by Danah Logan
Why indeed?
That memory is not related to the incident or her parents. "I don’t know."
I sound just as defeated as she does.
We sit and talk for a long time. I tell her more stories from our childhood. We look at some of the pictures in the photo album, and I remember other things about her parents: places we went to, family outings we had. Some things she remembers, others she doesn’t. Eventually, Lilly’s face grows somber, and she stares off into space. She is starting to withdraw, so I suggest that we watch more news videos. Not that this topic is any better, but once she retreats into her head, I can’t get her back out for a while.
We just finished another video, and I say, "That one didn’t have any new information." When she doesn’t respond, I turn and see that she has fallen asleep, leaning against her throw pillows.
I scan her face; her features are relaxed for the first time in...I don’t know. It feels so surreal to sit here with her. I’ve wanted to be able to talk to her about everything for so long but never dared to hope I would actually get the opportunity. What are the chances that she’d find the one case for a homework assignment that triggers her memory?
I take the blanket from the bottom of her bed and drape it over her. After one last glance, I head to my own room but leave both doors open.
Chapter Eight
I’m slightly disoriented when I wake up; I’m not under my covers. Shifting up on one elbow, I realize I’m covered with my purple throw blanket that is usually draped over the foot of my bed. Then, everything from yesterday assaults my brain at once, and I let myself fall back into the pillow, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. Oh. My. God.
Did that really all happen in the last twenty-four hours?
I put more pressure on; maybe if I press hard enough, the memories will disappear. Three, two, one—nope, still there. It was worth a try.
My alarm clock shows a little after nine a.m. Holy cow, I slept for more than seven hours. For the first time in weeks, I feel somewhat rested. I haven’t slept more than two or three consecutive hours since my first migraine. When I get up, I notice that my door is open, and so is Rhys’s. Confused, I walk over and partially see his sprawled-out form in his bed. Despite the torrent of emotions already rising back to the surface, after the blissfully blank few hours of sleep, a smile tucks on my lips. Our doors haven’t been open at the same time in forever. I peer across the hall one more time before I close mine and retreat to take a shower.
When we moved here, I chose this room because of the adjoining bathroom. All the bedrooms have a bathroom attached, but whoever owned the house before had remodeled this one. The standard one-piece bathtub was replaced with a massive custom shower with a gorgeous white subway tile and gray mosaic border. The glass doors make the shower even grander. Since I never take baths, I left no room for negotiation that this room would be mine.
Standing under the hot spray, I try to separate my feelings.
Against all logic, the happy feeling of not being crazy makes the other revelations almost tolerable. Almost.
It’s like every single emotion a human is capable of has been thrown in a blender and deposited inside of me.
I was kidnapped as a child and held for weeks. My breathing immediately increases. Why me?
My parents handed me over to their best friends and dropped off the face of the earth. Confusion and disappointment come to the forefront. Who does that? To their only child. What could have happened for them to take such actions? And where the hell are they? Are they dead? What other answer is there for abandoning your child for ten years?
As for my parents—no, Heather and Tristen!—I decided last night that using their first names—even if it’s just in my head—makes the most sense. They are not my biological parents, but what do I call the people I’ve been living with for most of my life? This causes more confusion—with a side of betrayal. They’ve kept this huge secret from me and had me think that I was their daughter. The conclusion following this thought makes my fists ball in anger. They are the reason I lost my best friend. They made Rhys walk away from me. It’s. All. Lies.
Something or someone messed with my memory prior to seven years old, and the memories I have are jumbled. I don’t know what is real and what is not. My anger turns to rage, and my entire body starts shaking. They violated me. They invaded my mind. What the hell did they do to me? And how? A tear slips down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away. I refuse to cry anymore. I’ve cried too much already.
If this reporter was correct, these poor girls have been kidnapped and taken from their families because of me. I feel at fault for their trauma and scared for any little girl that could still be taken.
Rhys is back in my life. That fact makes me happy, but I can’t shake the feeling of deception. Until yesterday, I thought I was okay with him no longer being a part of my life, but when he said he would not abandon me again, it felt like a smothering blanket had finally lifted. I haven’t allowed myself to miss him for so long. But he lied. He was supposed to be my best friend, even if he was never my brother.
And then, there is the other revelation. He loves me. We both ignored that tidbit for the rest of the night and just focused on the case. I exhale slow and long. He. Loves. Me. A groan escapes me. What am I supposed to do with that? I guess we do have to talk about that fact eventually.
I sink to a crouch in the shower and put my head in my hands. Maybe I’ll just stay here and ignore the world for a while. That sounds like a decent plan. I let the water run over my body, scorching my skin in the hot stream. The burn allows me to block everything else out.
But after a few minutes, I stand up and shake my head. I’m not this person. I don’t want to hide—not anymore. I’ve been lied to for the better part of my life, in addition to Rhys letting me believe that I did something for him to hate me. I took it all without a fight, accepted it without question. No more! I clench and unclench my fists. I let the rage and betrayal take over. It prevents me from feeling weak. I can handle this mess, also known as my life. No more self-pity!
