The Stranger Behind You

by Carol Goodman

  Around that time, I also read an article about Michelle Thomas’s research on the history of women’s prisons in the United States (available at https://digitalcommons.butler.edu/jiass/vol17/iss1/12). I was surprised to learn that there were Magdalen Refuges in this country, and even more surprised to learn that there had been one in Inwood, a neighborhood at the northern tip of Manhattan near where my husband grew up and where both my daughters now live. When I told my husband, he was surprised too. Although his mother had grown up in the neighborhood and he’d played in Inwood Park, exploring the caves and the foundations of the old Guggenheim estate, he’d never heard of there being a Magdalen Refuge where the park is now. Nor does it appear in Reverend William Tieck’s 1968 history of northern Manhattan. The existence of the Refuge seemed to have vanished from living memory for many years, as if it were an embarrassment. The few references I found were in a community website that led me to contemporary newspaper articles describing the Refuge’s architecture, riots, and ill-fated escape attempts. I found myself thinking that this was the kind of place my mother could have been sent to, as her brothers ended up in Catholic orphanages, if she hadn’t stayed on the right side of the tracks.

  For the fictional world of The Stranger Behind You I resurrected the Refuge, kept it open until the early 1940s (the real building was demolished in the ’30s), and had the building restored into a fancy apartment house with a sweeping view of the Hudson River and a reputation for security—a place that offers safety but is haunted by the ghosts who found no refuge there. I sent my two female protagonists, Joan and Melissa, there to reckon with the trauma of assault and the fallout surrounding the exposure of a sexual predator. I wanted them to find the safety and peace that so eluded my mother, but only after they had reckoned with the truth. I wanted to tell this story because we can’t build a safe—or just or free—world by burying the secrets of the past or hiding injustices, or by telling only part of the story. We can only find true refuge by knowing the truth.

  Reading Group Guide

  Joan doesn’t report the attack. Why not? What do you think of this choice? Why is it that women don’t always report sexual misconduct or abuse?

  How culpable do you think Melissa is for living with a sexual predator? Should she have been able to tell what her husband was really like? Could she have done something about his behavior?

  In her study on Magdalen laundries in the United States, the scholar Michelle Jones states that “we seem to have lost all memory of them” and that “this historical amnesia hinders our understanding of prisons and marginalized women.” Were you surprised to learn that there really was a Magdalen asylum in New York City in the early years of the twentieth century? Do our history books focus enough on the history of how women were treated in the past? Why is it important to uncover this history?

  Both Lillian and Joan have suffered a traumatic event. What are the long-term effects—the “sequelae”—of trauma? Is there any way to heal from this kind of trauma?

  What do you think the #MeToo movement has accomplished? Why did it take so long for women to speak up against their abusers? Do you think there are any negative aspects to the movement?

  Joan feels that her mother gave up on her dreams of becoming an artist and gave into her own mother’s fears when she moved out of the city and went back upstate. Do you think Joan’s assessment is correct? Are there times when it’s better to give up on a dream and choose safety?

  Joan becomes increasingly agoraphobic after she moves to the Refuge and begins to feel as trapped there as the inmates of the Magdalen Refuge had. Why does she feel that way? How do our choices sometimes cause us to feel trapped—and how can we escape?

  Melissa is determined to uncover the truth about her husband, and she goes to extreme lengths to find out what Joan knows. Do you think she is justified in her actions? How ethical is her behavior? How do our priorities sometimes get in the way of doing the “right” thing?

  Do you think that Lillian was a hallucination caused by Joan’s concussion or do you think she was a ghost?

  In the final scene the ashes of Lillian and Rose are disbursed between the orchard, where they felt safe, and the river, where they felt free. Are these two qualities—freedom and safety—always in conflict? Can we ever have both?

  Read On

  An Excerpt from The Sea of Lost Girls

  Chapter One

  The phone wakes me as if it were sounding an alarm inside my chest. What now, it rings, what now what now what now.

  I know it’s Rudy. The phone is set to ring for only two people—Harmon and Rudy (At least I made the short list, Harmon once joked)—and Harmon is next to me in bed. Besides, what has Harmon ever brought me but comfort and safety? But Rudy . . .

  The phone has stopped ringing by the time I grab it but there is a text on the screen.

  Mom?

  I’m here, I text back. My thumb hovers over the keypad. If he were here maybe I could slip in baby, like I used to call him when he woke up from nightmares, but you can’t text that to your seventeen-year-old son. What’s up? I thumb instead. Casual. As if it isn’t—I check the numbers on top of the screen—2:50 in the freaking morning.

  I watch the three gray dots in the text bubble on the left side of the screen darken and fade in a sequence meant to represent a pregnant pause. The digital equivalent of a hm. What tech genius thought that up? my Luddite husband would demand.

  I get up, shielding the screen against my chest so the light won’t wake Harmon, and go into the bathroom. When I look at the screen the text bubble has vanished.

  Damn.

  I try calling but am sent immediately to voicemail. I type a question mark, and then stare at its baldness. Will he read it as nagging? If I can hear his eight-year-old voice in a single typed word, he can no doubt see my raised eyebrows and impatient frown in one punctuation mark.

