Island of Lost Girls
A Novel
Jennifer McMahon
For Drea
Contents
Prologue
June 24, 2006
June 5, 2006
April 11, 1993
June 5, 2006
May 12, 1993
June 6, 2006
May 23, 1993
June 7, 2006
May 31, 1993
June 12, 13 & 14, 2006
June 12, 1993
June 14 & 15, 2006
June 16, 1993
June 15, 2006
June 20, 1993
June 15, 2006
June 30, 1993
June 16, 2006
July 4, 1993
June 16, 2006
July 4, 1993
June 17, 2006
July 21, 1993
June 17, 2006
August 10, 1993
June 17, 2006
August 10, 1993
June 17, 2006
August 10, 1993
June 17, 2006
August 15, 1993
June 18, 2006
September 3, 1993
June 25, 2006
September 4, 1993
June 25, 2006
September 4, 1993
June 25, 2006
July 5, 2006
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Jennifer McMahon
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
JUNE 24, 2006
DIVE, DIVE, DIVE!” shouted Suzy as she clutched the old Chevy’s cracked red-and-white steering wheel, jerking it back and forth in her hands, yanking hard on the turn signal lever to bring the ship down.
She knew it was air that made submarines rise and fall, just as she knew what she would see underwater: the octopus, the coral reef, the toothy smiles of sharks as they came in for the attack. She’d been a thousand times, and it was just like in the song her mother sang, about the octopus’s garden in the shade. But on her way to the garden, there were sharks to run from, enemy subs trying to torpedo her. She knew what it was like to go down into blackness.
Suzy had these spells, like thunderstorms inside her head—that’s how her parents explained it—where she’d black out, thrash around, and wake up confused. Seizures. Storms in her brain. Thunder and lightning. She wore a silver bracelet with her name and a weird red picture of a twisted-up snake on one side, the word EPILEPSY on the other. She took medicine, tiny pills each day.
Suzy was not supposed to play near the old car or the pile of rotten boards out behind her grandma’s house. She knew that once people rode around in the Impala with its white stripe along the side; once the bumpers had sparkled and shown reflections of the open road. The radio had worked then too. The engine had hummed. They had pulled the white top up when it rained, some kind of fancy umbrella.
Now, her parents warned her not to play there: It’s dangerous, her parents told her. You could get hurt. Don’t play there. But that old car called her, the octopus called her, the mice that lived in the hole in the seat called her. The little mouse babies, pink and blind, that squeaked and lived in a nest of straw between the rusted springs, called out to her, a chorus of high-pitched voices singing through nubs of tiny orange teeth. She’d pulled back the torn red-and-white seat cover and seen them wriggle like the tips of fingers. She brought snacks for the mama mouse: pieces of American cheese, peanut butter crackers, birdseed stolen from Nana Laura Lee’s bird feeder.
Suzy knew what mice liked. And this was not just any mouse. This was the secret-underwater-periscope-up-first-officer mama mouse who was friends with the octopus, who told her how to outwit the sharks, who had pushed seven wormy babies out from inside her. The baby mice squeaked louder as they dove deeper into the sea, the water dark as ink around them.
Suzy pushed back her thick blond curls, the heavy ringlets, and squinted through the cracked windshield, out the side portholes. Nana Laura Lee, her mom’s mama, called Suzy “Shirley Temple” and spent hours fussing with the girl’s hair. She bought her ribbons and bows, sweet little dresses that Suzy promptly got caught on prickers and barbed wire, ripping them until they were only good enough for doll bandages or Indian headbands.
But this afternoon’s game was dive down and have tea in the octopus’s garden before her daddy came looking for her. So down she dove, running from sharks the whole way.
“HELLO THERE!”
Suzy’s shoulders jerked when she heard the voice. It was the voice of a tired man, a man stuck on land, a man who clearly didn’t know she was miles underwater now and wouldn’t be able to hear him. Suzy wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers. She knew what could happen if you did. You could end up like Ernestine Florucci, who had been in the second grade with Suzy and now might be gone forever. Even though they lived in Vermont—where, Suzy now realized, listening to the grown-ups, things like that weren’t supposed to happen. Like living in Vermont was a vaccine against bad things.
She pulled the dive lever on the sub and sank further, thought about something she’d seen on the news last week, something about Ernestine, but her daddy had jumped up and turned the TV off before Suzy could hear. The news man in the blue suit was saying something about a confession, which Suzy knew was when you went into a little room with a priest with a white collar. Then the TV snapped off and her parents talked in hushed voices. They had all gone out for creemees—Suzy got a chocolate-maple twist with extra chocolate sprinkles.
“Whatchya doing there?” the man asked Suzy, his voice friendly. He was right beside her now, his hands resting on the chipped red door. He was wearing a green jacket with a badge pinned to the front and carrying a walkie-talkie. This man was a police officer. He had a gun and everything.
She squinted up at him, the light from the midday sun beyond the trees behind him giving him a kind of glow like an angel, like the way the world sometimes looked just before a seizure, like everything had this halo, everything holy.
