by Wendy Walker
“Okay.”
Kurt looked around now, at the inn and then the diner. He lowered his voice even though the windows were closed.
“There was talk that the chief was the one who drove Daisy to Boston. He denied it, but some of her friends told Booth, so Booth got in his face about it. Took a swing at him. The chief said it was a lie, but he couldn’t prove where he was that day. That’s all I heard. It could all be teenage bullshit. Gossip…”
Nic pictured Booth from earlier that day, giving her the bear spray, showing her where to run. And then his abrupt departure after the question about Daisy Hollander.
She pictured Watkins the day before, stretching his arms out like there wasn’t enough space in the world to accommodate him. His ego eclipsing the universe. It made sense that he would play God helping kids. Changing their lives. Even helping one of them start a new life with a sister who’d made it out. But then …
“Wait a minute,” Nic said, remembering something. “Veronica told us that she moved to New York. That she never went to Boston.”
“I know.”
“So why did people say Chief Watkins drove Daisy to Boston?”
“Maybe that’s what she told people so Booth would have no way to track her down.”
“And Watkins?”
Kurt shrugged. “I don’t know. But people don’t change, right? So if he was willing to help Daisy Hollander disappear…”
Nic interrupted him. “Then why not my mother.”
“Exactly.”
A moment passed, Nic thinking. Kurt watching her.
Then, “If she was out of gas, panicking, then the chief came by, felt sorry for her—promised to drop her somewhere and not tell anyone. It happened on the same day your sister died, right? The same day your mother killed her.”
The last few words hung in the air. Your mother killed her …
And Nic felt the reply leave her mouth without a single thought.
“It was an accident,” she said.
Kurt tried to go back. “Of course—you’re right. I only meant…”
“I know what you meant. And why you said it.”
She didn’t give him time to say more.
“I need to find Chief Watkins,” she said. “You must know where he lives. You seem to know every inch of this place.”
“Yeah, but he won’t be home.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it’s Thursday. And on Thursday nights he goes to the casino.”
Kurt went on explaining, about free drinks with this and double the payoff with that—all on Thursday nights at Laguna, and every time he said it—Thursday night—Nic felt a tightening in her throat.
“Thursday night was the night of the storm. The night my mother disappeared.”
Had Watkins been heading there, in spite of the storm? Maybe because of it? Did he lie then, and was he lying now? Had he given her mother a ride? Kurt was writing this new story one line at a time, letting Nic piece them together as though the story was of her own making. He said he’d mentioned Daisy Hollander before, but Nic didn’t remember. And she would have, the same way she remembered pulling him to the back of the bar.
Nic reached for the door. Kurt grabbed her. Stopped her.
“Hey,” he said. “Wait a second.”
Nic pulled her arm from his grasp.
“It was an accident,” she said again.
“I know. I’m sorry. It just came out wrong.”
That was bullshit.
“She wasn’t like that,” Nic said. “She wasn’t careless, not about anything.” Memories flooded in, then spilled out. The sweet memories that had been too painful to remember. “Our mother would wake us up for school by sitting on the edge of our beds and wiggling our toes … she used to sing to us—when we were babies … I saw her do it with Annie … rocking her and gazing into her eyes … our mother cried at every stupid concert and school play no matter how horrible we were…”
“Okay.”
“No—it’s not okay. A mother like that doesn’t kill her child.”
“I know.”
“It was a fucking accident!” Nic said it one more time, though the words were more for herself now than for this stranger from the bar across the street.
She caught her breath.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Then she was gone.
17
Day fourteen
Hannah and Suzannah have very different kinds of mothers. Hannah’s mother is perfect. She’s sweet, kind, obedient. She has long, real blond hair, wears no makeup. She doesn’t need to because she’s so beautiful. And her body is thin. Hannah says she feels strong when she hugs her.
Alice never deviates in our game.
Suzannah’s mother, who is my invention, is strong-willed and defiant. She hates Suzannah’s father and has no problem telling him. It upsets Suzannah because her father has a temper and she is worried about what he might do to her mother.
“Sometimes I think he might hurt her,” Suzannah says.
Hannah grows quiet. Alice grows pensive.
The familiar wave of guilt races through me but I do not succumb.
“She should just be happy being my mommy!” Suzannah says. Then she starts to cry.
Hannah wakes up now. She feeds on the emotional turmoil of her friend, and gives back empathy that is exaggerated but also self-serving.
“You are so beautiful, Suzannah! Any mommy would be lucky to have you as her little girl, and she should not do anything that would take her away from you! If she really, really loved you she wouldn’t do things like that! Things that might get her killed!”
I hold my breath, waiting for more information to seep out through the cracks of this emotional outburst. But all I get are tears.
Suzannah nods her head. “Thank you, Hannah. You are the best friend I could ever have!”
Alice pulls Hannah to her chest and hugs the doll, lost now in our characters and the game we play. Suzannah and I sit quietly until all is calm again.
