Disciplining Little Abby

by Serafine Laveaux

  Judging from the twenty-going-on-forty-year-olds she worked with, she doubted it.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a slender blonde girl wearing ponytails watching her from beside one of the mobile ice cream vendors. In one hand she clung to a brown stuffed bunny, in the other an ice cream cone. Beside her stood a tall, attractive cowboy type that Abby assumed was her father. Apparently realizing she was being watched back, the little girl turned to the man beside her and tugged on his sleeve, whispering in his ear when he finally leaned over. He glanced briefly at Abby, then ordered another ice cream cone.

  The next thing she knew, the girl was skipping towards her, ice cream in each hand and the giant stuffed bunny tucked tightly under her arm. As the girl came to a stop beside her, Abby was stunned to realize that what she had assumed to be a ten or twelve-year-old was actually a grown woman of at least twenty, perhaps more.

  “I like your eyeliner,” she said with a giggle, holding out an ice cream cone to Abby.

  “Thanks,” Abby said, uncertain how to react as she accepted the cone. “Um, I like your bunny.”

  “I’m Josey,” she said with a grin, and Abby found herself grinning back in spite of the utter weirdness of the whole encounter.

  “I’m Abby.”

  “You’re not a teenager,” the bunny-toting woman observed, and immediately Abby tensed.

  “And you’re not ten,” she retorted.

  She watched as the woman licked the ice cream from her fingers and then reached into her pocket, pulling out a business card and handing it over. Accepting it hesitantly, she flipped it over and read the front.

  Mr. Green

  “Who the hell is Mr. Green?”

  The little blonde giggled and covered her mouth, and Abby was struck by how utterly innocent and childlike she seemed. “Someone you should call, silly!” she giggled as she started to turn away. “I promise you won’t be sorry!”

  Abby watched as the strange woman galloped away to rejoin the man she’d thought was her father but now realized must be a boyfriend or husband. With wonder she watched as he grinned and ruffled her hair indulgently, then took her hand and led her towards the movie theater across the street. Flipping the card over, she saw a number on the back, worn and thin and carefully re-written in indigo crayon.

  “Why the hell not?” she muttered to no one as she pulled out her phone and began to dial.

  Chapter Two

  She was watching the odd couple stand outside the theater, studying the movie posters when a smooth, female voice came on the line and immediately asked when she would like to set an appointment. Startled, she hung up, then let out a nervous giggle. She’d half expected the number to go to a florist shop. Perhaps Mr. Green’s Flowers. It had a nice ring to it. Before she could set her phone back down, it rang. Caller ID showed the number she’d just hung up on. Shit. Hesitantly, she answered it.

  “Hello, I’m calling from Mr. Green’s office. I believe a call was just made from this number?”

  “Um,” Abby stammered uneasily. “Yeah, sorry about that. Lost the connection right as you picked up.”

  “I completely understand,” the woman on the other end assured her. “It happens all the time. Now, when would you like me to set your appointment? I have an opening in half an hour. Would you like me to pencil you in?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you guys do. Some girl, woman really, she handed me a card with your number and then took off. I was just curious. I didn’t mean to waste your time.”

  “No apology needed, dear. Ordinarily our clients tell their referrals more about the nature of the service, but sometimes our younger ones get so excited, they forget. Mr. Green offers a sort of matchmaking service, part therapy and part life coach, in a manner of speaking. If you’re free in half an hour, he’ll be happy to explain it to you himself. No obligation, of course.”

  Abby considered her options. The last thing she wanted to do was go back home and face the music that was no doubt waiting for her. But was this really a good idea? Why did the girl give her the card in the first place? Was it because she was also dressed way too young for her age? Was that how the girl met her handsome companion?

  Hang up now, her common sense voice insistently warned. Hang up and go home. Be an adult for once in your life. Tell Mom you’re sorry and throw that card in the trash.

  Instead, she agreed to the appointment.