Suzy heard the sound of dogs barking, coming nearer, men talking, their footsteps cracking twigs, the cold squawk of staticky voices on walkie-talkies. They were coming up the pine needle–covered path that led down to the lake. Was she being arrested? Had her parents sent the police to see if she was playing where she was not supposed to?
“What’s your name?” asked the man. He had short dark hair, a little dimple in his chin. “You live near here?”
She was allowed to talk to police officers. She was pretty sure. Suzy blinked.
“My name’s Joe,” he said, extending his hand. She stuck out hers to shake. His hand was soft and warm, smooth as the skin of a baseball glove. She gave in and told him her name.
“That’s a real pretty name for a real pretty girl.”
She hated this talk—this pretty-girl-pretty-name-pretty-hair-pretty-ribbon, “you look just like a little angel” talk adults gave. She hated the winks, the nods, the little pats on her head, testing the bounce of her curls.
The dogs were there then and men in uniforms, men in wide-brimmed hats kicking at leaves, looking at the ground, letting the dogs pull them around. Big German shepherd dogs, police dogs, dogs that could bite, could crush your hand. Suzy had seen a program on TV about a man who couldn’t see and needed a dog to help him. A special dog who helped him cross streets, get on buses, do his shopping. Smart dogs, German shepherds.
These police dogs were over at the pile of rotten wood, the boards with nails that could give you lockjaw, and they were whining, barking, digging at the ground like there was hamburger underneath, some sweet dog treat. Or maybe it was drugs. Dogs could sniff drugs, she knew this from
school, from Officer Friendly, who brought his trusty dog Sam, the drug sniffer, with him. Sam wore a leather harness like the blind man’s dog, like maybe Officer Friendly was blind, blind to drugs, to danger even, without Sam. Dogs could smell hundreds of times better than humans. Dogs could smell things miles away. Dogs were faithful and friendly and loyal. Dogs drooled. Their feet smelled like Fritos. Their breath could smell rotten like something got caught in their throat and died.
The men in uniforms were pulling at the boards, someone was taking pictures, someone had a video camera. Maybe they were all in a movie, a movie like her Nana Laura Lee had been in. They were all movie stars.
“So where do you live, Suzy?” asked Joe. She told him. She told him her grandma’s house was on the other side of the trees there, but that her grandma didn’t really live there, she lived far away in a hotel for people who took medicine for their heads. Her daddy was fixing screens on the windows because they were selling the house. She told him that when Daddy was done, they would visit Nana Laura Lee, who lived down by the lake in a faded pink trailer with a hundred bird feeders outside. Nana Laura Lee loved birds. Laura Lee had a white submarine in her yard that was actually a propane gas tank, but ever since Suzy was small, she believed it was a special private submarine for exploring the bottom of the lake. Laura Lee was a little crazy, that’s what Suzy’s daddy said, but Suzy’s mom explained that everyone was really a little crazy once you knew them.
Even Suzy’s own mom and dad were crazy, she guessed. They had played in these woods as kids. The pile of rotten boards was once a stage where Mommy had been a crocodile and Daddy was Peter Pan.
The policeman was still talking to her, asking her how often she came out to the woods, how old she was, what grade she was in, if her daddy knew where she was. One of the men in a green-and-tan uniform called to him.
“Sergeant Crowley, we found something!”
And the sergeant named Joe went over, walked through the circle of men and eager barking dogs, got down on his knees, and peered into the hole that had been covered by the wood the men had pulled away.
“Call forensics,” he said. “I want the whole team out here. And rope this area off! Now!”
The baby mice squeaked for food, for their mama, and Suzy told them to hush, there were dogs around. She got out of the Impala, hopping over the door that had been stuck closed for years, and snuck up behind the men. She got down on her hands and knees, peered through the legs of one of the men, and saw something down in the hole—some old clothes, dirty, red, and torn; and just when it was coming into focus, just when she saw it had eyes, it had teeth, and scraps of hair, Sergeant Joe was swooping her up, saying this was no place for little girls, asking her to point to where her daddy was, saying not to be scared, that he was going to take her home.
JUNE 5, 2006
RHONDA FARR HAD two Peters in her life: the Peter she loved but could not have, and now the white rabbit, which she, not unlike Alice in Wonderland, seemed destined to chase down the hole. But Alice’s rabbit was not named Peter. The only Peter Rabbit Rhonda had known was the one in the storybook by Beatrix Potter, a common brown rabbit with a white fluffy tail, who just couldn’t stay out of poor Mr. McGregor’s garden.
On the other hand, Rhonda’s Peter Rabbit was Ernestine Florucci’s rabbit: all white and, as she would tell the police, about six feet tall.
“A rabbit?” the state troopers would ask, hands poised to scribble notes in black pads. “Six feet tall? Are you sure?”
Though the police were skeptical, Ernestine’s mother, Trudy, believed Rhonda’s story; she believed her but refused to forgive her.
The lives of Ernestine, Trudy, and Rhonda—maybe the lives of everyone in Pike’s Crossing—had changed forever in about three minutes. The time it takes to soft-boil an egg.
