Into the Night

by Marin Montgomery

  I wait.

  This time, he doesn’t bother leading me, carrying me instead, the jerky movement of him thrusting me up and over his shoulder causing a dizzying headache. His breath reeks of Coca-Cola and mustard.

  He fumbles with keys and I want to start hitting him with my fists, catch him off balance.

  Run.

  But the more I think about it, the more I tense up, my body rigid.

  The poor girls.

  I don’t want to end up like them. But I need a plan. Because I don’t want to be buried in some obscure place where I might be discovered in another century, fossilized like dinosaur bones.

  When we get back to the room, he slams the door behind us, dropping me on the rough carpet without warning.

  I wince, my left side slamming onto the floor.

  “Get undressed.”

  Slowly, I take my clothes off as he runs a bath.

  “Get on the bed,” he instructs. Scanning my blisters and cuts, he smirks. “I guess you weren’t cut out for hiking.”

  “It’s the shoes...” I trail off.

  Roughly, he grabs my neck. “I didn’t ask your opinion.” Squeezing my throat, my B chain becomes entangled in his grip as he jams his fingers into my clavicle.

  Tears burn my eyes, his thumb rubbing over my cheek. “Besides, if you don’t behave, next time we go back, you’ll be nothing but a cadaver.”

  Goosebumps cover my flesh and I shut my eyes as he takes what he calls his ‘Christmas present’, my mind drifting back to a past childhood holiday when I was six – the one I got a Cabbage Patch doll and a matching outfit to wear that my mother crocheted.

  He calms down after, his tone softening, holding me against his sweaty armpits. I cringe, his eyes drifting over my body in appreciation.

  “Why so pensive?” He runs his thumb down my bare shoulder, hitting a burn mark.

  I want to stab him in the eyes.

  “What?” I ask, unsure what ‘pensive’ means.

  Quickly, I add ‘sir’ to the end.

  “You look like you’re deep in thought. What’re you thinking about?”

  Ending your life, I want to say.

  Instead, I start out with a compliment, or I can thank my personal request good-bye. The Mole needs to be coddled and loved at all times. “I love being with you, it just makes me sad my parents don’t know I’m alive...”

  “I know you are, and that’s all that matters.”

  “I know...it’s just that...I want them to let me go, sir.”

  “How will they let you go?” His lip curdles. At least his yellowed tooth is hidden behind his sour expression.

  “We could send them a letter,” I force a smile at him, “saying we ran off together. Something like that. Then they’ll stop looking, if they haven’t already.”

  “They’re not looking for you.”

  “How do you know, sir?” I walk straight into his trap.

  “I keep tabs on them.” He’s confident. “They adopted a little boy and seem happy. At least their Christmas card did.” His eyes never leave mine.

  My face loses all trace of color.

  “Oh,” is all I can manage to force out.

  “Let me think about the letter.” He closes his eyes, mulling it over.

  Popping his eyes open a second later, he agrees. “Merry Christmas.” He touches my cheek.

  I stir against him, ready to sit up and write them a note from a coloring book on the desk.

  “Wait,” he raises his arm, holding me down. “Tomorrow,” he says. “You can write them tomorrow. I’ll even bring you a card to send to them.”

  Shutting my eyes, I go to sleep, picturing next year, Christmas morning with my family, presents under the tree, and my sheepdog Oggie at my feet. It’s made perfect by the fact I wake up in my own bed, The Mole dead and buried.

  Better yet, I have no memory of his existence.

  “Merry Christmas, sir,” I murmur excitedly.

  24

  Bristol

  A couple days after Christmas but before the new year, snow’s falling outside, covering the ground in white. My parents barely speak to each other as Daddy finds solace in his Bible, Mother with knitting. She’s twisting the yarn into a sweater. The needles jab at the stitches, an extension of her anger. The divide between them grows wider, first Bristol, then my mother’s refusal to follow through on Isaiah’s adoption, wanting to focus on finding my sister.

