by Anne Heltzel
Turn back. Run from Circle Nine before it’s too late. That is what my brain tells me. It’s what I’ve learned to think from the person I love and trust. But what about my instincts? Trust, but be wary, they say. Anyway, I no longer have a choice. The hunger for truth has driven me this far, away from Sam despite the cost, and with each step I take, I grow more famished. It is beyond my will to turn back now.
The same librarian is sitting at the reception desk when I walk in. She clucks her tongue disapprovingly as I pull off my coat, spraying water over the floor.
There’s a coatrack there. She nods in the direction of the rack. It’s busier today; I’ll have to be more careful, no page tearing this time. A mother sits with her little girl in one corner; what looks like a textbook is open in front of them. The girl pores over the book, making notes in the margin. I am suddenly and painfully aware of the void in my heart.
Miss? The librarian is speaking to me. Miss, do you have a library card?
I shake my head. All I want is to get upstairs to the fourth floor, and fast.
Well, have you thought about getting one?
I shake my head again, and she peers at me suspiciously, as if I have no right to be here.
Go on, then. You just can’t check out any books today. I am already rushing to the elevator, jamming my finger over and over on the button marked 4, shifting from side to side as I bear the interminable wait. The elevator is one of those old-fashioned types, with a door that swings open to reveal a gate, which one must pull back in order to step in. It takes me another long minute to remember the door’s not automatic. Then I’m up, up, and away, the feeling of promise tingling all over.
The stack is just as I left it: in a state of mild disarray. I quickly locate the page I ripped. I flip around a little more at random but don’t come up with anything. It briefly crosses my mind that the story would have made the national news, but I dismiss that as unlikely. Tragedy in a small town isn’t likely to draw national attention. And even if it did, it probably got more local coverage than national. I flip back through the stack, combing every page of the papers dated all the way through two, then three weeks prior to the one I found already. But there’s nothing. There must have been some coverage, something coming before my article! I flip through again, more carefully this time, but the papers are void of any mention of the fire on Orchard Lane. It’s almost as if . . .
The thought is insane, but I can’t help considering it. It’s almost as if someone else was here before me. As if someone else got rid of them. I massage my temples, which have begun to pound. The thought is ridiculous; no one knows me except Sam. And Sam doesn’t know that I’ve been here, and he couldn’t have known I was coming. I feel as if I am losing my mind. Then I remember. The article I found had mentioned a coroner’s report. I hadn’t thought to look forward, only back. I grab the stack and frantically flip forward.
Everything all right?
I jump. The voice has startled me. A lanky boy about my age with blond hair and retro glasses is standing in front of me. I pull myself up from my crouch; my knees are unsteady.
Yes, fine, I say sharply. I instantly feel alarmed.
I’m sorry, he says. Didn’t mean to scare you. You just looked a little . . . intense.
I’m fine, I say again.
Are you sure? he asks. Because, you know, I could be of service. He gives me a little crooked smile. Something inside me goes hot. Why is he talking to me? Is he . . . flirting?
Really, I say. I just want to be alone.
The boy gives me a disappointed nod, accompanied by another little smile, which I notice is sort of attractive. Then he walks away. I immediately feel bad for snapping. And guilty for noticing his smile. Maybe he wasn’t flirting, I reassure myself. Maybe he really was just trying to be helpful. Maybe I was his good deed for the day. Or maybe, and at this next thought I tense up, maybe he recognizes me for who I am: someone panicked and fearful. Someone who steals from a library. Maybe, just maybe, he’s involved in all of this, too. Maybe he knows something.
I really am going crazy. A boy flirts, and suddenly it’s a conspiracy.
I kneel back down on the floor. I should not have snapped at the boy. If I look volatile, I’ll look strange. If I look strange, people will ask questions. Then I see it.
I gasp. I am holding an article with an accompanying photo.
The photo in my hand is beyond déjà vu; I know it. But I don’t know how.
