As far as teenagers went, Holly was one of the cleaner ones. She kept her laundry in a hamper, her shoes lined up neatly by the door, and her school books stacked on the bedside table for easy access. Her clothes and softball uniforms hung at evenly spaced intervals in the closet, and the rest of her personal items had been organized into decorative boxes. I pulled them down, one by one, to check inside. The first was full of yearbooks, starting from middle school. The second contained a collection of friendship bracelets and several rolls of colored string to make them out of. The third was overflowing with postcards from me.
She’d kept every one of them. The very first postcard I ever sent her was from Puerto Rico, three days after I’d skipped town. I was seventeen with no idea of how to travel on my own and had bought the cheapest flight out of Belle Dame. Once there, my first thought wasn’t about finding a place to stay. It was Holly. I wanted her to know that I was okay, and that my need to bail wasn’t her fault. She was so young. Everyone she knew had gone. The more I thought about it, the more miraculous her growth into a well-rounded, successful high schooler seemed.
The other postcards brought back memories as well. I’d been so many places that I’d forgotten some of my earlier exploits. South America was fun and full of cultural adventures. My hasty scribbles to Holly detailed quick anecdotes about the seals on the Galapagos Islands, La Catedral in Cusco, and snorkeling along a reef in Belize. I’d left out getting food poisoning in Cancun and having to sleep on the streets of San Juan because I’d run out of money. Those weren’t the fun stories, and Holly deserved vicarious adventure and positivity, not the strife that occasionally accompanied it. After South America, my parents’ money had been deposited into my bank account, and I bought a ticket to Italy. I stayed there, traveling from major city to major city, for months. The coffee was good and so was the food, but when my roommate in Rome spontaneously proposed to me, I decided it was good a time as any to leave my Italian adventure behind. From there, I went to Athens, then Beirut, then circled up to Budapest, Prague, and finally Paris. I stared at the postcard of the Eiffel Tower with a sour taste in my mouth then turned it face down and buried it at the bottom of Holly’s box.
I wasn’t sure what I’d expected to find in Holly’s room. I was half-hoping that she would turn up, unharmed, as sort of an instinctual reaction to my presence, but I was no closer to her than I had been while I was across the ocean. She was a ghost in her own room. There were no hints of where she had disappeared to, no information to glean from the evidence of her life. I ran my fingers along the spines of her books, reading the titles half-heartedly.
One paperback was turned so that the spine was against the wall, its pages facing me, the title obscured. I pulled it out of place and turned it over. It was the mass marketed version of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Judging by the dog-eared pages and broken binding, the novel was one of Holly’s favorites. I skimmed the back cover. It didn’t sound like a thrilling tale of romance and positivity. It seemed odd that Holly had taken to it.
The growl of a truck engine rumbled outside, and I glanced through the window to see Bill’s blue pickup trundling up the driveway. “Shit.”
Ryan slid across the hallway and ran into the door frame of Holly’s room. “Hey, uh, remember how I said Bill doesn’t usually get home until around six? Apparently, I was wrong.”
“You think?” I tucked the novel into the front of my shirt and pushed past Ryan.
“What are you doing?” he demanded. “He’s going to see you. We’re totally screwed. Unless you hide in my room. He wouldn’t expect that. How tall are you? I think you’d fit under the bed.”
I ignored him, booking it toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. Somewhere below, Bill’s boots thunked against the porch steps. The key rattled in the front door lock.
“Oh, man. I’m so dead.”
“Ryan,” I hissed, pulling him into the bathroom and shutting the door. “Shut up.”
“What are you doing?”
“Getting out of here.” I pushed open the tiny window next to the shower, got a leg up on the toilet tank, and shimmied my upper body through the small opening. Outside, I grabbed hold of the drain pipe that ran up the exterior of the house, swung my legs free of the window, and pivoted to wrap my thighs around a sturdy branch of the neighboring oak tree. I switched my grip from the pipe to the branch and officially detached from the Millers’ house. Ryan leaned out of the window, examining my cat-like crouch with openmouthed awe.
“Whoa. Can you teach me to do that?”
I pointed at him with a stern index finger. “If you ever try it, I’ll kill you. Understand?”
From inside, Bill’s voice echoed through the house. “Ryan? Are you home?”
“Go,” I whispered to Ryan as I dropped down to the next branch. He turned away from the window. “And Ryan?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
A grin lit up his face as he eased the window shut. Faintly, I heard him call out, “I’m pooping, Bill!”
I shook my head and hurried down as fast as I could. The last time I’d snuck out of the Millers’ house through this avenue, my hastiness had resulted in a fractured wrist. My new jeans snagged against the rough bark. Autumn would kill me if I tore any holes in them that weren’t stylistically intended. Thankfully, I landed on the ground with my outfit intact, if a bit sweaty and dirty. Holly’s book had made it too, the corner of the cover poking into my skin. I wedged it under my arm instead, checked the driveway to make sure Bill was securely inside, and sprinted to the shadowy seclusion of the neighborhood’s trees.
