Heartless

by Leah Rhyne

  My mother turned back to me. This time, she focused on my eyes. She moved her face closer to mine, wrinkling her nose only once against the smell I knew must have burned inside her nostrils. Soon, she was almost nose-to-nose (had I still had a nose, that is), forehead-to-forehead with me. I lay still, battling against every impulse to move that sparked within my body.

  She stared into my eyes. Her own eyes searched, pouring deep inside me, looking for a hint of her little girl.

  She found me.

  Her eyes filled with tears. Her mouth fell open and her hand dropped to the table beside me. Her knees buckled. She stumbled, and my father’s face appeared beside hers. He caught her, and they both disappeared from my field of view for a moment before they reappeared, together.

  My mother inhaled, and it sounded like her throat had closed. And then she wailed. It was primal, and shrill. It was inhuman. I died in that moment, for at least the third time. No child should ever see her mother’s grief over her own death. It should be against God’s laws.

  It was certainly against mine, and the seed of fury became as strong and as thick as a tree trunk, deep within my core.

  My father had to see for himself, and even as he held her tight, he moved closer to me. He, too, searched, and he, too, found. He turned white.

  But then something in his demeanor changed. He brushed a fingertip against my temple, and I heard him wipe his hand on his pants. While he stared, a corner of his mouth turned up, and he winked.

  He knows. He knows I’m awake. I don’t know how he knows, but he does.

  But my mother didn’t.

  “What did you do to my baby?” my mother shrieked. “What did you do? You’re all monsters! Monsters!”

  My peripheral vision was improving. My parents stepped away from me as my father held my mother around the waist. She flailed and punched outward with her arms and legs, ripping through the air, trying to tear someone apart, someone who remained tantalizingly out of her reach, and out of my line of sight. Her arm hit the lamp that hung over my head, and it swung in a violent, dangerous arc on its thin chain, spotlighting my parents’ struggle with a slowed down strobe effect.

  “Knock it off,” Strong said, his voice sharp and cold. He stood nearby, just outside the boundaries of their dance. “Listen. This can all be a bad dream. All you need to do is give us what we need, and we’ll send you all on your merry way. ”

  Don’t believe him! He’s lying! I screamed silently. The light above me continued to swing. Left, right…left, right… I wanted it to stop. It made my head spin again.

  Beside me, my parents were suddenly still. My father panted, his breathing ragged and labored. But my mother was calm.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said. Her voice was dangerous, like the time she caught me writing dates on my hand the morning before a history exam.

  “But it’s allowed,” I said. “The exam’s open book.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said.

  And for the next two weeks, I’d spent two hours every day bent over my thick history textbook, my mother watching carefully as I committed full chapters to memory. I never cheated on a history test again. My mother hated liars.

  She stood, suddenly statuesque and graceful, beside my father. Her hand pressed against his stomach, holding him still beside her. “I don’t believe any of you are capable of reversing this…this…this this! My Jo is gone. There’s nothing in there, behind her eyes. She is gone. And we will give you nothing.”

  And she, my elegant, well-mannered, well-groomed mother, reared her head back and spat a wad of phlegm across the room. I heard it splatter. I heard Strong shout, a choked, gagging sound that turned the remnants of my stomach.

  A strong, massive hand reached into my line of sight and grabbed my mother’s arm. Strong. He yanked her from my father’s grip.

  He shouted, “Vera! No! Stop!”

  I heard grunts, the dull thuds of punches landing, and the crunch of bones breaking. Inside, I cheered for my father, and hoped he came out on top.

  “You’ll pay for that,” Strong cried out, spitting what I hoped was blood onto the floor. From somewhere nearby, Martha cackled. She was enjoying this.

  “Don’t you ever lay a hand on my wife again,” my father responded. “Or you’ll get even worse than that.”

  My father came back into view, shaking his bloodied hand right above my face.

  That’s just like him, taking credit when it’s due. My head shook, almost of its own volition, in near-amusement, until he pulled my mother close beside him.