We have been playing with the dolls all morning. We have not done any schoolwork and Alice grows antsy.
“I’m supposed to have it done before noon,” she says. “Did you know that the morning is the most productive time of the day? It’s when our brains are smartest.”
We used to talk about these things in faculty meetings and I wonder how she knows them. Someone took the time to become educated about children and how they develop. I can’t imagine it was Mick. When he comes now, with the food or to collect Alice, he seems agitated and distracted, like he has too much on his mind. Or maybe his mind is overwhelmed by what he’s done and the consequences that are looming. I try to put him at ease with my docile behavior, but then this seems to repulse him. I have been thinking about this dilemma. What does he want from me? What will make his mind settle? He cannot go on forever in the state he’s in.
“Okay,” I answer. “Why don’t we finish this game and then have some lunch. The morning has already passed and the other thing that helps us be smart is food.”
I need to finish what I started today. This is further than we have ever come in talking about the mommies of these little plastic dolls and I need to know more about Hannah’s. I need to know how old she was, what she looked like, where she slept, and why she wanted to leave. I need to know the things she said and did and how she wore her hair. I need to know how she was like my daughter. Like Nicole. I need to know so I can be more like her myself. Draw him to me and not my daughter.
Their paths can never cross again. Not ever. But what if she comes back here to look for me? What if the search is not really over?
I run through the facts of my disappearance. The car with no gas, my phone still there in the charger. No dead body found, so I must be somewhere. Won’t they start to wonder how I am surviving in my new life as a grown-up runaway? If he’s used the credit card again, he would have risked being detected. That would be foolish, and he does not seem foolish
to me.
I step outside the details and think that maybe they just know. They will know that I would never leave them. Not after I took Annie from them.
Or maybe I’m thinking about this all wrong. Maybe they will see it as a gift—finally freeing them of my presence. The miserable, sad reminder of our family tragedy.
Suddenly, Alice speaks and I force myself to leave these thoughts. These horrible thoughts that have caused beads of sweat to run down my face.
“Let’s keep playing,” she says.
I continue the game. Suzannah asks Hannah more about her mommy.
Hannah’s mommy is a fantasy. She is the mommy Alice wants, the one she might even believe she once had.
Her mommy died because she got lost in the woods. And yet, somehow I know she didn’t.
“Does your mommy ever take you shopping?” Suzannah asks Hannah. “Have you ever been to the mall? It’s so awesome! They have every kind of store you can imagine. Like the one in that TV show we watched—remember? And they have a whole floor that’s just food. All kinds of food! Have you ever had Chinese food? We used to go all the time, but now my father won’t let us. I think that’s why my mommy is so mad at him.”
What does Alice know of the real world? Did her first mommy tell her things about it? How many times has she left the house, wearing her mask?
I want answers to these questions so I can understand my captor. But I also want my little blond prison guard to wonder about the life that Mick keeps from her. I want her to taste it. And to feel angry about it. Angry at him.
I am the one who can give that to her. I am the one who can save her.
Alice grows cold. She slowly drops Hannah to the floor, thinking carefully about what to say to me.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” she says.
I answer as Suzannah. “What?”
But she reaches through the bars and grabs the doll from my hands. She throws her against the wall behind us, then picks her up to make sure she hasn’t been damaged.
I make a note—Mick will not be pleased if she has broken a toy.
“I can’t do any of those things because of my allergies and you’re using the dolls to make me feel bad!”
I don’t let her anger touch me, though it is so hot it radiates from her skin.
“That was not my intention. I was just trying to make Suzannah be a normal girl,” I say. And you are not normal, Alice. Why do you think that is?
She folds her arms and scowls like a two-year-old. Eyes pinched together. Lips pursed tight. It makes me want to laugh the way I would when my own children would do this. The memory comes and goes, but leaves behind a residue. It’s sticky and sweet and I don’t know what to make of it. I don’t know if I like or dislike it. Still, it lingers.
Nicole was my biggest scowler. There was a drama to it that was so extreme it felt like a parody, like a skit on a television show that was supposed to provoke laughter.
Now comes a memory of John. Being with John. Two young parents with an unruly toddler. Just one precious child in our perfect little family. His love for her bounded past his love for me, but I didn’t mind. It made me love him even more, watching him love our child. When she scowled at us over something that displeased her, having to go to bed or not getting more cookies, his laughter was so big he would have to flee the room to stifle it, leaving me to swallow mine while I talked her through it.
These memories come every day now. Memories of my family. My love for them. I don’t know if they come because I am finally being punished for what I have done. Or if they come because I spend my days with Alice, in the mind of a nine-year-old girl.
They leave me with the residue which I cannot identify.
In this moment, I decide that I like it. Its sticky sweetness covers the thoughts of the log in the fireplace and Nicole’s angry words and Evan’s eyes, turning away.
Alice takes the dolls and leaves.
“I’m not bringing you any lunch!” she says.
