Only Daughter

by Anna Snoekstra

  “That’s so embarrassing!” said Bec. The idea of Lizzie’s dad driving around looking for her made Bec feel weird. It made her not want to tell Liz what had happened.

  “Don’t worry about it. As long as you’re fine.”

  “I am.”

  9

  2014

  Someone is knocking on my bedroom door.

  “What?” I call out.

  “We’ve got to get going. Our appointment is at ten.”

  The hospital. I had forgotten again. I look at my phone. It’s already nine thirty.

  “Fuck! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I yell, annoyed. Silence from the other side of the door.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice cracking.

  Sighing, I rub my eyes. When I open the bedroom door, she takes a step back.

  “Sorry, Mom. I’ll be quick. Thanks for telling me.”

  I smile at her, and hesitantly, she smiles back. I’ve been awake only thirty seconds and already I feel like I’ve messed things up. I take a deep breath, promising myself to think more carefully before I speak to her from now on.

  It isn’t just upsetting the mom that is making me feel rattled. I’ve been having nightmares. Well, one nightmare really. Again and again. In the dream I watch Bec walk down her street, alone and afraid. Then the black van pulls up next to her. Bec turns, smiling, not knowing what’s coming. The window winds down. Inside, the driver’s skin bubbles and twists; his face is a shadow. Bec screams as he reaches for her.

  My jacket is still on the chair I left it on last night and Hector is curled up asleep on top of it. I pull it out from under him, and he gives me a dirty look and stalks out of the room. He’s left a thin carpet of cat fur on my jacket. I try to shake it off, but most of it stays.

  “I’m ready!” I call.

  “Took your sweet time,” says Andrew, coming out of the kitchen with the mom. He’s smiling when he says it. Last night the three of us had watched TV together after dinner. After my car ride with them, a lot of the tension was gone. Plus, I could finally tell them apart. We laughed together and made fun of the people on the show we were watching. I could still feel a very slight hesitation, though. If only there was some way I could mention something unique they had shared with Bec. Something that would remind them that I really was their sister and I wasn’t going anywhere.

  We all get into their car, the mother driving and the father next to her. In the back, I sit in the middle between the two twins. We look like the perfect happy family.

  “Are you two coming to the hospital, too?” I ask.

  “Nah, we’re just getting a lift into town,” says Paul.

  I check the time. There’s no way we’ll get there by ten if we drop them on the way.

  “Relax, sis,” says Andrew, nudging me. “Doctors are always late, trust me.”

  “Yeah, relax,” says Paul, nudging me from the other side.

  The car turns off our street.

  “Corners!” yells Andrew, pressing all his weight into me, squishing me into Paul, who is already flattened against the window.

  “Hey!” I say, holding my arm out so it won’t get hurt.

  “Left bend coming up!” yells Paul, and he pushes me the other way as we turn.

  They both start laughing madly and I can’t help but laugh, too. I haven’t played Corners since primary school.

  “Roundabout!” they both yell at the same time.

  “Oh, no!” I squeal as I’m pushed from one side to the other. Watching them giggling like this, I can imagine how they must have been as little kids. I’m suddenly much fonder of them.

  “Poor Becky is getting squashed,” says Andrew, still laughing.

  “I’ve got my own revenge, though,” I say. “Cat fur.”

  “Ah, shit,” he says. The sleeve of his black woolen coat is covered in white fur, transferred from mine when he pressed against me. He tries to brush it off.

  “Bloody Hector,” he says under his breath.

  I remember the picture in Bec’s drawer, the one of the other cat.

  “I still miss Molly sometimes,” I say.

  Jackpot. He looks up at me, his eyes suddenly charged with emotion. I turn to Paul, and he’s looking at me in the same way. I take Paul’s hand and lean on his shoulder. Andrew takes my other hand. We sit together like this the whole way to the city.

  Finally, I had them. I could relax at home. I’d wanted them to leave, but now I’m happy to still have a few more days with them.

