We haven’t crossed a line, but I wonder if we’d know if we had.
I end the cell phone argument by continuing past the store. It takes a second for Mom to follow me, but when she comes up beside me, I can tell she’s torn. I know she can see that whatever happy is in my world now is when Torrin’s around. I know she doesn’t miss the way my smiles are less fake when he’s close. How I laugh when he’s near. How the heaviness pressing me down seems to take a break when I’m with him.
She knows.
She also knows the way I used to feel about him. I couldn’t tell my dad, but Mom was easier to talk to. She knows I’m playing with fire by spending so much time with him.
I know I am too.
But maybe I’m too selfish to stop it, or maybe I’m just too fucked up to know better.
Nordstrom is slammed when we stroll up to the first-floor entrance. A line of customers waiting for their coffees stretches into the hall. Every salesperson in the shoe department is bustling about, tending to a few customers at once. Women are dabbing on samples of lip gloss at the makeup counter, and men are perusing expensive watches behind the glass cases.
It’s too much. Overstimulating sensory overload.
The smells of dozens of different perfumes almost knock me over. The roar of customers shopping isn’t so dull. The overhead lights are more than a little too bright.
I feel like a strobe is flashing in my face; the light is that debilitating. I’ve avoided going out thanks to the news crews still camped out in front of our house. I managed a quick trip to the grocery store with my mom late one night, and I squeezed in a trip to my favorite drive-thru for lunch yesterday. But it’s kind of hard to still love a restaurant known for its hamburgers when I’m done with meat.
“What department should we start in?” Mom moves for the up escalator. “Women’s casual wear?”
I nod and pretend like I know what she’s talking about. Women’s casual wear? Sounds like a disease or something. I used to do most of my shopping at garage sales and concert merch tables.
When we weave through the people and get to the escalator, I balk. Not long enough for Mom to notice, but I do. Ten years. From the way I just had to run through how to step onto an escalator, it might as well have been a century.
When we reach the second floor, Mom gets off. I’m thankful we don’t have to climb on the one stretching to the third floor. She starts for a department with a lot of jeans and cotton shirts—women’s casual wear—when I hear my name shouted from behind.
I flinch, half expecting it to be the swarm of reporters who’ve resorted to shouting my name whenever I drive by. So far I haven’t been stalked out in public, but I know that won’t last. Not with the interview deals I’m getting. Everyone in the world seems to need to know every last ugly detail of my captivity.
“Jade!” the voice calls again.
I turn around slowly to find a couple of girls my age powering my way, balancing on heels so high they might as well be stilts.
“Jade Childs, no frickin’ way.” The brown-haired one nudges the blond one when they stop in front of me.
Mom comes up beside me, but instead of glaring at them with skepticism like I am, she’s smiling politely. “Candace. Morgan. How are you girls?”
Candace. Morgan. The names are familiar. I can’t remember last names, but I remember us being friends. They don’t look like anyone I remember, but a decade’s gone by. I’m probably not recognizable either.
“Taking advantage of the shoe sale, so pretty darn amazing.” Candace, the brown-haired one, holds up a couple of large bags.
Beside her, Morgan does the same.
“But enough about us. How are you?” Candace leans in and rests her hand on my wrist like we’re best friends.
“I’m good.” I slip to the side so her hand drops from my wrist.
She and Morgan exchange a look. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Mom shifts.
“I’m so sorry about what happened. What a nightmare.” Morgan sets her bags down and looks like she wants to hug me. I slide back some more. “When we heard you were found, god, we threw a celebration party.”
“You threw a party?” It seems like a strange thing to do after what happened. I can’t process it.
“Practically everyone from our class came. They’re all so happy you’re back, Jade. You know how much everyone liked you.”
I sweep my hair behind my ear. “Everyone came?”
I’m on repeat because I don’t know what to say. I was missing for ten years, and people threw a party when I came back? I can’t make it compute. I should be glad friends were happy I’m back, but it’s been so long that so much of the old me is gone. I don’t remember them.
“Of course. Well, everyone but the ones who moved away or, you know, died.” Morgan bites her lip and looks to Candace for an interception.
“And Torrin—he didn’t make it.” Candace gives me a look I feel like I’m supposed to understand, but I can’t translate it.
“He’s a busy guy.”
Morgan bobs her head while Candace shakes hers. “You’ve heard about him, right? Well, of course you have. I saw you two on the news when you came home from the hospital.” She nudges Morgan, but I don’t know what it means. “Can you believe that though? I mean, crap, I go to St. Marks.” Her head shakes again. “Do you know how awkward it is to go to confession and talk about my dirty thoughts to the same guy who’s responsible for them? Sheesh. That’s one boy who grew up in all the right places.”
She laughs a little, then Morgan stabs her elbow into Candace’s side. Another look.
Candace’s face drops. “Oh yeah, you guys were a pretty big thing in high school, right?”
If you consider agreeing to marry each other one day a pretty big thing, then yeah, we were a pretty big thing. I answer her with a shrug.
“That must be crazy weird for you then . . .”
“Not weird at all.”
