You Can't Hide

by Theresa Sneed

  Sam sat down on one of the wooden benches. What? Did he expect her to just sit? Not going to happen. She narrowed her eyes, still upset. “Really, Dad?” She folded her arms and tapped her foot. Sweeping her hands out over the gardens, she frowned. Like bringing her here was supposed to calm her down or something.

  She expected him to get it, but apparently, he did not. “Sit down, Sally.” It was not a request, but a demand.

  “Gah.” She plopped down on a bench facing him. A narrow path separated the benches. If she’d wanted to, she could’ve reached over and touched him. She grimaced. Like that’s going to happen, she thought angrily.

  “Listen, Sally, I know you’re upset.”

  “Yeah?” she said, in a sarcastic tone. She turned her body slightly away.

  He sighed. It was a sad sigh, and it confused Sally. She looked over at him.

  He was bent over. His hands covered his face, and his elbows rested on his knees. He looked up at her and then sat up. “Listen, Sally,” he said again. “I cannot begin to imagine what’s in your head.”

  “Uh-huh,” she mumbled, her lips pressed together tight.

  “Here’s the thing—you can’t get into mine either.”

  She blinked. Was this some kind of reverse psychology like her teacher was talking about the other day?

  “Every day, I get up early in the morning and go to work to put food on our table and to—”

  Blah, blah, blah, she thought, as he continued describing a typical day in his life. It appeared as though he had flipped the subject to himself, once again forgetting all about her needs.

  “—and so I wonder if you get how I feel,” he said.

  “Sure. I get it. I know all about how it feels to be ignored.”

  He stared at her. “What?”

  “It’s not your fault if you don’t get thirteen-year-old girls, Dad.”

  “Oh,” he said, apparently deep in thought. “I see.” He leaned over and patted her knee. “So, I get that you’re, um, growing up.” He looked away. He seemed not too happy about that fact, which irritated her even more.

  “Uh, yeah,” she spewed out.

  “So, um, I know both of your mothers have given you, you know, the talk.”

  Really? “Yes, Dad,” she quipped, rolling her eyes.

  “And this Breccan fella, you kind of like him, don’t you?” He seemed to force a grin.

  She jumped up. “What? Breccan? No.”

  He seemed relieved and confused at the same time. “Are we talking about the same thing?”

  A sudden rush of tears filled her eyes. “Apparently not. Breccan’s just a good friend.” She sat down across from him again. “He listens to me.”

  “I listen to you.”

  She wiped at her eyes. “No, you don’t.”

  “Sure, I do.”

  “Really? Then what’s bugging me right now?”

  “Well, um,” he stammered. After a moment of thought, he bounced his hands into the air. “How am I supposed to know that, if you don’t talk to me?”

  Unbelievable. “Exactly.” She growled. “You won’t let me.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Sally. I’ve always been available to talk to you anytime, anywhere.”

  She stood. “Hmm.” She paced the narrow path between them. “Okay, Professor Hancock,” she said, forcing his real name out. “From the earliest time that I can remember, whenever I try to talk to you about . . . you know what,” she said, instinctively dropping her voice low, “either you, or Mother, or Mom, you all stop me.”

  He made a face. “Is that what this is about?” He clasped his hands together on his lap. “There’s no reason to bring the past up.”

  “Not for you, maybe, but for me, there is.”

  “Why, Sally? Why can’t you just leave it in the past?”

  “It shouldn’t matter why, Dad. It should only matter that I need to talk about it.”

  He drew his head back. “That’s a very grownup way of thinking.”

  “I am thirteen,” she said, with a sigh. “There are disconnected things about the past floating around in my head.”

  His eyes widened. “Perhaps, you should see, Ms. Tangier?”

  She grimaced. Ms. Tangier was Nancy’s therapist. She’d only met her once, years ago, and remembered her as a firm, schoolmarm sort of person. “Can’t I just talk to you?”

  “Of course you can.” A few people passed by on a path that crisscrossed the area. “But, not here.”