I know this girl in the photo. I trace her face with one finger. My heart is beating faster now, so fast I feel I might pass out. Who is this girl? The long black hair, the black bangs. The piercing in one eyebrow.
Dream Girl.
She looks just like Dream Girl, just like my sketches. I read the article below the photo. It is dated July 12.
Shady Ridge High School will be holding a memorial service on Tuesday for 18-year-old Katherine James, a May graduate, and her younger sister, Addison James, who had just completed her sophomore year. Both girls are believed to have perished in the July 8 house fire that also claimed their parents: 47-year-old Justin James, a locally respected handyman, and his wife, 42-year-old Luanne James.
The service is open to the public and will be held in the high-school gymnasium at 4 pm.
I feel overwhelmingly sick. The shot is a professional one, possibly a high-school graduation photo. Her luminous smile radiates warmth, and nothing about it is affected or posed. This is a girl who was open and honest. A girl who was happy. And that’s when I notice her necklace, a thin gold chain barely peeking out from below her yellow blouse, holding a piece of gold script just at her clavicle. I might not recognize it if I didn’t know it so well.
It is just like mine.
I reach up to my own throat, fingering the necklace that lies there. I peer closely at the photo. Katie, said hers. Abby, says mine. There must be a million girls with these same gold necklaces. But something inside me knows that this is not a coincidence. This can’t all be a coincidence. But there was no Abby in the article; there were only two girls, and the second was Addison. My heart sinks; I realize I wanted to be Dream Girl’s sister. I’d felt certain these people I dreamed were mine. I wanted it all to make sense; I wanted to be the fourth. But maybe all along, I was connected in some other way. An outsider, just a friend.
But I feel closer than that. I look down at my Abby necklace again. Maybe I am trying too hard to make everything fit. I feel so close; I’m desperate and perplexed.
This time, Sam’s sitting at the dining table when I arrive home, out of breath. It’s as if Circle Nine has followed me back and is eager to transpose its own images on the ones I usually see; for a moment, the dining table looks like an upside-down crate, a thin piece of cardboard covering its surface. Sam himself looks skeletal. Then I close my eyes hard, and when I open them, everything’s normal again. Except Sam; he still looks gaunt and wasted. These inconsistencies — these blips where my eyes betray me — have been happening ever since Amanda died. I am losing my head.
Sam glares at me. His arms are folded.
Don’t try to tell me you were outside in the creek, he says through gritted teeth.
I — I — My words stick in my throat. I don’t know what to say.
Don’t lie to me, Abby, he says again. I have no choice.
I was at the library, I tell him.
Doing what? His words are steel.
Researching, I say. Researching Orchard Lane.
And why would you be doing that? Now his voice is cruel, mocking.
It’s not a coincidence, Sam. I can feel it. The dreams, the way you pulled me away at the cinema. I can hear my voice rising. It is laced with desperation. If he were on my side, this would be so much easier.
What did you find. He says it like it’s a statement.
This old photo today, it looked just like my Dream Girl! It looked like this girl I’ve been drawing! I run to the wall and rip one of my drawings down to show him. And Sam, I con
tinue, she was wearing a necklace just like mine!
SHUT UP! he shouts. His hands are clutched over his ears. Noise — it’s all this noise — just shut up already! My eyes have already begun to fill, but I don’t cry, as I usually would. He’s grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me now.
Don’t you see, Abby? You’re crazy. You’re one-hundred-percent, bat-fucking crazy, and I didn’t want to have to be the one to tell you that, but it’s true! You’re making all this stuff up in your head!
I shake my head no, tears falling down my cheeks. No. It can’t be like that. I’m not crazy. I know I’m not. I am all emotion. I am all these things I want to push away. I try to regain control, but I can’t — there is nothing left but panic and pain.
Yes, he says. Why didn’t I let you see the film at the cinema? Because I was afraid you were too weak to handle seeing that kind of sadness, Abby! Because you’re not strong like the rest of us! And why does that girl from the photo look like Dream Girl? Well, who else does she look like, Abby? Who? Tell me!