Looking at my pruned hands, I realize I spent way more time in the shower than I had planned. With a new sense of purpose, I turn the water off and grab my big white towel from the hook.
I dry off and dress in black yoga pants, a black Y-top, and wrap myself in my favorite gray duster cardigan. For the first time in weeks, I’m blow-drying my hair. Self-care was not a priority when I thought I was crazy, but now I have a goal and the urge to feel like myself again, even if it’s just the appearance. I will never be myself again.
Time for some caffeine.
I’m sitting at the kitchen island, eating my usual breakfast of steel-cut oats with almond butter and banana, scrolling through my social media sites. I’ve been going over everyone’s posts from last night’s party to distract myself. My emotional self-scan in the shower has left me raw. Anger and betrayal are simmering under the surface, exactly where I want it. But I also need to control both in order to accomplish the other part of my new plan. No one can know that I’m no longer in the dark.
The party seems to have been a good one. Den wasn’t there, but I wouldn’t have gone one way or the other. I haven’t been to a party that Katherine or Rhys has attended in months. Not after what happened over the summer. But I had also gotten tired of the looks people gave me. Poor Lilly will always be in her brother’s and Katherine’s shadows.
Yeah right, if they only knew.
When Rhys slouches in, his eyes are barely open. I tilt my head, assessing if he’s even fully awake. He’s wearing a navy-and-yellow hoodie with the school’s mascot on the front and matching sweats. He walks straight to the coffee machine and grumbles, "I guess you’re still not a coffee drinker?"
I arch my eyebrows, not that he sees it from his angle.
"Good morning to you, too." I keep chewing my oatmeal and add, "And no, I still think it tastes like shoe leather."
Rhys snorts. "I just hoped for
a cup right now."
"I’m sure you can manage on your own." I let the sarcasm drip from my voice but grin to myself. I enjoy our easy banter. Watching as he gets busy with the coffeemaker, it feels comfortable. But at the same time, I’m unsure how to act toward him. The whole love confession complicates the already arduous situation even more.
Anger and betrayal—that’s my focus.
With his coffee in hand and two freshly toasted waffles from the freezer, Rhys settles down on the barstool next to mine. "So, what are we doing?"
"You’re still helping?" I can’t keep the doubt out of the question.
He eyes me from the side. "I told you I would."
"Yeah, you said that...I just..." I trail off and shift my focus to my half-empty tea.
"I understand you don’t trust me. I kept this from you for ten years and then also treated you like shit for the last two, but I swear, that’s over. It’s you and me against the world again. If you can forgive me...one day."
The last words are spoken quietly. I press my lips together to keep from smiling at the reference to something we used to always say when we were little.
But forgive him?
I ignore the whole part and blurt out, "I don’t want anyone to know." I hadn’t planned on announcing it like that, but it’s out now, so I might as well keep going. "Not yet, anyway. Mom and—" I stop. "I mean, Heather and Tristen..." I trail off again, and my frustration is obvious.
He stares at his half-eaten waffle.
"They may not be your biological parents, and they have kept a lot of secrets from you, but they’ve still raised you for most of your life. They’ve kept you safe, and they love you like their own," Rhys says in a gentle tone.
He’s right, but the betrayal is so overwhelming that I want to scream. I’ve always been a rational and level-headed person; emotions never get the best of me. Even with everything that went down between us, I leaned on the logical side and didn’t let the hurt get the best of me. I ignored it, and then I focused on other things: school, gymnastics, and training with Spence.
But since last night, that’s all out the window. As long as I stay busy, going over my research with Rhys or reading my friends’ social media posts, I can keep a lid on it. But as soon as there is a break, it all rushes back.
I shake my head, and I blow out a huffed breath. "I just feel so confused."
Rhys awkwardly pats my back. "I know. We’ll figure it out. Together."
Together.
That gives me the opening I need to ask the other question swirling around in my head. "What are we? I mean, you said you..." I trail off, feeling weird saying it out loud.
"I love you." He doesn’t hesitate one bit. He’s a whole new person. It’s like this enormous weight is off his shoulders. At that moment, I understand that he is the old Rhys again. The one before everything went down the crapshoot. Before Tristen told him he can’t be around me if he can’t control his feelings. Before his arrangement with Katherine. He has been living a lie himself. That knowledge almost knocks the air out of me, and I cock my head, looking at him again. I truly see him for the first time in years. The Rhys I used to know is back—my Rhys.
Oblivious to my epiphany, he adds, "We are friends...I guess? I won’t even attempt to understand what’s going on in your head, and I’m not going to ask you for anything else. Like we used to be."
Does he mean before the incident, as he’s been calling my kidnapping, or after, when I thought he was my brother and also best friend? I leave his sentence hanging and simply reply, "Thank you."
I glance over and can’t stop myself this time. "I did miss you." Because it’s true; I missed him a lot. Part of me felt lost. Maybe because I never knew why, maybe because he was my best friend for so long, who knows?
He smiles genuinely at me. "Me too, Calla."
Instinctively, I move to hug him, but a voice in my mind reminds me: he lied to you. They all lied to you. And I squash the urge like a bug.
I’m happy there are no more secrets between us, and I understand now why, but I can’t turn off the whisper in my head. If he truly was my best friend, he should’ve told me.
