Scared to Death

by Wendy Corsi Staub

He wipes his own eyes on the sleeve of the dress shirt he’s been wearing since yesterday morning. This is unbelievable. Did he really just ship his family out of town?

  Pulling his cell phone from his pocket as he walks toward the steps, he pulls up his address book and presses the entry that bears Mike’s phone number.

  Papa was an American businessman in Mumbai—then known as Bombay—or so he told everyone who asked. Maybe it was true. Maybe it wasn’t.

  Jeremy probably didn’t ask. Mercifully, he doesn’t remember much about that time.

  He does recall how relieved he was initially, after living on the streets, to wear clean clothes, and eat hot food, and sleep in a hotel bed—with Papa, who promised to get Jeremy home to his parents as soon as he could. And so Jeremy endured the nights in his bed, and the beatings that came whenever Papa didn’t like something Jeremy did or said.

  After a while, there was a long, long airplane ride. He remembers that part clearly: it was terribly bumpy. Things were falling from the overhead bins and people were praying and the woman across the aisle threw up. Jeremy was afraid, clutching his Spider-Man with one hand and the seat arm with the other, until Papa pried his fingers loose and held his hand tightly.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Nothing bad is going to happen. We’re going home.”

  It was a lie, of course—though not, perhaps, in Papa’s twisted mind.

  Jeremy was still angry with Papa for all the things he’d done to him. Yet he found himself clasping Papa’s hand anyway, glad he wasn’t alone on that scary plane ride.

  “I’ll take care of you,” Papa promised. “No matter what.”

  And he did. When they landed, Papa bought Jeremy some food at the airport: a cheeseburger in a paper wrapper, French fries in a cardboard carton, a milk shake in a paper cup with a plastic lid and a straw.

  Even then, even after all he’d been through, Jeremy recognized that the food was American. He knew he was home, and he was grateful to Papa for getting him there at last.

  Papa put Jeremy into a car and drove out onto a highway. After a while, he glimpsed the ocean from the car window. The smell of salt air and the screech of gulls were familiar, and he knew for sure that his house was nearby.

  Now, of course, he understands that it wasn’t the Atlantic Ocean, but the Pacific—three thousand miles away from the seaside town where he’d been raised before the kidnapping.

  When Papa pulled into a driveway and said, “Here we are, home sweet home,” Jeremy was taken aback. He didn’t recognize the house at all, and he started to cry.

  Papa beat him for that.

  Later, Papa showed Jeremy around and told him he would have his own bedroom. He even let Jeremy pick out the comforter from a catalog, and some toys and books for the shelves—but he never, ever let him sleep in his room.

  No, Jeremy was forced to sleep with Papa every night, in a room where the shades were always down, even during the day; a room where terrible things happened to Jeremy. Things he didn’t understand, back then.

  Now, years later, he grasps what happened to him. Now he knows all about abuse, and pedophilia, and the Stockholm syndrome: the psychological phenomenon in which kidnap victims develop benevolent feelings for their captors. He knows that he did what he had to, and he shouldn’t blame himself, and he doesn’t.

  Papa was a sick and dangerous man. And Jeremy’s path never would have crossed his if not for them.

  Elsa…

  Marin…

  Face it, Jeremy. They let you down.

  The more he hears those words—spoken aloud, or echoing in his own head—the easier it is to believe them…whether he wants to, or not.

  Marin was tempted to turn back when she hit bottleneck traffic on the northbound FDR, but that would be the easy way out. She forced herself to keep going, reminding herself—once again—to stay strong.

  Now she’s moving along pretty well, finally heading north on the Triborough Bridge.

  Wait—not the Triborough anymore, she reminds herself. Now it’s the Robert F. Kennedy.

  She remembers Garvey’s reaction when the span was renamed a while back. Publicly, he called it a shameless Democratic photo op at the taxpayers’ expense, and was roundly applauded by his constituents.

  Privately, he promised Marin that one day, a bridge or tunnel here in New York, or perhaps in Boston, would bear his own name.

