by Adams, S. C.
I have no choice. I settle onto the bed with the first book I pick up. It’s one I’ve already read, so I decide to read it again.
This is what my life will be until my parents decide I can be trusted. How long will that be?
I might be stuck in this room for the rest of my parents’ lives.
If I’m lucky, they’ll replenish my supply of books when I get through all of these, but I’m not holding my breath.
20
Sean
It’s been twenty-four hours since Maggie walked out of my apartment, and apart from a single apology text, she hasn’t been in contact with me again since then.
They say misery loves company, but that doesn’t work both ways. My parents are perfectly happy to be in New York City for their first visit. I’ve tried to put on a smile and show them around my home, but they see right through me.
Mother sighs for the hundredth time today. “Forget it,” she finally says in her shrill voice. “I’ve scheduled a boat tour of the Hudson for later today. I’m going to go on my own while you figure out how to make Sean into less of a dreadful human being.”
She means well, I’m sure.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” I tell her. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”
“You and I both know that isn’t true. Now, the two of you go find a pub and get sloshed while I enjoy the sights. It’s a clear day, and I want photos of the Statue of Liberty!”
Dad’s face is brighter than the city lights. “You mean, you’re going to let me get pissed with my son?”
My mum is far too polite to roll her eyes, but I think she’s straining her muscles to prevent it from happening without her consent. “You’re better off with him than with me. I can’t take your banter right now. Just be sure to cheer him up in time for dinner. I’ve made reservations at this incredible French restaurant. The ladies I meet for tea swore it was the place to be on a Saturday night in the city.”
I don’t have the heart to tell Mum that her white-haired friends are hardly the experts on New York City nightlife. If she really wanted the place to be, she’d go to one of the many nightclubs scattered throughout the city. What Mum’s friends meant is that the French place is where socialites and royalty dine on a Saturday night.
Pointing this out would lead to a fight I don’t want to have, though. She’s letting Dad and me off the hook for her awful boat tour of the filthy river, so I want to stay on her good side.
Mum holds her cheek out for Dad and me to kiss, so we do. “I’ll see you at Chez Joseph at seven sharp,” she tells us. “Do not be late! And try to be sober by then!”
My watch reads just after two in the afternoon, which gives Dad and me plenty of time to drink and be merry before we have to meet Mum at the restaurant.
“Shall we?” I ask. “I know a great place that will remind you of home.”
My father laughs. “If I wanted to be reminded of home, I’d have stayed across the pond! Take me somewhere New York.”
I don’t make much of a point to visit places that feel like New York. In fact, I much more often frequent pubs like the ones I would sneak into when I was in the upper school. It makes sense that my father wouldn’t want to see something he can see just as easily back home, though.
One bar about a block from the Hudson tour launch strikes me as a good place for us to visit. “Follow me, then,” I tell him.
My father’s legs are shorter than mine, and he’s not used to the fast-paced walking of a New Yorker, so it takes a full ten minutes to get to the bar. It’s early, so the place is mostly empty, but I’d rather not deal with humans other than my Dad right now, anyway.
Dad orders a Long Island Iced Tea because it’s the most “New York” sounding thing he can think of. I stick with whatever is on tap.
“Care to tell me what has your knickers twisted?” he asks after a long sip of his strong drink.
I shake my head. “Not even a bit. And my knickers aren’t twisted.”
“You’ve been in a sour mood since we got in yesterday. I caught this tone in your voice over the phone, too. Tell your old dad what’s wrong.”
A laugh escapes my lips. “I swear, I’m fine.”
“I swear, you’re a liar!” he responds, calling me out. “It’s okay, Sean, you don’t have to tell me. I already know.”
“I really doubt that, Dad.”
The beer is smooth and goes down quickly. It doesn’t take long for me to order another from the bored bartender. A waitress sits in a booth, marrying ketchup bottles. It’s actually quite possible this place isn’t supposed to be open yet, and they’re serving us out of pure pity.
Do I look that terrible? I don’t feel great, but I’d thought I was hiding it pretty well. Clearly, I’d thought wrong.
We’ll tip the barkeep well when we leave this joint. Even if they are open, it can’t be convenient to have two old men sitting in stools and ordering drinks in the early afternoon. It’s a Saturday, so the bartender could surely better spend his time preparing for the tourist rush he’s going to get later on tonight.
I twirl my tall, sweating glass on the smooth counter. Another sign this place isn’t meant to be open: the bar hasn’t had a chance to get sticky yet. It might be worth it to visit bars this early regularly. I abhor sticky counters and beer-soaked floors, but I very much enjoy a good beer every once in a while.
My father is staring at me. How long has he been watching me? I don’t like being under his scrutiny. It’s Mum who usually looks down her nose at me, not Dad.
“Aren’t you going to ask how I know exactly what has your brain befuddled?”
“No, because you have no idea,” I tell him. I down my beer and order another. The amber liquid is already warming my core. Thanks, Mum, I think. This was a fantastic idea.
My father laughs and asks the bartender for the same beer I’ve been drinking.
