Searching for Selene

by Lael Littke

  “Yes.”

  Abby waited for me to say more, but when I didn't she said, “Okay, friend. We'll get back to that when you get home. I just called to say we miss you.”

  “Did you call this morning, Abs? About six-thirty, your time?”

  “Get real, Selene. I don't even exist at six-thirty A.M. in the summertime. I don't miss you that much. Why?”

  I told her about the phone call.

  “A guy's voice?” she said. “How come I don't get romantic phone calls at six-thirty? By the way,” she added, “Lex really misses you.”

  “I've been gone for only two days,” I reminded her.

  “Still applies. He lurks around like a lost soul. He even came over here this morning. He's like, ‘Have you heard from Selene?’ And I go, ‘You mean from the airplane? She's barely touched down in Minnesota, Lex.’ And he's all, ‘Do you think she's going to stay there?’ When I said, ‘Yes,’ I thought he was going to collapse, until I went, ‘For the next four days. She'll be home on Friday.’ You will be home on Friday, won't you, Selene?”

  “If the good Lord be willin’ and the creek don't rise.” That was something Grandma said a lot. “I have to be back for play rehearsal on Saturday or I lose my part.”

  Which reminded me, I hadn't even cracked that play-book yet. So when was I going to do all the studying I'd promised Mr. Duvall I'd get done while I was gone?

  Abby and I chatted on for a while longer before she said she'd probably wiped out her whole allowance on the phone call and hung up.

  I sat there in the study for a few minutes thinking about Abby. Who would have been my best friend if I'd grown up in St. Paul? I would never know.

  I thought about Lex, too. Familiar Lex, who loved me. I didn't know how I felt about him.

  I thought about Bryan. Bryan, with the reputation. But I'd seen another side of him when he'd come to my house.

  I didn't know how I felt about Bryan, either.

  I needed to go back home and sort all of this out. There was no way I could stay in St. Paul and be Micaela.

  • • •

  Heather didn't come home until after midnight. After Uncle Rich and Aunt Marissa and their carload of kids left, I went to my room to dig out the little mirror my Laurel class had given me. I wanted to look into it, remembering how they'd told me not to forget who I was.

  It helped to see my familiar face staring back at me.

  Satisfied, I picked up my playbook. I was still memorizing my part when I heard Heather come in. My Idaho dad would have scorched me for staying out that late.

  I think Mr. R did scorch Heather. I heard them talking, occasionally raising their voices, but not loud enough for me to hear. If I hadn't been there, would they have yelled like the whole family did when they were all together? I didn't know. I didn't know how this family operated.

  I considered turning out the light and pretending to be asleep when Heather came into the room we shared. But I was only halfway through memorizing the scene where Astrid, sweet and pure, is burbling on about how much she loves the handsome Gilbert Gladhill. Her little soliloquy is interrupted by the arrival of Hector Pugh, the nasty villain. I wanted to finish the scene, so I still had the light on when Heather flounced into the room, her face red and angry.

  “Hi,” I said. “I'm working on my part for the play.”

  “Hi.” Heather began yanking off her clothes, not looking at me. She didn't seem embarrassed in the least about undressing in front of me. I didn't watch, of course, but before I looked away I noticed that she wore a thin silver chain around her neck with a small pendant or medal hanging from it. I wondered what it was.

  I wasn't sure what to say to her. I wished I had turned out the light and pretended to be asleep.

  “Uh,” I said finally. “How was the movie?”

  Still without looking at me, Heather muttered, “I didn't go to the movie. For your information, I was with Eddie.”

  Eddie? Who was Eddie? And why was she telling me this? Was that what Mr. R had been yelling at her about?

  “Oh,” I said.

  Heather turned to face me. “And what's that supposed to mean?”

  “All I said was ‘Oh.’ It didn't mean anything.”

  “It was your tone,” Heather said. “Your smarmy little Mormon morality tone. I've seen you saying your prayers and all. I know your type.”