IT WAS WELL past Easter when Peter Rabbit appeared to Rhonda, swooping away little Ernestine. It was the fifth of June, and Rhonda had pulled into Pat’s Mini Mart to fill her tank so she could make it to a job interview in Burlington that afternoon. She was running late, but she needed to stop, there was nothing in the tank but fumes. She also thought she might see Peter. Rhonda had been nearly out of gas all weekend, waiting until today to stop, because she knew Peter would be at the garage.
Visiting him before the interview, even just a quick Hey, how’s tricks, Ronnie? would give her a little jump start. She avoided his house because then she’d have to make small talk with Tock, come up with some excuse for stopping by, and, most painful of all, Suzy would come out and circle around her, jumping up and down—a cherubic reminder of the futility of Rhonda’s situation.
It was a perfect early-June day, the temperature hovering in the mid-seventies. Rhonda drove with her windows open, inhaling the scent of newly mown grass and just-opened lilacs in people’s yards. The campgrounds around Nickel Lake had opened on Memorial Day and Rhonda could smell the smoke from the campfires. Brightly colored blow-up toys hung from hooks on the rafters in front of Pat’s: sea monsters, inner tubes, a small yellow raft, and a grinning crocodile with handles and cup holders. Overpriced bundles of camp wood were stacked below. Two ice machines stood to the left of the front door and a sign in the window promised cold beer, camping supplies, and night crawlers inside. Summer was here. And there was Rhonda, overdressed in a pressed white shirt and khaki suit. She eyed the crocodile longingly.
The interview she was probably going to be late to wasn’t even for a job she particularly wanted. It was in her field (she’d graduated two weeks before with a BS in biology) and would look good on her résumé: research assistant for a University of Vermont study of zebra mussels—invasive mollusks that were hell bent on taking over Lake Champlain, encrusting water pipes and shipwrecks on its floors, crowding out the natives.
Pat’s Mini Mart was the only place in Pike’s Crossing to buy gas. It was also close to Nickel Lake, so they got a lot of business from campers and folks with summer cottages. Pat’s was also rumored to be the best place in the area to buy lottery tickets. They’d had a jackpot winner two weeks before—two hundred fifty thousand dollars—and a five thousand dollar winner before that.
Rhonda would later learn that it was the lottery tickets Trudy Florucci stopped for that day. She carried her lucky numbers in the pocket of her acid-wash denim jacket along with enough money for four tickets and a pack of menthol cigarettes, the no-name brand that was cheaper than regular brands like Kool, which was what Trudy smoked when her husband was alive and she could afford such luxuries. Trudy would tell all of this to one of the state troopers, spilling out painful little details of her life to an utter stranger at the most awkward of moments—and it would make Rhonda cringe. As if Trudy had opened her mouth, pulled back her cheek, and shown the cop a raw and seeping canker sore.
PAT’S HUSBAND, JIM, was the one who pumped the gas at the full-service station. Full service was a funny way of putting it, Rhonda thought, because Jim never washed the windshield and when asked to check the oil, he grumbled and banged around under the hood so ferociously you were sure never to ask him to do it again. That day, Jim, who was skeletally thin and alarmingly tall, sauntered out in his blue coveralls, looking especially bored. His dark hair was slicked back and he wore several days of stubble.
“Fill her up today?” he asked, just staring out over the roof of Rhonda’s car. He swatted at a bug by his left ear.
Rhonda nodded up at him from the open window of her blue Honda. She smiled, but he did not seem to see. Jim unscrewed the gas cap, selected the grade—regular (he didn’t bother asking)—and began to fill her tank.
“Peter around?” Rhonda asked, trying not to sound too hopeful as she peered into the garage.
“Took the day off,” Jim said, and Rhonda felt her heart sink. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she told herself.
“All by myself here,” Jim said, sounding a little bitter. He rubbed at his earlobe. The bug had gotten him after all—probably a blackfly, it had been a terrible year for black
flies.
Pat was out getting her hair done, Rhonda would learn later, which was why, when Trudy Florucci pulled up in the rusted-out Corsica, parking in front of the ice machines, Jim left the pump running to go back into the store to take care of her. Pat usually ran the cash register; she ran the whole place, actually—dealing with the books, the deliveries, carding high school kids for beer (a task she took pleasure in). What she did not take pleasure in was when a new delivery driver or salesman went right for Jim with questions, requests, sales pitches, assuming he must be in charge. Some even called him Pat. She took to wearing a large nametag that said PAT, STATION OWNER AND MANAGER. That day, Pat was gone, getting her three-month perm down at Hair Today.
Trudy left the engine running, thinking she wouldn’t be long, that she should leave the radio on for her daughter, little Ernie Florucci, who sat strapped into the backseat with its faded upholstery riddled with stains and cigarette burns. Ernie had just been picked up from school. She was wearing a red corduroy jumper and had her brown hair in pigtails held with matching red elastics. Ernie was in second grade. Second grade, Rhonda would think later, trying to go back in her mind to what she had been like at that age, how vulnerable she must have been, how small and insignificant.
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