something. I told them I shouldn’t have left him all alone. They told me I’d done the right thing, the brave thing, the only thing I could have done to get myself out of a terrible situation.

  I still have nightmares that Henry’s dying in that basement, begging me for help, pleading with me to save his life.

  A week and a half later, the police called my parents to let them know. A man had been discovered dead in his home. The basement was just as I described.

  Henry was gone. My mother was ecstatic. My father furious that my captor would never stand trial.

  “God himself’ll judge that monster,” he’d say. “It’s the most we can hope for now.”

  I did what I could to try to adjust to life back home. Mom and Dad had left my room exactly as it had been, but the mattress was too lumpy, the pillow too soft. I woke up every night burning up from the heat. All that winter my parents kept the thermostat set at 62.

  I remember that season after my escape like I remember watching documentaries in history class. I study them clinically, wonder if the final bullet that killed my parents’ marriage was the stress of my abduction or the turmoil they experienced when they realized the carefree child they lost was gone forever, dead and buried in Henry’s basement.

  I didn’t cry, didn’t lash out. Mom was worried for me, begged me to open up and tell her what was wrong. I didn’t want to talk.

  I just wanted to forget.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Feeling better now?” my husband asks me.

  I try in vain to offer him a smile. “Yeah. I think you’re right. I must be coming down with something.”

  I’ve lost track of how long we’ve been here. At least an hour, maybe more. After I calmed down, it took three different agents to help us locate our bags. Now we’re waiting near some back office for the airport workers to grab our luggage and wheel it out to us. I forget how many times I’ve apologized to Russel for ruining his vacation.

  “You and the kids should go on without me,” I insist, but of course he won’t leave me.

  He’s already called his parents. I have no idea what he told them, nor do I want to. I just want to go home. Get out of here. I feel like every pair of eyes is staring at me.

  What was it about that man on the airplane that got me so freaked out? The Hawaiian shirt? The way the girl he was with looked so uncomfortable?

  I should tell someone. Maybe.
r />   But tell them what?

  Hey, there was this weirdo on the plane traveling with a teen girl and … I don’t know. I just didn’t like the way he looked?

  It’s ridiculous. Just like it’s ridiculous for me to even think about telling Russel about why I started to panic. I know my husband. If he knew about Henry, he’d just pity me and worry about me, and I’d feel even more suffocated under his loving care. That’s exactly what happened after I escaped Henry’s basement and tried to live back home.

  I try to remember how long it’s been since I called my mom, but I can’t. Her birthday was three months ago, but I know I missed it.

  “Mommy?” Annie grabs my hand. “I need to go potty.”

  I’m thankful for something to do. Something that only I can do. I remind myself that I’m an adult. I’m the responsible one. I’m probably just coming down with the flu or something like that. Russel already asked me after we got off the plane if I thought I was pregnant. I wish my outburst could be chalked up to some kind of hormonal imbalance.

  I should be so lucky.

  I tell Russel I’m taking Annie to the bathroom, and while I wait outside her stall, I have a little time to think. Take a few deep breaths, try to compose myself. I’m not in any danger. Nobody is trying to capture me or force me to wear someone else’s clothes and pretend to be their murdered daughter.

  I’m safe. I’m here with my family. I’m a grown woman, a wife, a survivor.

  Nothing can hurt me here.

  Annie starts humming a song to herself, one clue out of many that she’s going to take her sweet and precious time. The bathroom isn’t crowded, and I pace the length of the stalls. Anything to get my mind off that airplane, that teen girl I saw. The one with scared, haunted eyes.

  Suddenly I’m dizzy. I know my mind’s about to send me right back to Henry’s basement. I’ve got to get control of myself.

  My breath comes in choppy spurts. “I’m going to be in the stall right next to you,” I tell Annie, and I shut the door behind me. Something about the enclosed space makes me feel more at ease. Less exposed.

  There’s a small poster taped above the toilet paper.

  It is estimated that at least twenty thousand minors are trafficked in the United States every year.

  My stomach flips once. Twice. I press my palm against my abdomen to try to stop the sloshing.

  Questions you can ask yourself if you see something suspicious: Does the potential victim in question act confused, submissive, or afraid?

  “I can’t reach the toilet paper,” Annie calls to me. I manage to find the voice to tell her I need a minute.

  Do they avoid eye contact?

  The image of that girl on the plane flashes again in my mind. I tell myself I’m overreacting. I’m projecting my own experience and trauma onto a situation that’s none of my business.

  Is the potential victim wearing appropriate attire?

  It’s this question that literally sucks the breath out of my lungs.

  “Mommy!” Annie whines.

  “Just a minute.” I need to think. Was that what finally gave it away? A T-shirt and shorts? There was no crime in dressing inappropriately for the season.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, compose my breathing as best as I can, then unlock the door. I help Annie finish and wash up, and I hold her hand as we make our way back to her father. Russel’s standing with our luggage. I can’t tell if he looks tired or annoyed or concerned. I’m dizzy. My mind can hardly focus on anything.

  “There’s a problem,” I tell him as soon as I’m at his side. “I need to talk to someone from security.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Jennifer stared at her father. Was he seriously kicking her out of the truck this late at night?