  The mailman knocks on the door, a deviation from his usual stop at the mailbox at the end of our long drive.

  My mother answers it, stepping outside to thank him for making the trek to the house. She rubs her hands together, numb from the cold, a shawl wrapped around her gaunt frame.

  I think she’s shaking because of the winter storm, but her face has a look of distress. I glance down to see a piece of mail.

  A red envelope.

  She holds the letter in her hand like it's going to bite her.

  Block handwriting in black magic marker.

  A late Christmas card, I wonder?

  She rips it open, not bothering to use the letter opener.

  Postmarked ‘Lanai’ instead of Oahu, another one of the Hawaiian islands.

  Inside is a single greeting card, a red cardinal on a frosted tree branch, with the heading Happy Holidays. The heavy paper itself is faded and yellowed around the edges.

  Hi Mom and Dad,

  I miss you all.

  Blair, I’m sorry I scared you by running off. It wasn’t your fault, so please don’t blame yourself. I’m alive and I’m fine. I met someone and am in love. I ran off because I was scared you would try and change my mind.

  I know it’s been almost a year today. Give Oggie a belly rub. I’m still thinking of you.

  Love, Bristol

  The police check to see if they can authenticate where the card was purchased. It’s a dead end – this particular card hasn't been made since the 70s. The note brings attention to her case, and a new search reignites for her. It’s a blessing in disguise since the media attention is needed, but more so locally, not in Honolulu.

  At least for a moment in time.

  Parts of Lanai are searched, but there’s so many volcanoes and plantations, nature in all its beauty. Unfortunately, it makes it hard to search.

  Handwriting analysis authenticates the writing is Bristol’s.

  Odd, but the only other fingerprints on the letter are from a dead girl – Sonia Sutherland.

  After that, quacks send us mail and items claiming to be hers. They either give us a false sense of hope she’s alive or a sickening fear she’s dead. Crazy nuts like to fuck with Priscilla’s head, impersonating Bristol. We even get ransom letters from fake kidnappers requesting monetary assistance. None of these can be proven accurate or legitimate.

  The police reprimand us, instructing us not to open any more suspicious mail but to call them, so they can test for fingerprints.

  A majority of our mail is handed over to the authorities.

  It goes nowhere…all dead ends.

  Until the only mail that arrives are bills, advertisements, and condolence cards.

  The baseless claims even come to a standstill after a while.

  You would think my family would become closer, pull together to find her. Or in spite of her.

  The opposite happens.

  Mother spirals into a deeper depression, reading Bible verses all day, making weird grunts, and spending her time in bed. The times we do see her, she shuffles around in her house coat and slippers.

  My parents want me to work, contribute to the household, and save for my own place, so I offer to manage the church office, but both of my parents immediately nix that suggestion. I get hired on at a gas station, working as much overtime as I can muster.

  When I see old friends from high school or Bristol’s friends, I freeze up, my body wracked with guilt. I know they wonder why it was her and not me.

  So do I, I want to scream.

  A weird
energy passes between us, like I’m a plague everyone wants to avoid. People stutter through questions or refer to me as the ‘sister of the missing girl’ or the ‘freak sister of the missing girl.’

  Eventually, I turn and walk away if someone I know comes in, hiding in the stock room.

  That or I punch in numbers on the register, avoiding the curious stares.

  When a night position opens up, I gladly take it, sleeping during the day, less intrusions at night, plus I hate the dark. I might as well be in a well-lighted store with the occasional customer, keeping busy.

  At home, I sneak into my sister’s room to sleep in her bed, my hands wrapped around her body pillow, feeling her in spirit.

  Mother walks in one afternoon when I’m still asleep, her voice waking up my daddy as she hollers, “You get the hell out of her room, out of her bed, right now. You’re tainting it. You’re the reason she’s gone, you’re never to come in here again.”

  The next day, a metal padlock’s attached to the outside of her door.

