But I can’t. I still can’t. She felt like mine long ago and I want that feeling again. I need her in my life, though I know it’s completely selfish of me, especially because I haven’t told her the truth. I’m still shocked she hasn’t recognized me, but I’m a totally different person now.
I barely recognize myself most of the time.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror that hangs over my dresser and turn to the side, lifting my arm. I’m only wearing a pair of sweats, my chest is bare, my rib cage covered in black swirling ink. The tattoo isn’t very large, the image I brought into the tattoo shop and demanded they duplicate imprinted on my skin forever.
It’s a pair of angel’s wings, roughly sketched but each individual feather in fine detail, accompanied by two simple words written below them.
Only us.
“I thought I should be the one to show you this first. You haven’t mentioned it, and Mom fished around when she last talked to you but you seemed completely unaware.” Brenna hands over an open magazine, folded to show the page I assume she wants me to read.
I take the magazine from her. We’re at my house. She came over bearing vanilla lattes and cinnamon rolls from a little shop not too far from me that’s well known with tourists. I don’t live directly on the ocean, but my town is on the way and people passing through make frequent stops—at the Old Time Cinnamon Roll Shop, specifically.
That I’m so focused on stupid cinnamon rolls is an indication that I don’t want to know what Brenna’s about to drop on me.
“What is it?” I ask warily. I almost don’t want to look at the magazine. It’s an article she wants me to read, I’m sure, about my tragic past. Most likely a mention of the interview, considering lots of entertainment magazines covered it, including People, who still contact me once a week asking if I’d like to tell my story to one of their reporters for a possible cover.
No thanks.
“Just read it.” Brenna flicks her chin, her expression composed.
I’m clutching the magazine, my gaze fixed on Brenna, when she rolls her eyes and waves a hand at me. “Stop staring at me and get it over with.”
Glancing down, I see it’s an entertainment magazine that I’ve flipped through more than once at Mom’s house since she’s a subscriber. The page has a variety of articles and the headline near the bottom of the page catches my eye.
TV Movie About Kidnap Victim Katherine Watts in the Works
My mouth drops open as I read the short but succinct article. “They can’t do this,” I murmur, my eyes skimming over the blurry words. A network is mentioned; the script is being written. Much of it will be based on my interview with Lisa Swanson.
Brenna nods. “Looks like they’re doing it.” I know what she’s thinking. We must face this head on, accept it, and move on.
But maybe I don’t want to move on. Maybe I want to fight it. I only just recently got my life back—somewhat. I don’t need to relive this short period of time again and again.
“How can they make a movie about me without my permission?” I look up at her and she just shakes her head.
“They do it all the time, K. Seriously, think about it. How many crazy docudrama movies have we watched on Lifetime? Other networks made movies about you after the kidnapping. We’ve already dealt with this, right? Besides, this is all about money. Your story will make any network advertising dollars. The interview you just did proved that.”
I don’t answer her as I finish the article, thinking back to the other unauthorized bio movies made about kidnap victims—excuse me, survivors—over the years. Most I’ve never watched, their stories too painful, too familiar. I never watched the ones they made about me, either. I couldn’t bear to see a reenactment of the abduction.
“I wonder if I should try and stop them. Find a lawyer or something. I’m sure someone would run to my defense.” I toss the magazine on the coffee table in front of the couch, already wishing for a moment alone so I can process this new discovery.
But Brenna only just got here and it’s not fair, me taking out my frustration and anger on her. She’s only the messenger in this situation.
“I think it would just be a waste of time.” She snatches the magazine up from the table and stuffs it into her purse, which rests by her feet. Like she wants the stupid magazine out of sight, out of mind. “Want your coffee?”
I nod and she hands it to me. I take a grateful sip, my appetite long gone, and I shake my head when she offers the white paper bag with the cinnamon roll we planned on splitting inside.
“Are you sure?” she asks incredulously, She knows how much I love them.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” I say with a shrug.