by Carian Cole
When I follow her through the front door, I’m welcomed by a sprawling Welcome Home banner stretched across the foyer, and Zac, his girlfriend Anna, and Lizzie take turns hugging me hello. I count to ten in my head until the touching is over. I reward each hug with a smile and a thank you. My brother usually comes to Merryfield twice a month to visit me. Sometimes Anna comes with him. I don’t mind because she’s always nice to me and brings me chocolate, magazines, and books. She seems to have a keen sense of what I like and takes the time to learn about me by asking me questions with real interest. Lizzie has never visited—not even for the required family therapy sessions that happen every month.
“I’ll show you to your room, then we can have dinner and maybe watch a movie if you’d like that?” my mother asks, leading the way out of the living room.
I nod. “That sounds really nice.” The others remain behind, offering smiles of encouragement. I follow her upstairs, and memories of living here start to filter through my mind. I stop at the second door in the upstairs hallway, my emotions bubbling up. Strong emotions I don’t usually feel. “This is my room?” I say excitedly, peering inside. My excitement quickly dissipates. Everything is different. My pink comforter is gone, along with my bookcase full of books, my unicorn posters, and all of my stuffed animals, which used to sit on my bed.
Now everything is yellow, and there aren’t any books or stuffed animals. There’s a dollhouse and a tiny table in front of the window with little dolls sitting on the chairs, drinking imaginary tea. I hate dolls and their creepy eyes. What are they doing in my room and what have they done with my teddy bear?
“No, honey, this is Lizzie’s room now.” My mother takes my hand and leads me away from the door. “You’ll be staying in Zac’s room when you visit. He cleaned it up and painted it just for you, and Daddy and I helped decorate it with things we thought you would like. And it has its own bathroom.”
“B-but I w-want my room. Th-that’s my room,” I stammer, choking back tears and trying to pull my hand from hers. The need to be in my own room is overwhelming, almost crippling. I need something that’s mine here. I want to be home, in my own bed, with my own things. I don’t want any more new things. Mom stops walking and smiles sympathetically at me.
“Holly, I know this is very hard for you,” she says slowly and with mild frustration in her voice. “It is for us, too. We’re all doing the best we can. You’ll love your new bedroom, it’s very grown up. You don’t want a little girl’s room anymore. Come see, okay?”
But I do. I want the little girl’s room. I want to be the little girl again and have my life back.
Reluctantly, I allow her to lead me to the other end of the hall to Zac’s room. Or to what used to be my brother’s room and is now mine for visits. She finally lets go of my hand as I enter. New paint, pretty colored throw rugs over the polished hardwood floor, a dark purple comforter and matching drapes—and presto!—new bedroom for the lost daughter. A huge flat-screen television is mounted on the wall across from the bed, and beautiful watercolor paintings of butterflies and flowers hang on the other walls. On the nightstand is one of those iPad things that Zac taught me how to use during one of his visits. This one is bigger than the one I have at my apartment, so I assume it’s a newer model. In one corner is a chair next to a small table that has a stack of paperback books waiting to be read. I smile, knowing they were put there by Anna. She promised to buy me new books after she and Zac caught me reading my old childhood storybooks at Merryfield. I don’t think they understood that I wasn’t reading them because I had no other books. I read them because their familiarity always makes me feel grounded when nothing else does. They’re still my anchor.
“It’s beautiful…thank you,” I finally say as politely as I can, remembering my new social etiquette. And the room is pretty and so incredibly luxurious. After years of sleeping on an old bean bag chair without a blanket or a pillow, with a cold concrete floor under me, this room is amazing. My small bedroom at my tiny apartment in Merryfield is nice, but nothing compared to this.
“I knew you would love it,” my mother gushes.
I step farther into the room and set my suitcase on the floor in front of the bed. “I do. It’s perfect.”
It’s not perfect, though. And it’s not that I’m not grateful that they’ve made this beautiful bedroom for me. It’s just not my room. There’s nothing of me here, no sign that Holly Daniels grew up here. No photographs, no favorite toys from childhood sitting in the corner. No scratches in the paint or scuffs on the floor from me growing up in this room. It’s clean and sterile.
