Deliver Her: A Novel

by Patricia Perry Donovan

  The woman had the nerve to sit on Alex’s bed, motioning to a pile on a storage cube. “Your mom put clothes out. Get up now and get dressed.”

  Alex’s heart began to pound in tandem with her temples. These people were serious. Could they really take her? “Wait a sec. I mean, I have rights, don’t I? This is, like, child abuse.”

  “This is perfectly legal, Alex. I’ll leave you with Officer Murphy to get ready,” the man said, lifting a camouflage cap to rub his head. “And let’s get a move on. No telling how many folks will be headed to New England this weekend.”

  New England? Alex’s palms grew clammy. She’d been crystal clear about her feelings on that subject when her mom dragged her out to the promenade for coffee. She wouldn’t, would she? Panicked, Alex stared at the man, whose hand rested on her doorknob.

  “I’ll be just outside the door.”

  Alex crossed her arms. “I’m going nowhere. I already told my mother that. And you guys could be some child molesters, for all I know.” She groped around her comforter for a cigarette and lit one. She was forbidden to smoke in the house—to smoke at all, actually—but the heck with that. “Where’s my mom? She can’t make me do this.”

  “Actually, she can. You’re still a minor.” Quicker than Alex, Camo Man neatly deflected the empty Coke can Alex grabbed from beside her bed and leveled at him, dropping it into her wastepaper basket. She didn’t even know where her own reflex had come from or when the jackhammers began their assault on her chest. She only knew her heart was beating so hard she was terrified she might pass out.

  Camo Man pulled a white handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his hand. “That’s not going to help, Alex.”

  “I don’t care. I need to talk to my mom. Mom,” she cried. Out of bed now, Alex stumbled over old breakfast dishes and clothes to her door. Camo Man blocked her path and grabbed her wrist—not tight, but still. Mom Haircut was on the other side like a shot.

  “Your mom left.” His voice was irritatingly calm, like he was talking to a very young child. Or a mental patient. “You can talk to her later. It’s time to get dressed and cooperate.”

  Trapped, she rested her forehead on the door, her stomach in overdrive. I should puke on their shoes. “I’ll just run away.”

  “Alex, your mother told me what a smart girl you are,” Carl said.

  The same bull her mom handed her all the time. “I’m smart enough not to go anywhere with you.”

  The man’s grip loosened. “Look at it this way. At least you don’t have to go to school today. Excused absence and everything.” Was he busting her behind the aviators? She couldn’t tell.

  “Right, road trip,” Murphy chirped. “We’ve got movies, snacks—the works.”

  Bribing her with a load of Disney films. This was turning into a bad comedy routine, a nightmare Dr. Drew. Or maybe it was that other TV doctor, the bald one. She couldn’t remember.

  They turned her around slowly in a weird three-way dance. “This program will help you figure things out,” the man said. “And I can tell you definitively: cooperating is your better option.

  Let the powers that be warm the path you will tread;

  No journey’s harder than the one in your head.

  He had to be kidding. The dude was singing the chorus from Amphibian’s “Cloud Path.” Alex was obsessed with the second track on the Rainmaker album; Cass had covered an entire notebook with the lyrics. Even more surprising, Camo Man could totally sing, nailing the trademark tremor of Amphibian’s lead singer, Ace Ackerman.

  She glanced at the poster over her bed and bit her lip. No way he was a true Phib; this had to be a head game. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of even mentioning it.

  “I’ll leave you now to get dressed.” Carl released his grip. Murphy still held her other arm. “And one more thing. Give me that cigarette.”

  She took a long, defiant drag, staring at the warped version of herself in his stupid sunglasses, weighing her options. Maybe with him in the hall, she could work on the woman. She stabbed her cigarette into a milky cereal bowl on her desk. “Fine.”

  Nodding to Mom Haircut, Camo Man slipped out of her room. How could her mother do this?! Didn’t she realize how super-stressed she was about everything? Alex kicked the clothes off her storage cube. “One thing’s for sure. I’m not wearing those. I’ll look like a nun.”

  “Then I’d suggest long pants and a warm top. It’s still pretty chilly in New Hampshire.”