  This is crazy. Abby could barely believe the sound of her own voice as she gave the woman her name and location and agreed to wait for the driver to arrive in ten minutes. You’re going to wind up dead in a ditch! The corner of her mouth twisted into a grin at the idea of becoming the subject of a cold case homicide reenacted by marginally talented actors on some true crime drama show. She doubted her mother would appreciate that sort of scandalous publicity.

  “Betchya’d be wishing you could still hear me call you Mom then,” she mumbled dryly. She looked toward the theater once more, but the couple had disappeared.

  Exactly ten minutes later, a sleek, black sedan pulled up to the curb beside her, and a tall, muscular driver in a sharp uniform got out and opened the rear door. Mirrored sunglasses reflected back a ponytailed woman with overly blackened eyes about to gnaw her lip off. Hesitantly, Abby moved towards the sedan but came to a halt just shy of the door. Her common sense voice demanded she dismiss any ideas of getting into the unknown car at once. As usual, it was rapidly being drowned out by the surge of adrenaline that always came when she was about to do something stupid. Cautiously, she peered at her image in the driver’s sunglasses, trying to see through it to the eyes behind.

  “I know you’re probably feeling a little bit afraid, Miss Abby, but I promise you’ll be very safe with me.”

  The sound of his voice startled her almost as much as the fact that he spoke. She’d expected him to sound deep and intimidating. Instead, he sounded gentle and kind, like a protective older brother. Her stomach flip-flopped as she glanced into the car’s immaculate interior. Whadja expect, bloodstains? Looking back, she realized he was watching her over the top of his sunglasses, a bemused twinkle in his now visible eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “It’s just all my life I’ve been told not to take rides from strangers, you know? And you guys are like, the Godfather of strangers, and I’m supposed to just hop in and ride off to who knows where—”

  “Does your cell have some sort of map app or GPS on it?” he interrupted. “If so, go ahead and turn it on now. That way you’ll know exactly where you are at all times and can dial 911 in case we have an accident, or a flat tire, or I suddenly morph into Dexter.”

  Abby giggled at the reference to her second favorite TV show. “Dexter only kills serial killers and murderers though,” she quickly pointed out as she finally slid into the backseat.

  “Well then, you’ll be perfectly safe with me,” he smiled, shutting the door behind her.

  The ride went by quickly and they pulled up in front of a seemingly deserted strip mall at exactly seven-thirty without having suffered any accidents, flat tires, or murders. She took in the details of the empty parking lot and foreboding exterior of the building as the driver came around to help her out. Standing before the imposing building, the fear and anxiety from earlier returned with a rush, and she found herself wanting to flee back to the safety of the car that she’d feared only minutes earlier.

  “Listen, I don’t know that this is such a great idea,” she hedged, staring uneasily at the blank front windows and deserted lot. “I mean, this place has murder palace written all over it.” To her surprise, he burst out laughing.

  “I know,” he chuckled. “You should see it at night. I keep saying they should at least rent out a few of the store fronts so it doesn’t look like something out of a bad horror movie. I promise you though, it’s safe.”

  “That’s what they always say,” she argued, though her distrust was rapidly being replaced with curiosity. “Right before the guy w
ho says it sprouts claws or pulls a machete out.” Throwing up her hands in mock surrender she followed him to the front door, which he held open and told her to go down the hall and take the third door on the right. “I’ll be waiting out here to take you home after your appointment is over. I promise you’ll still be in one piece, Abby.”

  The thickly carpeted hallway muffled the sound of her Vans as she tentatively walked towards the third doorway. Somewhere, someone had been burning a cinnamon scented candle, and her mouth watered as her stomach reminded her of the dinner she’d run out on. Too soon she stood before the third door, a heavy oak one with a brass knob and a golden nameplate proclaiming it to belong to Mr. Green. Abby wondered if the little blonde at the park had once stared at that nameplate with the same curious mix of excitement and fear, if she too had thought of racing back and begging the driver to take her home. The idea that the strange girl had probably sucked it up and walked in suddenly surfaced. She couldn’t imagine chickening out if the other girl hadn’t. Breathing deeply, she pushed the door open and went inside.