  Andrew was right. Even though we were ten minutes late to the hospital, we are still waiting. Hospitals are the worst places in the world. Across from us a woman coughs wetly, sounding like she’s about to puke out her lungs. A disgusting teenage boy keeps scratching himself under his shirt, his nails making a horrible scraping sound. The particles of whatever nasty skin condition he has are probably becoming airborne. I shiver involuntarily. The mother takes my hand and squeezes it. She must think I’m worried about the doctor. Maybe she’s right. I rub the bandage on my arm lightly, the gauze rough under my hand. It’s been irritating me, but still I don’t want them to take it off. I’m scared to see how bad my arm is going to look. I keep remembering the glass cutting through my skin.

  In the corner of my eye I see a black shadow. It’s here. The van. I grip the mother’s hand tighter. How did it know where we were going?

  I’m about to point it out to the parents. I know it’s the wrong thing to do, but I have an overwhelming urge to share my fear. Then I hear the clip-clop of nurses’ shoes coming toward us.

  “Rebecca Winter? The doctor is ready for you.”

  The father smiles at me as I swing my legs, waiting as the doctor takes out all his instruments. I feel like a toddler sitting up here. The room is slightly too small for us all, the doctor bending over next to me, the nurse at his side and both of the parents hovering near the door. I wonder if it’s normal for the parents to come in when their child is in their midtwenties.

  There is a collective intake of breath as the doctor unwraps the bandage. The last layer of it sticks to the wound. It’s disgusting. Shiny and weirdly lumpy, it’s about the size of a fifty-cent coin. The bandage pulls open the scab and it begins to bleed again. I look away, feeling queasy.

  “Is it bad?” the father asks the doctor, who also looks mildly ill.

  “No, no. It’s only a flesh wound,” the doctor says. I feel his hot breath against my arm as he speaks.

  “Are you okay?” says the mother, staring intently at my face.

  “Fine,” I say.

  I wince as the doctor squirts on thick antiseptic. He applies a clear plastic bandage and then covers the wound in gauze again.

  “Okay, we’ll just take your blood and you can go.”

  “Why do you have to take my blood?”

  “We received an order from the police department for a blood test. You were meant to do it when you were here last,” he says, not quite looking at me. I guess he thinks I might be embarrassed about sobbing and pulling out my own hair.

  “From Andopolis?” I ask. He looks at the file.

  “Yes, Vincent Andopolis,” he says, reading.

  “But why? What are you testing for?”

  “Everything, really. A test for infection or disease. A tox screen, too.” Then he mutters grumpily, “Although that would have been much more conclusive if we’d done it when you first arrived.”

  I’m screwed. Now that I’m not giving him what he wants, Andopolis really does doubt me. He’s changed so quickly from that dopey, snoring man asleep at the hospital. I realize the nurse is preparing a syringe. Looking down, I see Bec’s file open on the desk. Blood type: A+. They’ll know it’s not me by the end of the day. Everything is about to blow up in my face. I’m going to go to jail. I’ll lose the mom forever.

  The nurse walks toward me, the syringe in her hand.

  “I don’t want you to do that!” I say.

  “It’s okay, honey. We’re here,” the mom says.<
br />
  Horrible, jittery panic rises up in me. The nurse holds my uninjured arm out, rubbing at the veins at the crook of my elbow with her white-gloved finger. I can’t let her put that needle in. I could pretend to faint. Maybe that’s what I should do. But no, then they could take blood while they think I’m unconscious. The needle hovers for a second over my skin. I don’t have a choice. I smack the syringe out of the nurse’s hand. It clatters to the floor, the only sound in a shocked silence. All eyes are on me.

  “Rebecca,” the doctor says, clearly shocked, “if you are going to be violent I’m going to have to have you restrained.” The doctor’s words are steady and even, but I can hear the anger underneath them.

  “I don’t want you to take my blood,” I say.

  The mother takes a step forward and puts her arms around me.

  “Don’t be scared,” she says. “It will just hurt for a second.”

  “No one is listening to me. I’m saying no!”

