by Liz Coley
So I sat at that cracked table and cried for a long while. Then I screamed for help till my throat felt bloody inside. Sorry to depress you with the details, but I wanted you to know that right at the start, I tried everything I could think of to get myself loose. I don’t want you to blame me for not trying.
I had about ten feet of length in every direction from the stove, and that was enough for me to either walk through or see the whole two-room cabin. Gray wood walls. Two rooms. No bathroom, just a chamber pot with pink roses on it. No running water. Next to the stove on one side was a cradle full of split wood that I was supposed to use to keep the fire alive. On the other side was a narrow door, which opened into the pantry. I found the salted pork in a barrel. Sure enough—it was full of salt. Ceramic crocks on the shelves were filled with oats and rice and different beans. The few spice jars had faded labels. I smelled them, but not being a cook back then, I had no clue what they were. And besides that meager collection of ingredients, all I had to work with was a huge bag of flour and another bag of sugar.
I hefted the iron pan, wondering if I could swing it fast enough to be a weapon. I worked that scene out in my head over and over, but it always ended up with me lying in a pool of blood with my head smashed, so I gave it up. No knives in sight, not even in the jar of silverware. I didn’t think I could fork him to death, not fast enough, anyway.
Not to depress or worry you, but I did consider breaking one of the ceramic crocks and using the sharp edge to off myself quickly before he could get home. I kind of liked the idea of cheating him that way, but I couldn’t do that to you, Angie. I would protect you, but not that way. So I cried while the shadows got longer. Then I lit the oil lamps, opened the cookbook, and started reading. The clock hands were moving faster and faster toward seven.
Through the back door, I saw a well pump handle. I shuffled toward it and stopped short, wrenched back by the metal cuffs scraping the fresh scabs off my ankles. What was I supposed to do for water?
Lucky for me that first day, the pitcher on the kitchen table was filled to the top with water, otherwise I never could have made a small pork and bean stew and a pile of rice. I didn’t dare waste any water rinsing the salt pork like the recipe book said I was supposed to.
When the man came in, he looked happy and excited. He rubbed his hands, kissed my cheek again. He pulled out a chair for me and sat me down. “How was your day, dear Angela?” he asked me.
“Busy,” I said carefully, and he chuckled.
His face turned soft and round. “Mine too. Crazy day at the office.”
It was completely surreal, like we were a couple on an old TV show.
He tried to pour water into the two tin cups I had put on the table, but of course, the pitcher was empty. He thumped it with a loud clatter and hurled my cup across the room. A fury possessed him, and I saw my first hint of the demon inside. He pushed back from the table, his face dark and thundery. “Angela, I’m terribly disappointed. This table is not properly set.” He smacked his fist on the table, and his spoon flew off the edge. He walked toward me, his fist still clenched.
“I’m so sorry,” I said quickly, dropping my eyes to my lap. “I couldn’t get to the well. It’s too far.” I gestured helplessly at the chains.
His face changed in less than a second. An entirely new mood. “Oh, my poor dear. All my fault. I wasn’t thinking.” He dropped to his knees next to my chair and tilted my chin back up. I held as still as a rabbit. He watched my eyes and I let nothing out, nothing at all.
Then he noticed the scabs on my ankles. He brushed them with his fingertips, and I held my frozen position. “Your poor, poor legs. You must have tried so hard to reach the water. What a good girl you are. I’ll bandage them for you after supper.”
While I sat and shook, he went out to the well and pumped another cold pitcher of water. He filled my cup and presented it to me with a gracious smile, watched me drain every precious drop, and refilled it. He dipped a spoon into the salty stew and tasted it, his eyes growing round with pleasure. He raised his cup. “To you, my dear little wife,” he said.
I don’t know what would have happened to me that first night if I didn’t have two bowls filled with a delicious dinner. I’m fairly sure it saved my life, so that’s good.
I knew perfectly well I wasn’t his wife. You don’t marry someone by stealing them and locking them in, and if he wanted a little wife, she wasn’t going to be me. Someone else could take that job.
Someone else did. She can tell you about it. I wasn’t there. I refused.
