Great. She noticed.
“You don’t smell that great yourself.”
“I smell fine!” She sniffs the inside of her forearm. “You’re the one who stinks. You’ll scare the trick-or-treaters away. And I’m starving.”
“Me too. But we can each have another slice in the morning.”
“We didn’t eat since yesterday morning.”
I grit my teeth. I want to scream at Spencer for pointing out the obvious. I want to scream at everyone. I mostly want to scream at Mama, though. I want to know if she planned this all along when she booked another trip to God knows where. I want to ask Papa why we can’t get a nanny like the other kids in the neighborhood. Or why can’t I watch Spencer in the entire house? This closet is nasty. And did I mention cold? They don’t put heaters in closets, only in the parts of the house where parents usually are. I’ve never seen Mama in the closet for longer than to get dressed. Sometimes I hate having a little sister. It’s her fault we’re in here. Other times, like when we can’t use the flashlight and she’s the only one I have to talk to, she’s not so bad.
“You know we can’t eat the bread too fast. Remember last time? We can’t run out, and we don’t know how long they’ll be gone.”
Spencer sighs. I take my hands off my face and open my eyes. She’s struggling to get Mama’s aqua silk blouse over her head. “Unbutton the top button. You’ll rip it.”
“They gotta be back for Halloween. Mama won’t want to miss out on the free Snickers.” She rips the blouse off her head. “You peeked! What the heck?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“Now I have to start all over again!” Spencer crosses her hands over her naked chest. She slides against the locked door to the hardwood, landing cross-legged on the floor. “Thanks a lot, dummy! It was going to be the perfect costume. You ruined it! You ruin everything!”
I want to smack her. Halloween is not exactly our biggest problem at the moment. Who cares about a stupid costume? I want to hit her with one of Mama’s leather belts, the skinny kind she uses to show off her “girly figure,” and I almost grab for one. I know right where they are, to the left of Mama’s shoe rack. I have this closet memorized. I glare at my sister, and I’m sure she sees me, even in the darkness.
A growl comes from my stomach. I can’t be sure if it’s hunger or rage. I stand above her in silence, and time feels like it’s stopped. I don’t want to be like Papa. I stare at the top of her head, framed by a halo of flashlight light, and slide down onto the floor across from her.
“I’m sorry,” I say. Then I put my head in my hands and sob.
Spencer rubs the back of my head like Mama used to, before the neighbors moved in and made her crazy. I’m supposed to be the big sister. I should be the one rubbing her head and making her feel better. But I don’t have the energy to argue. I let her pat my head and braid my greasy hair in the almost-dark. I don’t care how long she leaves the flashlight on. Let’s face it, by the time they come back, the battery will be dead anyway. I pretend I don’t notice when she sneaks a piece of bread and chews at it while she puts the finishing touches on my braids. Let her have it all. We’re probably going to run out of that too anyway.
I don’t know how long we sleep or if Spencer sleeps at all. I wake up on the floor and see the light under the door. I don’t tell her I can see it. She likes being the weather person, keeping track of days and reporting on how bright out it is or what time it might be based on where the sun’s shining from. I roll over. My back is stiff, and I wish I’d slept on one of Mama’s benches. Spencer’s making shadow animals on the back of the door above my head with her hands and the flashlight.
“It’s exactly twelve days until Halloween,” she informs me. I squint at her. She giggles, pointing to a shadow on the closet door. “Look! You’re a rabbit! I made you rabbit ears.”
“Hilarious. You have to turn that thing off. It’s probably light out anyway. It’s time for you to look under the door.”
I stand to stretch and start walking toward Mama’s bench. I feel my way around for the bucket. “I need that light. I have to pee.”
Spencer throws the flashlight at me, yelling “Catch!” as she leans to see under the door. The flashlight lands in front of me with a loud bang I’m sure has dented the floor. There’s no light anymore.
“You idiot! Now we won’t be able to see! You know you have to be careful with that thing. Why would you throw it?” I can hear Mama in my voice, and I cover my mouth to stop myself. Again, I think of hitting my sister with one of the leather belts. I don’t deserve to trick-or-treat.
