I tried my best to focus on my cards and not Aunt Suzy’s grimace or my Uncle Pete’s constant repetition of the word bastard.
Bastard.
BASTARD.
Bas.
Tard.
Flash-forward to one rainy night when I couldn’t seem to get warm. Mom came up to my room with a bowl of chicken soup. I knew she’d meant well, but the sight of the soup as I stirred the broth—the chalky-white bits, the thick layer of chicken fat that bubbled at the surface, and the nubby pieces of carrot—made me heave, right there on the rug, thinking about how sick I’d gotten in captivity.
As I helped her clean up the mess, the smell of the boiled chicken parts churned my stomach. I pictured a pot of bones and gristle, and my mouth refilled. I spat out in a spare bowl Mom had brought, convinced the liquid was the residual chicken soup from my time in captivity—that it’d somehow lingered in my body from weeks before.
“Go lie down,” Mom said.
I did as told and curled up on my bed.
Mom brought me a warm compress and pulled up a chair. “Is there anything else I can get for you? Hot tea? A heating blanket?”
“Where’s Dad?” I asked.
“Working.”
“He’s always working.” I snuggled an extra pillow.
“I know.” She sighed. “But after you went missing, it was his work that kept him going.”
“And before I went missing?”
“Before, he was always trying to prove himself at work.”
“At the bank where he’d already worked for a number of years?”
Mom looked at me like the ghost that I was. “Your father hasn’t worked at the bank in more than three years. He’s in advertising now.”
Advertising?
What’d happened to processing mortgages and car loans?
“He’s at Langston Young…,” she said, her face crumpled like paper. “Initially, it was the career change that prompted him to put in such long hours. He didn’t want his bosses thinking they’d made a mistake by hiring someone with a banking background, rather than in something like marketing or sales.”
How did I not know? Had no one ever told me? Or had I been so self-involved, BIWM, that I’d never actually listened?
Mom stood up before I could ask more. She tucked me in and clicked off the light.
When I woke up (either days or weeks later), it was prom night. Shelley asked if I wanted to go, suggesting we get a big group together and all wear fire-engine red. I told her no, opting for the window seat in my room. I sat on my perch, looking out at the street, fantasizing that Mason would pull up to the curb and surprise me with a book of poetry and plans for a picnic on the beach.
“Jane?” Mom knocked on my open bedroom door.
I turned from the window.
“Shelley just called. She and some friends rented a limo. It’s going to be at Big City Hotel, right on the water. They’d be happy to swing by here and pick you up.”
“I don’t have a ticket.”
“Shelley said she has an extra. She’s on the prom’s planning committee.”
Since when? “No, thanks.” I swiveled back to the window.
My neighbor and his date were both decked out in tuxes, posing for pictures on the lawn.
“Are you sure?” Mom persisted. “It’s your senior prom. You don’t want to miss out.”
“I’m fine here.”
“Okay, well, if you change your mind…”
After she’d gone downstairs, I got up and opened the closet door. My Tory Burch dress from the junior prom was hanging toward the back. I took it out, remembering the day Mom brought it home: a floor-length sheath dress in a deep berry color, made with a silky chiffon fabric.
I closed the door to my room and put it on over my tank and sweatpants. Fistfuls of fabric gathered at my waist and sides. I kept the dress on as I sat by the window, continuing to wait for Mason.
At some point, I fell asleep, only to be woken up by the honking of horns—what sounded like hundreds of them, on the main road, a few streets away. It took me a beat to realize that more time had passed.
Days continued to blur together.
I was no longer in the prom dress. It was now the morning of graduation. A senior tradition was to honk your car horn, announcing your freedom, and then to show up at Cravings in your pajamas for a senior class brunch.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you?” Mom asked. “I could honk the car the whole way.”
I knew I could text Shelley; she’d pick me up in a heartbeat. I went downstairs, actually considering the idea, checking to see if my track sweatshirt was still hanging on a hook. Mom was talking on her phone in the kitchen. A friend’s daughter had just gotten into NYU. Mom was trying to be happy for her, using words like amazing, deserving, and congratulations. But I could tell the words were forced, that they came out with shards of glass, because NYU had been my dream school ever since I was ten, when I stood in the Washington Square Arch, making a wish with my fallen eyelash that years from then I’d return to the very same spot, but as a student rather than a tourist.
Hearing Mom’s angst made me forget all about Cravings, and so I returned to the four gray walls of my room: my spot, for now.