  My type? And what was this about my smarmy little Mormon morality? It was the first time my religion had been mentioned since I'd arrived, but apparently it had been discussed before I came. What can of worms was Heather opening up?

  “Would you care to explain that last remark?” I said.

  “You're so sweet and pure and holy you'd never understand.” Heather's voice dripped with sarcasm. “I wouldn't want to shock my perfect little sister.”

  I'd just been studying the part of Astrid, burbly little bundle of purity and sweetness and perfection. The coincidence of Heather's accusing me of being like her suddenly struck me funny. I giggled.

  Heather, who had turned away to pull on her pajamas, whirled on me. “Don't you laugh at me,” she said, raising her voice. “It's not funny.”

  I put a finger to my lips. “Shhh. Do you want Dad running in here to see what we're fighting about?”

  It wasn't until I'd finished the sentence that I realized I'd said “Dad.” But now wasn't the time to think about that because Heather looked as if she were ready to burst into tears. Our family trait.

  I patted the bed. “Come sit,” I said. “Let's talk.”

  Heather stood still. “And have you lecture me about my morals. I know where you're coming from, Micaela. I don't need to hear it.”

  “Where is that?” I asked mildly. “Where is it I'm coming from? Have you been there?”

  Heather stared at me for a whole minute. Then she came over and sat on the bed beside me.

  “No. I haven't. But…” She didn't finish what she'd started to say.

  Maybe it was because it was so late, or maybe because I was ticked at Heather for her attitude, but without even thinking I said, “Heather, you don't like me, do you.” I made it like a statement, not a question. But I thought we might as well get it out in the open.

  Heather was silent for so long that I wondered if she'd heard me. But finally she said, “You might as well know this. You'll find it out sooner or later.” Leaning back, she took a deep breath. “Micaela, it was my fault that you were kidnapped. If it hadn't been for me, you'd never have been taken away.”

  Chapter 16

  I stared at Heather, not believing what she'd just said. How could it have been her fault that I'd been kidnapped? She'd been five years old.

  I was still smarting over her remark about my “smarmy Mormon morality,” but that could wait. This was more important. “How could it have been your fault?” I asked softly.

  She got up and walked over to gaze out of the window into the darkness. “You wouldn't think I'd remember it so well. I was really young. I've tried to forget.”

  “And I try to remember,” I commented. “But I don't find much on my hard disk.”

  She looked around at me. “Are you a computer nerd or something?”

  “Yeah. I guess so. I like computers.”

  She turned back to stare out at the darkness again. “Well, that's one thing we share. Probably the only thing.”

  I could have reminded her that we had a lot of things in common—parents, coloring, blood. But she was probably talking about interests and may have been correct about that. “Maybe.” I cleared my throat. “What is it you remember about that day, Heather? When I was kidnapped, I mean.”

  Heather turned from the window and walked over to sit on her bed. “What do you remember?”

  “Me? I was only three, Heather.”

  “Even so.”

  “Not much,” I said. “But some flashes came back to me when we went to the supermarket today. I remembered a pony like the one there in front. That's about all that came
back. Except that I was being a brat on the day I was kidnapped.”

  Heather gave me a small smile. “You've got that right. You wouldn't let me take a turn on the pony.”

  “Did you tell me I was bad?” I asked. “I have a memory of someone telling me I was bad. But I'm not sure it was you.”

  Heather nodded. “I probably said it. You were a brat.” She paused and seemed to be thinking. “Do you think someone else told you the same thing?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to bring up a memory. “Well,” I said. “It might have been me who was bad, or maybe it was somebody else. I've had nightmares all my life about a voice saying ‘bad, bad, bad.’ I don't think it was you.”

  Heather frowned. “Who else could it have been?”

  “Maybe the person who took me.”

  Heather gnawed on her lower lip. “I've never told Mom the whole story of what happened that day.” She fingered the medal that hung on the chain around her neck.

  She paused again.

  To prod her, I said, “I was being obnoxious.”

  “Yes. You always got your way. You were the baby. I was jealous. I remember that real well.”

  I waited.

