He leaves me in the bed, shivering and terrified for longer than usual this time. The cramps I experience are nothing like the stomach pangs that supersede.
This time he avoids me for a week, leaving me protein bars, apples, oranges, and canned soup with the labels missing I’m forced to eat cold.
Eventually, he hangs up a dry erase board that has my chores and daily activities, but also a calendar so he can track my period.
I’m left to my own devices and while it takes the pressure off of me, I know he’s watching. The thought of him sitting alone in a room staring at me gives me the creeps.
Fitting, since I’m a caged animal, that I start reading Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.
His once-consistent visits become erratic. Sometimes there’s a consistent routine to follow, other times he abandons me for extended lengths of time. Since I eat so little and infrequent, my weight continues to fall off my already rail-thin body.
Sometimes he’s wearing casual clothes, other times coveralls, sometimes jogging pants and a windbreaker. Or he’s dressed like he’s attending a funeral.
A little voice in my head wonders if he is – maybe for another missing girl.
His moods are unstable – multiple personas, his voice sometimes childlike and playful, other times stern and authoritative. As soon as I think I have a read on him, his Jekyll and Hyde personality changes from one extreme to the other.
One morning, he comes in extra early. I know this because he’s holding a flashlight and it seems like I had just drifted off to my troubled dreams. I used to go to sleep with visions of being rescued and returned home, that I would wake up in my bed with no recollection of how I got there, just that I was finally safe. Now I have tormented nightmares that end with me running for my life or being tortured until I succumb to a painful death.
“Wake up,” he whispers, shaking my shoulder.
I’m curled up in a ball, my long nightgown tucked around me.
“I have a surprise for you.” I don’t move at a particularly alarming rate, the word ‘surprise’ ruined by the fear that it will mean a form of torture.
“Hurry.” He strides to the dresser. “You can leave your nightgown on, but you’ll need wool socks.”
Is he taking me outside?
I should be thrilled, instead I’m filled with nervous anticipation.
A dark object’s in his hand. “Coat.” He motions as I hold out my arms and he helps me shrug it on. He clasps each brass button on the olive green wool coat. It reeks of dust and mothballs. Tugging a woolly knit cap on, he covers my head, tucking in the loose strands.
Raising my hand, I tremble.
“Yes, little girl?”
“Where are we going?”
“It’s Christmas today.” He gives the middle of my lip a gentle poke. “I thought we could celebrate. I have a present for you.”
Solemnly taking my hand, he asks, “Are you ready?” I push my feet into the uncomfortable shoes, made inches smaller by the heavy stockings.
I nod, hopeful I’ll see the way out of this underground confinement. Maybe I can get help, I tell myself, pumping myself into thinking positive.
“I’m going to blindfold you.” He pulls a dark handkerchief out of his pocket. “I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”
He turns me around a few times, like a game of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, my eyes shielded by the thick fabric.
“If you try to run,” he murmurs, “I’ve got my gun. You won’t get far.” With that, he presses a cold metal object to my hip. “Now let’s see how well you really listen.”
I hear the thud of the metal door, and then he leads me down a level hall, my steps even as we walk. I assume it’s dark, no light penetrates the material over my eyes.
He pauses for a moment, shoving open what must be another door. “Stairs,” he instructs. “One at a time.” We walk, my footfalls timid as I raise one after the other. My legs ache, this exercise a rare occurrence.
By the time we reach the top, I’m winded. I reach out for something to grasp but feel nothing.
He’s doing something, his arm slack on mine.
Another click, and I feel the difference.
Air.
Cold air.
A breeze.
I breathe it in.
Then out.
Over and over, filling my lungs.
Just like that, he’s opening a squeaky door, I assume for a vehicle, and I’m lifted onto a seat. It feels like ancient leather, lots of ridges and cracks as I rub the texture with my hands.
“Don’t move,” he breathes in my ear. I feel his cheek brush my lips, and he's leaning over me, clicking my seatbelt into place.
I hear a lock.
Then another door opening, the driver’s side, I presume.
A key turns in the ignition, and the engine buzzes to life.
His hand holds mine, the sound of the radio pouring out of the speakers.
The news.
I haven’t heard the news in so long.
Before he can shut it off, I hear the announcer say, “Happy holidays everyone, wishing you health and happiness as we wind down 1998. It’s 5:37 A.M., and we’ll be back to talk about what the holidays mean to you in just a moment.”
He turns the dial, oldies filling the space.
The wheels pound the pavement. At first it’s rocky terrain, I can tell by the forceful thud underneath me, the shocks rocking back and forth. Then a slight incline and it becomes smooth, signaling we must be on a well-traveled road or highway.
“Sir?” I ask.
“Yes?”
“Can you roll down the window please?”
He sighs but a moment later, a cold rush hits my face. It’s like an arctic blast. I shiver, but even in the chilliness, I want the moment to last.
“Thank you.” I lean my head towards the window, his hand still holding mine, his touch warm against my clammy one.
We drive in silence, the music and his humming the only sound besides the roadway. I don’t hear the ocean, but in my mind, I imagine it.
