We Now Return to Regular Life

by Martin Wilson

  Sam’s up first. But before they do anything, Mom makes him take his piercings out.

  “I can put them back in after, right?” he asks, sounding almost panicked. It’s the first time I’ve seen him show this much emotion, and my heart sputters from the surprise of it.

  “We’ll see,” she says. But I know she doesn’t want to see those piercings ever again.

  Slowly, carefully, Sam takes the piercings out and places them on the table. I can tell Mom wants to brush them into the garbage, but she rummages in her purse and empties an Advil bottle. “We’ll keep them in here for now, okay?” He nods, touching his lip, looking pained.

  I wish Sam would look over at me, so that I could smile and reassure him. But he doesn’t meet my eye.

  Next they start to work on Sam’s hair, trimming it down to the normal length for a preppy young boy. Instantly, Sam seems transformed, closer to how he looked when he was a kid, the way I always remembered him.

  “That looks cute,” I say.

  He looks at himself in the mirror in a mournful way, touching his head, but then he smiles. It’s a fake smile. A smile to signal he gets it. He has to look different.

  Eventually two young women—Sheila and LaVonne—whisk me away to the bedroom. Sheila’s in charge of the clothes and she holds up countless pants and blouse combos, then skirts, and thankfully we settle on something that doesn’t make me gag—a charcoal-gray skirt, white blouse, with a maroon sweater on top. Preppier than I’d like, but dressing up once won’t kill me. LaVonne gets to work on my makeup and hair. “You’re a natural beauty, so we won’t glob it on you, okay, hon?” she says. I nod, feeling myself blush.

  While LaVonne does her thing, I close my eyes. It feels nice to be pampered, though when she says, “Take a look,” I open my eyes and look in the mirror and I don’t look all that different. My cheeks are a little flusher, and the eyeliner highlights the brown of my eyes a bit more than usual, and my lips are pinker and fuller, but in a natural way. My light brown hair has been trimmed to make it a little more even—less all over the place, the way it can get. But I can recognize myself. And I start to think, with a little embarrassment, I should spend more time on my appearance from now on.

  “What do you think?” LaVonne says.

  “Not bad,” I say, smiling at myself, then at her. Then I add, “Thank you,” and she pats me on the shoulder. I wish Chita and the girls could see me now. They would probably tease the hell out of me. And Donal would—no. I can’t think about him right now. I have enough confusion in my life; I don’t need more.

  I go out to the main room and everyone is dressed up. Mom’s wearing a blue skirt suit and Earl’s in a coat and tie. Sam’s in khakis and a blue button-down, looking nothing like he did a few hours ago. We look like the perfect family, headed to church.

  A chubby guy with a clipboard barges in. “You guys ready?”

  I look at Mom, and she looks at Sam, and Sam just stares down at his feet. I guess we’re all sort of shocked that this moment is here. It’s Earl who says, “Yes, sir.” We follow the clipboard guy and some other people up the elevator to the penthouse. The elevators open onto a smaller room, like a foyer. The clipboard guy leads us down the hall and into a huge room crowded with equipment and people. Glaring lights are set up around a setoff area with a chair and a big couch.

  “Ah, here’s Ms. Winters,” I hear someone say.

  A woman strides down the hall. She’s shorter than I thought. She’s wearing a plum-colored dress suit, with a blue silk scarf tied around neck. Her fake blond hair is poofed impeccably. She’s got tons of makeup on, you can tell. Up close she looks stitched together, like she’s made of cracked porcelain and if you pushed your thumb into her skin she might break into pieces. She smiles at all of us, clearly a smile she’s used to busting out on cue.

  “Thank you all for coming up here. I’m so honored to meet you.” Then she zooms in on Sam. “Young man, you’re an inspiration to us all.” She takes his hand and pats it and then clasps both hands on top of his. “You’re very brave to share your story.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he says, looking at her old, small hands.

