Pretty Girl-13

Part III





CONFESSION




I CAME WALTZING HOME FROM SCHOOL WITH THE TASTE OF crème brûlée in my mouth, floating about a foot off the ground. Mom had been watching me curiously ever since she got home from the library. I was bursting, just waiting for the right moment, the right way to tell her. She gave me the perfect opening as I helped her set the table for an early dinner.

“Is there anything special you want for Christmas?” She handed me three sets of silverware.

I grinned at her, bouncing on my toes. “I’ve already got what I most wanted,” I said. “Me, myself, and I. All glued together, more or less.”

Mom gasped. “No! Yes? Really? Already?”

I nodded, my cheeks threatening to snap with joy.

“Oh, Angie. Oh my.” She squeezed me hard, her body shaking. “That won’t fit under the tree,” she said stuffily in my ear, off on another crying jag. She was so sensitive these days.

“Mom, Mom, Mom.” I returned her hug, a laugh bubbling my voice. Silverware jangled in my hands as I avoided stabbing her. “You’re right. How about riding boots?” I recognized Tattletale’s influence, but what would once have felt like separate thoughts were my own now.

“That’s all?” She pulled back, her face pink and wet.

“They’re crazy expensive.” I knew. I’d checked in the tack shop at the stables.

“Do you need those weird pants, too?” she asked. She wiped her eyes.

Also expensive. “Nope. I’ll be fine with skinny jeans for now. Oh, one other thing.” I hesitated. Two weeks out from Christmas, only one thing had me worried, and that was the question of who would be sitting around that dining room table for Christmas dinner.

I wanted more than anything to see Grandma again, to make things right between us. When I thought of the last look on her face, I went hollow inside. She’d never visited me in the hospital. She’d never even sent me a card. I was too nervous to bring it up with Dad.

So now I got up the guts to ask Mom. She unhugged me, holding my shoulders and looking as serious as I’ve ever seen her.

“Since we got the restraining order on Bill, Grandma has refused to come. She scolded me for a good half hour about forcing her to choose between her sons. It wasn’t pretty.” The grim line to Mom’s mouth told me this was probably the watered-down version.

“She doesn’t appreciate that we’re not throwing his ass in jail?”

“Not a bit. She refuses to believe your—our story. And don’t say ass, hon.”

“Ugh. How’s Dad doing?” I asked.

“Not taking it well. As you’d expect. He loved Bill.”

An echo in my head prompted me to reply, “Chah. So did I.”

Mom cringed. Her hands dropped.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “So at least Dad believes me?”

Mom nodded without looking up. “Dr. Grant was mighty persuasive. If we could get her in front of a jury—”

“Stop. We’ve talked this to death. Bill was a minor, except for the last time.” And there was no physical evidence, just he-said, she-said. And even if we had proof, incest had much lighter penalties than stranger rape, for whatever stupid reason. We’d done what we could. “Anyway, now he has to stay away from me. That’s good enough.”

I walked around the circle of the table, placing the forks with precision. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this. I wish I could take back my life and start over.”

“Don’t get me started on do-overs,” Mom said, tearing up again. She grabbed a folded napkin and mopped her face. “I have been asking and asking myself about all the warning signs we must have missed. You just seemed like such a happy, contented child. Even looking back, second-guessing myself like crazy, I can’t find it.”

“Look, Mom. I hid it so deep, even I had no clue till I started therapy. I don’t blame you and Dad.”

Mom watched me with a half-hoping, half-skeptical expression.

“Really. I mean it.” I hugged her to prove the point and felt her growing belly press against me. It lurched and bumped. “Mom! He kicked me!”

“Oh, yes. It’s kind of early.” She patted her bulge. “You actually felt that?”

“That’s so weird,” I said, laughing. “He has big feet.”

“Sounds like you’re betting on a little brother.”

“I don’t know why I said that. It doesn’t matter. I’d be happy with a sister, too.” As I told her, I realized it was true. Having another new little life in the family would give us all something wonderful and positive to think about instead of going around in circles with the “Sheesh, we totally screwed up on Angie” thing. I was ready to move on. I just needed Mom and Dad to catch up with me. Mom was close, but Dad was still a basket case ever since the Thanksgiving massacre.