NOW
59
Today, at the pet shelter, Angie pulls me from the cat lounge to watch the front desk. “Kay’s going to be an hour late,” she says.
I look toward the door. There are people lined up outside, waiting for us to open. Adoption hours start in less than three minutes. “Maybe Dan would be a better pick.”
“I need Dan to help with shots. Nice ’do, by the way.” She nods to my hair. “That color is fierce.”
I stand back as Angie lets the customers in. Luckily, they follow her straight to the animals. I grab a rag and begin wiping down counters, spotting a tall white cabinet by Angie’s desk.
It’s new to the shelter, standing about six feet tall against a stark white wall. I blink hard, figuring I must be seeing things. The doors have a beveled edge, just like the ones in captivity. The knobs are the same too: slightly oblong with engraved spirals. They match the hardware—the tarnished brass hinges. I look down to check the feet: thick wedge slabs, like blocks of wood.
Exactly the same.
I take a step back.
Breathing hard, I feel the floor tilt beneath my feet. Where did this cabinet come from? Who’s responsible for bringing it here? Is it chained to the wall? I go to check, but my stomach twists, stopping me in place. Bile squirts into my mouth. And the room starts to spin.
I go to grab a corner of Angie’s desk. Something crashes. A potted plant: a present from Angie’s husband.
The colors in the room swirl around me—a mix of tans, grays, and greens like inside a washing machine. Only I’m not wet.
“I’m here,” says a female voice.
I’m crouched on the floor. A motor clicks on inside my chest, making my insides rev. My nerves start racing.
“Can you hear me?” the woman asks; her voice is beside me, in my ear. “Do you want me to call for help?”
“No. It’s just…”
“A panic attack,” she says, speaking for me.
I try my best to catch my breath, to not pass out, to stop from panting. The woman takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. Her grip reminds me of Mason’s—warm, strong, secure. I don’t pull away.
“Would you like me to help you?” she asks.
I think I nod. Maybe I let out a sputter.
“My name is Molly. I want you to focus on my voice. We’re going to get through this together, okay? It’s important for you to know that it’s your thoughts creating this panic, not your body. Remember that. You’re not going to faint. You’re not going to stop breathing. You’re going to be just fine.” She continues to talk, telling me about her afternoon at the park, watching dogs play. It made her miss her childhood pet, an English bulldog named Presley, who loved stealing slippers and sitting on
everyone’s feet.
We remain like that, huddled on the floor, until the swirling colors fade and the motor inside my chest slows to a steady hum.
I look down at our hands, surprised to find the woman is no longer squeezing my palm. Instead, I’m squeezing hers.
“Better?” she asks.
I look up into her face. It’s speckled with sunspots. The lines in her skin make a web of sorts, outlining her pale blue eyes. I nod, embarrassed. A lump forms in my throat. Something shatters inside my chest.
The woman places her hand on my back; the warmth radiates to my spine.
“I’m glad I could help.” She smiles, like it was nothing—like assisting a perfect stranger with her mental and physical breakdown is no more unusual than lending someone a pen.
“Thank you,” I say, reluctantly letting her hand go. I start to get up.
The woman helps, gripping around my shoulders, telling me not to rush. “Life isn’t a race. You go at your own pace, okay?”
“Do you know me?” I ask. Why is she being so kind?
“I don’t think so. This is my first time here.”
She doesn’t ask me my name or what caused my sudden panic. Instead, she grabs a broom to help me sweep up the broken pieces.
Before she leaves, she hands me a business card from her wallet:
Molly Blue, Ph.D.
Licensed Psychologist
123 Newbury Street
Big City, New England State
(617) 555-3109 call or text
“Healing starts the moment we feel heard.”
NOW
60
Later—when all of the shelter doors are locked, and only Angie and I are left inside the building (and she’s busy with vaccinations)— I go back into the dog wing, armed with a container of treats.
Squatting down in front of Brave’s cage, I place my face up to the bars. Brave’s barks begin almost instantly, firing like bullets, as if there’s anything left in me to hurt. “Good girl,” I say, tossing her a heart.
She gobbles it up and looks for more. I set the container in front of the cage—close enough to sniff, but too far to reach with her tongue. Brave growls, wanting more.
I jiggle the treats, releasing the biscuit scent. Brave responds by sticking out her tail, lowering her head to meet my eyes, and making deep, guttural barks. It doesn’t matter that outsiders can see her wounds, that it’ll likely take her years to recover or trust, or that she’s always on guard. She keeps on fighting, following her instinct to survive.