  “Get out,” he growled again and made a lunge toward her.

  She jumped onto the curb, afraid her father would come after her, afraid he’d slap her right then and there for sneaking out, for talking back, for getting angry and hitting him.

  What she didn’t expect was for him to slam the Chevy door and drive off.

  She stood there on the sidewalk in front of the school, shivering in the cold, waiting for the red glow of his taillights.

  Dad sped through a stop sign and disappeared from view.

  Jennifer hugged herself to ward off the cold and waited. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Had he already gone home?

  When she was finally convinced that he wasn’t returning for her, she felt into her pockets for change. She didn’t have any coins left, and even if she did, she didn’t know who she should call. Shawna? Kylee?

  She had Darren’s number memorized. Even though she’d never called him before, she’d spent hours staring at his last name in the phone book, wondering if one day she’d ever have the courage to give him a ring.

  It couldn’t be tonight, though. What she had to ask herself was whose parents would be the most likely to be awake past midnight. That and who would be least likely to get upset if Jennifer woke them up.

  She could walk home, but it was totally dark out. Dark and freezing. She wished Darren were here with her. She couldn’t believe that such a short time ago she was sitting next to him on Kylee’s couch, their legs touching. He’d kissed her, right? What if he’d only been trying to give her a hug and his lips accidentally touched hers? Did that still count?

  What if he already regretted spending time with her?

  What if he and Lisa were together right now?

  She couldn’t think like this. It was late, but Kylee must still be awake. Jennifer could call her or just walk over to her place. She could walk to Kylee’s and spend the night there. Give her dad time to sleep it off. In the morning, he wouldn’t be so upset.

  She still couldn’t believe he’d driven off like that. For a split second, Jennifer was sickened by a terrifying thought. What if her dad had gotten into a car accident? What if he’d only been planning to scare her, to teach her a lesson, and he had a heart attack behind the wheel or something? Just last week, the doctor had told him he needed to exercise more and lose weight. The tiny aspirin pill he took once a day wasn’t enough to keep his heart healthy as he got older.

  Was it possible something had happened to her dad? She had to find out.

  She took a step off the curb then saw headlights coming down from the school parking lot. Good. Her dad really had just meant to scare her. He probably drove around the neighborhood until he figured she was adequately spooked, then drove through the football field entrance and was coming back now to pick her up.

  He’d apologize when she got into the truck, but she wasn’t going to let him get off so easily. What had he been thinking?

  The car slowed down, but it wasn’t until it was just a few feet away from the curb when Jennifer realized it wasn’t her father after all.

  “Jennifer Harris? Is that you? What in the world are you doing out here? Get in the car.”

  He leaned over to open the passenger door. Jennifer hadn’t realized until now how much she’d been shivering.

  She gave him a little smile, hoping he wouldn’t ask too many questions. What would she tell him to explain how she ended up out here in the cold?

  He locked the doors as she was buckling up. “You must be freezing.” His voice was full of worry. He sounded so concerned for her safety, Jennifer thought she might start crying.

  “Let me turn up the heat,” he said, and soon the hot air was blowing on her at full blast.

  “First question for you,” he said when Jennifer’s teeth finally stopped chattering. “Are you safe?”

  She nodded.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  He let out a relieved sigh. “That’s all I wanted to know. Now, tell me where you need to go. Let’s get you out of this cold.”

  CHAPTER 23

  I expect Russel to ask me more questions, to demand to know everything that’s going on. Maybe he’s resigned to
the fact that his new wife is a nutcase. Maybe he is just trying to do whatever he can do to appease me.

  “Are you sure this girl was in trouble?” is all he asks.

  I shake my head. “I can’t say. It’s just, the guy she was with gave me a really bad feeling …”

  I don’t know how else to respond. I’m still surprised that Russel hasn’t told me I’m overreacting, that after the scene I’ve already made on the plane there’s no need to conjure up an encore performance here.

  Let’s just take our bags and go home. That’s what I want him to say. Instead, he stops someone wearing an airlines nametag. “Excuse me, is there someone from security I can speak to?”

  For the next fifteen minutes, my face burns hot as I sit behind a desk answering a stranger’s questions.

  “Did you have any interaction with the passenger in question?” “Did the girl you noticed say anything to you or try to signal you in any way?” “Did you overhear any conversation between this girl and the man she was traveling with?”

  Now that I’m getting interrogated about two individuals I’ve never met in my life, I realize what a mistake I made insisting on speaking to security. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve told this officer that I was just overreacting on the plane. It’s nothing. I’m sorry for wasting his time.

  Russel and the kids are waiting for me outside the cramped office. I can only imagine what’s running through my husband’s brain right now. Is he wondering what his parents think of me? Is he ashamed of my outburst on the plane? Maybe he’s wondering how to tell his kids that their new stepmom is certifiably insane.

  I’m shaking by the time we’re done. The officer did a good job listening to my concerns, asked all the right questions. The problem is I don’t have any actual evidence. Nothing tangible to go on but the fact that a girl was wearing shorts and a T-shirt in the winter. But what does that prove? Maybe her next stop after Detroit was Hawaii for all I know.