“Don’t like the hard drink?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know why I bothered. Everyone knows a pint is the better choice.”
I hold my glass up to his. “I learned that from you.”
“You know what else you learned from me? Your love of women.”
I groan. Is it possible that my father is already drunk after only one drink? I know there’s a lot of alcohol in an iced tea, but he’s never been a lightweight before.
“I’m not sloshed, boy. I’m speaking truth that you need to hear.”
Well, apparently my father is a mind reader.
“Or maybe you’re saying everything you think out loud,” Dad says with a hearty laugh. “Three beers, and you’re already tipsy? Have the States made you a lightweight?”
“I don’t drink much anymore. I think old age has taken my tolerance away.”
Dad nods. “That’ll happen. I can’t drink like I used to.”
I take a slow sip of my beer. Mum wanted us out of her hair, but I don’t think she genuinely wanted us drinking too much this afternoon. The restaurant she booked for us this evening is as classy as they come in this city. They have a dress code and a code of conduct. Staggering through the door isn’t an option.
“Anyway, tell me what happened with that gal you were so excited to tell me about that you called me at two in the morning.”
“I’m really sorry about that, Dad.”
He waves his hand as if to say it doesn’t matter. “You know I was packing for this trip at the last minute anyway. Talking to you was a lot better than packing my suitcases. Do you have any idea how much you need to bring for a month-long trip?”
“Thirty pairs of underwear?”
Dad laughs. “More like forty, just in case.” He takes a long sip of his foamy beer and sets the glass down on the table. “Now, get on with it. What happened with the girl? Did you forgive her like I said?”
“I did, and we had an amazing night together. This morning, it got all screwed up.”
“That explains the crease between your eyebrows. What happened?”
> The fight was only this morning, but it feels like months have gone by since then. “She has a complicated home life, and she ended up staying the night last night when she hadn’t meant to. She freaked out and started saying some awful things. She basically compared what we did to prostitution.”
Dad sits back like I’d slapped him. “You’re not seeing a married girl, are you?”
“Of course not!” I say a bit too loudly. The waitress eyes us wearily, so I lower my voice. “She’s just… younger than I am. Twenty-five, so perfectly legal. But she lives at home with strict, conservative parents. She has a curfew and everything.”
“Well, that is complicated. And it doesn’t sound healthy to me.”
I nod. “That’s my thought, too, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She took off after the prostitute comment, and we haven’t spoken since.”
“That was this morning?”
“Just an hour or so before your flight got in.”
Dad considers the story while sipping his beer. “I knew it was girl trouble, but I didn’t expect this. And you haven’t tried to call her?”
“I needed to cool down. She literally compared her spending the night with me to prostitution. I don’t care how crazy her parents are, that’s just not something you say to a person. I’d never pay for sex!”
“I know that, boy, and I’d guess she does too. Think about it from her point of view, though. She was the one who was about to walk back home when she wasn’t supposed to be out all night. That couldn’t be easy on her.”
Of course it wasn’t easy on her, but I’d tried to make it better. I’d offered to drive her to her apartment so that she wouldn’t be any later. Maybe I could have laid off on begging her to stay in bed a bit longer, but no one could blame me for that. After the amazing, passionate night we’d shared, I’d never wanted to leave the bed again.
“I know she was freaked out, but she didn’t have to compare me to some pimp.”
Dad finishes his beer but doesn’t ask for another. He has probably come to the same conclusion as I have: if we get too drunk, Mum will never forgive us, even if it was her idea. “Have you at least called to see how it went with her parents?”
“No,” I admit quietly. “I was angry, and then I picked you up at the airport, and Mum had this crazy plan…”
My father forces me to meet his eyes. “Son, you are a grown man, but you’re going to listen to your father. When you meet a woman you might love, nothing else matters. Your mother and I can figure our way around a city. We’ve been surviving in London since long before we had you! But your relationship might not survive if you don’t put a little effort into it.”
He’s right, of course. I pull my phone out and dial Maggie’s number. It rings a few times but then goes right to voicemail.
Okay. That’s fine. She’s probably just a little angry and won’t answer me.
I dial the number again. This time, when the voicemail beeps, I leave a message. “Maggie, I’m sorry about this morning. We need to talk. I don’t want to lose you. Please, call me as soon as you get this so that I know you’re okay. How did your parents react when you got home? I… I really want to talk to you. Please call me.”
The message is rambling and embarrassing, but I let it go through. Now, I just have to wait.
I keep checking my phone as Dad and I walk around Manhattan, and a few times during dinner, but Maggie never calls.
She’s just angry, I assure myself. She’ll call.
However, with every passing hour, I’m not so sure I believe that.
I may have lost Maggie for good, and I don’t know how to survive without her. It’s only been two weeks, but she’s become everything to me. I can’t lose her. I just can’t.
21
Maggie
It’s only been a day since my mother locked my door, and I’m already bored out of my mind.
I’ve read three books. Three! That’s ridiculous. I love to read, but not that much. I’m usually more of a one-book-a-month person, not a three-books-per-day person.