  New Hampshire. That at least narrowed it down a little. Now was her chance. Alex sat on the cube, summoning every fiber of sweetness the early hour would allow. “I think there’s been a mistake. I totally planned to go to school today. So if you could just, like, get my mom on the phone, we can figure this out?” Her voice did that question-marky thing at the end that Cass hated. She forced a smile.

  “I can’t do that, Alex.”

  Alex’s stomach felt like it was jammed on the twisty part of the washing machine. “My dad, then. He’ll be cool with me—”

  “Get dressed, Alex.” Mom Haircut’s tone was irritatingly final, like her mother’s often was.

  Alex opened a drawer, deliberately drawing out the process, holding up one bottom after another, settling on leggings. Bending over to pull them on made the walls whirl; she pressed a hand on the floor to steady herself. Why hadn’t she stayed home last night, like Shana had?

  Behind her, the woman had a chirpy comment about everything. “Lava lamp, huh? I had one when I was your age. Had the incense, beaded curtains, the whole nine yards.”

  Shut up. Alex dug in her closet for socks. Her mistake had been coming home at all last night; she should have told Evan to keep going.

  Evan. He always went to school late. He’d rescue her. One sock on, she lunged for her phone to text him. Mom Haircut beat her to the punch, pocketing the phone and coiling the power cord into a neat bundle.

  Alex stomped her bare foot. “You can’t do that. If you’re gonna drag me all the way to New Hampshire, I at least get to keep my phone.”

  “These are the rules, Alex.” Murphy pocketed the charger, then swept Alex’s bag off the floor where she had thrown it last night.

  Did this woman think she was airport security? “That’s an invasion of privacy. You need, like, a search warrant,” Alex protested.

  Apparently she didn’t. Alex was under eighteen and in her parents’ home. And since her lovely parents had given these two permission to ruin her life, Mom Haircut was entirely justified in rummaging through her bag, where a three-pack of condoms rested at the bottom, Alex remembered, squirming. Shana had thrown them in as a joke. Would anything else in the bag incriminate her? She couldn’t remember. That was the problem with weed. It was awesome at helping you forget stuff, but sometimes it took away things you wanted to remember. She recalled the humiliation of Evan dropping her off first, before Larke, but beyond that, things were extremely fuzzy.

  Mom Haircut handed the bag back without comment. Relieved, Alex found her suede boots under her bed and pulled them on.

  “You might want something waterproof.”

  “These are fine.”

  When Alex was dressed, the woman opened the door. Alex glanced toward Jack’s room. “Can I at least say good-bye to my brother?”

  “Jack’s not here,” the man said. He knew her brother’s name. Wasn’t it like, six in the morning? Where was Jack? Where was everybody?

  “We need to go, Alex.” The harsh hall light illuminated the woman’s gray streaks.

  “Wait! I forgot something.”

  The two exchanged a glance, and with Camo Man blocking the stairs, Alex dashed back and grabbed the purple scarf, looping it around her neck.

  Murphy walked downstairs first. Carl motioned for Alex to follow. At the bottom, they each took an arm. Tell me they’re not really going to walk me down the street like I’m a prisoner.

  “You don’t have to hold me.” She licked sweat forming over her lip.

  �
��We want to keep everyone safe,” Carl said.

  What was safe about two strangers dragging her off to no-man’s land? Her house was eerily quiet. Maybe by some miracle her father was asleep in the basement. “Dad,” she yelled.

  Camo Man tugged her toward the front door. “He’s not here either, Alex.”

  She cringed as they walked three abreast up her street—her own personal walk of shame. This must be how criminals felt. On the right, the Arnolds’ house. She used to babysit their two little girls. Past the Mitchells’ and their twin varsity-basketball-player sons. Not that she was big on jocks, but those guys were hot. How mortifying. Please, please don’t be up yet.

  After an eternity, they stopped at a regular black car. Camo Man opened the back door, and the two formed a human wall behind her.

  Light-headed, Alex stared into the car’s interior. This was not happening. If her mom had staged this crazy show to scare the crap out of her, it was working. She spun and faced them.