I wonder if my family’s celebrating Christmas without me, and the thought causes bitterness – are they gathered around our tree, did Blair put the snow angel at the top, standing on her tip-toes on our rickety stool, my usual job?
Tears clog my eyes. The bandana catches most of the wetness, the others trickle down my cheek. I bite my lip to keep from sniffling.
I’ve been here for almost nine months. And I’m no closer to freedom, except now I can taste it in my tears and in the whiff of air that dances around my nostrils, pulling me in, willing me to find a way to escape.
We finally come to a stop, the sounds of the Pacific no longer a question. I hear the roar of waves pounding in my ears.
Is he going to drown me, right here right now?
Or let me walk the beach?
Maybe neither?
He unbuckles my seatbelt, tugging on my arm. I lean to the side, almost falling out, but he catches me in time.
“I’m going to let you lead and then remove the bandana,” he says. “I’ll tell you when to step up or down.”
I stand still, arms at my sides.
“You trust me, don’t you?” He’s hurt by my silence.
I nod, glad my eyes are covered.
We walk, I stumble, my feet unable to predict the uneven terrain. He lets me fall once, my knees and palms hitting the ground. I’m pretty sure he pushed me, but he yanks me violently up. “Pay attention,” he commands.
I’m parched, my body in need of hydration. I’m scared to ask for water, worried he’ll push me off a cliff into the ocean or turn me back around and take away the only taste of freedom I’ve had.
I can’t wrap my mind around how long I’ve been stuck in that room. I never thought I’d make it more than a week.
Then a month.
March Twenty-Fourth.
December Twenty-Fifth.
“Duck,” he says too late.
/> My head smacks into a jagged piece of what feels like rock. A knot forms above my eyebrow, a trickle of blood starts to descend down my face.
He pulls on my arm, motioning me to stop.
I hear a cap unscrewing and then him sipping, swallowing liquid.
Nine months, one day.
He’s taunting me, waiting to see if I’ll dare ask for a drink.
Moving forward, I keep walking, my steps becoming heavier. The shoes are too small and ill-fitting, my toes are pinched and I feel blisters on my heels. This isn’t the right atmosphere for patent leather Mary Janes.
I feel a hand on my neck, now damp and sweaty.
“Stop,” he directs, tugging on my coat. He stills behind me.
“Okay,” I croak.
“You thirsty?”
I nod.
He twirls me around, untying the bandana on my forehead.
My eyes adjust, the sunrise starting to peek through the top of the tall trees. These are different than the palm trees, they cloak whatever forest or trail we are hiking, letting in minimal light. The air is cool and brisk, but we’ve come to an impasse.
Straight ahead, a cavern is in our path.
There’s nowhere to go but in.
“Go ahead.” He shoves me forward. “I’ll let you drink when we reach our destination.”
All I can think as I take a step ahead is if I’ll ever leave this cave again.
If I wasn’t being rushed into another space by my tormentor, I’d have liked this hike with Blair. I picture her dark hair, the way she’d touch the natural formations in awe.
It’s beautiful, what I can see of it.
It’s dark at first, a narrow opening that feels small and confined. Walls jut out and anyone over six feet tall would have to stoop to enter. The Mole ducks, holding onto the back of my coat, clutching the fabric securely with his hands.
Like an illusion, the cave expands, the ceiling reaching higher and higher. The cramped space becomes an open room. One chamber leads to another, the dirt floors uneven in spots, my breathing ragged.
The Mole pushes me forward, impatient, his steps heavy behind my limping pace.
The cragged rocks reach out to me, spindly fingers that seem to point in one direction.
How much longer, I wonder, before I pass out from exhaustion and thirst?
“Almost there,” he says, reading my mind.
The distant sunlight pitches in and out, the weak glare becoming brighter as it rises and shines across the rubble. We reach a narrow pathway and have three choices – straight out I can see the lapping waves and smell the salt spray of the ocean. Instead, he shoves me to the left, bumpy dips combined with heavy boulders require us to climb single file, until he grabs my waist, stopping me mid-step.
“Over there.” He nods in the direction of a concave wall. A long slab, formed like a bench, summons me. I sink down, resting my sore limbs. I can barely muster the energy to raise my arm, but I see his face twisted, testing me to disobey him. “Yes, little girl?”
“Can I have a sip of water please?” There’s not much left in the bottle, and he drinks most of it before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Sure.”
I say nothing, exploring my surroundings. He thrusts the bottle in my hand when’s he done taunting me. I drink greedily, careful not to spill any down my chin.
“This place is special to me.” He leans against a depression in the rock. “I found this exploring one day as a child.”
So he did grow up on the island.
“My sister and I got lost in here.” He stares off in the distance. “A hiker found us, but we were in big trouble.”
“By your dad?” I realize too late I didn’t raise my hand.
His eyes are glazed, luckily he’s not watching me.
“No, our mother.” He’s quiet for a minute, crossing his arms. “I never met the man who was my sperm donor. He got her pregnant and left.” He pauses for a moment. “I saw pictures of him, and could see him through a peep hole. My mother would lock us in a closet when he showed up. She was scared he would take us from her.”
