Hannahwhere

by John McIlveen

  She entered a waiting area tastefully decorated in subtle earth tones, yet as anonymous as paste. Aesthetic regional prints adorned the walls, offering historic aspects of mills that had once housed shoe factories and leather tanneries, the famous turreted bridge looking fresh and sturdy, and other landmarks of a once-thriving Riverside. At the far end of the waiting area there was a hallway with seven doors, all closed.

  A girl, fifteen or so and looking utterly bored, sat slouched in one of the eight chairs that lined the foyer. She wore the uniform of so many her age—sneakers, torn jeans, a down vest, and pasty white skin that couldn’t be natural, yet Debbie wasn’t sure if it was makeup.

  Anemic much? Debbie thought to herself.

  The girl’s face might have been pretty, but it was hard to tell with the piercings in her nostril, the bridge of her nose, eyebrow, and upper and lower lips. She hid the right side of her face behind a swath of hair, dyed as black as a raven’s wing. The left side of her head was shaven, exposing an earlobe painfully elongated by a gauge through which Debbie could have poked her thumb. Her mascara, eye shadow, and shaggy hair matched the dark intensity of her eyes, which turned to meet Debbie’s, and just as quickly looked away. The look was shielded, yet transparent. It was a secret hidden beneath pain and fear, and wrapped in a thick coating of angry.

  Who did this to you? Debbie wanted to ask her, but only offered a gentle “Hi.”

  The teen raised her hand in an indiscriminate, lackluster wave, as if lifting her arm from her leg was too strenuous. She held Debbie’s gaze this time, revealing eyes Debbie had seen so many times before, on so many other faces. They were the eyes of the abused children, the beaten wives, and the neglected elderly…

  …the eyes in the mirror.

  The thought startled her. Where did that come from? Debbie wondered and immediately pushed it away with a shudder.

  “Yeah, it’s fucking freezing in here,” said the girl.

  She was right. Someone must have set the air conditioning to arctic. Debbie looked around the room and spied the little ivory control box halfway down the hallway. The setting lever was bottomed out and the thermometer needle displayed sixty-one degrees. Surprised that the controller wasn’t in a tamperproof box, Debbie adjusted it to seventy-two.

  “You can do that?” asked the teenager, looking genuinely amazed. “You won’t get in trouble?”

  “I don’t think it’ll be an issue,” Debbie said. “At least we’ll be comfortable until we find out.”

  The air conditioner dropped out with a subtle whump that shifted the ceiling tiles. It became so quiet that even with two white noise machines in the waiting area, the room seemed pathetically hushed.

  Debbie looked up at the air diffusers and gave an eager, “Amen!”

  The girl’s shoulders drooped and she sighed heavily. “You ain’t gonna start preaching on me, are you? I’ve had enough of that shit for five lifetimes.”

  Debbie smiled and said. “I’m not a fan of religion, and especially not of preaching. I’m just Debbie… here to get shrunk.” She considered offering her hand but refrained and sat down three seats away from her. They were thick, heavy-duty chairs upholstered in corn silk cloth. Too heavy to throw, Debbie thought cynically.

  They sat in silence, but Debbie could feel the girl’s eyes on her. The girl’s interest was piqued, though she maintained her air of nonchalance. Debbie purposefully avoided eye contact.

  “I’m Ab,” the girl finally said. It sounded more like a warning than a declaration.

  “Hi, Ab. Is that short for Abigail?”

  “I fucking hate it,” she replied, eyes locked on the carpet.

  “Why?” asked Debbie.

  “My mother chose it.”

  “You don’t get along with your mother?”

  “She got rid of me as soon as she named me. She could have picked a better name,” Ab said and laughed sourly. “She must’ve hated it, too. It supposedly means ‘brings joy’.”

  “You don’t think you bring joy?” asked Debbie.

  “Oh, I bring joy, all right,” Ab said and gave a disgusted snort.

  “You could unofficially change it until you turn eighteen, and then permanently,” Debbie suggested.

  “Nah, I like Ab. It’s short for abnormal.”

  Debbie looked at her and smiled. “I think everyone has some of that in them. Do you live with a foster family?”