Amanda, I whisper.
That’s right. When did you start having those dreams? After Amanda came. Because you were so obsessed with Amanda and so jealous of her!
No, I say. That’s not it. Fight, a fight to stay calm. A fight to stay in control of my thoughts.
Oh, give it up, he says. You’ve created this big fantasy in your head about some prior existence where you had a family and things were all rosy. Some horrible tragedy where you were the victim. But guess what, Abby? When I found you lying there that night, you were so high you didn’t know who you were! You probably OD’d! If you want to know the truth, that’s probably why you can’t remember anything. You were just a little ratty street kid who happened to wind up in the wrong spot, nothing more. You were lucky I decided to take you in.
It can’t be true. I have never, would never, use drugs. But there he is; his mouth is foaming and his words are venom. Sam has never been so cruel. But perhaps I’ve been stupid to ignore the reality. Maybe he’s right. Maybe this is all some construct of my imagination. His words have crushed my soul.
I’m telling you one last time. If I find out you’ve gone out alone again, we’re finished. And then, Abby, he continues, drawing out this last sentence, where will you go?
He’s right. I have nowhere to go. Sam lies down on Amanda’s old bed tonight, and it’s a cruel punishment for what I’ve done. My heart is in shreds, and my stomach is so sick that I know it will be impossible to fall asleep if I let things be as they are. I try to believe what he’s saying. I thought that all I wanted was to have that old peace back, to share a life with him again in oblivion and be blissfully happy, as I used to be. I suppose that kind of happiness can’t ever last. But here I am, in the trenches of hell, darkness seeping into my skin.
A half an hour goes by before I approach him.
Sam? The whites of his eyes blink acknowledgment in the dark.
Sam, I’m sorry, I say. But I just needed to find out who I was. I feel sometimes like you try to hide it from me. Maybe I misunderstood. I’m sorry for what I did, but I just felt that I had to.
When I am finished talking, I watch Sam’s jaw clench several times, and he lies there unresponsive for a minute before I realize my error. I used the word but. I apologized, then tried to justify my apology. I have probably made him even angrier. I take a deep breath and try again.
Sam, I’m sorry for disobeying you, I say. I’m sorry for sneaking out behind your back.
Silence.
I’m sorry, I repeat, more fervently this time. I’m sorry for what I did, Sam.
I am met with more silence. My throat begins to fill up with a big, hurting ball.
Why are you ignoring me? I say. My voice has become louder and shriller. Don’t you have anything to say?
No, I don’t. He closes his eyes as if to go back to sleep, but I am in a panic. I cannot go back to sleep when he is treating me like this. I have done everything I can to make up for what I did. It isn’t fair that I should be punished the way he is punishing me. I won’t let him sleep.
Sam, I say, I apologized. I said I am sorry. Why are you ignoring me like this?
I’m not ignoring you. I’m waiting for a sincere apology.
I already apologized three times! I was sincere!
Oh, yeah? I’m sorry, but . . . he mimics me in a cold voice.
Sam, please, please just let it go. Why do you want to make this worse? I am crying now.
Oh, I’m not trying to make things worse, Abby. I want a sincere apology, then this can be over.
Sam, I am sorry, I say in a voice of stone.
That’s supposed to be sincere?
I’m SORRY, I repeat more loudly. The words are muffled by the thick pain in my throat.
Sam shakes his head in disgust.
Why are you doing this? I say again. Like you never do anything wrong? I did something wrong, and I apologized! That should be enough!
I can feel frustration and anger flooding my body. Now it’s more than just what I did. Now it’s about what he’s doing to me, too. Suddenly, it becomes blindingly clear: Sam is trying to control me. Sam is controlling me, has been controlling me all along. But it’s so far gone that I can’t figure out how to get myself out from under him. The only thing to do would be to leave him. These thoughts move in and out of my brain at a rapid pace. I feel sick, and also devastated.