Unlike me.
Maybe a part of me was hoping my childhood toys would be in this room. Or at least some of them. I thought for sure my favorite teddy bear that I slept with every night would be waiting here for me. Or maybe one of my favorite posters framed and hung on the wall. Something that said, “This is your home. You grew up here, for a little while, and we remember.”
Thankfully, my faded purple backpack and my books are hidden in my suitcase, despite my mother’s continued insistence that I get rid of them because they are filthy reminders.
Filthy reminders for her, not for me.
“If these items give her comfort, let her keep them,” Dr. Reynolds said to my mother during one of our recent therapy sessions. “She’ll let them go when she’s ready.”
Standing here in this room that isn’t mine at all, I’m not sure I’m ever going to be ready.
Later that night, after a home-cooked dinner of spaghetti and meatballs with my family and watching a cute comedy with them in the living room, Zac and Anna go home to their own apartment, almost as if they can’t leave fast enough. I get the feeling family time doesn’t happen often.
I catch Lizzie staring at me as our parents clean up the popcorn and soda from the living room. “Do you want to help me set up my new dollhouse?” she asks shyly. “I just got a couch, a fireplace that lights up, and a cat in a bed to put in it.”
Before I can answer, my mother has practically warped herself into the room with lightning speed. “Lizzie, Holly must be exhausted with it being her first day home. Maybe another time she can play with you. I’m sure she just wants to go to her room and relax.” She clears her throat. “Besides, it’s late and Grandma is coming tomorrow, so you should be getting to bed soon yourself.”
I stand. “Mom’s right,” I say, even though the last thing I want to do is go to my room and be alone. I haven’t spent the night alone in a dark room since I was in the bad place. Feather, who slept in the bedroom next to mine at Merryfield, is quiet like me, but she’s still good company.
Our mother visibly relaxes, like she just dodged a bullet, and I smile weakly. I wonder if she notices my smile rarely reaches my eyes. Most likely not—she never looks at me long enough to notice. I turn and give Lizzie a real smile, because she’s young and innocent in this whole mess.
“I think I’ll go to bed,” I tell Lizzie gently. “But I’d love to spend some time playing with you tomorrow if you want.” From the corner of my eye, I watch my mother’s face and, just as I suspected, she grimaces slightly at my last comment. At first, I thought I was imagining that she’s been purposely keeping Lizzie away from me, but now it’s too obvious to ignore. For some reason, she’s doing her best to keep the replacement from getting too close to the defective daughter.
The sun shining in my face awakens me, and I squint toward the window, spotting tiny flecks of dust floating in the beam of light, like microscopic faeries in flight.
Sometimes, I wish I were a faery that could just fly away.
Mornings are still confusing to me, even a year after returning to society. When I was held captive, I’m not quite sure when I went to bed. I just slept whenever I felt tired or bored. I think I usually took a few naps during the day, but I never slept for long periods. The ritual of people going to bed at night, staying asleep, and then getting up in the morning to start a new day is still a bit hard for me
to get used to.
Waking up in my dedicated weekend-visit bedroom at my parent’s house is no exception. Funny, I thought sleeping and waking here would feel different, since it’s where I slept for the first eight years of my life. It’s the only place I felt safe and had a routine. I thought a certain degree of contentment would return to me, but it hasn’t. The room feels uncomfortable. The paint is too new, the bedsheets and comforter too stiff. Maybe if I had been in my old room, where Lizzie now gets to sleep and feel safe, I would feel like I was really home.
But this isn’t home, not anymore, and it scares me inside to realize that I really don’t belong anywhere. I’m still lost and alone, living an illusion, a ghost haunting my own past.
I rise from the bed, stretch, and go to the window to look at the tree-lined street of huge houses that all look mostly the same to me. I wonder if the prince lives in a house like that, but I quickly decide he wouldn’t. He would live in a castle on a hill that touches the clouds or in a cottage deep in the forest.