Anyway, the next morning, after the man was gone, I started making a knife out of an old spoon handle. There were nine spoons, one mismatched, and I hoped he wouldn’t miss it. I thought maybe the new girl, the Little Wife, could use it at night while he was asleep. But by the time it was sharp enough, she wouldn’t take it, and I couldn’t use it either. Not on myself. Not on him. So I concentrated on staying alive instead.
Yours truly,
Girl Scout
Angie let the journal slide from her fingers. So that was the alter Dr. Grant had met the first time, the one who worried about her. So cheerful, so can-do, at least the way she showed herself here to Angie. Smash her feet with a pan? Fork him to death?
If she was the one rocking in the night, well, it was hard to be mad at her. She was trying to reach Angie the only way she knew how. Her letter—what a great idea!—there was a lot of information … and a lot that was left out. Angie wondered whether to show the journal to her parents, to Dr. Grant, to Detective Brogan. There wasn’t much in the way of specifics that would help the investigation—no name of “the man,” only a loose description of place—a two-room cabin without electricity or water, a hint that maybe he worked in an office, which seemed unlikely. Crazed kidnappers didn’t work in offices, did they?
But what it did tell her was how she might have lived for the last three years. She was confined inside except for heavy chores; she was cast in this weird role of thirteen-year-old housewife and had to play it to perfection; she had to please this man teetering on the edge of sanity. Except, that wasn’t how she had lived—it was how this Girl Scout had lived for her. Reading the letter sparked nothing in the way of her own memory or emotion. The story was like hearing about something that happened to the friend of a friend of a friend. Would she ever remember it for herself? Did she actually want to?
REPRESSION
ANGIE SAT ON THE BED AND TRIED TO STRAIGHTEN THE twisted metal of the broken lock. She sure couldn’t show Girl Scout’s journal to Dad. He’d go ballistic or comatose, hard to know which. But maybe Mom. It seemed like she wanted to help, more than just by driving Angie to appointments. And Angie knew how much Mom loved her, even if things were really awkward. Would she love Girl Scout? Or the others when Angie made contact with them? Maybe she should give Mom the chance to understand.
“Hey, Mom?” she called. No answer. She scooted downstairs to the kitchen. The lights were off, and it didn’t smell like breakfast cooking. “Mom?” she called as she entered. No one was there. She dashed back up the stairs to Mom and Dad’s room. She tapped the unlatched door. “Mom? Are you in there?” The bedroom door swung inward.
“She’s at the grocery store,” Dad yelled from his den. “Getting ready for Ma and Bill.”
“Okay. Thanks,” Angie hollered back. She was reaching for the knob to relatch the door when she noticed an oversized brown leather notebook on the bedside table. Mom’s side. Interesting.
Peeking back over her shoulder, she slipped into the room and picked up the notebook—actually a scrapbook, she realized. Mom loved scrapbooking. Maybe this would give Angie an idea of what they’d been up to for three years—the vacations she’d missed, whatever.
She grasped the cover and hesitated. What if this was actually Mom’s diary? A guilty feeling snuck down her spine. She shook it off. Mom had broken into her journal, after all. Fair’s fair. She eased the door closed in total silence, took a deep breath, a
nd lifted the cover. Her glance fell on …
Page one. A newspaper article for August 3, headline: GIRL SCOUT WANDERS AWAY FROM ANGELES NATIONAL FOREST CAMP, FEARED LOST. Her seventh-grade class photo was blown up huge next to it, zits and all.
Page two. August 6 headline: FORESTRY SERVICE EXPANDS SEARCH RANGE IN HUNT FOR MISSING TEEN. COUGARS SPOTTED IN LOCAL AREA. A map of the campsite was pasted in, with circles drawn like a bull’s-eye.
Angie touched the crisp, yellowed page. Goosebumps peppered her pale arms. Mom had saved all these newspaper articles about her. Angie’s feet fizzed, and the pit of her stomach swirled, but she turned the page over to …
Page three. August 17: SCOUT TROOP HOLDS VIGIL FOR MISSING GIRL. The color photo in the newspaper clipping showed Livvie’s and Katie’s and Mrs. Wells’s sober faces lit from below by candles. A hundred points of light blurred behind them. That was a nice turnout. Very supportive, she supposed.