  Typical hypocritical, egotistical Garvey. To think there was a time when she’d been invigorated by what she convinced herself was admirable confidence and ambition.

  Just remember—you weren’t the only one who was fooled by him.

  Cold comfort now, though, to think of the thousands of people who believed in Congressman Quinn.

  Ordinarily, Marin enjoys the skyline views as the highway curves away from the city. Today, however—the first time she’s been here in months—she can see nothing at all. The landscape is shrouded in mist. It feels like a bad omen.

  She’s traveled this route out of the city hundreds of times over the years, heading to and from her home-town, Boston, or the nursing home in Brighton. But it’s been a while since she’s visited any of those places, and she feels a twinge of guilt thinking of her father.

  John Hartwell’s condition has steadily deteriorated over the past year or so. Dementia, the doctors are saying, though he’s only in his late sixties. He’s been talking to invisible people, hearing things, seeing things.

  Some days are worse than others.

  Once in a while, when Marin calls to check in, the nurse will say, “Mrs. Quinn, your father is having a good day,” and she knows that’s a hint for her to come visit.

  Bur her own good days are fewer and farther between than Dad’s; she’s never quite up to a spur-of-the-moment drive or the curious stares from the eavesdropping staff, let along having her father ask about her husband.

  Dad has always adored Garvey, and until recently, frequently exercised bragging rights that his only daughter married into the illustrious Boston Quinn family. He liked to wait until someone—preferably, as many people as possible—happened to be in earshot before he’d ask, “How’s my son-in-law, the congressman?”

  Marin felt obligated to explain to him, last September, what was going on with Garvey. But she waited until no one was around to overhear, and she left out as many of the details as possible. She knew her father didn’t really comprehend. Sure enough, he’d forgotten all about it by the next visit, and she didn’t bother to reiterate.

  Today, as she bypasses the exit leading to Interstate 95 and New England, she promises herself that she’ll get back up to Brighton soon. Or someday maybe even to Groton, to meet Elsa Cavalon.

  She wonders whether Lauren would think that’s a good idea. Then she wonders whether it’s even a good idea for her to visit Lauren in Glenhaven Park.

  Maybe exposing herself to the scene of one of Garvey’s many crimes will be another healthy step in the healing process.

  Or maybe, Marin thinks grimly, it’ll convince me to leave well enough alone.

  “Please, Mommy…I want to get off!”

  “I know, I know…shh, it’s okay.” As she tries to settle Renny into the window seat, Elsa wonders how on earth she could have thought the train was a good idea for a claustrophobic kid.

  She wasn’t thinking when she made the decision—that’s the problem. Back at the house, reacting to the frightening series of photos, she was in full flight mode. Driving to New York seemed like a terrible idea. But maybe this is worse.

  Still, the alternative would have been…what? A commuter flight between Groton–New London airport and New York is half an hour at most—Maman always flies in when she visits, sans luggage, of course—but Renny trapped in the cabin of a tiny plane several miles above the ground? Forget it.

  Staying at home, waiting for someone to snatch Renny away? Not an option.

  Brett wanted to drive them to Manhattan himself, but Elsa talked him out of it.

  “I’d feel saf
er going to New York on public transportation,” she told him. “Someone might be lurking around here, waiting to follow our car. But there’s no way anyone can follow a train.”

  He looked at her for a long time before saying, “Someone could follow us from here to the train station, and it wouldn’t be very hard to figure out where you’re going from there.”

  “But even if they saw us get on a southbound train, they wouldn’t be sure where we were getting off. It could be anywhere from Old Saybrook to Washington, D.C.”

  Again, he gave her a probing gaze before nodding.

  She was right, of course. Unless whoever was following them managed to hop on the train, too…and then follow them through the city to Sylvie’s doorstep…and then—

  No. She refuses to let her mind go there. Everything is going to be okay.

  But it wasn’t okay before, with Jeremy…

  That’s why it has to be okay this time.