The Belle Dame Assisted Living Facility looked more like a four-star resort than a place for senior citizens to round off the rest of their lives. It had less of a hospital feel than I was expecting, though the familiar scent of all-purpose cleanser did linger in the lobby. Natural light illuminated the peach tile floors, eccentrically patterned armchairs, and a big screen TV. Residents ambled about, chatting with each other or passing the time with a hand of cards. At the front desk, a woman in a white polo shirt with the facility’s logo embroidered on the chest manned a computer and the phone.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her gaze focused on the screen in front of her.
“Yes, my name is Bridget Dubois,” I said, clutching Holly’s book in both hands. I’d come straight from the Millers’ before I could lose my nerve. “My aunt, Annette Louis, is a resident here. I was wondering if I might be able to visit her.”
The woman looked up, putting my name to my face. “You’re Holly’s sister.”
“Yeah.”
She stood up, came around to the front of the desk, and hugged me. “It’s so nice to finally meet you! Holly talks about you all the time.”
I stepped out of arm’s reach. “She does? How often is she here?”
“Once or twice a week,” the woman replied. “More if she has the time. It’s so good for Ani. Holly’s such a kind girl. I’m Janet, by the way. Holly tells me you’re a world traveler!”
I shook Janet’s hand. “Something like that.”
“How exciting.” She led the way across the lobby to the elevators. “You must have all sorts of wonderful stories. How often do you visit home?”
“Um, this would be the first time since I left,” I told her as we stepped into the claustrophobic space of the lift. “For Holly, you know.”
“Ah.” Janet pressed the button for the third floor and folded her hands. “Yes, we’ve all seen the news. I hope she comes home soon.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m so glad you found the time to stop by,” Janet said. “I’m sure Ani will be happy to see you.”
The doors chimed open, and we stepped out.
“How is my aunt?” I asked, following Janet down the hall. “I haven’t seen her in years, but from what I’ve heard, she’s not exactly social.”
Janet paused outside one of the rooms, her hand on the badge that would unlock the doo
r. “I assume you’re aware of what happened to your aunt following your mother’s death?”
“I know she had a breakdown after the funeral,” I replied. “I don’t recall the details though. To be honest, I was trying to shut everyone out back then, including her.”
A sad smile tilted Janet’s glossed lips. “I’m afraid your family tragedy affected Ani in an unfortunate way. Her behavior is often catatonic, which we assume is a result of a psychiatric disorder that manifested in reaction to the accident.”
“Like PTSD or something?”
“Without your aunt’s cooperation, we’re unable to pinpoint a diagnosis,” Janet explained. “Though we do treat her for the symptoms that she exhibits, we mostly strive to keep her comfortable.”
“Keep her comfortable,” I mumbled. “I know what that means.”
Janet gave my arm a squeeze. “I just want you to be prepared. The woman on the other side of this door may be different than you remember her, but she is still your aunt, and you owe her decency and respect.”
“I know.”
She flashed the badge against the scanner, which lit up green as Janet pushed the door open. I took a deep breath and followed her inside. The room was small but cozy. It was a double, with two beds but no kitchenette or other apartment-like amenities that might’ve been available to the more able residents. A fresh vase of pink roses decorated the bedside table.
“Ani?” Janet eased further into the room. “Look who’s here. It’s your niece, Bridget.”
My fingers tightened on the cover of Holly’s book as Aunt Ani came into view. She sat in an armchair facing the window, which looked out onto the facility’s pretty green lawn. She wore a white bathrobe and matching slippers. Her gray hair obscured her face. She made no indication at all that she had heard Janet call her name, like a three-dimensional still life painting, frozen in time.
Janet rotated the armchair, and a lump grew in my throat as I met Aunt Ani’s eyes. She stared blankly through me. Like me and Holly, my mother and her sister shared an intense likeness. Ani had my mother’s face, right down to the high cheekbones and arched nose.
“Say hi, Ani,” Janet requested, as though instructing a toddler.
Ani remained mute.
Janet drew up another chair beside my aunt. “Here, Bridget. Have a seat. I’ll leave the two of you to talk.” As she passed me on her way out, she patted my shoulder and murmured, “Talk to her. Say something. She hears you. I promise.”
The door clicked shut, announcing Janet’s exit with a worrisome finality. I stood awkwardly in the center of the room, unable to get my feet to move.
“So.” I picked at the loose skin around my fingernails. “Nice place. I miss the telescope though. You know, the one in the breakfast nook at your old house. We used to spy on the neighbors with it.”
Ani stared. I stepped to the left. Her eyes didn’t follow the movement. I inhaled, crossed the room, and sat in the empty chair. My aunt remained angled toward the front of the room.
“Okay, I’ll talk,” I started, mindlessly thumbing the pages of Holly’s novel to keep my hands busy. “You just listen. That’s okay. You were always a good listener.” I paused, unsure of what to say. “Ani, I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t cover even a fraction of what I owe you. I should’ve been there for you, but I was too mad at you for putting us into foster care instead of taking us in yourself.”
No sign of life. I wondered if a pulse beat in Ani’s veins or if the woman sitting in front of me was an elaborate art display created to remind me of every poor choice I’d made over the last decade.