One could say I feel slightly schizophrenic with the emotional back and forth. I’ll probably need years of therapy to understand everything going on inside my head.
After breakfast, we sit back in Lilly’s room, each of us individually reading different articles on our laptops, when a thought comes to mind. "So, if you don’t want anyone to find out, how do we explain us?" I point back and forth between us.
Lilly looks up from her screen with raised eyebrows. "Us?"
"Yeah, I mean, we haven’t talked to each other in years, and all of a sudden, we do? People will notice, especially Mom and Dad."
Her mouth forms a brief O, and she looks toward the other side of the room, debating what I just pointed out. When she turns back, her face, once again, has an unreadable expression. "We won’t talk then. It’s time I have my own secret."
The last part is so full of contempt that I cringe.
"Cal, I get you are pissed and hurt and whatnot, but they just tried to protect you. They did what they were asked to do—and more. They love you."
Lilly presses her lips together and grumbles, "Why do you always have to be so reasonable?"
"I’m just telling you how it is. You only get the truth from me."
"Except for when you stopped talking to me," she snarls.
Well, if that wasn’t a kick straight to the balls.
I can hear the hurt in her voice, but in a knee-jerk reaction, I can’t stop myself from snapping back. "That was a fucking cheap shot. You know damn well I had no choice."
Her eyes widen at my sharp response. It sounded harsher than I intended, and I take a deep breath, softening my tone. "You have no idea how often I came this close to telling you. This shitshow has been eating me up for years, and I couldn’t do anything about it."
She averts her eyes, whispering, "I’m sorry."
"I know I was a dick to you, and you have every right to be pissed. So, let’s come up with a plan about how we’re going to pull this off." I mean it; I want to help her in any way possible. Lilly is in charge. It’s her life that has been turned upside down.
In the end, we decide to keep going as before. The thought of having to continue ignoring her in public doesn’t sit right with me, but I respect her wish—for now.
Later, Lilly sits on her bed with her papers and notes, and I’m on the floor, watching more news videos with my headphones on, when all of a sudden, a mass of paper rains down on me.
What the fuck?
I turn around, and Lilly is sitting in the middle of the bed with tears in her eyes and her fists balled into her cardigan. Getting up, I cautiously sit on the edge.
My hands are raised like I’m trying not to startle a feral animal. "Cal?"
"This isn’t getting us anywhere," her voice cracks. "We’ve read every single article five times. There is no new information." She lets go of the sweater and slams her flat palms onto the comforter.
She’s frustrated; I can deal with that. When I saw the tears, my initial thought was that she had another migraine. Seeing it twice was more than enough for me, especially knowing what it is.
We sit in silence for several minutes. Lilly is breathing heavily and trying to regain control. I want to comfort her, but I don’t know how.
While she struggles to calm herself, I have an idea. "Let’s take a different approach."
Her eyes swivel to mine with a big question mark.
"Instead of only listening to what the media reported, why don’t we look at it from your point of view?"
"What do you mean?"
I try to explain, "Well, so far we’ve been looking at it from other people’s points of view—everyone who ever reported about the kidnappings. No one knew anything about you, except that you were the first and you were dropped off at the ER anonymously. Let’s start with your migraines again. You w
ere in a room—a nice room, at that. Think about what you’ve seen in those memories."
Lilly gets up and digs through a pile of papers on the floor. She pulls out the one containing the notes she made of her migraines, settles back on the bed, and closes her eyes. After a few deep inhales and exhales, she starts talking in a low voice—more to herself than to me. "Mirror, canopy, the stuffed bunny, and...the man."
She shudders, and instinctively, I reach over and grab her hand. Realizing what I’ve done, I try to pull away again, but she holds on to me. I’m stunned at my body’s reaction to this simple contact. I meant to comfort her, but when she doesn’t let go, it has the same effect on me. An instant calm settles over my mind, and everything else vanishes. It’s just the two of us.
"Let’s focus on the first three. Can you remember anything else? Like what color were the walls or the bedding? Where was the bunny?" I ask her.
She takes several more breaths, and then she’s quiet for what feels like an eternity. I can see her eyes move underneath her eyelids.
"The white mirror has an old look to it. It has these ornate carvings. It stands out against the wall." She pauses. "The walls are pale lavender. I remember thinking that I liked the color."
I sweep her room. She still does. She’s always liked everything purple. Pillows, throw blankets, accents in purple, lavender, heather, and periwinkle are everywhere. Yup, I know what periwinkle is—don’t judge. I have a mother who is obsessed with interior design when she isn’t knee-deep in a legal battle, so we were dragged to Home Depot and Lowe’s our entire childhood.
I lightly squeeze her hand. "You’re doing great. Keep going."
She remains still. "The canopy is white. It matches the bedding. But the bedding also has patterns on it—butterflies, I think, in different colors."
I wait for her to continue; my thumb strokes the knuckles of her hand.
"The bunny sits on an armchair. It’s also white, with pale-green cushions. It’s one of those bergère chairs. Everything in the room looks antique, but it’s not...old." She opens her eyes. "Does that make sense?"