In spite of missing a week of school and going short last week, I was more than ready to move on there, too. The school counselor had given me a couple of exams and said that with the recommendation of my teachers, I could move up to tenth grade after Christmas break. After three months with the thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds, I was definitely psyched for more mature company, even if it meant starting over with a new set of peers. Especially if it meant starting over. Time to come out of my own isolation. Kate was wonderful, my north star, but I needed to expand my social set, and maybe bring her back into the fold along with me.

And there was one more thing I had to put back on track. I hadn’t seen Abraim in two weeks. Kate had arranged the double dates. Abraim and I had never actually called each other or gone out without Ali and Kate. The extra company didn’t make those two shy—maybe they secretly liked an audience to their make-out sessions—but I had a feeling that Abraim and I would be stuck in the same place forever unless we spent time alone. Plus, I was ready to be a bit more truthful with him now. He had to realize a bear trap hadn’t chomped off my hand, after all. And now that he was dating only one girl, maybe, just maybe I could tell him about the others.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to be brave. I called Kate and asked if she had his cell phone number.

Abraim’s phone didn’t finish ringing once before he answered. “Angie!” He sounded a little breathless himself. “Hey.”

“Hi. Um. Yeah, it’s me.” Ugh. A moment ago I’d had a speech prepared, but unfortunately, it erased itself at the sound of his voice.

“Are you well?” he asked.

That broke the ice. “Oh yeah. You don’t know how well,” I said. “Can we—”

“Do you want—,” he said at the same time.

I wimped out. “You first.”

“Do you want to go out tonight?”

“Absolutely,” I said. Could he hear my smile? And then I remembered. It was Friday, and I’d already promised the Harrises. “Do you mind starting late? Like nine? I’m babysitting for the neighbors. But they usually get home at nine. We could go for pizza or ice cream or something.”

“Sure, that would be great,” Abraim said. “I already claimed the car. I was … I was planning to call you.”

My heart warmed. I knew it. He’d been sitting on his bed too, practicing his speech. “So, I’ll see you later.”

“Until … until tonight, my Angie,” he said with what he must have thought was a romantic flair. Funny thing—he was right.

Sammy was in a rowdy mood when I arrived at the Harrises. With four teeth on board, he had graduated to the life of real food and sippy cups and Cheerios. Locked into his high chair, he was banging wildly with a spoon into a bowl of scrambled eggs. Most of them were flying into the air and landing on the floor, nowhere near his mouth. “Annee, Annee,” he crowed when he noticed me.

“Who’s my favorite guy?” I prompted.

He raised his right arm, a trick I’d spent two weeks training him to perform. “SSSammmmm,” he yelled. Yellow eggs floofed out of his mouth.

I dived in to clean him up and pick some off the floor.

Mrs. Harris appeared behind me. “Oh, sweetie, you don’t have to worry about that. I’ll get it.”

“Not dressed like that!”

She was wearing a wine-red silk dress with a sparkling gold wrap. She twirled for my approval.

“Gorgeous. Special occasion?” I asked.

“Dr. Harris’s departmental holiday party. I hope they don’t remember this dress from last year.”

“Wouldn’t matter if they did,” I said. “It’s great.” By this point I’d cleaned up the floor so she wouldn’t be tempted to try. “How about some Cheerios cars, Sam?” I suggested.

“O’s,” he repeated, which I took to mean yes.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Mrs. Harris said. “It’s so nice that he never fusses when we leave him with you. He was so awful with his other babysitters before—” She broke off awkwardly.

“Before I came home,” I supplied.

“Right. Before you came home.”

“Well, he was a lot younger then,” I suggested.

Mrs. Harris tilted her head. “Maybe. But there’s more to it than that. There’s just something about you. Anyway, lucky for us.” She bent over and kissed Sam on his head, risking her dangly diamond necklace and silk neckline close to his greasy little paws.

Dr. Harris poked his head into the kitchen. “Night, Angie. Help yourself to pay TV if you’d like. You’ve got my pager number if you need me.” He took two huge steps and ruffled Sam’s fluffy hair. “You’re the man of the house now, Sam. Be good.”

“Nice tux,” I said. His vest matched the color of Mrs. Harris’s dress perfectly.

They disappeared out the door to the garage, and moments later, I heard the powerful engine of his Maserati, the nicest car in the neighborhood by far. It was great that they were such down-to-earth people when they obviously could build themselves a custom mansion in a fancier area with an ocean view.