“What about your sister?” I murmur. “Was she okay?”
“We were twins.” His eyes drift back to my face, mouth tense. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you didn’t raise your hand.” He runs his ice-cold gaze down my body. “I’ll deal with you later.”
I mumble an apology.
He accepts, changing his tone back to neutral.
“Is your sister okay?”
“She is now,” he shrugs.
“I brought you down here so you could see what was so special about this place.” He doesn’t wait for a response, doesn’t need one. “My favorites are buried here.”
I raise my hand, he pushes it down. “What do you want to know?”
“What favorites?” I manage to choke out.
“Leslie. I buried her here. Nothing left of her now but bones.” He shrugs. “Wild animals eat the corpse, everything but the bones. That and decomposition happens.”
I shudder. “Leslie Billings?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I had her ID.” I’m frantic. “How did I get her ID?”
“Why are you asking me these questions?” He’s bored. “How would I know?” He taps his finger on my nose. “All I know is she ran away from home. That’s what happens to girls who leave their nest before they’re ready.” A maniacal laugh escapes his lips, spittle flies on the tip of my nostrils.
I change the topic to the sister he mentioned. “What’s your twin’s name?”
He rubs his chin, hitting the mole. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?” I tilt my head.
“They’re all right here, when I want my own visiting hours.” He touches a hand to his heart. “I feel close to them. Marian’s also here. I took her here to get her away from Mother. She always thought this cave was beautiful.”
“Who’s Marian?”
“You’re Marian.” He brushes a strand of hair back from my forehead, tilting my chin to inspect my face.
“I am?” I whisper.
“Yes, but I come here to visit all my girls.” He walks forward, his hands running along a crevice that snakes around a corner. Brush sticks up in sparse patches, and he prods a finger in an indentation, pushing on something in the wall.
He smiles, humming, as he pulls out a long piece of cartilage. I always imagine bones to be bleached white, fully formed, and clean, images of Halloween skeletons coming to mind. Fun and silly, the dancing rib cage twirling a hat.
Wishing I would’ve paid more attention in biology, I try and remember the largest bones in the body. This elongated one might be a femur or fibula. Cracks and small holes cover the yellowed surface, reminding me of something that’s left out in the sun too long. Dirt and debris cover the exterior and I stay put, refusing to cry out in anguish.
“This makes me feel complete.” He rubs his forefinger over an indent as he holds the matter up to examine it. “My good girls.”
“If they are so good, why are they here?”
“Because they turned bad.” He whistles through his teeth. “Let this be a lesson to you. This is what happens to naughty girls.” Bringing the bone to his mouth, he touches it to his lips, lightly kissing it.
I shrink in my seat, disgusted, watching him return it to its hiding spot.
“Let’s go.” He’s brusque. “It’s Christmas and we have a lot to do.”
This time he anxiously leads the way. I silently attempt to memorize the trail, telling myself I’ll lead the police here one day to recover the remains of the missing girls. The least I can do is return them to their concerned and heartsick families.
Am I still considered a missing person or have I been relegated to a deceased status?
The idea that my family has stopped searching for me, believing me to be dead, causes me to abruptly stop, hitting my head on a low part of the overhang.
I’m sick to my stomach
, imagining them packing up my room and selling my belongings, erasing every trace of me from memory.
Help me, I plead, please help.
I spend the rest of the way praying to run into a nature lover or a tourist taking early-morning photographs.
The Mole is smart, knowing the only time to avoid being seen is at dawn. By the time we arrive at the entrance, the bandana is out of his pocket and back around my eyes. My last image is of the massive banyan trees before I’m cloaked in darkness again.
We ride in silence, the radio mute. The Mole doesn’t go directly back, braking to put the vehicle in park. He rips the bandana off before anyone can see me, keeping my hat on to cover my unkempt hair. We’re in a drive-thru line, the only place open on Christmas. I wait for him to ask if I want something, but he doesn’t.
“Don’t say a word or I’ll drive you back to the cliff,” he hisses. “Keep your head down.” I can feel his eyes watching me like a hawk, his iron grip swallowing my hand.
The bored cashier takes his order and collects his money, their interaction brief as I stare at my feet. It’s a truck, which I figured from how high up I sit. The carpet mat is gray and I peer at the dashboard, careful not to raise my head. He has one of those miniature dancing Hawaiian girls-the ones that sways their hips settled there.
The smell of food makes my mouth water, chicken nuggets, beef patties, and potatoes cooking, an overload of salt on the fries. I haven’t inhaled anything so glorious, my meals small and unfulfilling. Nothing that involves a stove or fryer, no delicious aromas wafting through the room. Counting in my head, I focus on the placid tiny dancer that’s at a standstill while we wait for his order.
He pulls away from the window and into a parking spot, blindfolding me again, the only sound the rapid movement of his mouth as he chews and swallows, then the annoying suck of a straw.
Antagonizing me, I don’t react, which is what he wants. I sit silently, hands now folded in my lap until we drive off again.
When he parks, he shuts off the engine, humming a tune as he drums his fingers on the steering wheel.
Into the Night Page 17