  Heather took in another deep breath and said, “That day at the market. I remember you'd been whining all morning. When we got to the store, you threw a real screamer. I guess Mom was pretty worn down because normally she would never, ever leave us alone. But I remember her lifting you onto the pony and putting the money in the machine. She told me to stay there, that she just had a couple of things to pick up. She said she'd be back by the time the pony ran down.”

  Heather spoke fast, as if she was in a hurry to get it all out. “I wanted to get on the pony before it quit bouncing, but you wouldn't get off no matter how hard I coaxed. That's probably when I said you were bad. I went to tell Mom.”

  She was silent for a moment before going on. “There was a woman nearby. I remember she had a camera, and I think she'd been snapping pictures. Probably a cover for scoping out the little kids.”

  “So that's how come I remember a picture,” I said. “Of you and me and our mother. It's been part of my nightmares.” As I thought of it, I heard the voice again, saying, “Bad, bad, bad.”

  Heather nodded and went on. “When I started to go inside the store, she came over to say she'd keep an eye on you while I was gone. I had a little doll with me, and she said I should leave it with her in case you cried.”

  “A little doll?” Quickly I got up, fished my suitcase from under my bed, and got out the little doll wrapped in a sock. “This little doll?”

  Heather put a hand to her mouth. “You still have it!” She got up and came over to me and hesitantly reached out a hand to take the doll. “I can't believe it. I never thought I'd see Tyra again. That's what I named her. Can't remember why.” She spoke softly, as if to herself.

  “I couldn't remember where I got it,” I said. “But I connected it with something bad. I've had it hidden away in my closet all these years.”

  “That's why she still looks so good,” Heather mused. “This is cool, to get her back.”

  Heather smiled at me, the first really friendly thing she'd done since I arrived.

  “So you gave the doll to the woman,” I prodded. “Then what happened?”

  Heather took a deep breath. “Mom was really shook up when she saw me in the store. She grabbed my hand and we rushed outside. But you were already gone.”

  “Did you tell Mom about the woman?” I asked, aware that for the first time I'd called Mrs. R Mom. But it would have been awkward to ask the question any other way.

  Heather sat down beside me on my bed. “Of course. I described her as well as I could. But who knows how accurate I was? I said she was old, but at age five you think anybody over fifteen is old. Mom says I told her the lady wore something blue, maybe a T-shirt. Kind of speckled blue and white. But I couldn't remember what color her hair was or anything more.” Heather looked down at the doll. “I didn't tell Mom about giving her the doll. I always felt that's how she got you to come with her. Maybe you trusted her because she had the doll. It was all my fault.”

  “You didn't mean for it to happen.”

  “But it happened anyway,” she said. “And there's no way I can make it unhappen. Your life was changed because of me.”

  “It's been a good life,” I told her.

  She shook her head. “But it wasn't the life you were supposed to live. You were supposed to be here with us. Your life would have been so much better.”

  I straightened up. “How come ‘better’?”

  She examined my face for a moment before saying, “You know. More normal. You wouldn't have grown up in that cult.”

  I could feel my eyebrows lifting. “Cult? What cult?” She slid back a little toward the foot of my bed. “You know. The Mormons. All that weird stuff they believe.”

  “What weird stuff?” I knew my voice was rising, but I couldn't seem to help it.

  Heather didn't answer that one directly. “I thought you'd be dressed funny when you came here and maybe be married with a bunch of kids.”

  “Married?” My voice had reached the squeak stage. “Married? I wasn't even allowed to date until I was sixteen. Just this year.”

  “Well, okay. But isn't that pretty weird? I mean, this isn't the fifties. I've been dating since I was twelve.”

  “Maybe you're the one who's weird,” I said.

  Heather hadn't finished. “And what about all that really gross stuff they do? Baptizing dead people and all that?”

  I felt as if my eyebrows had climbed right up into my hair. “Heather, where did you get all this goofy stuff?”

  “Dad got some books from the library,” she said defensively. “When we found out where you were, I mean. And that you'd been raised in a Mormon family. Don't tell them I told you, but I think Mom and Dad are going to try to deprogram you.”