“Okay, little Sam. Fast cars for you, too.” I pulled a block of cheddar from the fridge and Cheerios from the breakfast cupboard. Four Cheerio wheels pressed into a cheese cube looks like a car to a hungry toddler. I vroomed a car across the high chair tray and into his hand.

He stuffed it into his mouth. “Mo,” he demanded. So I made mo.

We had a routine. After supper, a warm bath. At first, I’d been really nervous about the whole drowning possibility, but after Mrs. Harris introduced me to the suction cup bath ring, I was fine. Sam soaked clean and played for a while with rubber ducks and pouring cups while the warm bath got tepid, then chilly. Only at that point was he willing to leave the water. I bundled him up in a thick towel and sang the rubber ducky song while I dried him off and stuck on a diaper before anything bad could happen. I plopped him safely on his bedroom floor and rummaged around in his dresser for the Batman pajamas, which I knew were his favorites.

“Annee, Annee!” he called.

I whirled to see him tottering to his feet in the middle of the room, arms outstretched. He took three steps toward me and plumped down on his padded butt.

“You walked! Sam! You really walked! Do it again!”

“Ahden, ahden,” he said. He got back into crawling position and rocked himself to his feet. This time he made five steps before collapsing.

I picked him up and whirled him around. “You did it, you did it!” I sang. “You walked all on your ow-wn.” The Harrises would be so excited and so ticked that they’d missed the first steps. “Darn. I should have taken a video,” I told him. But there was something extra special about having the memory all to myself.

“Ahden, ahden,” he said, squirming to get down.

So for half an hour, we played “again, again” with walking and twirling, until we were both totally exhausted. “Reading time,” I insisted. “After we brush your four little teeth.”

That was a household rule, always read before sleeping. Both the Harrises had bookcases next to their sides of the bed—detective novels on her side and medical thrillers on his. Sam had all the Dr. Seuss collection, and tonight he grabbed Green Eggs and Ham before he climbed onto my lap. It was his favorite, for obvious reasons.

“Fam Am fam!” he chirped. “Dih-doh. Dih-doh.”

“Hmm? What’s dih-doh, little guy?” Oh, the doorbell was ringing. Weird. I hitched him onto my hip and went down the hall and around to the front door. I peered through the peephole at the looming, distorted face of Abraim.

A blast of cold air swooshed in the door. “Hey, what are you doing here?” I asked.

Blinking Christmas bulbs reflected in his black eyes. “It’s nine o’clock. Your mom said you were still working. She thought it would be okay if I came over, but I can wait in the car if you’d rather I didn’t come in, and your employers might misunderstand, so I should probably—”

“For goodness’ sake. Come in. I’m sorry. I forgot they had an actual party, so they may be a while.”

He stepped in uneasily, but his eye was drawn to the collection of old medical books on the front hall table, part decor item, part hobby. “Very nice house,” he said.

“I know. One day you’ll have a house like this, future Dr. Rahim,” I teased. “Come on. I was just about to put Sam to bed with a book.”

Abraim’s eyebrows rose. “He can read?”

“No, you nitwit. I’m reading. He’s listening and hopefully not tearing the pages.”

Abraim sat on the floor. Sam sat on my lap, thumb in his mouth, glued to the story of Sam-I-am and his picky nameless friend. Forgetting I had a double audience, I totally got into the book as usual, and by the time I hit “And I would eat them in a boat. And I would eat them with a goat” et cetera, I was reciting from memory in quite a dramatic rendition. Abraim applauded at the end, and I blushed all over.

“Night-night time,” I told Sam. He yawned hugely. The power of suggestion.

He rolled onto his side in his crib, and I tucked him in tight. “Night-night, sweetie,” I whispered, and kissed him on the ear.

“Need this?” Abraim asked. He was reaching under the rocker for Sam’s blue-and-white-checked blankie.

“Thanks.” I took it from him. As my fingers sank into the soft baby fleece, my vision darkened for just a second, and my head swam. Knees buckling, I grabbed the crib railing for support. “Whoa. Head rush. Got up too fast, I guess.” I blinked away the darkness and rattled my head. “Here, Sammy. Blankie.” He reached out with his eyes closed, already working away on his thumb.

We tiptoed out, closing the door with a soft click. The smell of baby shampoo still lingered on my shirt and hands.

