738 Days: A Novel

by Stacey Kade

  “Amanda, hey,” I say quickly, stuffing my hands in my pockets because I don’t know what else to do with them. My heart is beating too fast, and I can feel my nervousness written all over my face. Elise’s plan is dependent on Amanda’s enthusiasm bubbling up and smoothing over any weirdness, but this all just feels awkward and wrong.

  Amanda glances at me for a split second and then back to the photographers, almost in dismissal.

  Then I see it click. Her whole body stiffens.

  You hear about people freezing in place, but I’ve never really seen it happen until now. It’s like every muscle in her body decided to seize up all at once. Her hand on the register drawer contracts in a painful-looking claw, and then she’s staring at me, her dark eyes huge in her whiter-than-white face.

  It would be almost comical except for the sheer terror in her expression. Her mouth works as if she wants to scream, but no sound is coming out.

  I feel the urge to look behind me for whatever is causing this reaction, but I already know.

  Oh, no, no, no. I take another step toward her. “Amanda, I—” I try again, and my voice breaks with the strain to sound normal, unthreatening.

  But she throws her hands up in defense, catching the open register drawer in the process. Coins spray out everywhere as she drops to the ground, crouching behind the wall of her register cubicle, and it’s my turn to freeze.

  I don’t care how much research Elise (or Nadia) did on Amanda Grace, the Miracle Girl. Whatever I am, or more accurately, whatever Chase Henry is, to this girl, “hero” is definitely not it. Not even fucking close.

  3

  Amanda

  Weird things sometimes trigger flashbacks.

  Most of the time, the causes are obvious, expected even. The distinctive reek of stale cigarette smoke on someone’s clothing; the bitter, metallic taste of blood in my mouth when I accidentally bite my cheek; a raspy male voice that sounds like Jakes’s; ragged fingernails with dirt caked beneath them.

  But other times, it’s bizarre the connections my brain chooses to make. The first time Liza made bacon after I came home, I ended up on the bathroom floor in a cold sweat. I couldn’t figure it out until I talked it through with my therapist at the time. Apparently, the bacon smelled too much like hot dogs, which I’d eaten daily in my basement cell. Sometimes warmed up, sometimes not. By the end, I could barely choke them down in either state. And evidently, cooking bacon had a similar enough scent to set off the memories.

  I will live happily for the rest of my life never, ever laying eyes on another hot dog, but I miss bacon, damnit. One more thing taken from me.

  So, in theory, there is nothing about arguing with Mrs. Cahill about the condition of her lettuce to trip a flashback. She wants half price because it’s “too wilted,” which is what she always says. It might help if she didn’t put it in her cart first thing and then proceed to pile everything on top of it. Also, half price on a buck twenty-nine? Please.

  I am vaguely aware of the commotion behind me, near the doors, but three hours into my shift, I’m basically numb, overwhelmed by the constant state of alertness. I hate Sample Sundays.

  Then someone calls my name.

  I turn to see photographers, paparazzi, leaning in through the doors and taking pictures through the windows.

  Someone must be doing some kind of retrospective on my story for the anniversary, even though I’d said no to all the interview requests. Miracle Girl rises again. Great.

  Just as I’m about to ask Andy, the nearest bag boy, to run and tell Mr. Logan, the owner, to call the cops on them, someone else says my name. Much closer. And the voice sounds so familiar.

  I see the guy standing at the end of my lane, just a few feet away, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He’s absurdly and out-of-place handsome, tall and blond with dark blue eyes, and watching me with a familiar look of concern.

  The world tips sideways, and I can’t breathe.

  Chase Henry. Chase Henry is here.

  The store windows behind him flicker out of existence, replaced by boarded-up windows and peeling green paint on concrete walls. I’m not in Logan’s anymore—was I ever? Sometimes it’s so hard to tell what’s real and what my brain has created to help me survive—I’m back in the basement at Jonathon Jakes’s house.