  An angry handprint raised red and ugly across her cheek. Her typically immaculate makeup ran in dark smudges beneath her tear-reddened eyes. Her hair was disheveled, pulled out in clumps from her signature up-do. My father wanted me to see her.

  He wanted me good and angry. He knew how much stronger I was when I was angry. Always had been, always would be.

  I was seven, in the first grade at Hawthorne Elementary, and my mother was out of town for the week. My father had been called in to see the principal after a playground fight landed Nicky R. in the nurse’s office with a broken nose.

  We sat in a booth at a Friendly’s restaurant. I expected a punishment, not ice cream, but was smart enough to eat my sundae in fearful silence while my father apprised me.

  Finally, he spoke. “What happened?”

  There was no sense in beating around the bush. Even at seven, I could see that.

  I sighed. “He looked up my skirt. Pulled it up in front of all the other kids. They all saw my underwear.”

  “So you punched him?”

  I took a bite of Rocky Road, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of frozen marshmallow before I spoke.

  “Uh-huh. I didn’t think I’d actually hit him, but I guess I was stronger than I thought.”

  “Huh,” he said, and he took a long pull from his root beer float. “Well, I don’t want to fault you for being stronger than you thought.” Sip. “Actually, I’d rather like to encourage you to stand up for yourself, especially against boys.” Sip. “I won’t tell your mother about this. Not this time. Don’t let your fighting become a habit, Rocky, but don’t let anyone push you around either, okay?”

  We finished eating our ice cream with the camaraderie of co-conspirators. I always felt like I gained his respect that afternoon.

  It was growing harder to remain still, but I needed to. I knew that. If I could be still for long enough, amass enough strength from the electrical current flowing into me, I’d be able to fight.

  The rage within me took root, and continued to grow. At the sight of my mother’s battered face, I clenched my fists. I didn’t mean to, and tried to stop myself, but it happened. I moved.

  Strong saw.

  “She’s awake!” he said. “She moved!”

  With that, he yanked out the cord from the ground, and the hum of electricity that gave me strength was cut off. It felt weird to be without it; within a heartbeat, I felt its absence like a knife in the gut.

  I doubted that I had much more than an hour’s worth of power, but no one needed to know that. Nor did anyone need to know I somehow felt stronger than a circus muscle man.

  Not, at least, until I was sure of it.

  They moved me to a chair, propping me up like a quadriplegic. Sondra and Martha both wore surgical masks as they carried me between them. I played weak, lifting neither head nor foot nor remaining pinkie finger.

  In part, it was to try to dupe them into believing I was still weak, that I couldn’t put up a fight even if I wanted to.

  Another part of me, though? It just wanted to be a pain in the ass. I wanted to make them work for their paychecks.

  The paycheck I planned to ensure would never come. At least, not from my family’s bank accounts.

  Once I was seated, my parents knelt in front of me.

  “Hey, Champ,” my father said. It was an old nickname, given to me when I was eight years old and won the championship race in the backstro
ke at summer camp. “You’ve certainly gotten yourself into a pickle this time, haven’t you?” He looked around. Strong and Sondra were engaged in some deep conversation, each whispering and flailing about dramatically. They weren’t paying any attention to us. Martha was nowhere to be seen.

  My father lowered his voice a few decibels. “Can you speak?”

  I didn’t move.

  “I understand if you don’t want to right now.” He was whispering by then. “Blink once for yes, twice for no. I mean, if you can blink at all.”

  Instead, I winked. He smiled, and raised his fist in a silent cheer.

  My mother gasped, and Strong and Sondra turned abruptly toward us. “What?” said Sondra. “What is it?”

  “It’s…it’s just…” my mother stammered, searching for the right words. She found them. “I touched her. I touched her knee. And her skin, it’s like powder. It flaked away where my fingers hit, and it startled me.”