  “If you want to call it that.”

  “A family?”

  “A life.” She sneered, stabbed Debbie with a glance, and looked away.

  “They don’t treat you right?”

  “The parents are okay when they’re around, which is almost never, but their son’s always home, looking for joy… otherwise known as a blowjob.”

  Debbie held Ab’s gaze, but Ab just shrugged it off.

  Bernard Prioulx liked blowjobs, too, said a voice deep within Debbie’s head. His leering face appeared in her memory like a jack in the box, but she pushed the image away.

  “Did you report him?” Debbie asked. You know the answer to that, Debbie, old girl. After all, you never reported Bernard, did you? said the voice. It had become so loud lately.

  “To who? Mom and dad’s precious son would never do that!” Ab said caustically, daring Debbie to doubt her. “Brandon’s a pretty hard guy to resist, especially after a few good punches in the gut. That can change a girl’s mind.”

  “Did you tell your therapist?” Debbie sensed an urgency growing inside her. Need to keep busy! Keep talking, move forward and don’t look back… never look back!

  “Never been here before. I don’t have an appointment. Just kind of hoping…” she trailed off.

  With a shaking hand, Debbie pulled one of her business cards from her purse and passed it to Ab. “We’re going to get you out of there. Wait here with me a while. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Ab looked at the card and barked a bitter laugh. “Ha! No fucking shit! Child and Family? You’re the pricks who put me in there!”

  Debbie turned in her seat and faced Ab. “I will help you,” she said forcefully, half plea, half promise.

  Ab searched her eyes a few moments and squinted, as if noticing or deciding something. “Maybe you will. You’ve been had, too. Who did you, your stepfather? Your brother? Your daddy?”

  This sudden change in direction threw Debbie and she suddenly felt angry with this quirky young woman. “No one did me,” she said, sounding more weak and unsure than she’d hoped.

  “Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” Ab said. She folded her arms and sunk deeper into the chair. “And you fucking want to help me?”

  From the corner of her eye, Debbie watched the girl brood. Feeling ashamed by her reaction, Debbie asked, “Ab, why do you think I’ve been had, as you put it?”

  Ab glanced at Debbie, looking peeved at first, and then she downshifted to just mistrustful. “You have the same look we all have—the don’t look look,” Ab said. “People who’ve been fucked with don’t want to talk about or admit it… like you. You look at me, but if I look back at you, you look around me or through me so I can’t see you. We all do it.”

  “What do you mean by…” Debbie started to ask, but one of the doors opened and two men stepped into the hallway.

  “Keep thinking that way and good things will happen,” said the older of the two. The younger man walked by Debbie and Ab and offered them an awkward smile, which they both self-consciously returned.

  Two more doors opened almost simultaneously.

  “Shift change,” murmured Ab.

  A couple exited from one, him looking aggravated… her, red eyed and exhausted. He wordlessly walked out the main entrance, letting the door close on the woman.

  “Jerk,” said Ab. Debbie nodded in agreement.

  From the other door, a woman and a young boy about five emerged followed closely by Essie. She hugged the boy and watched them as they left, the little boy holding the door for his mother and another
woman arriving for an appointment.

  “My kind of man,” said Ab.

  “I’m smitten,” Debbie agreed and smiled as Essie approached.

  “Hi, Debbie,” Essie said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t take you earlier.” She looked at Ab, offered a questioning smile and said, “You’ve been waiting here for about three hours. Has anyone been out to see you? Who is your appointment with?”

  “You,” Debbie cut in. “Essie, this is Ab, whom I’ve also just met. Could we go into your office? We really need to make a few calls.”

  “Certainly,” Essie said, concern knitting her brow. “Please come in.”

  “This may take a while,” Debbie said. “Do you have a three o’clock appointment?”

  “I do now.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Abigail Leverone’s caseworker Roana Gutierrez, sat in Essie’s office, flanked by Officer Lewis Adler and Sergeant Ned Jens. Ab had displayed the fist-shaped bruises on her ribcage and her abdomen and both police officers looked ready to grind bones.