  “Mommy! I don’t like this!”

  “Here…do you want to sit in the aisle?” Elsa had given her the window, thinking she’d feel less trapped if she could look out. But maybe it only makes her feel boxed in.

  She stands to let Renny slide over into the aisle seat…but Renny keeps right on sliding.

  “Renny!”

  Elsa chases after her, catching up at the end of the car.

  “There’s no doorknob!” Panicking, Renny claws at the closed door that leads to the next compartment. By chance, her hand hits the flat panel that unlatches the door. It slides open and she lurches forward into the vestibule between the cars, nearly crashing into an older woman carrying a cardboard tray from the snack bar.

  Elsa grabs onto flailing Renny and apologizes to the woman, who stands back against the bathroom door, raised on her tiptoes like there’s a rodent on the loose.

  “Mommy, open the door and let me off,” Renny begs, pointing to the exit where they boarded less than five minutes ago.

  “I can’t do that, the conductor has to open it when the train stops.”

  “I want it to stop now!”

  Elsa pulls her back, worried this door, too, might open somehow and Renny would be thrown from the speeding train.

  Beside them, the older woman purses her dry, pink-lipsticked lips, probably thinking that Renny is an out-of-control brat who needs a good spanking.

  Oh, lady, Elsa thinks, helplessly holding her frightened daughter fast against her. If you only knew.

  The moment she walks into Starbucks, Caroline wishes she hadn’t come.

  She’d been thinking she could just get lost in the crowd, but there is no crowd today. As she steps up to the counter, she realizes she’s already been recognized by the baristas. Not as Garvey Quinn’s daughter, but as the girl who had the rat in her purse.

  After a brief, whispered consultation with her coworkers, a pale, fashionably ugly goth girl approaches the register. “Do you want to talk to the manager?”

  “What?” Caroline frowns. “No, I wanted to order something.”

  The girl’s pierced eyebrows shoot toward her squared-off, too-short black bangs. “Really?”

  “Umm…yee-aahh,” she says in an isn’t-it-obvious? tone, and asks for a tall coffee.

  “Just coffee?”

  “Right. Make it black.” She’s never had black coffee—or any coffee—in her life, but when Jake shows up, she doesn’t want to be drinking one of those milk shake drinks again. She may not be in college yet, but she’s not a little kid.

  There are plenty of empty tables to choose from today. Caroline sits at one closest to the door, facing it, then decides that makes her look too expectant. She moves to a more distant table, sits with her back to the door, and realizes that Jake could very easily come and go without either of them seeing each other. She switches to the opposite chair, facing the door, so that she’ll spot him when he walks in.

  If he walks in.

  Something tells her that he will.

  For a long time after he landed in California, Jeremy saw no one but Papa. It wasn’t so bad, other than at night, or when Papa had to punish him for something. When things were going well, he got to eat candy all the time, and watch as many movies and cartoons as he wanted—only on video, though, and later, on DVD.

  It took him years to even comprehend that there was such a thing as live television—let alone to speculate why Papa might refuse to let him watch it.

  Maybe it was, like everything else the man did, about control.

  Or maybe Papa was afraid he’d catch a glimpse of himself on the news.

  Or maybe he worried that Jeremy would stumble across some crime drama—an episode about pedophiles or missing kids—and it might trigger something in him.

  Who knows?

  All Jeremy cared about back in the early days was that he could watch movies and cartoons to his heart’s content. Immersing himself in familiar fictional characters was an escape from his frightening new reality.

  After a few weeks—months?—Papa started to take him out shopping, or to get something to eat. The first time, he told Jeremy that if he said a word—one single word—while they were out in public, he would be sorry.

  A nice man at the Chinese restaurant at the food court in the mall was handing out chunks of chicken on toothpicks. He put one into Jeremy’s hand as he and Papa walked by, and Jeremy thanked him.

  Not one word, two words: “Thank you.” Jeremy spoke them automatically—and paid dearly for them later.