  “Deprogram me?” I could hear the disbelief in my own voice. “Deprogram me of what?”

  Heather raised her eyebrows. “All that stuff we read in the books, of course.”

  “Do you believe everything you read in books?” I asked. “Just because it's printed, does that make it true?” I could imagine what kind of books Mr. R must have gotten, if that was what they believed about my family. My Idaho family. My loving, wonderful, ordinary family.

  But were we weird? I'd never known anything else. What did I know about what other people believed?

  “Well,” I said, “maybe tomorrow I can tell all of you about my weird life among the Mormons. But right now I'm tired and want to go to sleep.”

  I wanted time to think. If the Russos thought I'd been caught up in some weird cult, it was possible they would try to do something about it. I'd read about deprogramming and stuff like that. Were they going to lock me up and never let me go back home to Idaho?

  • • •

  I didn't sleep so well that night. It seemed as if I'd barely fallen asleep when I was awakened by Mrs. R shaking my shoulder. “Micaela,” she whispered. “There's a phone call for you.”

  Sleepily I looked at my bedside clock. It was 7:36. Just about the same time as the call had come for me the day before. So was the same person calling again? I hoped so. I didn't like not knowing who it was, here in this place where my life had changed.

  Yanking on my robe, I stumbled out to the kitchen. Mrs. R handed me the phone; then she sat down at the table and looked at a newspaper spread out in front of her.

  “Hello?” I spoke softly, wishing Mrs. R had left the room. What if it was my dad or mom this time? Would Mrs. R go off into another tirade about how they shouldn't be calling me?

  “Selene, this is Paula,” a voice said in my ear. “Paula Redmond, Naomi's friend.”

  I felt a great sense of relief. “Oh, hi. I'm glad you called back. I'm sorry I hung up when you called me yesterday morning.”

  There was a small silence. “Yesterday?” Paula said. “I didn't call yo
u yesterday morning.”

  “You didn't call me yesterday morning?” Oh, boy. I was back to melodrama dialogue! “But if you didn't, who did?” I realized how ridiculous that question was before it was even out of my mouth. “Paula,” I hurried to say, “how are you?”

  Sounding just a bit bewildered, she said, “I'm fine, Selene. The thing is, how are you? “

  “I'm okay,” I said.

  “Sorry to call you this early,” Paula said, “but I've got to leave for work and I wanted to get this set up beforehand. Selene, would it be all right if I come by your house after work this evening?”

  “Sure, I guess. I'll ask…” I stopped, wondering if I could make my mouth say “mother.” I couldn't. “Hang on a minute, Paula.” Putting my hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, I turned to Mrs. R, knowing that she'd heard my hesitation and that she would be fully aware of why. I wished I would think out what I was going to say before I said it!

  “This is my sister's friend,” I said. “Is it okay if she comes by after work?”

  A little frown line appeared on Mrs. R's forehead. Afraid that she was going to object again to my family contacting me while I was there, I said quickly, “She's just a friend. She won't stay long.”

  “It's okay, Micaela. Tell her she's welcome to come.” Mrs. R gave me a small smile.

  “That'll be fine,” I said to Paula. “I'm not sure of the directions to the house, so I'll hand you over.” I didn't say to whom, not wanting to get mixed up again in how to address Mrs. R. I merely handed the phone to her.

  “Hello, Paula,” she said graciously. “This is Micaela's mother.”

  Paula must have commented on my other name because Mrs. R said, “Yes. We can't get used to calling her Selene.” Then she went on to give the directions.

  After she hung up, she said, “Paula says she's bringing someone with her. Someone who wants to meet you. Wants to meet all of us, actually. Do you know anyone else here in St. Paul, Micaela?”

  “Just the ones I met since I came,” I said.

  “It wouldn't be any of them.” The little frown line reappeared in her forehead. “She wouldn't be bringing your missionaries, would she, Micaela? The young men and women we see going around on bicycles?”