  Roana Gutierrez and the two officers would accompany Ab to the Jaquette home to collect her belongings. Once there, Sergeant Jens and Officer Adler would read Brandon his rights, and if things went well, he would resist arrest. Roana would then drive Ab to the home of Dennis and Rachel Kurzman who had a room waiting for her. The Kurzmans—he a CFO at a Cambridge bio-lab, and she a literary agent who worked mainly out of her home—had had only one child. Gwen, a pediatric nurse, was now married and living in Wellesley. That was the plan at least. Debbie knew these things seldom went as planned… but maybe this time.

  Debbie and Essie followed Ab, Roana, and the two officers into the waiting area.

  “What you did today was very brave,” Essie said to Ab and handed her and Roana each a business card. “Would you be willing to come about ten tomorrow morning so we can see how things go tonight?”

  “It’s a good idea, Ab. You should do it,” said Roana.

  Ab shrugged and then nodded in agreement.

  One of the officers held the door for Ab and Roana. Ab directed a crooked half-smile toward Debbie. “Thanks,” she said. She didn’t wait for a response.

  “You never know where your day will lead,” Debbie said.

  “True enough,” agreed Essie. “Which brings last night’s call to mind. You sounded a little shaky.”

  “I’m sorry about that. I was in a bit of a state. There are so many things I want to talk to you about regarding Hannah… and myself.”

  “Let’s go back into the office.”

  Once inside, Essie shut the door behind them and motioned to the beige leather sofa Ab had occupied just a few minutes earlier.

  “You know I can’t officially counsel you because of our connection to Hannah, but I can suggest someone,” said Essie.

  “I know,” Debbie said and sat down.

  Essie sat at her desk. She caught Debbie looking at her feet, which barely reached the floor from the large leather seat.

  “No short jokes,” Essie said and chuckled.

  “Promise,” Debbie said with a smile.

  “So, in the immortal words of Chicken Little, what’s up?”

  “I could use a little guidance and advice, but I wasn’t sure where to go, especially considering…” Debbie trailed off.

  “Considering?” urged Essie.

  Debbie started to talk, paused. After two more false starts, she exhaled loudly and said, “This is so convoluted. I don’t know where to begin. Hell, I’m afraid to begin.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  Debbie stared at the floor before her, weighing her answer. She said, “What it all means, what will happen to me.”

  “Can you explain to me exactly what it is?”

  “Things have been happening, so many things that I can’t explain. Some of them seem random but disturbing, while other things seem almost beyond explanation.” Almost? Debbie thought, like the sun is almost hot. “For about two years I’ve been seeing some kinds of images—or more like image sequences—and I’m afraid they might be flashbacks. They’re very explicit and grossly suggestive, and I thought they might be subconscious projections. Maybe I see too much of it in the job.”

  “Have you been seeing anyone about this,” Essie asked. “Two years is a long time to carry something like this…especially alone.”

  “I started seeing Dolores Kearns shortly after they started. Do you know her?”

  “Yes,” Essie said neutrally, disclosing nothing. “Is there a particular reason you didn’t call Dolores?”

  “Nothing’s improved. In fact, last night’s occurrence was especially bad because it happened in public and during the day, neither of which has happened before. I feel like they’re getting out of control.”

  Essie nodded. “What do you suspect is bringing this about?”

  “I’m not sure. When they happen, I see images from the perspective of a little girl who’s being used as some kind of sex toy.” Debbie rubbed her arms and shivered uncomfortably.

  Essie frowned and said, “Sadly, the scenario is more common than we like to admit, as you well know. Can you describe the little girl?”

  “Only that she has red hair—copper-red hair.”

  “You have copper-red hair,” said Essie.

  “I know. And she’s very young. She has small child’s hands and purple sneakers with colorful unicorns on them. These visions are so intense it feels like they’re really happening, but I have no memories to connect to them. I can smell their sweat, booze, and cologne.” Debbie’s voice broke. She wriggled herself into the corner of the couch, wanting to curl inward, to shrink. “I’m sorry,” she said to Essie, her eyes burning and red.