  The air feels too thick, choking me every time I try to inhale. The band around my wrist is warm from the heat of my skin and blood as the metal bites into my flesh. My body aches again, that bone-deep pain, with bruises and abuse. I want to scream, but my voice is trapped in my throat, like a bubble I can’t force out. How did I get back here? I was out, wasn’t I?

  Chase looks alarmed, staring at me. Oh God, that can’t be good. He’s always the calm one.

  He takes a step toward me. “Amanda, I—”

  Overhead, the distinctive shuffle/thump of Jakes walking on the floor above makes bits of dirt and insulation rain down on my head.

  The sound of Jakes, obviously alive and, if not well, certainly not dead, is like a punch to the gut.

  No. No, no, no! He’s supposed to be shot, in the ground. Gone.

  You didn’t really believe that, did you? The evil voice in my head is back, the one that keeps me awake at night by bringing up awful memories and all the things I should have done.

  I drop to the floor, whimpering, my hands up in defense. I can’t do this. Not again.

  Then a flash of red moves through my vision. I blink, and Mia is suddenly in front of me, blocking most of my view of Chase. She’s pushing at his shoulders, moving him away.

  For a second, just a half moment, I’m confused. Mia was never in Jakes’s basement; as often as he threatened it, it never happened. I know that.

  And that’s all it takes for reality to snap back into place.

  The basement vanishes, and I’m on the floor in Logan’s, in my register cubicle. My hands and feet are numb. Coins in all denominations lay scattered around me.

  Slowly, sound trickles back in. I can hear the buzz of agitated voices, the beeping of a distant register, and my sister shouting at someone.

  No more basement, no more Jakes. It’s like living in The Matrix.

  But one thing from that flashback is very real. Chase Henry. I can see him over the wall. He’s still here, walking backward, his hands up in defense against Mia, who’s after him like a girl possessed.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” she screams, taking another swipe at him. “You just show up here? Don’t you know? Get out!”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t—”

  His eyes lock with mine, and then he turns abruptly without another word and walks out. I feel the strangest twinge of something. Regret? It’s fleeting, gone before I can identify it.

  Andy kneels next to me at the entrance to my register cubicle, his eyes wide above his acne-scarred cheeks. “Are you okay?” He’s careful to keep distance between us.

  But it’s not enough and too much at the same time. I’m not safe. It’s not safe here. The words beat as a refrain in my head, keeping time with my racing heartbeat.

  “I have to go. I have to … I just have to go.” I push myself up to stand on shaking legs. I have to get out of here. Now. Everyone’s staring at me, and that’s not good, but it isn’t enough to stop me.

  I can feel the pressure hanging overhead, the sensation that something bad is going to break open and pour down over all of us. I don’t even know what that bad thing is, but I can sense it, the same way you can feel a heavy July thunderstorm rolling in. And I can’t fight it, not this time.

  Logical, rational thought would indicate that this is just an anxiety attack. A natural reaction to my body offloading a crap-ton of adrenaline into my system, a system now customized and shaped after years of trauma to leap immediately to the flight-or-fight instinct at the first sign of trouble, imagined or not.

  Knowing that should be enough. And maybe on another day, if I’d caught the anxiety train on the tracks at the top of the h
ill instead of the bottom, it might have been.

  But true clinical anxiety gives zero fucks about logic and rational thought, and when I’m in the throes of it, neither do I.

  I push past Andy and run.

  “Amanda, wait!” Mia shouts after me, but I ignore her and the photographers and everyone and head to the back of the store. There’s a delivery entrance through the storeroom. It opens up to a small employee parking lot. From there, if I cut around the side of the building, I can avoid the cameras and I’ll be heading the right direction for home, which is only three blocks away.

  Five minutes. Maybe less. Just keep it together. A few more minutes. You’re okay.

  But it’s hard to accept that when the sky feels like a gaping maw preparing to spit some unknown form of disaster on your head.

  Mia catches up with me as I reach the parking lot. “Amanda, stop! It’s okay, please!”