  She stood firm. “You promise?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  A deep sigh left her throat, and without a second thought, she flew into his arms. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Twenty-Four

  The Ladies of the Lake

  A light rap on the front door of her cabin awoke Nancy. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stared at the clock. She’d slept well into the morning, unusual for her, but a good indicator that she had needed it. All at once she realized, she’d slept through the whole night—also unusual for her, and another good sign, she hoped.

  The rap sounded again and brought her to the door. Expecting to see Millie, she was surprise to see Sofia standing there.

  Sofia glanced at her clothing. “I see, I awoke you. Well, no matter—you’re up now. Millie tells me you like to write. I’ll expect to see you at ten in the lodge.”

  She didn’t give Nancy a chance to respond, but turned and walked back toward her yellow cabin.

  She is so odd, but I like her. Wait. She thought back and grinned—those had been Millie’s almost exact words about Wendy. She started to shut the door, but looked down. A note lay on the floor, the morning sunlight resting across it like a beacon of hope. Or warning, she mused, always the pessimist—another quality she sought to improve.

  Bending over, she picked it up. A wave of dizziness swept over her, and she stifled a yelp.

  I know who you are.

  She clutched her hands to her chest, the note crumpled within her tight grip. It had been foolish for her to reveal that much about herself. Absolutely foolish.

  A shadow appeared at her door.

  “No,” she moaned, filled with fright. Forcing herself to look, she brought her eyes up to the intruder.

  “Oh. It’s just you, Millie!” She burst into tears. “Oh, it’s just you,” she repeated, between broken sobs.

  Millie rushed to her side. “What’s wrong, Nancy?” She pried the note from her shaking hands. Her face went blank. “Who wrote this?” And then her eyes questioned Nancy’s, as if she expected an explanation for the strange message.

  Nancy couldn’t find the words.

  Millie sat her down on a chair and then pulled one over beside her. “Look, I know from what you said last night about that horrible man, and now from this letter,” she said, waving it in the air, “that you have something to hide.”

  Nancy’s eyes widened.

  “But not from us.” She put her hand over Nancy’s quivering one. “No one—not a single person here—would ever reveal your identity, whoever you really are.”

  Nancy remained quiet.

  “Look,” Millie said, pulling her hand away. “We’re all hiding from something. And now, at least, I know what you’re hiding from.” She shuddered. “I really don’t care who you are, but I do care about you, and why you’re hiding.” She stood. “So, someone figured it out. Not a big deal, is it?” She looked down at the handwritten note. “It’s a woman’s handwriting, wouldn’t you agree?” She thrust it into Nancy’s face.

  Nancy grimaced and pulled away.

  “It’s a bit cryptic, though, isn’t it?”

  Nancy managed a nod.

  Mille tapped the note. “It looks as though someone wrote this when they were a bit tipsy, wouldn’t you say?” This time, she didn’t push it toward Nancy, but just let the edges of it fall forward so she could see it. “You can tell by the sort of slurred letters in places.” She pointed to the words, clearly showing the wavy letters formed across t
he piece of scrap paper.

  Nancy took a good look at it. “Maybe,” she said.

  “Even so, I think I recognize the handwriting.”

  Nancy sat up straight. “Whose is it?”

  “I need to make sure first.” Millie’s lips pressed tight. It was apparent she wasn’t going to reveal her guess. “Get dressed. We’re going to show this to Wendy.”

  Wendy was the only one who had known about Nancy’s past. It was part of the requirement to be let into the secluded group of women. There had to be a significant need. And for safety measures, the proprietor of the property needed to know what precautions had to be in place to maintain the safety of all the women.

  Nancy reluctantly agreed. Anyhow, she’d be leaving the lake today, if the writer of the mysterious note wasn’t revealed.

  Millie climbed into the golf cart. “I’ll drive.” The keys were already in it, which shouldn’t have surprised Nancy. Millie seemed to guess her thoughts. “Yeah, we leave the keys in the carts usually, but you can keep them in your purse, too.”

  Wendy was just leaving her pink cabin when they pulled up. “Hi, girls.”