“Want anything to eat or drink?” I asked. “I’m sure it would be okay.”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.” Abraim hovered awkwardly. “Are you sure you don’t want me to wait in the car?”

I just rolled my eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. Come check out the sound system in the living room.”

I led him to my favorite room in the house. Two leather sofas and a matching pair of chairs were a soft butter yellow, the color of sunshine. A multicolored rug in a modern design covered much of the pale hardwood floor. The lamps and end tables were stylish and metallic. Two enormous speakers flanked the fireplace, and the rest of the surround sound was ceiling mounted around the room. Although the rest of the house was single-story, this room was vaulted, with a dramatic full-height window facing an unobstructed view of the mountains.

The window created the perfect backdrop for the twelve-foot Christmas tree the Harrises had put up over Thanksgiving weekend, a real cut tree, decorated all in white and gold balls, angels, and stars and lit with clear twinklers. I dialed down the track-lighting dimmers to show the full effect. The scent of pine filled the room, familiar and comforting.

Abraim traced the height of the tree, from the brightly ribboned packages beneath to the crystal star on top, almost brushing the redwood beams. “Fantastic,” he said. “That makes our stubby six-foot tree seem extremely inadequate.”

“You have a tree?” I asked.

“Well, it’s the common culture, after all. And I don’t mind the accumulation of presents under it.”

The twinkle lights flickered off, and I dived under the tree to fiddle with the twitchy connections until they lit again. A shower of dry needles pattered to the ground. “Bad strand somewhere,” I explained.

Abraim dusted a couple of needles out of my hair. “I think they must be cutting these trees at Halloween these days. I almost pronounced ours DOA, but we managed to resuscitate it with sugar water.”

“And now you’re planning a career as a tree surgeon,” I joked. I picked up the media remote. “What kind of music do you like, doc?”

“You choose,” he said immediately.

“Well, something quiet as long as Sam’s falling asleep,” I said, and selected a soft-jazz station. It was sort of make-out music, if you liked that kind of thing, not that I was thinking in that direction. Exactly.

“You’re very good with him,” Abraim said, an admiring note in his voice. He sat down in one of the deep chairs and ran his hands along the creamy-soft leather arms. “Very natural.”

“Good thing, isn’t it? I mean, we’ll have one of our own soon.”

His eyes popped. “We will?” he squeaked. His face turned bright red.

I giggled. “Oh God. Not … us. My family. My mom’s pregnant, believe it or not.”

I think he started breathing again. “So you’ll be a sister.”

“Yeah. But Mom’s so old, everyone’s going to think the baby is my accident, at least everyone who doesn’t know us.”

“Oh. Uh.” He fished around for a reply and apparently gave up.

It was painfully quiet for a moment while both of us wondered how to go on from here. I had an opening to tell him what I wanted to tell him, but I just couldn’t do it to his face. I lay down on a sofa with my head on the armrest, staring at the grain in the redwood planks high above my head.

My voice quivered just a touch. “See, I have a lot of unexplained time to account for.”

I felt a warm hand on my shoulder.

“You were missing,” he said. “I know. Your parents were still here in town. I told you I read all the old newspaper articles and YouTubed all the news reports.”

Right. “When I first got back, I couldn’t remember anything. Not a single thing.”

“How … awkward,” he offered.

“Totally. But I do remember some of it now,” I said, fixing my gaze on the faraway ceiling. “The truth is, I was kidnapped.” I held up my scarred wrists. “And I was obviously held captive, at least for a while.”

“Stockholm syndrome?” he asked.

“What’s that?”

“When the captive eventually identifies with the captor and doesn’t try to leave.”

I wrenched the silver wedding ring off my finger. It wasn’t that I wanted to honor that lie, but somehow I still needed to see it on my hand. Maybe Abraim was right—it was a syndrome. “Read this,” I said. “It’s so creepy.”

Abraim was silent.

Crap. It was too much, too weird, too soon. Yes, Abraim was very silent.

So was I, while I waited for him to get up and leave and never speak to me again.

But he didn’t. He came over and kissed me upside down, leaning over the couch. His eyes were moist. “Are you okay?” he whispered.

“Oh. I think so. Yeah.” My eyes went all swimmy too. His tenderness touched me deep in the center of my fast-beating heart.