  A simple but massive desk dominated the windowless room, its only adornment yet another nameplate and a dark leather briefcase with brass corners. Seated behind the briefcase was a man that didn’t fit any of Abby’s expectations. She guessed him to be in his mid to late thirties, good looking with a well-trimmed mustache and bright green eyes that seemed to take in every detail of his surroundings in an instant. His thick, salt and pepper hair was neatly styled, and the perfectly ironed linen suit he wore looked out of place in the office but completely at home against his tanned skin. If ever there was a man who belonged strolling along a beach at sunset, Abby decided it was the one sitting across from her.

  “Miss Willis?” he smiled, motioning for her to take a seat across from him. “I’m Mr. Green. I’m afraid you have me at a decided disadvantage. Ordinarily our clients give us some advance warning when they have a referral for us, but it appears you’ve arrived ahead of your information. Which is not a problem,” he added hastily. “You’ll just have to humor me while we determine if our service can be of benefit to you.”

  “And your service is?” she asked, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. Abby preferred to sit where she could slip one foot underneath her, but the narrow armchair didn’t allow her that option.

  “Before I explain that, let me ask you a question.” He folded his hands beneath his chin, fingertips lightly touching each other, and studied her for an uncomfortable amount of time before continuing. “Tell me, Abby dear, how old are you?”

  “Thirty-two as of last month.”

  “But that’s just what your birth certificate and driver’s license says, isn’t it? It isn’t how old you really are, not how old you feel when you wake up in the morning or go to bed at night. What I’d like to know now is how old you really feel.”

  Abby started to ask what he meant, but somehow she knew she didn’t have to pretend with this man. Mr. Green knew about the blonde woman at the park, the one who was clearly in her twenties but dressed like she was ten. She imagined he knew what it was like to have to look at your driver’s license to remember how old you really were. He watched her patiently now, hands folded under his chin as he waited for her to answer him. At first she couldn’t bring herself to admit it. The truth stuck in her throat, but once she started talking, the words poured out like a flood that couldn’t be stopped.

  “Fifteen. Maybe. Twelve sometimes? I don’t really know.” She fidgeted in the seat, trying to find the words, and then suddenly they came pouring out in a rush. “If I’m happy, I want to run and shout and do cartwheels. If I’m sad, I want to curl up with my blanket and put my thumb in my mouth. If I’m stressed, I want to hide behind someone. When I’m angry, I just fly into a rage without any control. I’m into skateboards and stuffed animals and cartoons, while everyone else my age is into mortgages and politics, life insurance and having kids. Everything goes fine for a while. Then something just overwhelms me, and I don’t have anyone to turn to. My mother keeps telling me to get it together, to grow up. I pretend I don’t care, but like, I don’t fit in anywhere. Not at home, not at work, not anywhere.” Just admitting it felt like a weight had been lifted from her heart, and Abby blew out her breath in surprised relief. “That girl at the park, woman, whatever. She’s the same way, isn’t she.” It was more of a statement than a question, and Mr. Green waited for her to continue.

  “She was in public dressed like a little girl and carrying her bunny and… and that man with her, he was okay with it. Every man I ever dated, he’d say how he liked my ‘youthful spirit’, but mostly he just liked the idea of having me dress up like a high school cheerleader or a dirty school girl for sex. But they didn’t understand me, not even a little, and after a while they’d just call me immature or childish, complain I was too clingy, and then they’d leave.” Abby closed her eyes against the bitter tears that threatened to return yet again.

  “Do you have anyone in your life who knows this about you?”