  She laughs. “So brave, and so polite!” And then, she lets go of his hands, turns and calls out “Are we ready?” to no one in particular. We all take our places on the couch, waiting for cameras to roll. Mom, then Sam, me, then Earl. The lights shine at us like hot little suns. A makeup artist comes over and powder puffs our faces. My heart starts pounding, and I have to remind myself that we’re doing a good thing, that this is for college, that we’re giving hope to other families. Calm down. As if he can sense my nervousness, Earl pats me on the knee. I give him my left hand and he squeezes it.

  Helen Winters takes her seat and shuffles her notes. Someone comes and touches up her hair, and I can see some tech guys adjusting the lights, a few other people hovering off to the side, including a guy with an earpiece. She’s unfazed, sitting there, and after a bit she looks over at us, giving us a reassuring smile.

  Sam reaches and grabs my hand, and Mom takes his free hand, and now we’re all linked, like a family chain. And though I’m still freaked about the idea of being on TV, I’m a little calmer knowing we’re all in this together.

  The guy with the earpiece counts down from five, then says, “Rolling!”

  Ms. Winters directs her first questions at Sam. The questions are obvious: How do you feel being back home? What was it like seeing your family again after all these years? Tell me about the moment when you first saw your mom’s face.

  And Sam offers up his answers. It feels great. It was amazing, incredible.

  Then there’s a pause. Ms. Winters, who had been smiling gently, furrows her brows, moving from pleasant to serious. “Sam, how did you survive those three years? What got you through each day?”

  He doesn’t say anything right away, but when he does his voice is nervous, spoken in that oddly clipped way that I noticed earlier. “I just never gave up hope.”

  Ms. Winters looks like she’s about to ask a follow-up, but Sam keeps going. “I mean, at times I thought about giving up hope. But I kept thinking. Of Mom, and my sister. And my stepdad. My dad. My aunt and my friends. I knew they were searching for me. I knew they weren’t giving up. So I knew I couldn’t give up, either.”

  “And how has it been since you’ve been back?”

  “I mean . . . It’s only been a few days. But I’m so happy. I’m so . . . happy.” I turn and look at him, and he’s smiling. But something about it is weird. It’s not at all how he used to smile. It hits me that he’s only telling her what she wants to hear. What we all want to hear. That’s he’s just fine and dandy.

  Sam is lying to all of us.

  My stomach tightens. Why would he lie? To protect us from something? A prickle of coldness moves through my body.

  “Do you feel like a different person than when you last saw your family?”

  He closes his mouth and nods right away. “I feel like I’ve grown up a lot over the years.”

  She nods, then frowns again. “Do you think, after all this, that you’ll ever have a normal life?”

  His hand tightens in mine. “Sure. I hope so. That’s what I want. A normal life.”

  That would be a good place to end, but Ms. Winters looks at me, and my heart starts to thud. She asks me predictable, dull questions, and I try not to stammer. My voice sounds scared and breathless—the way it does when I have to give class presentations. I wish I were back at school, with my classmates and friends, not here, under the lights, soon to be watched by millions of people. Ms. Winters gets that serious face she gave to Sam, and I brace myself.

  “Beth, it must have been hard, these past three years.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, glancing over briefly at Mom, who’s giving me a reassuring smile.

  “Did you ever give up hope?”
r />   My mouth goes dry and tight. “Uh, well.”

  I can feel the force of Mom’s eyes on me, like she’s trying to tell me something telepathically. And Sam—his hand is still tight in mine.

  “No, ma’am,” I say. “I never gave up hope.”

  “You always thought Sam was alive?”

  My gut twists. I can’t tell the truth—not on national TV. I nod. “Yes, ma’am. I knew he was alive. I knew he’d come home.” I turn and smile at Sam, and he rests his head on my shoulder for a second. A perfect, tear-jerking moment.

  Right then a director guy yells, “Okay, let’s stop here!” A few of the lights dim and my relief is instant. Ms. Winters comes over to us on the couch. “That was very brave,” she says. “You’re a brave young man.”

  Sam nods, bashful.

  “And you too, young lady,” she says, but it seems like she’s giving me this skeptical look, like she can see right through the lies I just told. Still, she smiles, like she understands why I did it.

  “I’m going to talk to your parents alone now, okay?” she asks, as if we have any say about it.