  I never find the key to it, no matter where I search.

  The jewelry armoire, the junk drawer, the glove box of the vehicles, the bathroom linen closet. I only find empty glass bottles of vodka.

  Mother’s done a good job of hiding it.

  We hold our breath to see if another letter follows, but it doesn’t.

  And once again, we lose hope.

  The Aftermath

  25

  Bristol

  Christmas is followed by New Year’s. The Mole goes silent for a few days, leaving me to my own devices and a perpetually empty stomach.

  I assume he’s out drinking with friends or celebrating, wearing a tiara that lights up the numbers 1999, listening to Prince, and blowing on one of those squawkers that makes noise as the countdown ends and a new year begins.

  I realize how little I know about him.

  Does he party? I try to imagine his average body dressed up in a tuxedo, sipping champagne and caviar, dancing with his hands on a woman’s hips.

  Maybe a girlfriend? A wife?

  Squeamish, I suck down the image of him acting like a person and not The Mole.

  The realization that I’ve passed into January without being found fills me with dread and terror. How much longer do I have to live in this room? What if I’m never found alive?

  New Year’s Resolution. I have to start getting him to open up to me. It’s the only way I’ll be able to manipulate him, figure out his weaknesses, and escape.

  During the day, my brainstorming sessions begin.

  Everyone has flaws, and I have to start uncovering The Mole’s.

  One evening after he rapes me, he fills the tub as usual, agitated about his actions, or in his head, my behavior that drove him to have this reaction.

  He’s murmuring, repeating the same sentence over and over, but it’s babble to my ears.

  Reaching into his pocket, I freeze, wondering what he’s pulling out.

  A peppermint.

  He unwraps the plastic and sucks on it. It soothes him when he’s in one of his moods. I wish I could hand him a bag every day, force feed him until he chokes.

  Swallowing the pent-up rage, I re-focus.

  Giving him a shy smile, I ask if I can sit behind him in the water instead of in front.

  He’s visibly nervous. “Why?”

  “I would like to wash you, if that’s okay?” I pick up the washcloth. “You always are so gentle with me, I’d like to make you feel good.”

  “Okay,” he finally agrees, scooting forward in the water. “But I have eyes in the back of my head.” He chuckles as I sink in behind him, my legs sliding around his limbs. I’ve lost all my muscle definition, my body shrinking from malnourishment.

  I examine the back of his head, noticing another mole behind his left ear.

  Dipping the washcloth into the water and soaping it up, his frame becomes slack as he leans forward, hands on his knees.

  “Mmm... that feels good,” he murmurs.

  “I’m glad.” I stroke the cloth in a circular motion, memorizing his back and shoulders, the taut skin pale in the dim light, the freckles that show under his tufts of hair.

  We sit in silence, my eyes drifting around the room as I think of how to engage him.

  “Okay, that’s enough. Switch spots,” he says. “I want to hear you read.”

  Standing, I step over his legs to sink in between them, sliding back against his chest in the tub.

  I pick up the book we’re almost finished with, holding it over my mid-section. I’ve read and re-read every page on the shelf, even the author biographies and the dedications.

  Continuing the Lois Lowry book, it has a theme that ties in perfectly to The Mole. In ‘Find a Stranger, Say Good-Bye’, a college student searches for her birth parents.

  I rub his leg in the water with my other hand, curling my fingers in his blond hair.

  He tightens up in surprise.

  I stop, raising my hand.

  “Do you have a question?”

  “Yes.” I say. “This book makes me think about parents and families...”

  “Like your own?” he finishes for me.

  “No. Yours actually.” I press on. “Your father. Did you ever look for him?” I’m on treacherous ground, and I know this. It could go either way – offend him or inspire his ability to confide in me.

  He kneads a circle on my shoulder. “My father was a bad man.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate.

  “I’m lucky you saved me.”

  “You feel that way?” Now he traces a heart shape.