  “No. No way.” Abby couldn’t imagine opening up about her secret to anyone she knew, not her friends, and certainly not her family. Her coworkers often joked that she was thirty-two going on thirteen, but they didn’t know the half of it. They didn’t know how much she loved her blanket and Mr. Jingles and the zoo and her most awesome set of watercolor markers that she could spend hours drawing with. As the realization of everything she kept hidden hit her, the tears spilled over at last.

  Mr. Green quickly pushed a box of tissues across the desk and waited while Abby blew her nose and tried to pull it together. When she seemed to have gotten herself back under control, he continued.

  “The woman who referred you may be a grown woman, but in her heart and emotions, she is a child. Everyday life can be particularly challenging for people like her and you, without the help of someone who both understands their unique needs and can be trusted to protect them. Obviously, you can’t find such a person by hopping into the nearest bar and seeing what’s left by last call. That’s where I come in.”

  “So you’re a dating service then,” Abby mused.

  “It’s considerably more involved than that. Think of it as a very discreet, exclusive matchmaking service for unique people that goes far beyond initial introductions. It takes more than pairing up two people by zodiac signs, I assure you. The responsibility of the nurturer in the relationship is great, and potential for negligent behavior enormous. We thoroughly screen all dominant applicants prior to acceptance, and I put a great deal of thought and research into the pairing. In addition, we provide a safe, secure, completely self-contained facility for the use of our members until such time as they are comfortable meeting in more personal settings.”

  “Lucky me,” Abby smiled sadly. “Living where there are so many Peter Pan wannabes they actually opened up a dating service for them.”

  Mr. Green frowned. “We cater to people with many different needs,” he told her. “But there are more people like you than you could ever comprehend. We operate facilities like this across the globe, in twelve different countries, and many times more cities. As impossible as it must be to imagine, I am but one Mr. Green among many.”

  While Abby processed this astonishing bit of information, he retrieved a set of papers from his briefcase and pushed them across the desk. “This is an agreement between you and I, stating that you will allow me to select the most suitable match available and that once that selection is made and approved by all parties, you will abide by the rules your new daddy makes.”

  “Daddy?” Abby couldn’t help but grin. “I thought you were going to find me like, a boyfriend or a therapist.”

  Mr. Green set a pen beside the agreement. “The terms of your individual relationship would be up to the two of you to negotiate and agree upon prior to signing the contract. A non-binding contract,” he added quickly upon seeing her eyebrows shoot up. “Either party is free to back out of the agreement at any time, for any reason. However,”
he emphasized, “once either party backs out of their agreement, their association with my organization ends. There will be no coming back to complain or whine for a second chance.”

  Abby quickly skimmed over the papers before her. According to the letterhead, the organization’s formal name was Spectrum International. The agreement itself seemed harmless enough, simply stating her approval for him to initiate a search for a suitable match and arrange the initial introduction. It clearly stated that if she found the match unsuitable, she was free to walk away, no obligation. The one thing she didn’t see mentioned was the fee, and so far Mr. Green hadn’t mentioned how much the service would cost. She’d used a few online dating services in the past, most of them for around fifteen or twenty dollars a month, but suspected the fees for this particular service would dwarf those. Positive it’d be out of her reach, she asked what she’d have to pay.

  “There will be no cost to you,” he smiled benevolently. “Your new daddy will assume responsibility for all expenses, from use of our facilities—which I promise you’ll find far exceed their outward appearances—to any activities the two of you might engage in outside of these walls.”

  She skimmed the agreement one last time, signed beside each highlighted X, and then pushed them back to him. While he returned them to the leather briefcase, the phrase “abide by the rules your new daddy makes” came back, and Abby asked what exactly that meant.

  “Your daddy will set out rules that you are expected to obey,” he told her. “While I cannot tell you exactly what will happen if you disobey, I can tell you that you won’t like the punishment.”

  “And how would he know I broke them? I mean, it’s not like we’re going to be together all the time… right?”

  “Little birds will tell me of your misdeeds, Miss Abby, and I in turn will immediately inform your daddy. I assure you, my birds are very good at spotting mischief.”