  The doctor’s face has gone tight. “This is a police order, Rebecca. Now, we can get security in here to restrain you, we can have you arrested, or you can just let me take your blood. It’s up to you.”

  The doctor takes my wrist this time, his grip a lot firmer than the nurse’s. I look over at the father, who is staring down at the linoleum, shoulders around his ears. He’s my last chance.

  “Daddy!” I say, letting the tears roll over. “Please.”

  His eyes snap up to meet mine and he springs into action.

  “You get your hands off my daughter!” he says to the doctor and takes a step forward. He looks taller now, somehow. The doctor must notice it, too, because he lets go immediately.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Rebecca really needs to cooperate. I only have her well-being in mind—”

  “My daughter is traumatized, and you threaten to restrain her? I’m taking her home. Right now.”

  I slip down from the hospital bed onto my feet and beam at the father. I didn’t think he had it in him.

  I’ve dodged a bullet. I know it. Andopolis is asserting himself. He is taking back every bit of control I thought I had. It’s more than just frustration—he doubts me. He doubts my story, my motives. I just have to hope that he doesn’t doubt the DNA test, but even that’s looking possible.

  The drive back from the hospital is quiet. I can’t help but look behind me at every turn, scanning for the van. It’s a relief to get back home, to lock the door on the outside world. Between Andopolis and the van, I feel like I’d be happy to never leave. I’m being hunted. Stalked on every angle. Home is the only safe place left.

  Sitting on the couch, I try to breathe. Feeling helpless will get me nowhere. Fear will get me nowhere. I try to swallow it back down.

  The parents don’t want me to go out with Andopolis later that day. The father calls him to cancel, but I know it won’t be that easy.

  Right on time, his car pulls into the drive. I could ask the father to go out and tell him I’m not coming. Somehow, I’m sure that pushing Andopolis is not the key. He’s probably used to that. He’ll just push back, harder.

  Yesterday, he told me to bring something to cover my face, that we’d be riding Bec’s bus route home from McDonald’s. I pull a hat on and walk out the front door to meet him. Game on.

  Andopolis and I ride the bus in silence. I am so angry at him, I can’t even speak. To go above my head like that, to try to take away my rights to my own body. He was playing dirty, getting real. He had no idea what he was in for. I watch the suburbs slip past the window, fuming. Around me, people chatter with each other and on mobile phones.

  “Not got much on your mind today, then?” he says.

  I clench my hands into fists; I could hit him. I stare out the window, trying to keep my calm although I am not seeing anything anymore. Giving in to anger would only take away more of my power.

  “I’ve been thinking maybe we should hold a press conference,” I whisper.

  This surprises him. Good.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says, looking around to make sure no one is listening.

  “I do. I think people should know that I escaped. It’ll be inspiring for other victims.”

  It will also make him look terrible. What was it that he said back then? That if Bec was alive, he’d find her. Well, he didn’t.

  “I’d like to tell my story,” I continue. “I think people will want to know about that horrible long drive in the police car when I almost bled to death. And how great you’ve been with helping me try to remember, except for today when I was told I had to choose between being restrained and arrested.”

  His jaw sets. “You know who’d like to hear your story? Me. That’s all I want.”

  I say nothing. He should know that he’s not the only one who loves a victim. I imagine the headlines: police misconduct, a decade of stuff-ups, senior investigator disgraced. Photographs of poor little old me and big brutish Andopolis.

  I’m bluffing, of course. Going to the press would be far more damning for me than it would for him.

  “So this isn’t jogging your memory, then?” he snaps.

  Asshole. My anger surges.

  “Please, leave me alone!” I scream, letting my voice sound slightly hysterical.

  The bus goes silent; people glare at him.

  “Calm down, Rebecca,” he mutters, looking around.

  “Get away from me, please!” I scream.

  “Hey, mate,” says the man in a baseball cap in front of us, turning around, “leave the girl alone.”

  Andopolis pulls out his wallet and flashes his badge.