  But it’s like I’m controlled by someone or something other than myself. I don’t care what she says. My instinct is screaming “danger,” and that’s all that matters.

  I shake my head at her, the most I can do, and keep moving.

  She stays with me doggedly, a step behind, as I race home, and she’s crying. But her ragged sobs are interspersed with strings of creative and furious epithets that only Mia would come up with (“son of a llama-licker motherfucker” might have been one insult or two—it was impossible to tell), which would have made me laugh under different circumstances.

  When our house comes into sight, I put on an extra burst of speed up the path, onto the porch, and through the front door, which is standing open. I just need to be safe. I feel like a beating heart exposed without the protection of skin and bone.

  “No, thank you, she’s here now,” my mom says into the phone, watching me from the doorway to the kitchen as I throw myself into the foyer like a marathon runner stretching for the finish line.

  She hangs up on whoever called without even saying good-bye, her forehead pinched deeply with worry. “Amanda, are you okay?” She approaches me with her hands out, as if she means to hug me or hold me still, but then she hesitates. “What happened? Where’s Mia?”

  The panic roaring in my head dies down a little, as I attempt to catch my breath. It’s better here, in familiar surroundings, but it’s not enough. My legs are jelly from running and shaking with the desire to keep going. I can feel that jittery push inside me, the need to stay one step ahead of whatever is coming.

  Standing there on the worn blue and white rug that used to serve as the ocean for our Barbies when Liza and I played years ago, I try to talk myself out of it. I’m safe. Nothing is going to happen here. Mom is right here.

  But that itch, that undeniable sensation sending up the alarm, Danger, danger, danger! just won’t let up.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper to my mom, tears burning my eyes. I’m not sure if I’m crying for her or me or both of us. She wants so badly for me to finally get my life back. So do I.

  “What?” She looks baffled. “Amanda, talk to me. Tell me—”

  Behind me, Mia rips open the screen door and crashes into the foyer. Snatches of her breathless explanation drift upward as I pound up the stairs.

  “Chase Henry … at the store … Amanda freaked out … hauled ass out of there … so going to be fired!” From Mia’s plaintive wail on that last part, I’m pretty sure she’s talking about her employment status, not mine.

  I cross the threshold into my bedroom, my sanctuary, and close the door behind me. It’s pretty much unchanged from when I was “gone.” Dusty stuffed animals hold court on a shelf above my dresser with Mrs. Stuffykins as Queen. Old calendar pages featuring baby rabbits are plastered on the side of my desk. Photos torn out of BOP and Seventeen and campus pictures secretly cut from Liza’s discarded college recruitment brochures (“Just because I don’t want them anymore, Amanda, doesn’t mean they’re yours. God!”) randomly decorate the walls, all at about the height of five feet. Eye level for me then and now. A rumpled pink flyer on my bulletin board advertises show choir tryouts my sophomore year. They took place two days after I vanished.

  My mom offered to have it all cleaned up and repainted, to replace the curtains, the comforter, everything. But that triggered a colossal fight between my parents. Apparently, my dad read an article or talked to one of my many therapists (probably Dr. Leary, his favorite) and “drastic changes to the environment” were verboten for people like me. Whatever.

  It’s a shallow, suffocating kind of comfort, the sameness of my room. It’s a memorial to the Amanda who was and who, I’m beginning to think, never will be again.

  The closet beckons, offering a soothing dark corner, a door to draw shut on the world, eliminating all chance of being surprised, scared, or taken. Eliminating all chance of living, too.

  I take a few steps deeper into my room to stand across from the partially open sliding door. Tags on my new clothes, purchased by my mother over the last year and a half, flutter in the breeze from the ceiling fan. I can’t wear them, the clothes. They’re all bright and happy, with snappy colors and stripes, crisp sleeves and hems. Some of them are even short-sleeved. More evidence of my mother’s fierce—and possibly delusional—belief that I will, one day, be “okay.”

  I hate the reminder they provide of my weakness, my inability to progress past the point where fear controls my every decision.