  “Hi, Wendy. Hey, do you have a moment?”

  Wendy glanced down at her watch. “Writing group is in thirty minutes. Sure. What’s up?” She gestured to a bench in the front of her cabin beneath a large oak tree.

  Millie gave her the note. “This was left at Nancy’s cabin.”

  Wendy looked down at it. “It doesn’t surprise me, after last night’s revelations.” She gave Nancy a knowing look. “I mean, you had to almost expect it.”

  Nancy wasn’t pleased with her answer, though the non-urgency in her voice somewhat calmed her nerves. “You know who wrote this?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, without hesitancy.

  Relieved, a small puff of air escaped Nancy’s throat. “Well?” she pressed.

  Wendy pursed her lips tight. “I can’t tell you, Nancy. No more than I could confirm who you are to anyone.” She shrugged when Millie looked her way. “It’s her right to remain private just as much as it is yours.”

  “But she left this at her cabin.” Millie interjected.

  “Yes, after Nancy confirmed her speculations.”

  “You mean, she knew all along?”

  Wendy nodded. “Yes, she did.”

  “Oh.”

  “And your identity is still intact. She’d never tell a soul.”

  “So, why did she leave me this message?”

  Wendy paused. “I can’t speak for her, but I’m betting, by the looks of this note, that she might not even remember that she left it for you.”

  “Oh.”

  “So,” she said standing. “Are you coming with us to writing group?”

  “I had been planning on it.”

  “Oh, come on Nancy,” Millie said, “Wendy says the woman probably doesn’t even remember any of it.”

  “Well, except for my outburst, I’m sure she won’t forget that.”

  “Trust me,” Wendy said. “This woman would be mortified if she remembered writing this letter, and knowing her the way I do, I doubt it very much that she will. You can be assured that your secret is safe, for as long as you want it to remain so. But seriously, it wouldn’t do you any harm to tell everyone who you are, and what you’ve experienced.” She patted her arm. “In fact, it might do you a world of good.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Good.”

  “No, wait. I don’t mean I’m going to, but it would be nice to have someone to talk to about it . . . I think,” she added, not sure why she’d say such a thing. She didn’t want to talk about it at all.

  “Come to writing group with us. You don’t have to stay—just give it a try.” Wendy gestured to the lodge which was next to her cabin.

  “Yeah, come on, Nancy,” Millie said, tugging on her arm.

  “Um, okay,” she stuttered. She would do what Wendy had just said, give it a try, and then leave. She followed them up the steps of the lodge.

  She imagined it to be like one of those therapy groups she’d visited shortly after her escape from Merrick, and she shuddered. Sitting around in a circle and listening to both men and women talk about their lives had only heightened her fears.

  The lodge was bigger than she’d originally thought. They passed through several large rooms and out the other side of the lodge into an inner courtyard interspersed with trees and flowers. Just having the walls of the courtyard surrounding her, gave a sense of safety and protection from the outside world. She wondered if that had been the intention in its design—a safe haven within a sanctuary.

  In the middle of the courtyard, a few women had gathered, some she’d already met, others she’d never seen before. A soft melody played from hidden speakers—Bach, Nancy thought. Two women sat at a long, wooden table painted white. It was old, but its dents and scratches added a definite character to it, as if it belonged there, perfectly fitting into its outdoor setting.

  In the middle of the table, a pile of letters lay haphazardly tossed in a heap, and she wondered how anyone could receive mail at a private facility. She’d thought that the location was undisclosed, almost top secret. Maybe I’m wrong, she thought. Wendy and Millie were engaged in conversation with some of the women who had just entered the courtyard. Nancy stood still, not sure of what to do. After a few minutes, it was obvious that they’d forgotten her. She could easily slip away, but yet, something about the place captivated her.

  No one seemed to notice as she strolled the courtyard, exploring its fountains, benches, and private nooks hidden beneath its massive willows. “This place is great,” she whispered. Parting the feathery-veined leaves hanging almost to the ground, she peered under one of the willows. A young woman sat beneath its boughs, reading a book. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  The woman smiled and closed to the book. “No need to be.” Extending her hand, she said, “I’m Gem.”