“It’s your fault! You were supposed to catch. You stink at catching. Now I can’t make animals.”
“Animals? You think that’s our biggest problem?” I want to explain to her that we have no idea when Mama and Papa will be back. I want to tell her I heard Mama on the phone with the lady from the travel place, and I heard her talking about leaving the country. I think about telling her that I saw Papa kissing Clarissa and that I think Mama knows. “My fault? You think this is my fault? None of this is my fault! If you want to be mad at someone, blame them! I didn’t lock us in here; they did. It’s not normal, Spence! Other people’s parents don’t do this! Don’t you get it?”
Spencer ignores me. “It’s light out! The sun’s behind the maple tree. It must be early. And I think it snowed.”
“Great.”
“It is great. It means it will get more light out, and we can go sledding when they get back if the snow sticks this time. Maybe they will come home before we need the flashlight again.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say, balancing myself over the bucket and praying I don’t miss.
Papa’s gunna kill us. That floor’s gotta be warped and “money doesn’t grow on trees.”
It’s been almost two weeks. We don’t have any bread left, and the bucket’s full and reeks. Today is three days past Halloween, I think. I’m glad Spencer sucks at counting. Or perhaps that’s next week. Or was it last? I can’t be sure anymore. It’s becoming impossible to keep track of things like dates and if it’s day or night. All I can think about is if and when they are ever coming back.
I hate them.
We both need to eat. Spencer isn’t laughing now. We stopped playing dress up a week ago, and all we do now is sleep. There’s nothing left to talk about. I almost miss her whining. I think she finally knows it’s no use. It won’t get us anywhere, and we need to conserve our energy. There’s one more jug of water. We sip at it, trying to conserve it. I don’t think she sneaks, though it’s hard to know without a flashlight. The holy light under the door isn’t bright, but we look for it every day to mark time and so Spencer can have something to look forward to.
We came up with a plan last night. We had to. We’re too close to running out of water, and there’s no telling when Mama and Papa will come back, if they ever will. Today we’ll try to knock the door down. Yesterday we tried to use parts from the broken flashlight to pick the lock. I almost got it, but Spencer didn’t push hard enough, and the plastic we were using snapped. Today we’ll use Mama’s shoe rack. We’ll push against it with all our strength. I don’t care anymore if Papa’s mad.
Happy Halloween, monster.
If we could get into the main house, we’d at least have water. We could pick the lock on the fridge and get something to eat. Heck, at this point, I’d ask Clarissa for dinner. Mama might not like her, but she’s always been nice to me. I’m sorry I ever said I hated her. Once, she bought Girl Scout cookies from me and Spence by the dozen and said she was gunna send them to her mom and dad. How bad can she be? She doesn’t look like a criminal. She wouldn’t leave us locked up for Thanksgiving. Would she? It’s not normal.
The light under the door is coming from the maple tree. It has to be about noon. This is the lightest we’ll get all day. I tell Spencer to push while I wedge the shoe rack against the door. We push and pull until it’s finally where we need it. I try not to think about
what Mama and Papa will say. I picture them dancing, her wearing the ruby necklace she wanted for their anniversary, and her not even worried that we’re out of food. I find the strength I need to finish the job. My mind is made up, and I’m ready. But there are things to do first…
“Okay. That’s good. It’s not going anywhere. We need to rest before we try to knock it open,” I tell Spencer. “We’re going to have to push as hard as we can. I don’t know if this will work.”
Spencer nods. “It’s worth trying.”
“I know.”
“I’m so tired.”
“Me too.”
“Once we get this open, we can drink from the sink. Imagine how yummy that will be.”
“I know. It’s all I can think about.”
“Do you think Mama left the bread box open?”
“I don’t know. There’s got to be something on the counter. Or in the cabinets. Honey! Or peanut butter!” I try not to drool. It’s easy because my body isn’t making spit these days.