  Mom and Earl hug Sam and me, and then one of the producers motions for us to head toward the door, where Mr. Walker is standing. “Can I stay and watch?” I ask. Mr. Walker looks over at Mom and Earl, and the room pauses. “Please?”

  Earl mutters something to Mom that I can’t hear.

  Mr. Walker, in his booming voice, says, “I can watch Sam.”

  Mom nods. “You can stay.”

  “Okay then,” Mr. Walker says. “I’ll take Sam back to the suite for a snack. Would you like that?”

  Sam walks over to him, silent.

  I’m not sure how much time has passed today. It seems like minutes, could be hours—who knows? After some more touch-ups, they start filming again. I stand in the back of the room, out of the reach of the lights.

  Ms. Winters gets right down to it. “Sam was with this man, Russell Lee Hunnicutt, for over three years. During those years, do you have any idea what he went through?”

  Mom: “Well, yes, we have some idea, from the police and sheriffs and social workers and county prosecutors. But Sam hasn’t talked about it. We’re just giving him time. When he wants to talk about it, he will.”

  Ms. Winters nods, but her face is still the picture of seriousness. “I’m just going to go ahead and ask it. Was Sam sexually abused?”

  The room feels suddenly stuffy, stuffier than when I was under the lights. Sweat pools on my forehead, and I wipe it with my sleeve.

  There’s silence, before Mom says, “Yes.”

  The word lands like a punch and I feel myself teeter where I’m standing. I lean against an armchair that has been pulled aside from the main set. My stomach churns like I might get sick.

  Ms. Winters: “Was Sam tortured?”

  Earl: “We don’t know that yet.”

  Mom: “We don’t know specifics.” She sniffles, starting to cry.

  Earl: “There’s more than one kind of torture. There’s physical torture, then there’s mental torture.”

  “Was he brainwashed?” she asks. “By some accounts, Sam had opportunities to escape. He had some freedoms.” She cocks her head.

  He did?

  Mom wipes her eyes and takes a breath. She doesn’t look sad now—she seems kind of pissed, as if Ms. Winters is accusing Sam of something.

  It’s too hot in here. I think I might puke. I can’t take it anymore.

  I leave the room. I move down the hallway, and push the button for the elevator a few times before it comes. I take it all the way down to the lobby and then race through and out the door. Once I take in the cool air, I feel like I can breathe a little easier.

  I head toward the park, past an apartment building with a doorman out front, his hands cupped behind his back. When I get to Fifth Avenue, Central Park is across the street. When the signal changes, I cross, searching for an entrance, careful to remember the way I came so I don’t get lost. When I find a way in I walk along a path lined with iron benches. On a patch of lawn in the shade of some trees, a few squirrels scurry about, seemingly unconcerned about the people just feet from them. There are a ton of people out—bikers, joggers, a few women pushing strollers. People who are leading carefree, wonderful, glamorous New York lives. I walk along the path, trying to pretend that I’m one of them, a New Yorker just out for a stroll.

  But soon I slow down. Because I know I’m not like these other people. And what I heard earlier in the hotel—I can’t forget it. Those words land on me again like a slap. “Yes,” Mom had said. Sam had been abused. And I can see her stricken face again, and my heart lurches. I can’t pretend that this horrible thing hasn’t happened to Sam. To my family.

  As I walk, I feel an ache in my chest, pounding like it wants to get out. I have to keep moving. If I move, maybe I can stop these feelings from erupting.

  There’s a huge gray rock ahead, and I walk along it and come to another path, which leads down to a pond. Up through the trees I can see slivers of the skyscrapers that surround the park, and then down a slope, I can see the greenish waters of a pond, people sitting on benches, some standing on the sidewalk along the pond’s shore.

  Then I see Sam, with a few other boys. Sam. They’re gazing out at the pond and throwing rocks, laughing. I want to call out, but Sam turns his face and I see it’s not him at all, but some other kid, a kid with dark hair, close to Sam’s age. This kid is laughing now. He shoves one of his buddies, and his friend shoves him back, jokingly, and they start running, chasing each other up the path. Normal teenage boys.