Mom clears her throat and looks behind us.
“Really?” Morgan asks.
“Well, I was kidnapped for ten years, and no one thought I was still alive to be found, and here I am.” I lift my hands at my sides. “Torrin becoming a priest isn’t so hard to wrap my head around.”
I think Morgan and Candace are regretting their decision to come up to me almost as much as I am. They’re looking behind them now too.
“You know, we should get together.” Candace pulls a phone from her pocket. “Like soon. We’ll spread the word so you can catch up with all of your old friends. Oh”—she waves her phone at me—“I’ve got a friend who is so single and so hot it should be illegal. He’s got a 401(k) that would drop an heiress’s panties, and he drives a 911. I should introduce you two.”
I guess the way I’m breathing catches Candace’s attention because she stops talking. She looks at my mom, who’s looking at me with the same concerned expression.
“You know, whenever you’re ready for it,” Candace adds.
“If you ever are.” Morgan elbows her friend, watching me like everyone else is.
I feel like someone’s dropped a beach ball into my chest and is blowing it up. My lungs are straining, my ribs are stretching—everything hurts. My vision blurs, and I know I need to get away.
Talking about Torrin and parties and set-ups with a couple of friends from my past who feel more to me like ghosts than real people has shoved me to the tipping point. I need to find a quiet place where I can be alone, or I’m going to go off. Right here on the second floor of Nordstrom.
From the way Mom’s looking at me, I think she knows. “Jade”—her hand rests on the outside of my arm—“do you want to leave?”
Morgan and Candace look from me to each other then stare at my neck now that I’m preoccupied. Candace swallows and steps back. Morgan blinks and looks like she might cry.
“I’ll . . .”—the word sputters out—“I’ll . . .” My head whips around, looking for an escape. “
I’ll be . . . right back.”
I take off, rushing toward the end of the store where I can just make out the words Women’s Dressing Room. It’ll have to do because I can’t keep going. Not right now. Every day since returning has been a challenge. Every hour, minute, and second have tested me. I’ve been gripping an anvil hanging over the edge of a cliff and trying to keep it from falling, and that rope is slipping through my hands.
I can only hold on for so long before I give out.
This is the moment I give out.
I lunge into the dressing room.
A woman standing at the mirror whips her head around and gives me a concerned look. “Are you okay?”
I nod as I stumble down the row of rooms. “Yeah,” I get out before pushing through the empty room at the end.
After I get the door locked, I slide to the floor. It’s carpeted and clean, but when I curl my body onto it, a smell assaults me. Bleach. It’s pungent and vile and too much. The end of the rope slides through my hands, and the weight I’m holding falls. I fall with it.
Ten Years Ago
“SARA? ARE YOU feeling better yet?”
The voice cuts through my consciousness, rousing me. How long was I out this time? With the black I’m shrouded in, it’s impossible to know.
How long have I been here? Where is here?
“Sara?” The familiar trio of knocks sounds outside the door. It’s a thick door from the sounds of it. The knock doesn’t echo; it thuds like it’s being absorbed into the wood.
I’m on my side like always because I can’t sleep on my back anymore. I don’t feel safe enough to sleep so exposed—it’s better to stay curled up, huddled up. I let my legs stretch a little, my arms out in front. Everything aches—like I’m one giant pulsing bruise.
“Are you awake, Sara?” Another knock. Like his knock, his voice is strong. At least strong enough that when I hear it, I immediately feel weak.
“How long have I been in here?” My voice strains when I speak. It sounds like I’ve been stumbling through the desert for days without water.
There’s a case of bottled water shoved in here somewhere. There’s a box of energy bars too. I haven’t touched any of it though because I don’t want to live if this is going to be my life. A dark space that’s so small I can’t lie down sideways in it. A bucket stuffed in the back corner for me to use as a toilet. A small hard mattress that smells so strongly of bleach I gag when I forget to breathe through my mouth.
If this is my life now, separated from my family and friends and him forever, I don’t want it. I’d rather die now than live this for whatever is left of my life.
I know the numbers. Comes with being a cop’s kid. They aren’t good in my case. The first twenty-four hours after an abduction are critical, and if the person isn’t found in forty-eight, the family had better just accept they’ll be planning a funeral where a body may or may not be present.
I don’t know how long I’ve been gone exactly, but long enough my nails have grown enough to notice. Long enough I’ve dug at the four walls keeping me caged, searching for some weak spot, for something to give me hope that I might be able to escape. There’s nothing. This place feels like it was built for a wild animal instead of a seventeen-year-old girl.
There is no weak spot. I’m never going home.
“How long have I been in here?” I cry out again, but it’s so weak sounding I don’t think my words make it past the heavy door. It’s not cold in here, but I still shiver. I refuse to use the blankets and pillow. They’re still folded at the foot of the bed.
“Seven days.” It sounds like he’s right outside, pressed up against the door.
A week. I’d guessed half that. I’m never going to see any of them again. Ever.
“What do you want?” I start to cry. I’ve cried a lot. With the lack of water, I don’t know how I haven’t already dehydrated myself into an early death.