“We don’t need a break. The light will go away. Who knows how long this will take? Please, Hope, can we try now?”
I can’t argue with her. She has a point. It could take hours. We can’t afford to waste the light. I stand, using Mama’s dressing bench to help me up. “Yep. Let’s do it.”
Together, side by side, my sister and I spend what feels like hours banging at that door. Boom! Boom! Boom! And then, Crash!
The wooden shoe rack splits in half. It comes crashing down on top of us, onto the hardwood floor like the flashlight.
Silence.
I use my feet to pry broken wood off of me. My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my ears. “Spencer? Are you okay?”
No answer.
“Spencer?”
I hear her breathing. Then I hear her sobs. I scramble to get the wood off of my sister, throwing it around that closet as quickly as I can move it, careful not to hit her with it.
“I’m okay,” she says in a voice so soft it scares me even more.
“Are you hurt?” I squint to see her face, mashed on its side on the hardwood floor. I reach out to touch her cheek and rub her hair.
“No. I’m okay,” she repeats. “Are you?”
I exhale. “Yeah.”
“Hope?”
“Yeah?”
“That didn’t exactly work.”
We erupt in laughter. “Thanks, Captain Obvious. I wasn’t sure.” We laugh some more. It feels good to laugh. We laugh so hard our good tears mix with the bad ones and the angry ones too. It’s so cold that the tears stick to our cheeks.
The light under the door catches my eye, leading me to a puddle of water beneath Spencer’s head. My heart jumps, thinking it’s blood. It jumps again when I realize what she’s laying in–the water from our last jug. It’s spilled everywhere. We have no more to drink. I wonder how long it will take for it to freeze. We lick it up like dogs.
Mama and Papa came back a week after Thanksgiving. Or was it was the week before? It doesn’t make a difference anymore. All I know is they forgot our souvenirs. Apparently, that promise was only for the neighbors’ sakes. They found my baby sister and me in between the broken shoe rack and the door. The water had dried up—it never did freeze—and Spencer’s clown suit was probably the best one she’d ever come up with. She was wearing it, complete with the nose she’d made out of one of Papa’s ties. I was wearing my favorite of Mama’s gowns. We didn’t look like criminals. Disrespectful, maybe. I mean, we didn’t ask to borrow their clothes. The again, our parents didn’t ask to be excused either.
Mama came home with a gold necklace in the shape of a starfish and another made of rubies. She twirled all the way up the stairs, calling for us. “Girls! We’re home! Have you missed us?” Papa was right behind her, telling her they’d have to go back again after he got caught up with things at the office. I’ll never forget the looks on their faces when they finally opened the door and that light really came in. I can’t even imagine the scene they saw. Truthfully? I hope it haunts them.
These days, my sister and I dress up in anything we want. I have my own set of wings and cast magical spells. But I’m no angel. Today I’m thinking of casting a spell on Mama and making sure her prison cell looks exactly like the inside of her closet. The other kids like us up here call that a good batch of karma. Spencer still dresses up like a clown every chance she gets. Only now she refuses to wear shoes. She says clowns don’t need shoes and that her feet are funny looking enough all on their own.
Spencer makes me laugh when she plays with Papa’s mind, making him think he is stuck on a vacation forever with Mama and that Clarissa’s run off with another guy. I watch him, sitting in a cell of his own, and giggle when he tries to heat up a burrito on a hot plate. Papa never could cook. It was probably the only thing he liked about Mama. She was good at “women’s work” he always said. Well, that and her “girly figure.”
We’ve been free for three years now. I know because there’s a crack in the clouds just big enough for my sister and me to peek through. We can watch them from the entire house, the one we made with no closets, in their hells, otherwise known as cells, between the recreation times. When they’re gone, we know it’s free time. But free is only a relative term. They leave their locked lives to get an hour on the yard. It’s not so bad. At least I try to tell them that in their nightmares, when they remember what they saw. My name is Hope, and I’ve got lots of it now, all because of that light in between the clouds.