  I have plans, things I want to do with a future I once thought I would never have. But none of that matters if I can’t get this under control.

  “Amanda, are you going to hurt yourself?” my mom asks through my bedroom door, startling me. Her voice holds a forced sternness, and I can hear the quiver of uncertainty in it. Someone has told her to take this approach. “I need you to tell me what you’re planning,” she says.

  “No, I’m fine,” I manage. “I just need a minute.”

  Which is both true and not true. I am most definitely not fine, though I don’t have any intention of taking pills or cutting my wrists or whatever this random expert has warned her of. I don’t need to. I’m contemplating crawling into a closet to hide; what life is there to end?

  “I’m calling Dr. Knaussen,” she says, her footsteps fading away.

  But I already know what Dr. Knaussen will say. She’ll call it a setback—such a nice, tidy term to represent a messy spillage of emotions and chaos. Normal in the recovery process, expected even, when encountering a surprise trigger, like Chase-freaking-Henry at my job.

  Why was he even here? Two years ago, after the television interview and all those articles where his name was thrown around, that would have made sense. But now?

  It doesn’t matter. If it weren’t him, it would have been something else eventually. The fear is endless, and I can’t seem to break free.

  It takes only a few seconds to shove all my shoes down to the other end of the closet, making room for myself to the sound of my tears landing on the hardwood floor with quiet splats.

  And the moment my back is tucked against the corner, miserable relief spreads through me, instantaneous and enormous, like a giant splinter removed from my whole body. I don’t even have to pull the door closed. This time.

  I press my fist to my mouth and scream silently against my skin.

  Because this is not the setback Dr. Knaussen would like me to believe it is; that would imply forward progress at some point. It’s been two years, and I’ve stalled out, seemingly for good. This is just my life. And I don’t know what to do, how to make it better.

  Even worse, I’m not sure it can be made better.

  * * *

  I wake, my neck stiff and aching. The room outside my closet is blue with twilight. I must have fallen asleep, though I don’t remember dozing off.

  My fingers clutch at my left wrist automatically, confirming that I’m still free. It’s a compulsion, an OCD-like tic, to check my arm first thing, every time I wake up. It started when I was in the hospital and the nightmares were so vivid, I couldn’t
always tell what was real.

  As always, my skin is bare but for the cuff of my shirt and the scar from the band that held my chain.

  My face is sticky with dried tears, and my knees are aching from my cramped position.

  Experimentally, I stretch my legs out toward the heap of shoes on the other end, the muscles releasing reluctantly in a sea of pins and needles.

  In a fit of frustration, I kick at the offending pile of footwear. Hiding in the closet is just one step too far, moving from “pretty understandable response to trauma” to “batshit crazy.”

  Sighing, I tip my head back, the coolness of the drywall soothing through my hair.

  “… never would have happened, Claire, if you hadn’t let her take that job.”

  I lift my head up. That’s my dad’s voice. My mom must have called him at his office. He sounds pissed. Crap.

  “No,” my mom says sharply, “it was the television interview that started all of this … but if you were more involved—”

  “Don’t blame me,” Liza snaps. “Dr. Shapiro recommended it. And it worked exactly as planned … got the press off the front lawn. I didn’t know they would run with the Chase Henry bullet point…”

  Oh God. They’re fighting again.

  I lean sideways, peering out from the closet. My bedroom door is now open. Someone has been in to check on me. But there’s no one here now.

  The voices sound like they’re coming from downstairs. The kitchen, probably.

  “It’s not my fault! Just because I wanted to get a job. Most parents would be thrilled!” That’s definitely Mia. I can hear her clearly enough. People in the next county can hear her clearly enough.

  I groan. I need to get down there, reassure them that I’m all right. But I don’t feel any strong motivation to leave the safety of my homemade hidey-hole. The panic has passed, for the moment. My heartbeat has slowed into the range of normal, and the driving beat of impending doom has receded. Finally.