  “Yes, dear,” said Sondra, all sweetness and honey. “That’s because your daughter ran away. Had she behaved herself, she’d be in much better shape still. She’d be finished and beautiful and complete. Instead, she’s what you see before you: a tragic work in progress. Now if you’ll excuse us…”

  Sondra and Strong turned back to their conversation, but my father had other plans.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, sarcasm ruining his attempt at politeness, “I have a request you may wish to consider if you expect any future cooperation from my wife and me. You don’t have children, I can tell. But this is my child, and I think I’m within my rights, whatever they may be within this dungeon, to request a blanket. I have no desire to be forced to view my teenage daughter without clothes. I don’t care that the circumstances here are a bit…” He trailed off, and then gestured toward the electrodes and scars across my chest and stomach, that stood out like homing beacons against the shriveled, sinewy gray of my skin. “…gruesome.”

  Strong shrugged. “She still out?”

  My father nodded. “Like a light, from what I can tell.”

  “Then I guess it wouldn’t hurt. Sondra, go get them a blanket. Tell Martha she’s still unresponsive. And, oh, yeah, I guess, bring in the others. It’s probably time we all have a little chat.”

  Annoyance flashed across Sondra’s face, but a furtive smile from Strong restored her obvious adoration for him. “Shall I include Eli? Is it time?”

  “Yes. I want them all here.” A slow, careful grin spread across his face. His nose was crooked, and smeared under with blood, but somehow that only added to his handsomeness. His evil, maniacal handsomeness.

  “I’ll need your help with him. He’s feisty, and you’re so much stronger than me.” She batted her eyelashes, a professorial damsel in distress.

  “Fine.” He turned to my parents and me. “You two, come here first. I can’t have you wandering off.”

  My father shrugged, then he and my mother stood and walked over to Strong, playing the part of ideal prisoners. They allowed him to bind their wrists behind their backs with duct tape, though my mother winced when he wrapped hers.

  “Not so tight,” she said, trying to pull away.

  Based on the look on my father’s face, Strong had been smart to bind him up first. For some reason, though, my mother looked slightly victorious as Strong and Sondra left the room.

  My parents turned and pounced.

  “Jo, is that really you in there?” my mother said, sprinting in her high-heeled pumps to kneel in front of me.

  “Can you talk?” My father spoke over her, his voice booming in the cavernous room.

  “Yes,” I said. “But I don’t know how much time I have. Can one of you drag me to the wall and plug me in? I don’t want them to know I can move.”

  My father moved easily, with a fluidity that belied his bindings. He pressed his back to my chair and slid me easily toward the wall, and then, with his hands still bound, found the cord that we’d rigged up days before, and plugged it into a normal wall socket.

  I was glad to have the hum of electricity flowing through me again, although it was much fainter than it had been when I was recharging on the table.

  With that settled, I turned to my mother. I had so much to tell her, it all bubbled out in one vacant breath. “I’m so sorry. So sorry. This is all my fault. I was stupid. I tried to walk home in the middle of the night and they got me. I was mad at Eli, and he’ll tell you he made me go, but I could have stayed. Whatever you do, don’t blame Eli, okay? He feels bad enough as it is. But I’m so sorry. This is all my fault, I promise you.”

  Tears filled my mother’s eyes, but her jaw was resolute. She elbowed my knee, her attempt at a comforting pat while her hands were bound. “No, sweetheart. This isn’t the time for that. This isn’t your fault, and it isn’t Eli’s. These are terrible people, and they’ve done something terrible to you. Why didn’t you go to the police when you escaped? Or call us right away? We could have helped.”

  My voice was broken, and it came out as little more than a sandpaper-whisper. “I know. But by the time I woke up, this was already done. I was already embalmed. There wasn’t an easy way to turn back. So Lucy and I, we tried to fix it ourselves. To fix me.” I shrugged, and happily noticed my shoulders didn’t crackle quite like they had before. My skin was less flaky, too, more supple. They really had fixed me while I slept. But that didn’t matter. I continued. “Besides, we thought Strong was a cop, that we had the police on our side.”