  Torture. Many kinds of torture. Abuse. Sexual abuse.

  Three years. Three years.

  I turn around and practically jog back up the little hill. I’m almost to the exit when I stop. I lean my back against the stone wall surrounding the park and hold myself there, close my eyes. But all I can see is Sam, and when I see Sam all I can think about are the things that happened to him.

  No, I think, my chest tightening. My muscles are rubbery. I sit down, my back against the wall, pulling my knees toward me. I take a deep breath, and that’s a mistake because it just makes me split open and I just let go, sobbing hysterically, maybe almost screaming, my head between my legs, tears falling to the ground. I must look psychotic, but it feels so good to let it all out. Sam, Sam. My little brother. I’m so sorry. I was supposed to watch you. I’m glad he can’t see me like this, falling to pieces. We need to be strong for Sam, Mom had said. But in my head I’m screaming, I don’t know how to be strong!

  Eventually, through my sobs, I hear someone speaking to me.

  “You okay? Hey there, it’s okay.”

  I squint and look up through my drowning eyes, and I see a woman. She’s got a headband and a jacket on, and she’s looking at me with concern. I wipe my eyes, feeling jolted from my breakdown or whatever you would call it. I stand up, unsteady, and see a man behind her, wearing a baseball cap and running clothes. He’s tall. Two joggers. A couple, I guess. In their twenties maybe.

  “You okay?” the woman repeats.

  My crying dies down, and I catch my breath, nodding. The tightness in my chest is gone. “Uh-huh.” I’ve forgotten how stuffed your nose gets when you cry, and more than anything right now I want a tissue.

  “You sure? Can we help you?”

  God, I think, I wish you could help me. “I’m lost,” I say.

  “You’re not from here?”

  I shake my head and say, “No, I’m visiting. With my family. With my brother.”

  “Okay, sweetie. Where you staying? Near the park? We can help you find your way back.”

  I tell her the name of the hotel. “Okay, well, let’s get you back there.” She takes my hand and we start walking, the boyfriend or husband up ahead a little, fiddling with his phone, maybe searching for the address. He ke
eps glancing back, like he’s afraid he might lose us.

  “When I first moved here from Michigan, I got lost all the time,” the girl tells me. “Where are you from?”

  I’m still sniffling, wiping my eyes. “Tuscaloosa, Alabama,” I say.

  “Roll tide,” the guy says, smiling back at me. “I went to LSU,” he says. “I’m from New Orleans.”

  “What brought you to New York?” the girl asks. “To see the sights, catch some shows?”

  Because my brother was abducted and then he came back to us and now everyone wants to know our incredible and awful story. We’re about to be semi-famous, at least for a little bit, for something really horrible.

  But I don’t tell her any of this. “Yeah, to see the sights,” I say instead.

  Finally, we reach the block of the hotel. “I see it up ahead.”

  “We can walk you,” the girl says.

  “That’s okay,” I say.

  “If you’re sure,” she says.

  “Thank you,” I say. I think the tears are going to start rolling again, so I give her a quick wave and turn to walk to the hotel. A few seconds later, I look back once, quickly, and they’re still both there, watching me. That’s when the tears start again, an onslaught. I stop on the sidewalk. I’m not ready to go back inside. Then I see Mom come out, still in her fancy interview suit. She glances down the street, looking for me, maybe pissed or scared.

  And then she spots me, and I know I have to walk toward her. I have to keep moving, no matter what’s going to happen to me. No matter what’s going to happen to us.

  CHAPTER 4

  Connected

  Josh

  It’s Thursday night of homecoming week. I’m shoving red tissue paper into the chicken wire that covers the base of the parade float that my classmates have been building. We’ve set up shop in a gymnasium that the Alberta First Methodist Church doesn’t use anymore. It has this big freight entrance where we can drag the entire float out when we’re finished. The big doors are open now, and cool air blows in from outside. Some people are working, some are just standing around socializing, and a few are walking around giving orders. To be honest, I’m sort of in a haze. If I focus on just shoving the tissue paper into the wire, then at least it will look like I’m busy and maybe no one will bother me.