What David wanted wasn’t Chelsea, it was a cute wife who would shrink or stretch to suit him. What he did to her, whether he did it on purpose or not, was horrifically impersonal. Any blond girl without a backbone would’ve suited—or any girl who could be negged into bleaching her real hair. She’s just the first fish that took the bait.
The years fly past in her head, remembering how easily she gave ground.
Theater and chorus? Gone. Friends David didn’t like? Gone. She wanted the purple Honda but he said it looked weird, so he leased the white car with the better resale value. She liked the little bungalow house with brightly colored walls, he preferred the McMansion painted in shades of beige with a patio for his grill. She wanted to go back to work, maybe get her own college degree, but he stressed how much a good wife and mother needed to be home. Even down to neighborhood Bunco nights or drinks with the other moms at preschool—she shouldn’t go, her life was at home, it was stupid, the women were too this or too that.
She just needed to stay home and take care of her family.
He’s been hacking off bits of her for years until she couldn’t run away. Until she couldn’t even go out and see what she’d been missing.
Until she decided that things had to change.
Until the Violence gave her an excuse.
It hurts, to see how dispassionate his abuse has been.
To see how, again and again, she’s said yes to it without saying anything at all until there was nothing left of her. She simply drifted around the house like a little ghost forgetting herself.
And it could’ve been anyone.
He could’ve simply put an ad on Craigslist.
Wanted: Broodmare, doormat, and punching bag. Free room and board, but you’ll pay for it with pieces of your soul.
Chelsea blinks and comes back to herself, staring into Florida Woman’s face floating in the mirror, a still spot amid all the movement and energy and excitement.
Craigslist.
Craigslist!
She’s been racking her brain on how to find Ella, but just a few hours ago, Arlene gave her a brand-new iPhone, and even if she can’t call or text or email her daughter, even if Ella has never shared her social media handles and they’re not under her real name, she can still try Craigslist.
Because she’s tried to use it for years to find Whitney and apologize for the talent show, and Ella knows that. And Ella thinks Craigslist is ancient and stupid, but…
Ella also knows that when Chelsea is trying to find someone unfindable, that’s where she goes.
Maybe…maybe Ella already tried it.
Whipping out her new iPhone—the newest model, thanks to Harlan’s guilt—she goes directly to Tampa’s Craigslist and searches the Missed Connections posts. Even if she should be getting her head in the game, going over the end moves for the match, she won’t be able to think of anything else until she’s scrolled all the way back through to the date her mother stole her children. Back, back, back, all the way to—
Wait.
There.
Smella looking for her favorite Swamp Momster.
Momster.
That’s her.
That’s her.
She opens the post, her heart flooding with need and relief and fear, and there’s an email address. Thank God for autocorrect because she’s typing the email so fast it barely makes sense. She tells her daughter how much she loves her, how much she misses her, where she is and how to find her. Most important, she gives Ella her new number and begs her to call or text as soon as she can.
“Chelsea, you okay?” Amy stands by her side in the mirror, looking concerned, her long hair wavy and topped with a green wreath.
“Yeah. Sure.” But Chelsea doesn’t stop clutching her phone, staring at the screen, begging it to ping a notification.
Amy puts a hand on her shoulder. “You’re shaking.”
Chelsea turns to her and smiles, tears in her eyes. “Yeah, but it’s for a good reason, I promise. I think I found my daughter.”
Tears start to well up in Amy’s eyes, her lip trembling. Of course this is a very sensitive topic for her, but Chelsea is so overrun with emotion that she can’t think of someone else first, just now, and she hopes Amy will understand.
“That’s so great,” she says, trying to smile.
“Amy?” Sienna calls from the door, headset on and clipboard in hand. “We’re waiting on you.”
Amy gives Chelsea the quickest of hugs, careful not to smear anyone’s makeup or damage either costume.
“Good luck out there,” Chelsea says.
“Shouldn’t you say break a leg?”
Chelsea has to laugh. “Yeah, not when actual fighting is involved.”
With a wave, Amy heads out the door, leaving Chelsea to stare at her phone.
The world is dangerous now. David is surely out of quarantine. Patricia is at best cold and at worst sadistic. Sickness is everywhere—Chelsea knows that better than anyone. The Craigslist posting is weeks old, with nothing more recent, no more attempts to find her. She can only hope and pray that her daughter is still able to reply.
50.
Patricia had forgotten how hard it is to help a child pack for a trip. Children have no clue about the difference between necessities and frivolous junk. Brooklyn packed two dance dresses, all her shoes, and no underwear, then forgot her toothbrush.
If this was a younger version of Chelsea, Patricia would snap at her, call her an idiot, and tell her exactly what to pack, slowly and with the implication that she’s doing the listener a favor and won’t repeat herself. But that was then and this is now, and she is done being someone’s monster. Instead, she simply gives Brooklyn a gentle smile and says, “I think you may have forgotten a few things. Let’s finish packing together. Nana is an excellent packer.”
It’s late morning now, and last night’s revelations feel like something that happened long, long ago. They both fell back to sleep in Patricia’s big bed. She was just too sleepy and exhausted and drugged up to let herself contemplate what would happen if the child stormed again. Luckily, nothing happened, other than a little drool on her pillow.