“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?”
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?”