  I add a puzzled emoji face and then a chicken and a helicopter. Mother hen. Helicopter parent. If I make fun of my own fears maybe he won’t get mad. And maybe they won’t come true. I am propitiating the jealous gods, spitting over my shoulder, knocking on wood.

  I wait, sitting on the toilet seat. Where is he? What’s happened? A car accident? A drug overdose? A breakup with his girlfriend? I should be more worried about the first two possibilities but it’s the thought that Lila has broken up with him that squeezes my heart. She’s been such a good influence this year. Lila Zeller, a sweet, vegan, straight-A student from Long Island who likes to read and cook and hang out on our front porch. Who makes eye contact with Harmon and me, unlike the Goth horrors Rudy dated in tenth and eleventh grades. Under Lila’s influence Rudy has done better in school, quit smoking, joined the track team, taken a lead part in the senior play, got it together to apply to college, and even stopped having the nightmares. Aside from stocking the fridge with almond milk and tofu, I’ve tried not to let on how much I like her lest Rudy decide she’s one of my enthusiasms and give her up the way he gave up violin, soccer, judo, and books.

  It’s too much pressure, he once told me, when I see how much you care.

  Maybe I’ve played it too cool. Lila hasn’t been around much in the last few weeks. I’d chalked it up to finals week and play rehearsals. Lila is directing The Crucible and Rudy is playing John Proctor. Tonight was the premiere but I didn’t go because Rudy said he’d be too nervous if I were in the audience. I am “allowed” to go to tomorrow’s performance. Jean Shire, Haywood’s headmistress and a good friend, texted earlier to tell me that the play had gone well and that Rudy had been outstanding. She sent me a picture of Rudy smiling jubilantly. What went wrong between then and—I check the time—3:01 A.M.?

  Eleven minutes have gone by since he texted. Where is he? I picture him lying in a burned-out squat in Lisbon Falls or Lewiston, one of those inland towns that run like a dark afterthought to the coastal villages the tourists favor. When we landed here in this pretty harbor town with its sailboats and white clapboard houses I’d tho
ught we’d come to a place where we’d always be safe. But Rudy has always had a nose for the darkness.

  I do have a way of locating him, I realize. Because we’re on the same phone plan I can use the Find My Phone app to track him down. I try not to use it because I know Rudy would consider this surveillance, an invasion of his privacy. But this is an emergency.

  I’m opening it up when the text alert pings.

  Can you come get me?

  Sure, I text back. I can imagine Harmon saying, At three in the morning, Tess? You don’t even know where he is. But what does that matter? If he texted me from California I’d get in the car and start driving.

  Where are you? I text.

  I wait as the three dots pulse at the rate of my heartbeat. The police station? The hospital? A ditch by the side of the road? Where has my wayward son found himself tonight?

  SP, he types back.

  The safe place.

  It was a code we came up with when Rudy was four. If things are bad, go to the safe place and wait for me there; I’ll come get you. We haven’t used the code in years. Haven’t had to. What’s happened that Rudy has to use it now?

  OMW, I type back, which the phone transforms into an overly cheery On my way!

  When I get out of the bathroom I notice Harmon isn’t in bed. No doubt he’s gone to the guest room, where he often goes when I’m restless. Rudy isn’t the only one who has nightmares.

  I’m glad now that I don’t have to answer any questions. Harmon will be sympathetic but I don’t think I can bear the look of disappointment on his face. The what’s-Rudy-gotten-himself-into-this-time look.

  I dress quickly and warmly: jeans, turtleneck, sweater, wool socks. It’s been mild for the last few days but the Maine winter hasn’t let go of the nights yet, even in late May. Rudy won’t be dressed for it. Downstairs, I grab a folded sweatshirt from the top of the radiator in the mudroom. I left it there for Harmon so it would be warm for his morning run, but he and Rudy wear the same size and I’ve long since lost track of which XL purple-and-gold Haywood Academy sweatshirt belongs to whom. I’ll replace it when I get back before Harmon wakes up.

  The clock above the stove tells me it’s 3:06. Almost twenty minutes have gone by since Rudy’s first text. Twenty minutes he’s spent sitting in the cold.

  When I get outside I see that it’s not only cold, it’s foggy; a thick white blanket obliterates the village and bay. The coast road will be dangerous to drive. But except for a footpath that cuts across campus there’s no other way to get to where Rudy is. I feel better when I slide into the Subaru Forester’s heated seats, grateful for the warmth and the solid bulk of the car as I navigate down our steep driveway and out onto the coast road.

  Although I can’t see more than ten feet ahead of me, the reflective markers on the median guide me to the flashing red light before the bridge that connects the village to the school grounds. As with much of coastal Maine the land here is broken up by waterways and pieced together by bridges and causeways like a tattered garment that’s been darned. Like me, I sometimes think, like the life I’ve pieced together for Rudy and me. No wonder Rudy doesn’t trust it; no wonder he’s prone to outbursts. When I get really mad, he told me once, everything goes black.