  “Yes. You saved me from parents that treated me like I wasn’t good enough, that I was a failure.” It’s not true, but I know Blair feels this way, rightfully so. “It’s so much better spending time with you.”

  He seems thrilled at the idea of being a hero. “I knew it, I knew you needed my help.” I hear him groan. “I couldn’t save her but I can save you."

  “If you hadn’t come when you did...” I take a deep breath, inhaling for full effect. “Those boys could’ve hurt me.”

  “A voice told me to save you.”

  “Where were you sitting?” I ask, “or were you on the dance floor?”

  I feel his body tense up behind me. Not a good sign.

  “I just want to know how you came upon me, what made you pay attention to me?”

  Treading carefully, I keep my voice low. “I don’t remember seeing you that night.”

  “Hmm…well, I was in a corner watching.” He drops his hands from my back, sliding them around my waist, nuzzling my neck, his minty breath tickling me.

  I used to like peppermint, now I cringe at the smell.

  “Well, thank you for saving me,” I manage to croak. “I’m so grateful to have you.”

  He squeezes my shoulder.

  “Little girl, that’s nice to hear.”

  “Your father...” I whisper. “Did he get in trouble with the law... or hurt your mom?”

  Pausing, his hand stops mid-trace.

  I close my eyes, waiting for an outburst or a confession. I wish I could see the pigment of his irises, it will tell me which way we’re headed.

  “He was a deadbeat. Didn’t want to work. A drunk. Worthless.” He shifts his weight in the tub. “He used to call her names. Beat her. She tried to protect us, that’s why she kept us hidden away. Sometimes in a closet, sometimes the cellar.” His voice hitches. “The worst is when she forgot to let us out.”

  “You and your twin sister?”

  “Yeah.” He covers his mouth with his hand, yawning. “There were more children after us. We were the special ones, the only ones that mattered, she said.” He shrugs. “She had multiple miscarriages. He would come home, force himself on her, impregnate her, then leave. When she was expecting, he pushed her down the stairs or put her in the hospital.”

  I don’t point out the similarities of him forcing himself on
me. I have to focus on him, not my own pain.

  “What happened to your siblings?”

  “The state or her sister came to take them away.” He toys with a lock of my hair. “You look so much alike.”

  “Who?”

  He nods. “My twin.”

  “What happened to her?” I ask. “Does she live on the island?”

  “No,” is his only response, then, “Keep reading.”

  I read a couple paragraphs, then stop. “I’m beginning to enjoy this,” I say.

  He sucks in a breath, yanking the nape of my neck against his jaw line. I feel his lips brush against the side of my face. Thankfully, he’s never kissed me on the mouth, only the forehead or cheek.

  My eyes flick up to the ceiling, worried I’ve gone too far. “I just like spending time with you,” I add.

  “You know it’s not right what you make me do.” His speech pattern changes, becoming one big syllable. “If you wouldn’t make me so mad, do bad things to my boy parts, this wouldn’t happen. You can’t say what you just said. Take it back. Mommy will find out again.”

  Wait…what?

  I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole I didn’t intend to.

  “You know what happened before...” He relaxes his grip on my neck, twisting my hair up and letting it fall.

  Apologizing, I say, “I’m sorry I make you do bad things.” I pull my face away from his chin, the mole and its friend in close proximity. “But why is it bad if it feels so good?” I leave the bitter out of my voice, aiming for neutral.

  “Brothers and sisters don’t act like this. Mommy told us that last time.” He splashes water in my face. “You have to behave or she’ll lock one of us in the closet.”

  “Why the closet?”

  “Because I’m scared of the dark and she knows this.”

  Bingo.

  No wonder he turns a flashlight on to go just a few steps into the room before he reaches the light bulb string.

  “What was her name?” I whisper, looking over my left shoulder.

  “My sister?” He tugs on his earlobe. “Marian.”

  I try and keep my voice neutral. “Your sister’s in the cave?”