Page four. September 15: SAN DIMAS MOUNTAIN RESCUE TEAM MOVES TO HIGHER ALTITUDES IN FULL-SCALE SEARCH FOR MISSING TEEN. REWARD OFFERED FOR ANY INFORMATION.
Page five. November 22: TRAIL GROWS COLD, LITERALLY, AS SAN GABRIEL MOUNTAINS SEE RECORD EARLY SNOWFALL. FORESTRY SERVICE HALTS SEARCH FOR LOST GIRL. Wow. Three months and a bit. Then they called off the search. Her stomach dropped. About a hundred days and that was it.
Page six. December 4: LA CAÑADA HIGH SCHOOL HOLDS MEMORIAL FOR LOST STUDENT. Angie read the article about the speeches and songs with the disconnected feeling that this had to be about someone else. She spent a few moments picking out the familiar faces of teachers and parents and friends in the photographs.
Page seventeen. August 3: ONE-YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF ANGELA CHAPMAN’S DISAPPEARANCE OBSERVED AS A DAY OF MOURNING BY LA CAÑADA COMMUNITY.
Angie flipped the rest of the leaves with shaking hands, reading every yellowed, faded page until …
Page twenty-two. No newspaper. Just a beautiful photo. Brilliant orange-and red-leaved trees arched across a lawn. In the distance, gray-and-white rectangles gave it a surreal touch. A pot of white chrysanthemums in the foreground provided focus. What was it doing in this scrapbook?
Angie squinted. What is this, Mom? A field? A … The spot between her shoulder blades tingled. A cemetery? For sure, it was. The last scrapbook entry was a photo of a cemetery plot. Oh God. For her.
Oh my God. Her throat tightened with almost tears. They had given up on her, no matter what Mom said. They had called off the search and pronounced her dead. And wow. How inconvenient of her to come back just when they had their new life without her all planned out!
Angie’s hands shook as she replaced the scrapbook, opened the door, and walked like a zombie to her room. Like the living dead. Yeah. That was her.
She thought about Girl Scout’s note and how close she’d come to showing it to Mom. Crap. She really was all alone with this.
There was this lullaby Grandma used to sing to Angie when she was tiny: “All the pretty little horses. Black and bays, dapples and grays.” Angie had been too small to understand all the words—what were dapples? Were they like apples?—but the tune stuck with her down the years.
It sang itself through her head as she waited for Grandma to arrive, circling around to the chorus over and over. “Hush-a-bye. Don’t you cry. Go to sleep, my little baby.” Strange words. The haunting melody deepened her sad mood, but tears wouldn’t come.
The heavy feeling lifted as a chorus of happy greeting sounds came through the floor. Grandma’s voice! Angie’s name floated up with them.
“Coming!” She combed her fingers through her hair but avoided checking the mirror. It was still too startling.
“Well, get down here, darlin’!” Grandma waited at the foot of the stairs, arms on her hips. “Gimme a hug, will you?”
Angie flew into her arms, grateful that she still smelled of lavender and Ivory soap.
After a good, long squeeze, Grandma held her back at arm’s length and measured her with her eyes. “Well, guess I’ve shrunk a couple inches since you saw me last,” she said. “A few more wrinkles, a few more white hairs. You’re just as pretty as ever.”
“I’ll say,” a male voice added. “Pretty as ever. Got one of those hugs for your favorite Yuncle?”
Angie raised her eyes to the speaker. A tight buzz cut on top. A square jaw below. The unfamiliar face dodged in and out of focus. She blinked. How long had it been since she’d seen Yuncle Bill? He must have been just barely eighteen when he enlisted, which meant she’d been ten. Three years ago in memory time, six years in real time. Those six years had turned him from a zitty teenager to a powerful-looking man.
She tried to map the teenage face onto the one looking at her with intense curiosity. He came at Angie with thicker, stronger arms than she recalled and crushed her against his muscled chest.
“Look at you, all growing up,” he said into her hair. His body was hot and radiated the spicy scent of his body wash. His arm stroked her back, and she shivered.
The minor tune of “All the Pretty Little Horses” rang in her ears, and a tiny, high voice sang along in her head. Hush-a-bye. Don’t you cry.
Mom’s words drifted as from a great distance. “I’ve got lunch laid out in the kitchen.”