  The thought of Rudy lost in that darkness had caught at my heart. We came up with a strategy. We agreed that whenever he felt angry he’d just walk away. Go someplace where he could be alone and cool down. That must be what happened tonight. He’d fought with Lila and then walked away to the safe place and waited for me. Because that’s what I’d always told him to do. I made a promise to Rudy once that I’d always come find him in the safe place. I’ve broken many promises over the years but never that one.

  Through the fog I can make out a blaze of light coming from Duke Hall. The percussive boom of rap music and a high-pitched scream make me wonder if I should call Jean Shire and alert her to the after-hours partying, but then I’d have to explain what I’m doing on the coast road at three-fifteen in the morning. Besides, last night was the cast party for The Crucible. And it’s finals week. They’re just letting off steam.

  Duke’s a horrible party dorm, Lila had complained, I’m so glad I can hang out here.

  I had been thrilled she wanted to hang out at her boyfriend’s parents’ house—even though both those parents teach at her school. Two years ago when we agreed to let Rudy live on campus I had promised both him and Harmon that I wouldn’t “hover over” Rudy. He could totally ignore us, which is what he did until he met Lila, who, homesick for her close-knit family back on Long Island, was charmed by the idea of having access to an off-campus house. She was the one who had suggested to Rudy they buy food and cook in our kitchen and bring their laundry over.

  “I thought we were going to be empty-nesters,” Harmon had complained.

  “Shut up,” I told him. “She’s a good influence.” And in fact, Harmon had grown fond of her too, even volunteering to help her with her essay for the local historical society scholarship contest.

  I park in the lot behind Duke and in front of Warden House, so called because it was the warden’s house back in the nineteenth century when the school was the Refuge for Wayward Girls. Rudy and I had lived here when it was faculty housing. Behind the house a peninsula juts into the sea, one of those fingers of land that clutch at the ocean along the Maine coast. This one ends in a promontory called the Point, perhaps because it seems to be pointing directly to Maiden Island, a bare rock separated from the peninsula by a quarter-mile sand-and-stone causeway that’s only passable at low tide. Every year the coast guard holds an assembly about the dangers of crossing the causeway that only seems to increase its appeal.

  When I get out of the car I can hear the dense pines that stand sentinel over the peninsula creaking in the salt-laced wind . . . and something else.

  A sound like a girl crying.

  I freeze and listen. It could just be the wind in the trees or the mournful sigh of the tide retreating over the rocks below the coastal path, but then, peering through the fog, I catch a glimpse of something white that looks like a girl running through the woods.

  What if it’s Lila? I think.

  I walk in between the trees, wending my way slowly through the fog until I come to the clearing with the stone circle where students build bonfires and tell ghost stories about the spirits of the nine Abenaki sisters who drowned on the causeway. Tonight the circle is empty, but as I stand here I remember the ghosts who are said to haunt these woods. I can almost hear them . . .

  Praise for Carol Goodman and The Sea of Lost Girls

  “Carol Goodman is a superb writer, and she explores family and small-town dynamics in a way that’s both suspenseful and touchingly real. The Sea of Lost Girls features a fascinating cast of characters, an intriguing setting—and enough shocking twists to leave you breathless. I loved it.”

  —Alison Gaylin, Edgar Award–winning author of Never Look Back

  “Readers will have a hard time putting this one down thanks to Goodman’s storytelling powers.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “You can always call upon Carol Goodman when you need an atmospheric and twisting tale.”

  —Lori Rader-Day, Mary Higgins Clark Award–winning author of Under a Dark Sky

  “Secrets and lies hidden for decades now threaten to be revealed, and the truth may be more complex than anyone imagined. Verdict: Another strong, well-plotted suspense novel from Goodman, this is recommended for psychological suspense collections. Women’s fiction aficionados may also want to give it a try.”

  —Library Journal

  “Carol Goodman is, simply put, a stellar writer.”

  —Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author of The Red Hunter

  “[Goodman] offers puzzles and twists galore but still tells a human story.”

  —Boston Globe

  “Goodman specializes in atmospheric literary thrillers.”

  —Denver Post

  Also by Ca
rol Goodman

  The Lake of Dead Languages

  The Seduction of Water

  The Drowning Tree

  The Ghost Orchid

  The Sonnet Lover

  The Night Villa

  Arcadia Falls

  River Road

  The Widow’s House

  The Other Mother

  The Night Visitors

  The Sea of Lost Girls

  CHILDREN’S AND YOUNG ADULT

  Blythewood

  Ravencliffe

  Hawthorn

  The Metropolitans

  AS JULIET DARK

  The Demon Lover

  The Water Witch

  The Angel Stone

  AS LEE CARROLL (WITH LEE SLONIMSKY)

  Black Swan Rising

  The Watchtower

  The Shape Stealer

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  P.S.TM is a trademark of HarperCollins Publishers.

  THE STRANGER BEHIND YOU. Copyright © 2021 by Carol Goodman. Excerpt from THE SEA OF LOST GIRLS © 2020 by Carol Goodman. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.