  “Stay out of it,” he says. The man looks at me and then turns quickly back around. I notice something when Andopolis flashes his badge, though—his fingernails are splintered at the end. They didn’t look like that before. He’s started biting them.

  “Stop it, now,” Andopolis says to me, his voice low, almost a growl. I wish I could just get off this bus and run home, but I’m too afraid to be by myself now. The van is probably following this bus right now, biding its time.

  Eventually we get to Bec’s stop. Andopolis stands, presses the button, then grabs my arm and marches me off the bus.

  “What the hell was that?” he asks, as we stand on the street.

  “Let go of me!”

  “Stop it, Bec!”

  “You’re hurting me!” I scream, though he isn’t. He lets go, as though my arm is charged with electricity. I march up the street, hating him but hoping he’ll follow until I’m closer to my house. He does.

  “So no memories coming back to you, I suppose?” He almost has to jog to keep up with me. His stomach jiggles up and down.

  “Do you know what I remember? I remember the asshole doctor you ordered to take my blood threatening to strap me to a hospital bed.” I don’t even care that I swore.

  “If you go to the press, we’re done.”

  “Good!”

  He groans in frustration. “I’m just trying to help you, even if you don’t want me to.”

  “So threatening a traumatized abduction victim is helping them, is it?” I ask. I’m angry, so angry, but I know now is the time for tears. I’ve made my point; I’ve shown him what I can do. So I stop on the street and look down, biting the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. But tears come, too.

  “I thought I could trust you,” I say.

  He looks down at me, conflicted.

  “I’m sorry,” he says finally, but it comes out a little tersely.

  I look around; the street is empty. So I run away from him, up the street to Bec’s house.

  The next morning I lie on the couch on my stomach, waiting for the sound of Andopolis’s car. It is long past the time he usually arrives. I must have done it, I realize, pushed him far enough that he doesn’t want to come back. He must have bought my threat that I’d go to the media. If that’s true it means Bec’s life is officially mine. I wouldn’t need to worry anymore; it would be over.

&nb
sp; I play with Hector, who sits on the carpet beneath me chasing an old shoelace I swing back and forth. I’m not sure what I’m going to do all day now. The mother took the twins shopping, saying she’d bring me back some clothes since I was meant to be with Andopolis. I wish I’d taken Jack’s number rather than telling him to get mine—I could have asked him to come and pick me up. But then again, it might look weird for an abduction victim to be pursuing a guy. Hector rolls onto his back, all four pink paws up in the air as he tries to catch the shoelace. I rub his belly and he looks shocked, jumping back onto his front and backing away like he’s being attacked.

  I hear something then. The sound of someone crying. It’s soft, only just audible. For a crazy moment I think perhaps it is Bec, finally home and realizing she has been replaced. As I walk toward the stairs, the crying is louder. It’s definitely real. Someone is in the house crying. It’s deep—a man. I get to the foot of the stairs. The sound is coming from my left, the parents’ room. Their door is shut, so I knock softly. There is no answer but the crying stops. I consider going back upstairs to my room; part of me doesn’t want to see the father cry. He’s family now, though, I tell myself. He saved me at the hospital yesterday. I push the door open. The father sits heavily on the side of the immaculately made bed. It’s the only piece of furniture in the room except for the spotless bedside tables. The blinds are down, blocking out the sun. His hands are over his face and his shoulders heave, a black silhouette in the grey room.

  “Dad?”

  He looks up at me, his face grey and creased.

  “Oh, God,” he says quietly. He begins crying again. It sounds painful, like each sob is ripping through his insides.

  “What’s wrong, Daddy?”

  “I’m fine,” he whispers.

  “Why are you whispering?” I ask loudly.

  When he looks at me, his wet eyes are panicked. He puts a finger to his lips.

  “There’s no one else here,” I say.

  “Go!” he whispers, urgently.

  He turns away from me, looking down as though he is waiting for me to leave. The hairs on my arms rise up. How can this be the same man who’d been so commanding yesterday? What could have happened between then and now?