I do things wrong now? When’s the last time I did something wrong? Please, enlighten me. Tell me all about it.
I struggle to think, but my brain produces nothing.
I don’t remember exactly, I say lamely. But I know it’s happened. He laughs loud and cruel.
Now you’re making things up. You’re twisting things around just so you can make yourself feel better. Pathetic, Abby.
I’m not making anything up!
Oh, yeah? Well, then, what are you talking about?
I don’t know, I cry, clutching my head now. I can’t remember it, but I know you’ve hurt me. I know you make me feel small and broken all the time!
You’re speaking in generalizations. You’re making things up, he snarls. You’re not even speaking logically anymore.
I am not making anything up! I shout. Stop trying to manipulate me! Stop trying to make me believe my mind doesn’t work! He stares at me with a mixture of superiority and disgust. I am hurting so much inside. I don’t care anymore about standing up for myself. I only want all of this to go away.
Sam, I beg, please end this.
If you had apologized sincerely from the beginning, none of this would have happened, he says.
What more do you want from me? I beg. An animal anger is taking hold of me. I feel crazed, uncontrollable. What more do you want? I shout the words over and over again. He is sitting up in the bed, now, so calm, so cold.
I only want an apology.
I’m SORRY! I shout again. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. I get down on my knees next to the bed. I clutch my hands together in a gesture of penitence. I am sorry, I say in this position. Sam, I am sorry for everything I have done. I feel the tears streaming down my face, and I feel his cold disinterest. Nothing is enough.
Something inside me snaps. I feel like a snake, then a panther. I hiss and growl accordingly. I am empty, hungry, possessed. I climb up on the bed and gnash my teeth. I get right up in his face, so my nose almost touches his, and I spit my apology.
Get away from me right now, he says through gritted teeth. Then, when I don’t move right away, You’re crazy. There’s something wrong with you.
I know that the only thing wrong with me is this feeling of helplessness inside. This thing that tells me I can’t do anything to change what is going on. That there is no point in keeping calm; for all my efforts, I have nothing to show. I can’t blame him for producing this awful rage in me, but what would anyone do? What does a caged animal do before it resigns itself entirely to its fate?
I cry and cry and cry
at the foot of his bed, until I am defeated enough to say, I’m sorry, Sam. Nothing you have done can excuse my behavior. It was wrong and deceitful. And no matter what I felt or why I did it, it doesn’t make it right.
He stares at me for a long minute, gauging my sincerity. All he can possibly see in my eyes is devastation, because there is nothing left in me but that. Fine. He nods. Then he rolls back over as if to go to sleep.
Fine?
Yes, you apologized. Now it’s over. Fine.
Fine? Just like that? That’s all you have to say?
What else would I say?
It isn’t even about this anymore, I say. What about everything that just happened in between my first apology and now?
Well, you weren’t giving me a real apology, he says. I was waiting for one, then you blew up.
What about the way you manipulated me? What about how you tried to control me?
And how did I do that, Abby?
I try to explain, but I find myself fumbling for words. I can’t remember what he said, verbatim, to achieve those things.
You’re making things up again. You’re lying.
You were cruel.
I was not cruel. You were hysterical. I did nothing wrong. You exaggerate. You make things up to make yourself feel better.
I am not crazy, I say. Sam, can you look inside your heart and say you had nothing to do with this? That you did nothing wrong?
Yes, he says, settling back on his pillow. I stare at him. My shock courses through my veins. I had thought, that at this point, he would do his part. He would acknowledge his mistakes. I had thought that if I gave him what he wanted, he would be fair.
Sam, I whisper, nearly choking on the words, I can’t be with you. I feel sick even as I say it. But it’s what I have to do. What other choice do I have?
Well, then, I guess there’s nothing more to say, he says.
I stare at him for a long while. It’s as if he never cared about me at all. I can’t take back what I said. But I’d expected more of a fight from him. When it doesn’t come, I’m not sure I care. I feel hollow.