Please come get me soon, I silently beg, hoping he will somehow hear me, wherever he is.
A knock on the bedroom door distracts me from my hopeful subliminal message. “Holly?” Mom’s voice is muffled through the door.
“Yes?”
The door opens and she walks in, smiling at first, but her expression immediately changes to disgust when she sees me at the window.
“Holly! Get away from that window. You’re barely even dressed!” she yells.
Startled, I back away from the window and look down at myself, confused. I’m wearing a long dark blue cotton nightshirt that hangs to just above my knees. Feather sleeps in the same thing, and so do some of the girls I see on television.
I cross my arms over my chest and cower slightly. The bad posture the counselor at Merryfield tried for months to get me to change returns in an instant. “I just woke up. This is what I slept in.”
She shakes her head and raises her hand to her mouth. “You cannot walk around like that. You’re a young woman and shouldn’t be half naked. Didn’t they teach you that?”
I blink at her, completely confused.
“How many times, little girl, have I told you not to stand unless I tell you to?”
“Um…I don’t remember anyone telling me what to sleep in…it was in the pajama section of the store, though. Feather got one too.”
“I don’t care what Feather does. I’m going to buy you some proper nightclothes.” She crosses the room to pull the curtains over the window. “Please don’t stand like that by the window. You don’t want the neighbors to see you, do you? It’s bad enough they know what…happened to you,” she stammers. “We don’t need to feed the gossip hounds.”
“I’m sorry. I only wanted to see outside.” Windows are still something I consider a luxury, along with everything that comes with them. Like the sun, and the clouds, and birds, and the sky. And air.
The usual forced smile crosses her face. “It’s fine, honey. You don’t know any better. Daddy just went to pick up Grandma. She’s so excited to see you.” She goes to the closet and pulls out another gray wool skirt, black leggings to wear underneath, and a black turtleneck.
“Wear this, you’ll look lovely.”
I try not to let the cringe I feel on the inside show on my face. “I don’t like those kinds of neck shirts,” I protest. “I feel like I’m strangling.”
His hand tightened around my neck, cutting off my air, suffocating me. “I can kill you now if I want to…”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s very soft.”
I wish she would listen to me and try to understand that I’m not being ridiculous. I just want to get through my days without some kind of reminder of something bad happening to me. I don’t remember my mother being like this when I was little, before I was taken. Or maybe she was, and I forgot over the years that passed. In therapy, we talked about how sometimes we romanticize people in our own heads, make them better than they actually are, to make ourselves feel better and to justify liking them and missing them.
“You should get dressed, put a little makeup on, and come downstairs. I can’t help both you and Lizzie get ready, I have things to do myself before your father gets back with Grandma.”
Apparently, my mother thinks I need supervision. Does she think I don’t get up and dress myself every morning? I may have been held against my will by a sick man for years, but I would have gotten dressed in new clothes every day if I’d had a choice. Even at eight years old, I knew I was supposed to get dressed every morning.
“I’ll be down as soon as I can,” I reply. “I’ll brush my hair and my teeth, too.”
She nods and leaves the room, closing the door behind her, oblivious to my mild sarcasm. Dr. Reynolds tells Feather and me we shouldn’t make sarcastic comments, but sometimes it just comes out, and it kinda feels good.
When I’m sure my mother won’t be coming back into my room, I tiptoe back to my window and pull the curtains open.
“Oh my, look at you, my sweet baby! Come here.” My grandmother comes directly to me as soon as she enters the living room, where I’m sitting on the couch wondering how mad my mother will get if I take these uncomfortable shoes off. I stand, and Grandma immediately pulls me into a hug. At first I stiffen, but then my body relaxes and I let her embrace me. I can almost feel the love pouring from her as she clings to me, rubbing my back. I put my arms around her too, gently, as she’s shorter than me and feels very frail, like a little bird, and I’m afraid I may hurt her.