  Essie moved to the couch and took Debbie’s hands in hers. “Debbie, how well do you remember your childhood? Was it a happy one?”

  Debbie remembered very little of her childhood or the people in it. She had never known her father, and could vaguely recall her mother as someone more like a distant aunt who made rare and unexpected appearances, always arriving with a different guy on her arm and a backpack slung over her back, as if hoping to hide the enormous monkey. She seldom acknowledged her only child and clearly couldn’t care for her. Somewhere along the line, she forgot that she had one, though Debbie had always hoped for her return. Eventually, the monkey grew so large it buried her. Debbie was a teenager when Madeline Prioulx—her hypercritical foster mother whose own addictions, although legal, were just as destructive—told her this.

  The Prioulxs were the furthest back she could remember with reasonable lucidity. Madeline’s greed, slovenliness, and laziness had been parts of a perpetual vicious circle, each one feeding the other. Mad Mother Prioulx, as Debbie and her foster sisters Terry and Lydia called her, would start her days sprawled across the couch, resembling an enormous baggie stuffed with cottage cheese. If Debbie’s memory served right, Madeline weighed at least three hundred pounds. Hers was a ponderous package to lift from the couch, so she did it as seldom as possible. Between regular meals she would inhale profuse amounts of Cheez-Its, ice cream, and Little Debbie snacks, all the while ordering her “children” about. She complained incessantly, bemoaning the stinginess of the government, the unfaithfulness of men, and most of all, the ingratitude of snot-nosed children.

  One fateful day, a concerned cashier at a little market on Kinsman Road reported her concerns about a negligent situation. Cleveland Police Department and Ohio Child Services heeded her words, and visited Madeline with warrant in hand. They found the porcine matron prone on the couch, watching Cops and feasting on Fiddle Faddle, while fourteen-year-old Terry massaged her fat, filthy feet and thirteen-year-old Debbie cleaned the bathroom. The clincher was the discovery of thirteen-year-old Lydia staring impassively at the ceiling while pinned beneath the thrusting body of Madeline’s twenty-four-year-old son Bernard. She had a patina of coke under each nostril, with two more ounces waiting in a bag on Bernard’s bureau.

  The shit hit the fan full forc
e, achieving maximum coverage. Madeline and Bernard got matching steel bracelets and the three juvenile girls quickly became wards of the state… again. Debbie, Terry, and Lydia never reconnected despite the odd little sorority they had formed at the house of Prioulx. Some things were better left behind. In Debbie’s case, it seemed everything was left behind.

  “I think Bernard Prioulx did things to me.”

  “Foster home?” asked Essie.

  “Yes, when I was thirteen,” Debbie confirmed. “I don’t remember it happening to me, but when I talked to Ab about what was happening to her, it seemed…” She faded into thought for a moment. “I know Bernard made Terry and Lydia have sex with him. Why would it have been different for me? I remember very little of my childhood but it seems like it’s coming back. It has me questioning if the red-haired girl is me when I was very young, and it’s horrifying to have to question it.”

  “From my experience, if these images are breaking through it appears you might be ready to confront the source of them.”

  “Why would it elevate like it did yesterday? Could it be Hannah’s case?”

  “A word, a voice, a smell, a familiar setting, or a certain slant of light can trigger emotions or repressed memories,” said Essie. “Your psyche may have decided it’s time to deal and heal. Considering your occupation, I’m surprised it hadn’t surfaced earlier. You already know these things, but you may be in denial.”

  “Whatever happened, I need to know the truth and face it. I don’t want this following me around, gaining weight until it crushes me. What would it take to find out?”

  Essie closed her hands over Debbie’s and said, “You know as well as I that if you do decide to, you must do it carefully and wisely. You would need a support system, some family or close friends you can lean on to help you feel safe if you start to feel flooded by the images.”

  Support system tally… zero. Check! Debbie nodded, but did not disclose this fact. “The first time it happened I was right outside the hospital when a drunken vagrant called me Red. It sent me into a panic… so much so I had him arrested. Now the name and occurrences pop up out of the blue. They are depraved and terrifying and I feel sordid and empty afterward.”