“I’ll pour drinks,” Grandma said, and walked away. “Everyone hungry?”
Angie heard the deep rumble in Yuncle Bill’s chest as he answered. “Mmm. Starving.”
He tipped Angie’s face up to look at her. “Prettier, I’d say.” He dusted her nose with a fingertip. His other arm still pressed her against him, and one side of his mouth smiled. Something about that smile …
Angie’s heart began to race, for no apparent reason. She pulled back from his hug, felt his resistance. It was lasting too long. “The—Everyone’s in—” she stammered, pointing to the kitchen.
He laid a finger across her lips. “Hush,” he said. “No tattling.” He winked, like there was a private joke in that. His eyes flashed in a peculiar, almost familiar way, and his face blurred, out of focus, swirling and dark and closer to hers. Her knees buckled. Her breath stopped. Powerful arms held her tight.
A little girl’s voice called, Quick, Angie. Hide!
She twisted her head, searching for the speaker, but it was too dark to see. Something was wrong with her eyes. She closed and rubbed them. A pounding filled her ears, a galloping sound. An image of a pale child with long blond hair streaming out behind painted the insides of her eyelids. The little girl bolted away from her on a huge bay horse.
“Come back,” Angie pleaded. “Who are you?”
The little voice drifted back over the sound of pounding hooves. Can’t tell. No tattling.
The front door slammed. The galloping stopped. Angie’s eyes popped open. Her breath escaped in a loud sigh. The taste of chocolate ice cream was on her tongue.
“Well, that was a lovely visit,” Mom said.
Angie inventoried the house at a glance. They were alone. “What? They’re gone? Already?”
“I know. Time flies!” Mom said with a large smile. “And since Grandma helped me with the supper dishes while you were out with Bill, you and I can put our feet up for the rest of the evening.”
“Dinner?” Angie glanced at the windows. It was completely dark outside.
“Come on. Let’s order up a movie. It’s just us girls tonight.” Mom linked an arm through Angie’s and drew her to the family room. “Did you find some cortisone to put on that rash? It looks like it’s going down.”
Angie’s right arm was covered with fading pink spots, all but one, which was bright red and painful, like a fresh burn. Appearing and disappearing spots? What next?
“Do you think it was the shrimp?” Mom asked. “You were never allergic before.”
“No idea, Mom,” Angie said a little impatiently. There was no doubt she’d eaten. Her stomach was full and churning. But what? She couldn’t remember. “What happened to Dad?”
“He’s doing paperwork in the d
en. Didn’t you hear him complaining about the big presentation? Seems he has more work than ever these days.”
“Sorry. Guess I spaced out,” Angie said. Oh God. Spaced out for eight hours? How was that possible?
Mom handed Angie the remote. “You choose.”
Gripping the remote to hide the tremor in her hand, Angie scanned the meaningless titles. Most of them were R-rated, and she was too young for those. Anyway, she didn’t want to watch something too violent or sexy with her own mother.
“Want a blanket?” Mom said. “You’ve got goosebumps.” She reached into the blanket bin for a pair of couch blankets and settled closer to Angie. “So did you and Bill have a good catching-up chat on your walk?”
They walked? When? Angie spread the green chenille blanket over her lap, stalling for an answer. As she tucked her feet up, she noticed the hems of her jeans were covered in cobwebs. Her knees were dusty brown.
Mom rattled on. “You two were always so close. He was your favorite babysitter, and he wouldn’t even let us pay him.”
Thinking back, Angie couldn’t remember him coming over a lot. Well, maybe she did. She remembered him arriving and leaving, just no idea of in-between. Maybe he let her stay up and watch inappropriate TV.
Her pulse was still rapid, her breath strained, her stomach sour, her arms red, her legs achy. What was wrong with her?
“Such a sweet boy,” Mom added. “I know you missed him like crazy when he was deployed. You cried for a week straight.”
Funny. She didn’t remember missing him at all.
PROPOSITION
“I CONTAIN MULTITUDES,” MS. STRANG ANNOUNCED TO THE freshman lit class.
Angie’s heart leaped in response.
The teacher continued, “Does anyone know what Walt Whitman meant by this? It’s part of the closing stanzas of his ‘Song of Myself,’ which you all should have finished reading last night. Anyone?”