  “You have to talk to my mom. Tell her I’m trying. I swear.” Alex reached into her bag and produced a scrap of notebook paper. “See? Geometry problems. I went for extra help yesterday.” She dove in again for The Giver and fanned the pages, stopping at a folded-down corner. “And I’ve been reading. I stopped right here. I even went to a study group to bring my grade up.”

  “It’s too late, Alex.”

  “It can’t be. I get what my mom’s doing. I’ll do anything she says.” She spun, squelching back the tears that threatened. The woman Murphy had to have some sympathy. “Please. Tell her I’ll go back to the shrink. To school every day if she wants me to.” Alex thought she glimpsed a flicker of emotion behind the glasses. “I’m begging you. Don’t make me go.”

  They pressed closer to her. Without warning, last night roared up into Alex’s throat, and she threw up beside the car, vomit splattering the man’s boots and the tail of Cass’s scarf. Alex hung there, sweating and spitting out the sourness. Mom Haircut shoved a tissue under her face.

  “I can’t go. I’m too sick.”

  “You’ll be fine, Alex,” said Camo Man. “Take some deep breaths.”

  Were they made of stone?

  “Let me grab that scarf, Alex. It’s dirty.”

  Alex swatted away Murphy’s hand. “Don’t touch it.” They wouldn’t take that from her, too.

  Too queasy to argue, Alex let him shut her in the backseat. He stood guard until Murphy got in the other side, then he slid into the driver’s seat. Surely they’d just drive around the block to scare her. “My school’s really close. You can drop me there. Watch me. I’ll totally go in, I swear. And stay the whole entire day.”

  Murphy buckled her seat belt, motioning for Alex to do the same.

  Camo Man started the car. The GPS glowed into action. “Three hundred and one miles to destination,” the computer-generated voice chirped.

  Trapped in the backseat, Alex watched the thick blue line creep across the dashboard screen, like the heart line spanning her palm, mapping her destiny. She unclenched a fist, recalling the palm reader pressing her hand open the night of her Sweet Sixteen, tracing the light line from pinky to pointer with a roughened index finger. “Your heart line is quite long, even a little curvy,” she had observed.

  “Ask her what that means.” Cass poked her from behind.

  “I know.” Alex elbowed her back.

  “You feel very free to express your emotions and thoughts.” The reader glanced up at Alex. “Maybe sometimes too free?”

  Cass howled. “Ha. That’s so you, Alex.”

  “Very funny.”

  One line remained to interpret: Alex’s health line, from pinky back up to thumb, stretching like a smile across her palm. “That little square there is a good thing. Protection.”

  “Protection? Why would I need protection?” Turning to Cass, Alex saw her friend’s face had paled. “Let’s just go,” Cass whispered.

  “Why? This is cool. You love this stuff.”

  “I know, but not this time. She’s freaking me out.”

  “What’s to freak out about? She’s telling me I’ll be safe.”

  “I don’t care, Al. I’m getting weird vibes. Look. I’m all goose-bumpy.” She held out her arm, pimply like chicken skin. “Sorry, Al. I know this was my idea. But I’m out of here.” Cass jumped to her feet, brushing her head against the tent roof, and melted into the dancing throng, her violet wrap billowing behind her like a sail.

  MEG

  Pulling the van into the convenience store parking lot, Meg knew she would never forget the pain in Alex’s voice as she rushed out of her daughter’s room twenty minutes ago.

  She checked her watch again. When would Carl contact her? Maybe she should just go back and call the whole thing off.

  In front of her, early-morning commuters darted in and out of the market. She wanted their agendas, their petty worries.

  Jack stirred in the backseat, Angel curled next to him. The boy had barely protested when she lifted him out of bed a little before six, all warm Spider-Man pajamas, wrapping wiry legs around her waist, so groggy he didn’t even question his aunt’s presence in the van.

  Melissa had been a lifesaver to come early and wait with Jack while Meg led the transporters to Alex’s room. Once Meg came out, Melissa headed home. She didn’t think she could bear the sight of the transporters escorting her niece out of the house, she said.

  Angel leaned his paws on Jack’s shoulder and licked him into full alertness. Meg handed him a Styrofoam cup topped with a whirl of whipped cream.

  Jack frowned. “You never let me have chocolate in the car. Only Dad does.”