He knelt next to me so he could see me better, his hand cradling my cheek. “How did you not go crazy? How did you survive? How did you not kill yourself? You must have the strongest will to live.”

My mouth crumpled a little. Did I dare tell him? Now?

While I searched for the right words, the music swelled in a particularly emotional way, and the next thing I knew, Abraim had slipped both arms around me and tugged me into a fierce hold against his chest. His voice crackled. “I wish I could have saved you. I wish I had known where to look.”

“No one did,” I whispered. “But thank you.” My arms went around him, too, and then we were surrounded by music and soft leather, and he was kissing me, and I was kissing him. And the wonder of it was that it felt new and good. I felt like I’d never been kissed before, except by this sweet, gentle, protective guy who wanted me even though he knew how damaged I must be.

Tears of happiness trickled from the corners of my eyes. He tasted the saltiness and sat up with a questioning look on his face. “What?” he asked. “I’m sorry. Too much?”

I smiled and wiped my eyes, which kept on streaming anyway. “I’m just so happy, so lucky,” I said. “You’re too good to be true. I’m afraid of waking up.”

He flushed, with a pleased grin, and I pulled his head down to mine to demand more happiness, more luck. Time evaporated as we explored the curves of each other’s lips, cheeks, throats with soft kisses.

The mantel clock chimed eleven, and he pulled apart from me. “Oh dear. So late. I should probably go before your employers return, because, Angie, if you look at me like that for much longer, I’ll have to kiss you again and again, and I am afraid of what they might walk in to see.”

“Oh. Our date … I’m sorry.”

“Now you’re the nitwit,” he said. “I wouldn’t trade tonight for a movie and popcorn. Are you kidding? But how about tomorrow we get together for pizza and maybe something weird, like bowling?”

“I bowl about a ninety-five, at least I used to,” I warned him. I wrenched myself out of the groove I’d worn into the couch.

“Uh-oh. If you’re that good, I’m in trouble.”

I refrained from pointing out that I was that bad. “You want to pick me up at six?”

“Delighted to,” he said. As we walked to the door, he had an arm around my waist. His jacket hung on the coat-rack, and after he shrugged into it, he leaned over me and gathered me into his arms again for one more good-night kiss. Somehow, it lasted until the clock chimed eleven fifteen, at which point, I was dizzy and breathless.

I watched him drive off before going in to check on Sam. He’d rolled onto his back and thrown off all his covers. I tucked him in, smoothing the binding of his plaid blankie between my fingers. The silkiness was hypnotic, and I watched him breathe his baby breaths in and out, the rise and fall of his tiny chest.

The sound of the garage opening startled me, and I hurried back to the kitchen to greet the Harrises.

“Oh, Angie,” Mrs. Harris said. “I so apologize for how late it is. The night just got away from us.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “We had a big night here. Sam took his first real walking steps.”

“Oh! Wonderful!” She gave me a hug. “How fun for you. Did you hear that, dear?” she called as Dr. Harris came in from the garage. “Our little guy is up and running.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” he cheered, giving Mrs. Harris a hug. “I can’t wait to see him in the morning. TG it’s Saturday tomorrow. Shall I walk you home? Did Ginny tell you? We were having so much fun dancing to the moldy oldies, the time just got away from us.”

The clock chimed one in the morning like an exclamation point on his apology.

One? Wow. Somehow the time had gotten away from me, too. Had I actually fallen asleep on my feet by the crib side?

Saturday morning was supposed to be a day of sleeping in, waking up refreshed. But when Mom came and woke me for the third time at two thirty, my eyes still felt like they’d been sandpapered. I didn’t drag my butt out of bed until she threatened no late babysitting ever again if I couldn’t handle it. Considering the crisp new hundred-dollar bill in my wallet (double time after midnight, Dr. Harris explained, as he’d pressed the overpayment on me), I wanted to prove I could handle it. Besides, I’d been asleep for more than twelve hours. I should be bouncing out of bed.

I greeted the afternoon by opening my curtains. I had to push my rocker aside to reach, and my stomach flipped as it dawned on me—the rocker had moved. In the night. On its own. The blanket that usually sat folded on it was rolled into a tight sausage-shaped bundle. Deep tread grooves were worn in the carpet. I touched the seat, and to my horror, it was still warm.

Holy crap. The mad rocker. She wasn’t one of the others. She was her own person. And she was still with me.