  It was the last time he ever spoke to anyone in public when Papa was around.

  Papa always introduced Jeremy as his son, said he was painfully shy. No one ever questioned the relationship.

  After a while, Jeremy himself started to believe it. In an enormous world filled with strangers, Papa was all he had. He stopped asking questions, and his old life faded away at last.

  The rain has stopped by the time Brett turns onto his block after dropping Elsa and Renny at the station. He groans as he turns into the driveway and spots his next-door neighbor walking through her side yard with a shovel. Meg Warren isn’t the type to simply wave and retreat.

  Sure enough, by the time he’s parked the car, she’s coming across the wet grass, dragging her feet a little, as always. He learned the hard way never, ever, ever to ask about her limp.

  “What are you doing home at this time of day, Mr. Brett?” she asks cheerfully as he steps out. She always calls him Mr. Brett, in a cutesy, singsong voice. Once, she asked if that bothered him. It probably shouldn’t, but it does. He told her it didn’t, of course. Meg means well, as Elsa likes to say.

  “I’m actually on my way to the office, but I had to stop home to shower and change first.”

  “Really? I saw that you were home a little while ago. But then you went out again, with luggage.”

  He sighs inwardly.

  “And you weren’t here overnight.”

  “No. Not overnight,” he tells her, hoping she can’t see the tension in his jaw. All he wants to do is go into the house, draw the shades, and wait for something else to happen.

  But that’s not an option. His secretary called his cell phone a few minutes ago as he was driving back from the station. When it rang, he snatched it up, assuming it was Mike, who hadn’t answered when Brett called him.

  “Lew’s looking for you,” Cindy said. “What should I tell him?”

  “Remind him that I called in earlier—I said I’ll be in at noon.” He’d lied about having to accompany Renny to a doctor’s appointment this morning.

  “He knows…he said to tell you it’s past noon and they already rescheduled the conference call twice. Now it’s at one. You need to get here, Brett.”

  He bites back the urge to tell Cindy that he’s not coming in at all. That might just push Lew over the edge. Anyway, maybe it’s better to go into the office, do the conference call, and tie up some loose ends in case he really does have to take some time off.

  “Tell Lew I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”r />
  “Really?”

  “Twenty.”

  There’s no way, he acknowledges now, glancing at his watch. Maybe he can get there within the half hour, though, if he hurries.

  “I noticed that the house was dark all night,” Meg is saying. “You guys always leave the outside lights on when you’re not going to be home. And you know, Elsa didn’t even mention that you were all going someplace when I saw her and Renny outside yesterday.”

  Wow. That Meg really doesn’t miss a trick.

  “It was a last-minute thing,” he tells her, and nods toward her muddy shovel, needing to change the subject. “So what are you up to? Burying dead bodies in the petunia patch?”

  She laughs like that’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “No! I just dug a new bed out back. The ground is nice and soft from all the rain. I’m moving my herb garden. Like I was telling your wife, someone trampled it.”

  “Really? Because—” He thinks better of saying anything about the footprints in their own yard. Why even drag her into it?

  Because she sees everything, he reminds himself, so maybe she saw…something. If there was something to see.

  “Because…what?” she prompts Brett.

  “Ah, I was wondering whether you’ve noticed anyone hanging around our yard when we’re not home.”

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know…anyone who shouldn’t be here, I guess.”

  “Why? Did something happen?”

  Brett weighs how much to admit, and decides on as little as possible. “There were some footprints in our yard, and we thought maybe kids were cutting through. If anyone got hurt on our property, we’d be looking at a lawsuit, so…”

  “You mean my kids? Because they’re not even around right now. They’re with their father this week, and—”

  “No, that’s not what I—”

  “—believe me, if I ever caught them sneaking around in your yard, I’d have their keisters in a sling.”

  Brett murmurs an appropriate reply, almost relieved he’s put her on the defensive regarding her kids, rather than have her start asking questions he’d rather not answer. “Well, I’ll let you get back to moving your herb garden,” he tells Meg.