Inmate 568620, Kate Carlisle
I’m in hell. I’d tell you my name if it mattered, but it doesn’t. Not in this place. In here, I’m simply known as inmate 568620. I’m the woman who let her daughters starve in a closet. It doesn’t matter that I was trying to save my marriage. No one cares that my husband was banging the neighbor. What matters is that I left them alone to die. And now? They haunt me.
I’ve been locked up for three years now. I know, because they call out the day every morning over the intercom. They never allow us to forget about time in a place like this. They rub it in our faces. I try to tell myself it’s not so bad. I’m forty-three years old and doing life. How much longer can I have? It could be worse. I could be like Shelia, my cellmate. She’s facing life on her second round of appeals. They say she drowned her son. I haven’t asked, though. I learned better than to ask questions back in county. Either way, she’s only twenty-eight. She’s got a heck of a lot more time than me ahead. It’s probably none of my business. I try to focus on my own time and sometimes the events that landed me here.
We got locked up, Malcolm and I, because he was too cheap to get a sitter. It’s all Malcom’s fault. He was so busy throwing money at his mistress Clarissa that we ran out. Malcolm blames me. He says a good mother would have done it differently. He told me I should never have insisted we go away to work on our marriage. I told him our marriage was important to our daughters. I didn’t want them to grow up in a broken home. Dr. Phil says that can be damaging. Still, Malcolm insists that Clarissa loved Spencer and Hope more than I ever did. I don’t think so. Screw that! It doesn’t matter what Malcolm thinks. We aren’t allowed to communicate prison to prison, inmate to inmate. So since our transfers to state, there’s been silence between us. The last time there was silence like this was the time Malcolm took Clarissa on a cruise, telling me he had deadlines and board meetings on the other side of the country. He left me and the girls with no money or food. He even hid the car keys. What kind of father is that? I’m done thinking of Malcolm. As for Clarissa, she can have him.
I wonder what kind of mood Shelia will be in when she comes back. I hope court goes well for her. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Last time, she brought me half of the bologna sandwich she was too nervous to eat. That, and a rotten apple. I swear, they don’t care if we die of food poisoning in here. At least it was something extra. And apples can be used to make liquor. It’s amazing the things we’ve come up with in here to keep ourselves entertained. I
hope Rob—her dead baby’s father—isn’t in court. That will set her off. She won’t even speak his name. I’ve only ever seen it on court paperwork, which I read to her when the words get too hard. Personally, I think she cares way too much for her own good. She says he doesn’t understand her and that he’s got it all wrong about what happened to their son. Shelia should talk to him. Or better yet, let him go. What kind of life can they have together with her locked up and him free to meet his own Clarissa?
Shelia’s back and driving me crazy. I get to pretend she’s not because it’s not worth her demanding I give her the bottom bunk back. It hurts my back to climb that high. She has youth and three less years on her side. Still, I can’t stand listening to her cry. It’s making my ears bleed. I tell her to write a letter to Rob, that she doesn’t even have to mail it. She can read it to me. If she says too much, it could damage her in trial. Last time, Rob brought her letter directly to the prosecutor. What kind of husband is that? Rob told her in court that being a father came first and that he’d never forgive her.
If Shelia’s mood improves later, we’ll make bag nachos from canteen Fritos in the dayroom microwave. That dayroom is a lifeline. Sometimes when the guards are in the right mood, I’m able to watch my morning shows.
I nudge Shelia’s mattress with my left foot, a thing we do, telling her everything is going to be okay.
“Shut up,” she says. “This is all your fault. You’re the one who told me to stop talking to him in the first place. Now he hates me even more. He showed up in court with some blonde and said I stopped writing because I was trying to cover it up. He wasn’t wearing his wedding band. Thanks a lot.”
“I was trying to help. He was using everything you wrote against you with the lawyers.”
“I know.” She sighs, shaking her head. She wipes a tear away with the back of her hand. “I have no idea what to even write.”
“Let me help you,” I say, standing on my bunk and peering over her part of the bed. “It’ll be all right. I promise.”
13 Night Terrors Page 11
