THERE WERE SOME GOOD days, some okay days, in the beginning. And I still think that if I had been better at the rules, if I could have just been good, like they wanted me to be, maybe it wouldn’t have all gone wrong. But the day I woke up and the door was still locked, I didn’t know what to do. They told me to be quiet, or else. But I needed to go to the bathroom. So badly. I knocked on the door from the inside, quietly. “Hello?”
An hour went by, maybe more. Or maybe less. When you have to go, it’s all you can think about. I tried walking around. Sitting. Lying. I knocked on the door, louder this time. “Please! I have to go to the bathroom.” Quiet. Or else.
The day went on and on and no one came. No food. No water. And still, I had to go.
Then I cried, another rule broken. No crying. I looked at the small pink plastic garbage can in the corner. I looked at it and looked at it and then I couldn’t wait anymore. I took the can and used it as a toilet. And oh! The relief. I felt like I could live again, like it would be all right. Even if they left me here, even if I had no food.
I went to put the can back in the corner, but then I saw there was a little hole in the bottom, just big enough. And everything was leaking out, just like a little river. I didn’t know how to stop it. So I took off my nightgown and I put it under the can. The nightgown just got all wet, and the pee kept running down and down out of the can until it was almost empty, and all the pee was on the nightgown that was on the rug in the corner.
I took the nightgown, wet and dripping, and shoved it deep under the bed, against the wall. And then I sat and looked out the window as hours and hours went by. I was in just my underwear when they finally opened the door. It had been a whole other day, I was so tired and hungry, and I needed water so badly.
“What the hell is that . . .” He looked around, angry, sniffing. “What did you do?” He grabbed my arm and dragged me off the bed, across the rug that ripped at my skin, while I cried and screamed. He hit me. “You’re a dirty girl, a bad girl!” And what started as a slap turned worse, turned so bad I wished I’d never been born. “No crying. How many times do I have to tell you?”
After that, it seemed like he had decided about me, that I was bad and could never be good. I never had a second chance. I couldn’t stop crying. No matter how hard I tried. I had failed, and I would always be bad in his eyes. And bad girls had to be punished. There were rules, didn’t you know that? There had to be rules.
CHAPTER 4
I CLOSED MY EYES on the flight, just for a moment, but found myself drifting into a light dreamscape. None of us had slept last night, not really. This morning we left early for the airport for our flight to Florida. The Center for Missing Children had arranged all the details. It was as if our lives had been in slow motion for the past few years, and now everything was happening all at once.
The detectives came over just hours after Mom got the call and the photo. Then Mom’s friends from the center. Everyone was pacing around, taking over different rooms, talking on their phones. A flight was arranged. A car at the airport. The detectives spoke with the doctor at the children’s shelter in Florida. More photos were sent. More questions. Did Sarah ever break her arm? No. Did she have burns on her back? No. Did she have a scar under her chin? Yes, yes, she did! Yay for the scar under the chin! From falling off the monkey bars at school when she was five. I could tell my parents were so afraid to hope, afraid that with every question this was going to unravel like so many other leads had.