“Holly’s gone, you know,” I said, my voice trembling. “I’m sure you miss her. I miss her, and I don’t even know her anymore.” I set the book on the little coffee table between my chair and Ani’s to rest my head in my hands. “What if we don’t find her? What is she doesn’t come home?”
I sat like that, my head bowed, for several minutes. I didn’t cry—that particular emotional function was inaccessible for me these days—but I needed to do something. I needed some kind of release, but nothing came. I just sat there. Waiting.
“Do you miss her?” I asked Ani, looking up. “Mom, I mean. I miss her like crazy. Dad, too. I try not to think about it. It gets worse if I think about it. What about you?”
Ani gazed straight ahead.
I let out a humorless laugh. “God, what was I thinking? This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here—”
I made to stand up, but right as I shifted my weight, Aunt Ani’s eyes flickered to the book on the table between us, so quickly that I thought I might have imagined it.
“Did you just—?”
Her blank stare returned. I picked up the novel and set it on her lap. Once more, her eyes shifted to look at it.
“It’s Holly’s,” I breathed, kneeling in front of her. “Do you know it?”
The door beeped, signaling someone else’s entrance. I stood hastily, taking the book with me, as a nurse’s aide rolled another patient in a wheelchair into the room. The patient was much older than Ani. Her hair was pure white and her pupils were clouded by cataracts.
“Here you go, Maisy.” The aide, a younger guy with impressive biceps beneath his scrubs, wheeled the elderly resident toward the unoccupied bed. “This is your new room. You have a beautiful view of the grounds—oh, hi!”
I waved sheepishly. “Hi.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “I didn’t know anyone was visiting at the moment.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said, tucking Holly’s novel behind my back. “I was on my way out anyway.”
The elderly woman caught my hand as I passed. “Bridget?”
I looked down at her, confused. “Yes?”
“It is you!” she exclaimed, squeezing my hand between her leathery fingers. “You may not remember me. I’m Maisy Marks. You dated my grandson several years ago. He was crazy about you!”
“Emmett’s grandmother?”
“Yes! It’s so good to see you.”
“I remember you.” I stooped to give her a hug. “Your brownies were delicious.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” she replied. “What are you doing here?”
“Visiting my aunt.”
Maisy looked over at Ani’s stagnant figure. “Oh, dear. Of course. Well, I’ll keep an eye on her for you. How’s that sound?”
“That sounds lovely,” I told her. “Thank you. I have to get going, but I’m glad I ran into you.”
Maisy waved me out. “If you see that grandson of mine, tell him to stop by! I miss his handsome face.”
“Will do.”
Chapter Eight - Insomnia
Dusk fell in dusty pink and purples hues. I wasn’t ready to return to the motel yet. The musty room was lonely, and though I had plenty of practice with being on my own, it felt different here. There was no scheduled adrenaline rush to beat the anxiety out of me.
At the neighborhood recreation center, a set of stadium lights illuminated a softball game below. A modest crowd mingled in the bleachers, urging on their respective teams. On the field, a player in a dark blue jersey stepped up to the plate and cracked a pop fly. It landed in the pitcher’s glove, and the batter headed back to the dugout to consolation shoulder pats from his teammates.
I hooked my fingers through the chain link fence behind the plate to watch a few innings. The team in dark blue was Belle Dame’s finest. Their jerseys were printed with the white and silver logo of Belle Dame’s Police Department. The team in the opposite dugout, dressed in red, played for a construction company in the next town over. It was a co-ed recreational league, meant to give the players some time away from the real world, but in the BD dugout, I heard the faint static call of a police radio. Even off duty, the officers listened for trouble.
The score fluctuated as the teams played another two innings, but soon the police officers fell behind. If they wanted to stay in the game, they needed to score a run soon. Another batter stepped up, and the pi
tcher lobbed a ball. It dropped low, beneath the box, but the batter swung anyway, arcing his bat up like a golf club. The ball soared away but didn’t quite make it over the fence, and an opponent snagged it in the outfield.
“Out!” the referee called.
From the dugout, the Belle Dame players shouted strategy and motivational words to each other. “All right, two outs, people! Let’s get someone on base. Hart, you’re up!”
A familiar woman emerged from the dugout, rolling her shoulders out as she walked to the plate. A few wisps of red hair escaped from her cap. It was the cop from last night, the one who had made sure I’d gotten back to my motel room without trouble.
“Hey, Red!” I called, beckoning her over. “The shortstop has no right. Get a line drive in between him and third base, and you’re golden.”
“Thanks.”
She tipped her cap at me then jogged to the plate to take a couple of experimental swings with the bat. The pitcher wound up. The officer tracked the ball with a keen eye but let it go past her, where it landed in the catcher’s mitt.
“Ball!” the referee declared.
The officer adjusted her grip on the bat, tapped the four corners of the plate with the end of it, and swung it over her shoulder again. The dance repeated itself.
“Ball two!”
And again.
“Ball three!”
“Take a swing, Hart!” someone yelled from the dugout.
The officer, Hart, stepped up to the plate once more, her eyes trained on the pitcher. As the next ball glided toward her, the corner of her lips twitched upward in a smile. She swung.
Little Girl Lost: Book 0 Page 7