“Alice,” I call after her. “Please don’t be angry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
My voice is calm. I don’t care about lunch. I may be a prisoner, but I am not an animal. I am not one of John’s dogs waiting in the kitchen for my bowl to be filled. I will not beg. I would sooner starve.
This defiance is another thing that is unfamiliar, but has become a part of me.
Bring it, I think now. Bring on the punishment. The angry little prison guard. The starvation.
I go to my bed and lie down. I begin to think about my next move, the next game I will play and how I will be less obvious. I think that maybe I will watch her shows with her so I can laugh and comment in places that will provoke the same thoughts—recognition that she, too, is a prisoner. And that I am her only way out.
But then she returns. I hear the latch turn on the small panel of the metal grate and the tray scrape the floor as she slides it to my side.
“Here!” she says. “Don’t say I didn’t do you any favors.”
She learned that expression from a TV show and I continue the thoughts of my new plan even as I get up from the bed and walk back to the doorway.
I sit before her.
She has made me a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of milk.
“Thank you, Alice,” I say. “You are very kind.”
“Eat it,” she commands. And I do as I am told. I do not mind this small humiliation.
She watches me eat, the peanut butter sticking to my mouth so I have to drink the milk. She knows I hate milk. I think about going to the bathroom to get a cup of water. To prove a point. I still have some control. Some power. But then I decide to suffer and suffer big. I gag when I drink the milk and I watch her face change. She cannot stop the need to empathize.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I forgot that you don’t like milk.” This is a lie, but it doesn’t matter.
She leaves and returns quickly with a glass of lemonade.
The milk was an intentional act of cruelty. It provoked the intended response—pain and discomfort. That gave her the opportunity to fix it. To make it better. To bring me comfort. And that makes her feel powerful and important. She has few chances to do that, living alone in this house.
She made me suffer so she could get her empathy fix.
Thank you, Alice. Thank you for this piece of information.
She looks at me and smiles. I see tears well in her crystal-blue eyes. Tears of joy that she saved this mongrel with a glass of lemonade.
“Do you want to start your schoolwork now?” I ask her.
She nods. “We’d better or he’ll be angry.”
“Don’t worry—we’ll get it done before he gets home.”
The man comes home at different times, so this promise is a lie. Sometimes he comes home during the day. Sometimes he stays home late in the mornings. And sometimes he’s gone all night. On those nights, he locks Alice inside the room with me with her iPad and food. She seems to like those nights, the nights when we are prisoners together. This is good and this is bad. I need her to like me, but I need her to crave our escape. And I need Mick to want to be with us.
I smile at her. “Just this one time it will be done after lunch. It can be our little secret.”
Alice moves closer to the metal bars.
“There are no secrets here,” she says quietly. In a whisper.
“What do you mean?” I ask. A chill runs through me even before she answers.
She glances up to the ceiling, then back at me. I follow with my own eyes and try to find what has just drawn her attention.
I see painted molding, simple, running along the crease between the ceiling and the wall. It runs all the way down the hallway that leads to the kitchen and living room and the little room where Alice keeps her toys. It is coated with a thin line of dust, just like the floor, though not as thick.
I let my eyes follow the molding until it reaches the corner where the hallway ends. It is less than ten feet away. It is there t
hat I see a small monitor.
“What do you mean, Alice? Why were you looking at the ceiling?”
“They’re everywhere,” she answers.
“What are everywhere?” I ask.
She glances again. “The eyes.”
A second chill comes and goes.
“What eyes?” I look again at the monitor. It looks like a motion detector for an alarm system. But I know there is no alarm that he sets. I study his movements when he comes and goes. The panel would be by the front door. He never stops there. I never hear the sound they make when they are about to be armed. We’ve had an alarm in our house for years.
But then I see something in the small box. A red light.
Alice lets my brain process what I’ve just seen. She can tell by my face that I have seen it.
“Dolly’s eyes,” she says.
“Dolly?” I ask. Then I remember. “The doll in your toy room? The old doll that sits on the shelf?”
She nods slowly. “Dolly has eyes all over the house. She sees everything and hears everything and she tells him everything.”
I hold my breath to keep from crying out.
The red light. I think where else I have seen one. I don’t turn away, but I count the places in my head.
The playroom next to Dolly.
The living room in the corner that faces the front door.
The dark room.
This hallway.
The corner of my bedroom.
I ease the air out of my lungs, then take more in to slow my pulse.
“I see.” This is all I can manage to say.
So he is watching us, always. I think about the day I went for a walk. It was not a coincidence that he came home in time to stop me. He knew I had left because he saw me leave.
The cameras are everywhere.
And the cameras are feeding to him live. There is internet here, somewhere.
“Go get your schoolwork, then. We don’t want to break any more rules.”
Alice leaves and I turn my face from the camera in my room. I feel tears wanting to come but they will cause my body to tremble and he will know. He will see.
He watches me sleep. He watches me sleep with Alice. That is why he leaves us alone in this house together.