“I just want you to feel better, Sara. With your mom taking you away from me like she did . . .” There’s another pound on the door. Or maybe it’s the wall. “It had to be upsetting for you, but you’re home now. You’re safe. We can be together again.”
The mattress is wet below my face from the tears. They don’t dull the bleach smell though. Actually, they make it stronger. “Then let me out of here. I can’t get better if you keep me locked in here.”
“Not yet, Sara. You’re not ready.”
I don’t know his name, which makes him that much scarier. Referring to the man who kidnapped me as Him is worse than calling him Bob or Bill.
“But I promise the minute you are, I’ll let you out, and we can get back to being happy again. We can get back to the way life used to be.”
I blink like I’m trying to adjust my eyes to the dark, but it’s no use. This is the kind of dark so void of light no amount of time or adjusting will make it possible to see. I’m blind in here.
“Sara?” he calls after I’m quiet for a minute.
I can’t reply because I’m crying harder now.
Other than the van, the map, the needle, and him, I don’t remember anything until waking up on this mattress. It had taken a minute for my head to clear from whatever he’d injected me with, then the panic cleared the rest. The first thing I did was make sure I was clothed and that nothing felt . . . violated.
That was the first time I cried—when I realized I hadn’t been hurt in that way. The next thing I did was scream. I screamed so much after waking up I went hoarse. I didn’t stop screaming then either. When no one came, I inspected the room with my hands. After that, when still no one came, I curled back up onto the mattress and cried myself asleep.
“Let me go. Please.” I’ve pleaded those same words so many times I think they’re embedded in the walls. “Let me go home.”
The floor groans as I picture him shifting outside the door. “Sara.” There’s a finality in his voice. A certainty. “You are home.”
I grab the bucket and throw it at the door. It clangs against it and clatters to the floor. Even with a bucket of waste splattered across the room, all I can smell is bleach. It burns my nostrils every time I breathe.
“I’m not Sara!” I yell, but right then, after only seven days, I start to wonder if I am her. I don’t feel like myself anymore.
It doesn’t take long for everything we think we are, no matter how deeply grounded, to be rooted up and cut away. It doesn’t take long to lose yourself in such a way you almost find yourself hoping you’ll never be found.
All it takes is one week.
IT’S THE DAY of Earl Rae’s funeral.
It’s also the day my parents have planned to have a big get-together at one of the event centers overlooking the Sound. I wonder if they planned it that way on purpose or if it’s mere coincidence.
Two weeks have gone by since I was found. My parents are making it something to celebrate. I’m going along for their sakes, but after two weeks, I should be doing better. I shouldn’t still be floundering in everyday conversations or fretting over the thought of going out in public or failing to move forward.
I should be easing back into normal life instead of feeling like I’m being dragged behind a truck against my will. I should be looking forward to the party tonight—seeing family I never thought I’d see again, catching up with old friends—but I’m not.
I think I’m dreading it mostly. Dreading most of it at least.
I’m tucked into the back of Dad’s Tahoe, and I feel like a little kid driving to her first day of kindergarten. My nerves are standing on end, and my stomach feels like someone’s using it as a stress ball. Squeeze, release. Squeeze, release. Maybe that’s part of the reason I haven’t had much of an appetite lately—because I don’t want to have to worry about throwing up from the endless stomach spasms.
Mom turns around in her seat as we roll into the event center’s parking lot. She’s smiling. Her dress is sparkling from the streetlights and so are her eyes. “Are you excited?”
&nb
sp; They’ve done so much for me. They’ve put so much into this night. “Yeah, I am.”
“It’s going to be one hell of a night, that’s for sure.” Dad’s in a tux, which is a big deal. I guess the last time he wore one was for his wedding.
“Now, sweetie, if anytime you feel . . .” She bites her lips, her memory probably flashing over the incident at the mall. “Like you need to be alone, just let me know, and we’ll find you a special place. We’ll lock the women’s bathroom if we have to, okay?”
I look out the window. To her knowledge, I’ve only had one of those “incidents,” but I’ve actually had several since. All of them were brought on by feeling overwhelmed. All of them ended with me passing out and having some flashback of my time with Earl Rae. Not all of the flashbacks were unpleasant either—I think those were more disturbing than the unpleasant flashbacks.
“Okay,” I answer as I scan the parking lot. It’s filled with cars. I don’t see a single space open, and this isn’t exactly a small event center.
“I’ll let you girls off here and go park.” Dad brakes right in front of the main doors and waits.
Mom throws her door open and slides out, excited. I linger in the backseat.
I’m wearing a dress Mom picked out for me after she went back to the mall alone. She was way more productive on her own than she would have been with me in tow, having an “incident” whenever I ran into someone from my past.
It’s a long, strapless plum-colored dress with a thin satin belt. It’s really lovely actually. I might have picked it out on my own if I’d been with her. It fits pretty well too—other than the chest area. Although that problem was solved by mom’s creativity with a padded strapless bra.
She picked up a pair of flats and a pair of heels, and I obviously chose the flats. A party with a couple hundred people was not the time to make my reappearance in heels after a ten-year break.