A part of me thinks my parents are just trying to make a point with this punishment. They want me to understand that trust and freedom are earned and that I shouldn’t take them for granted. No matter how hard I try to convince them I’ve learned my lesson, they won’t open the door.
There’s this TV show I really like that I catch up on when the seasons air on streaming websites. It’s a police procedural type show where each episode is a different case they’re working on. They take on a psychological approach to solving murders or kidnappings, and a lot of them involve girls who were locked in rooms and unable to leave. The one thing that differentiates me from these fictional stories is that my bathroom is attached to my bedroom. I get real running water and a flushable toilet while a lot of the girls on TV only get a bucket if they’re lucky.
And my parents won’t even let me watch TV! At the very least, they could get me a TV with standard cable channels to keep me entertained. It’s not like I’d be able to contact the outside world with that!
I toss my current book to the side. I tried reading it once before and only made it a quarter of the way through because it’s super boring. This time is no different. The book did not become suddenly exciting due to my exile.
A shuffling outside my bedroom door catches my attention.
“Mom?” I call out.
“It’s lunch time, Magdalena,” she yells through the door. My mother hasn’t used my full name this much since I was born. I don’t hate the name, but it doesn’t feel like me anymore. Every time she uses it, I know it’s because she’s angry with me. I might start hating the name if she keeps this up.
My mom unlocks the door and pulls it back just enough to slide a tray with gooey grilled cheese through. I snatch the food from her hands. If I could see her, I’d probably see a startled look. She might even think I’m about to try to escape. Yesterday, I might have considered it; today, I’m resigned to my fate. Where would I go if I did escape?
Jenna’s apartment is always an option. She’s been begging me to move in with her since we were freshman in high school. Back then, it was because we weren’t allowed to hang out much, and she thought a shared living space would remedy our predicament. With each year that passed after graduation, it was because Jenna thought my living arrangement was unhealthy.
I didn’t agree with her until Mom had turned the key and walked downstairs, calling me a slut and a prostitute the entire way down.
“Mom, can I please come down to the living room and watch some TV?”
“So that you can run off and be with your pimp? Absolutely not!”
I’d cried enough on my first day in purgatory that I don’t think I have any tears left. If I did, I’d be crying right now. “I just want to watch TV, Mom. I won’t leave the house.”
“You have betrayed our trust, Magdalena. That comes with consequences. In four weeks, if your behavior is immaculate, we will reconsider the terms of your punishment. For now, you will remain in your room.”
Mom retreats down the stairs. I hope she’s proud of how terribly she’s treating me. I don’t deserve to be locked up like some animal in a zoo!
My stomach growls. The last thing I want is to accept nourishment from my captors, but I have no choice if I want to survive. I take a bite out of the grilled cheese sandwich and nearly groan. Of course, it’s delicious. Mom wouldn’t dare serve something sub-par, even to her imprisoned daughter. She’ll gladly let me suffer, but she won’t let me starve.
After the grilled cheese disappears down my famished throat, I add the empty plate to the one from breakfast. Mom collects the plates every night after she serves me dessert. Last night, she gave me a bowl of ice cream. I wonder what she’ll allow me tonight.
Dad hasn’t ventured to my room at all since before the scene with my mom. If he disagreed with her punishment, he would have done something about it. My mother is definitely the dominant in the relationship, but my dad doesn’t le
t her walk over him completely. When he wants something, he gets it.
Which means he doesn’t want me to be free.
That thought breaks my heart. Just two days ago, I was the happiest I have ever been, tumbling around with Sean in the sheets. My parents truly don’t care about what I want, though; they’re too busy worrying about their own reputations. I was supposed to be their perfect, obedient daughter. My life was mapped out before my birth. I’ve deviated from the plan at every turn, starting with my insistence on public school over parochial school and my constant flow of creativity.
The public school thing had nearly been impossible to accomplish. It took me holding my breath until I passed out three days in a row for them to finally concede. Even then, they’d tried to bring me back to the religious school after a week, but I had started from scratch and held my breath once again.
Thankfully, public school had gotten me Jenna.
Oh, poor Jenna. What is she thinking right now? Has she tried to come visit? I hope she doesn’t feel like I’ve abandoned her. She has to know that the only reason I’ve gone this long without texting her is because I’m not allowed to use the phone anymore.
I should have let Jenna get me out of this house a long time ago. What’s that phrase she used? Right, Stockholm Syndrome. She’s convinced I only stay with my parents because they’ve essentially brainwashed me into loving them.
What if that’s true? The last few days have pretty much confirmed that they want to control me, not love me.
I can’t sit on my stupid bed any longer. I walk to my sewing table to get some work done. What I’d like to do is look out a window to see the city I’m missing out on, but the window in my room faces a brick wall!
My sewing table is the one good thing about this punishment. My parents may have taken my phone and my computer, but they didn’t take my sewing machine and fabrics. I pull out my notebook and start sketching a new design.
When I get out of here, I’m going to look hot.