“My sweet Holly. I missed you so much.” She says with a sob. “Every day I prayed for you.” She pulls back to look at me, tears in her eyes, her mouth quivering. Her hands lightly touch my hair, then my cheeks, before finally resting on my shoulders. This woman loves me. I barely remember her, and I wasn’t allowed to see her until today, but her love for me is overpowering, in her touch and in her eyes. She honestly, truly missed me.
“You’re so beautiful,” she says softly, and all I want to do is let her hug me again. Now I understand the comfort of a person’s arms around you. “So grown up, but so much the same. I’m so glad you found your way home while I’m still alive. I would have died with a broken heart if you hadn’t come back.”
“Mom, can we save the morbid talk, please?” My father shakes his head as he walks past us and goes into the adjoining kitchen.
“I’m sorry, Grandma.” I have no idea what else to say. I don’t want to break anyone’s heart or make anyone sad.
She grips my hand in her thin, boney one. “Don’t you dare apologize. Come sit with me, I have something for you.” She holds onto my hand as she sits on the couch, and I sit next to her, captivated with the rings on her hands, all diamonds and colored gems. I remember these rings. When I was little, I used to call them stars because they sparkled and shone.
“You still wear the stars on your hands,” I murmur, and her entire face lights up at hearing those words.
“You remember…I was so afraid you would forget me.” She squeezes my hand even tighter, and I decide it’s okay to let her believe I didn’t forget a moment with her. Deep down, I wish I actually did remember more of her because I can feel in my heart that we were close. I haven’t felt like this with anyone else. This pull of remembrance, of belonging and feeling loved.
“Lizzie… bring me my bag that’s over by the front door,” Grandma says, and Lizzie gets up from where she’s been playing quietly on the floor to retrieve a large shopping bag that Grandma dropped when she saw me.
“Do you have a present for me, Grammy?” Lizzie asks, peering into the bag.
“Not today, sweetheart. Today I have a special gift for Holly because she hasn’t gotten any in a very long time.”
Lizzie nods absently and goes back to her game, and Grandma reaches into the bag, pulls out a wrapped, rectangular box, and hands it to me.
“But it’s not my birthday or anything,” I say, placing the box on my lap.
“That�
��s okay, this is just a special gift.”
Intrigued, I tear off the wrapping paper to find a dark burgundy photograph album with the word “memories” embossed in fancy script on the front. I glance at my grandmother, and she gives me a warm, encouraging smile as I flip the book open. The first page is filled with photographs of me as a newborn baby, and I don’t even have to ask if it’s me because Grandma has added a little strip of colorful paper beneath each photo with my name and the date and place in pretty writing. A lump forms in my throat as I slowly turn each page, watching myself grow older, playing with my brother, blowing out birthday candles, at the beach with my father holding me at the edge of the water. Suddenly the photos of me have stopped, but the pages continue with pictures of Zac, my parents at parties and holiday dinners, and photos of my grandparents. Seeing the photos of my grandfather brings back vague memories of him, but I don’t ask where he is. I’m afraid to hear that answer. I turn a few pages and there are photos of baby Lizzie, and she looks just like I did earlier in the album, with wispy blond hair, bright eyes, and a big smile. I see Zac’s prom photo, and I’m delighted to see Anna standing next to him in a pretty dress when they were both so young, then Zac graduating from high school, then college, Lizzie’s first day of school, and so much more. Every photo has been labeled by my grandmother. My hands shake as I flip through the pages of memories that should have been mine, in my head and not here in photographs, but I am so very grateful she made this for me.
“I don’t know how to thank you for this.” My words catch in my throat, and I turn to hug her. “I love this so much, and I needed this.”
“You don’t have to thank me. This is your life. All of this belongs to you.”
“I’m still not sure seeing all that is good for her recovery.” My mother entered the room while I was hugging my grandmother. “You should have let me talk to her doctor first.”
“That’s nonsense,” Grandma says. “She has every right to have these photographs and see herself, and her own family. None of this is a secret. And I won’t be kept from my granddaughter any longer, Cynthia.” She continues to talk over my mother, who attempts to interrupt her. “I’m eighty years old, I’m not going to live forever, and I want to see my granddaughter while I still can. I’ve respected your wishes long enough.”