  “Can’t Mommy bend the rules sometimes?” She followed the cup with a handful of napkins.

  He sipped, mocha foam rimming his mouth. “Is this a holiday?”

  “Nope.”

  He glanced down at himself. “Pajama day?”

  “Nope. Just a regular day.” Meg’s phone thrummed in the cup holder. Finally. She peered at the screen:

  On our way. Next contact from rest stop.

  Sighing, Meg dropped her head back against the headrest. Step one accomplished: bedroom door to car door, the most vulnerable time. Wasn’t that what Carl had said?

  “Mommy, you OK?”

  She straightened up and swiped tears from her cheeks. “I’m fine, Jack.”

  “Was that Daddy?”

  “Nope.”

  “When’s he coming home?”

  “Not sure, bud.”

  Jack let Angel lick chocolate from his cup. “Look, Mom. I’m Angel.” He made exaggerated lapping sounds while the dog watched, entranced.

  “Great. Now I have two doggies to take care of.” She reversed the van, ignoring the middle finger of the contractor whose truck she nearly clipped, confident she’d done the right thing.

  With Alex safely in Carl Alden’s care, the hardest part was behind her.

  ALEX

  Camo Man glanced at Alex in the rearview mirror. He outlined the day’s itinerary like a bus driver on a class trip. Their ETA was around four o’clock, he said; they’d stop for lunch in Massachusetts, halfway to Silver Mountain. “After that, it’s pretty much all mountains. There will be some amazing views.”

  Like I give a crap about the scenery, Alex thought.

  They were headed north on Boston Post Road, her high school up ahead on the right. Some ass-kissers streamed in, for extra help or for the prayer group that met every morning at the crack of dawn. Alex slouched down until they were well past the building.

  She turned away more tissues from Mom Haircut, who wouldn’t let up, sticking a basket in her face. “Something to eat? Might make you feel better.”

  Sneaking a look, Alex saw chocolate-cherry energy bars, her favorite. Had her mother given them a shopping list, right down to her musical tastes? She felt like Jack, being bribed into good behavior. Sniffling, Alex stared out the window. Murphy leaned between the seats, murmuring something to Carl that Alex couldn�
��t catch. Probably some secret agent language.

  They were on Midland Avenue now, passing her store. (Old store, she corrected herself.) The surf-shop window was strung with bright bikinis and sundresses, harbingers of spring. The SAT prep-class word popped into her head unbidden: anything foreshadowing a future event; omen. Alex’s immediate future was looking pretty bleak, given this ride to nowhere.

  The window display was meant to be all hopeful and optimistic, but right now, it only made her sad. Alex had been stoned that last day when her manager Joanna called her into the stockroom. She hadn’t meant to smoke before work. Shana was giving her a ride straight from school. But then that song had come on the radio: Alex and Cass’s go-to getting-ready anthem. A block from the store, Alex began sobbing like a crazy person. There was no way she could go to work like that. So she and Shana made a little detour. She’d only been, like, twenty minutes late? But Joanna was pissed.

  “I like you, Alex. I know you’ve had a rough time,” Joanna said. “But I need somebody I can count on.”

  Alex blinked and tried to concentrate. Joanna had really big lips.

  “I know. I’m sorry.” She genuinely was. The work gave her something to focus on for a few hours. But her boss’s patience had run out. Joanna could have the stupid job, Alex had thought, alone in the stockroom. Somebody else could fold their dumb rash guards and hoodies. Her final paycheck was still at the store; she’d been too humiliated to pick it up.

  Pressing herself into the corner of the backseat, she tugged at her scarf. Cass’s scarf. Camo Man’s itinerary didn’t include a stop at the cemetery, way on the other side of town. Her mother had no idea she spent so much time there. She would probably think it was unhealthy. Who would take care of Cass while Alex was gone? Shana would never go there without her.

  They were at the highway now, merging into I-95, sucked into a nauseating blur of tractor-trailers and buses. The car’s overpowering strawberry deodorizer caught in Alex’s throat. She covered her mouth, praying her stomach wouldn’t revolt again. The Murphy woman watched her, alert as a deer, practically twitching.