  She shook Gem’s hand and then pulled her hand back. “I’m Nancy.”

  She grinned. “Hi, Nancy.”

  She seemed to already know her name, but that was probably just more of Nancy’s wrongful conclusions.

  Gem glanced at her watch. “Oh, dear, Sofia frowns on tardiness.” With a wave, she pushed passed Nancy, through the long, thin leaves. She looked back. “Come along.”

  Nancy followed her to the white table, which now had six women sitting around it. Millie’s eyes caught hers. She patted an empty seat and gestured for her to hurry. Nancy slipped in beside her, just as Sofia entered the courtyard.

  Sofia was much less formal than the night before. In blue jeans and a bright yellow shirt, her dark hair was tied loosely behind her back, wild strands falling across her olive-colored shoulders. She carried a pile of paper and a small box in her hands. Her normally staunch expression was replaced with a serene, friendly one, which surprised and confused Nancy. While the women at dinner last night had gone quiet at her arrival, here, she was greeted with waves and welcoming words.

  After a quick glance at the letters, Sofia took her place at the head of the table. “There’s always so many, but at least, now, we have another writer.” She smiled at Nancy. “Welcome, Nancy. We hope you will stay.” She set the paper and the box on the table.

  The other women joined in with their greetings. Gem sat directly across from Nancy, gave her a slight grin, and then turned her attention back to Sofia.

  Sofia reached forward and took the nearest envelope. She opened it. “Sad in Salzburg,” she said, holding it out to Gem who eagerly took it, along with a sheet of paper and an envelope from the small box. Sofia opened another. “Oh, this one’s new.” Reading down through it, she set it aside. The next letter was from, “Troubled Trina.”

  “She’s mine.” Wendy reached for the letter.

  Sofia perused the next note. “Bothered in Bixby?”

  Gabby reached forward. “She’s mine.”

  Nancy sat still as each woman claimed several of the letters. Once all h
ad been taken, some of the women went to other parts of the courtyard, leaving her alone with Millie, Gabby, and Sofia.

  Noting her obvious confusion, Gabby said, “This is what we do on Mondays—answer letters, and give advice. Y’know, kind of like Dear Abbey, only just for women.”

  Still confused, Nancy blurted, “Oh, I thought you wrote things.”

  “We do,” Gabby said, making a face. “Oh, you mean like poetry? That’s on Thursday.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yep. On Monday, we answer letters,” Millie said. “Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, we come together and share our works in progress, from journals and poetry, to novels.”

  Sofia picked up the letter she had put aside earlier. “Do you want to give it a try?” She held it toward Nancy.

  Not really. “Okay,” Nancy said. Sure this wasn’t the place for her, she began planning her escape. She’d read the letter and politely refuse it, excuse herself, and then flee back to her blue cabin. Will you listen to yourself, Nance? She inwardly groaned, aware of her craziness. You’ve got to fight this insanity—not flee it. Still, she thought to mimic the women who had found a quiet place to read their letters, took a piece of paper, an envelope, and the letter, and went to one of the hidden benches.

  She didn’t open the letter, but just stared at the sunlight that filtered through the leaves and danced on its folded page, beckoning her to open it.

  Several minutes passed. She wondered how long the writing group met. Stepping to the hanging branches, she parted them and looked out. Millie still sat at the white table, vigorously writing her response. Sofia sat back in her chair, pen in mouth, reading one of the letters she had chosen. Gem sealed an envelope and placed it back in the middle of the table along with at least a dozen sealed envelopes.

  Nancy let the branches fall back into place, opened the letter, and sat down on the bench.

  Hello,

  I’ve never done this before. Not sure I want to. Truth? I don’t want to, but they’re making me. My mom and my therapist, I mean. I don’t need your help. I don’t need it, and I don’t want it. I just want to be left alone. No one cares anyhow, so why should you?