  “Oh. Him,” my father cut in, furious. “He got us, too. Met us at the front door of your dorm a couple hours ago. Don’t know how he knew it was us, but he did. He told us he had news about you, and we believed him.” He frowned and rubbed his chin, five o’clock shadow bristling beneath his fingers. “He dumped us here, in a cell. That’s where we found Lucy. She filled us in on the rest.”

  “But how did he…” I started to say. Strong had been with me all day.

  My mother interrupted. “I knew we shouldn’t trust him,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you we shouldn’t trust him?”

  “Actually, you never said anything of the sort, dear.”

  I smiled. I couldn’t help it then. I always loved when they bickered. And when I smiled, my face didn’t crack. But there wasn’t time to think about that.

  “You guys! Stop arguing. Please! There’s more!”

  “Apart from the obvious?” asked my father.

  “Yeah,” I said. “First, Strong was with me all day. I don’t know how he was with you, too. And second, it’s good I didn’t call you. They want your money!” As I spoke, my mother leaned her head against my knee. I jerked away. “Mom! Don’t!”

  “What, baby?” She lifted her head but didn’t leave my side.

  “Toxic. I’m toxic. When they did this, they must’ve used arsenic. When they took Lucy, they took her from the hospital. They were treating her for arsenic poisoning.”

  My father looked confused. “But she’s fine. Well, except for her pinkie. Frostbite. She thinks she’s going to lose it. And possibly a broken ankle. She’ll need a doctor to take a look at it.”

  “What?” I said, embracing only for a split second the relief that followed the news that Lucy was going to be all right. Because I knew her current health didn’t matter if we didn’t all get out of this alive. “She was at death’s door when I left her. I can’t believe she’s not dying.” I sighed, and thought. “But that brings me to my next point. What I need you guys to know is, they cannot reverse this. The damage is done to me. I’m done for.”

  “Don’t say that, Jolene! Don’t ever say that!” My mother sounded on the verge of breaking down. My father stepped closer to her so the front of his legs pressed firmly against her back. He leaned forward, squeezing up against her body, trying to hold her together.

  “It’s true. I promise. Even before, I knew. I didn’t email you to come, they hacked my account. I would have told you to stay away. I knew it was dangerous. But I’m glad you’re here, so I can
say goodbye.” I paused, and then stared down at the cord that trailed out from behind me. It was my umbilical cord, the only way I could cling to life. “And then I heard them say, when they thought I was asleep, that they can’t save me. They just want your and Daddy’s money, your access. Lucy’s, too. They want her mother, the ambassador. Mama, I’m afraid they’re going to want to make you all like me. And I can’t let that happen to you. I can’t. I can’t let you end up like me.”

  I stopped speaking. My parents wept.

  And when you’re frightened, and you feel alone, there’s nothing more shattering than seeing your parents cry.

  My resolve faltered. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to be five years old again, sleeping in the bed in between my parents after a nightmare. I longed for them to fold me up between them, to protect me from the darkness. I couldn’t keep on fighting alone.

  But then my father stood again. “I love you, Jo. You’re my sunshine. My light. My rainbow. Everything good in my life? It comes from you and your mother. And now that I’m here, you’re not doing this alone. I’m with you, until…” His voice cracked. “Until the end. Every step of the way.”

  My mother nodded. “My baby,” she said, and she sniffed. “I’m here with you, too. We’re all in this together.” She heaved a deep, tremulous sigh, and fresh tears flowed from her eyes.

  “Okay,” said my father, shaking himself as though he were a dog casting water from his coat. Tears leapt from his cheeks, dotting the ground around him like dew. “That’s enough of that. We don’t have much time. Jo, do you know what their ultimate goal is?”

  “No,” I said. “Not yet. I have a stack of their files back at my dorm, but I haven’t read them yet. I figured I could do that after… But no matter what, we can’t help them.”