“You’re so brave,” I tell her, feeding her more treats and encouraging her barks—jiggle, jiggle, jiggle. Some of the other dogs begin barking as well. I toss biscuits into their cages too, then bark right along with them—as loud as I can, exhilarated to unleash.
My voice is nearly indistinguishable from the pack. But still, it’s there: long-overdue screaming that’s palpable inside my chest, that burns like fire in my throat, and that reminds me I’m alive.
THEN
61
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed (time remained as ominous as my future), but sometime after my escape, I went back to the four white walls. My parents hated the idea, but Agent Thomas said it might actually be healing.
That was the magic word.
Mom walked me to the door, gave me a sweater for the chill. “If this is going to help give you closure…”
But it had nothing to do with closure and everything to do with showing Agent Thomas the air vents and finding Mason once and for all.
Mom had wanted to come, but Agent Thomas didn’t think that would be a good idea. “Visiting the space where your daughter was forced to dwell for more than seven months might not be the healthiest.”
“Okay, so then I’m coming,” Dad said, not waiting for a rebuttal.
I sat in the back seat as Agent Thomas drove us along the main highway, through several small towns, and down a long, winding road carved out from a sea of trees. Eventually, we pulled up in front of a tiny white house, wrapped in police tape, and with a wooden porch on the front.
Despite the tape, my gut reaction was surprise. In my mind, I still pictured a giant abandoned warehouse. Was this even the right place?
“Ready?” Agent Thomas asked.
I got out of the car and gazed toward the street. The enclave looked somewhat familiar: the dirt-paved clearing with woods all around it. But the trees were budding now. And the snow that’d blanketed the scene weeks or months before had all melted, giving way to a grassy lawn and pops of green.
Dad placed his hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay to do this?”
I wasn’t okay to do much of anything. But we went inside anyway, ducking beneath the tape. A piano faced us in the entryway. It doubled as a storage shelf. A family portrait hung above it: a woman, a man, and a little boy—no one I recognized. Nothing familiar. The smell of honeycomb candles lingered in the air—that musty-earthy scent. It made me want to heave.
I went into the kitchen—a small, square room with cream-colored walls and a linoleum-tiled floor—and moved toward the sink, noticing the sliding glass doors. They froze me in place and flashed me right back to that racing sensation inside my chest as I’d tried to get the door latch to open and pry the butter knife from the floor track.
“Jane?” Dad asked.
I nodded that I was fine and turned away. The fridge faced me—the strawberry magnet and the blank square space where my photo and poem used to be. Someone must’ve taken them for evidence, leaving a frame of sticky-note reminders—for things like crackers and toothpaste.
Agent Thomas stood in the doorway watching me. “Not exactly a warehouse,” she said.
I hated her for it—hated her smug little grin and slouching posture. Why was she just standing there? A better detective would still be searching.
“Shall we go downstairs?” she asked, opening the door to the basement.
I stomped my way down, half hoping that Mason would hear me. The children’s drawings remained on the walls in the hallway, along with the I’m sorry messages.
“Children were here,” I told her.
“We have no evidence of that.”
“This is evidence.” Why wasn’t she seeing it? I nodded to a crayon-drawing of a stick-figure boy playing with stick-figure animals.
“Those markings aren’t recent,” she replied. “Testing of the paint suggests they were drawn more than twelve years ago.”
Which proved what? My head hurt.
Agent Thomas opened the door to my room. “Ready?” she asked. That question again.
I took a step closer, feeling my knees shake.
“Maybe this isn’t right,” Dad said.
“We can leave anytime Jane wants.”
“No,” I blurted, determined to find a clue. I took a step into my room, noticing right away how much smaller it looked than before. The mattress had been taken. The drawers looked empty. The cabinet door squeaked open, as though by a lingering spirit: the ghost of the old me. Gone was the hole Mason had made. Heaps of drywall collected on the floor, in its place.
I stood over the rubble, spotting a star-shaped piece. I picked it up from the heap. Dark, crooked slash marks were lined up in rows, as though marching across the surface—too many slashes to count, but not nearly enough to add up to the total number of days I’d spent in the room.
“Those are your tally marks,” Agent Thomas said—a statement, not a question.
Dad didn’t comment. Instead, he placed his hands on the vertical planks of wood that separated the two rooms, checking out the wall’s construction. “Just drywall?” he said, thinking aloud, stopping my breath.
No concrete layer, or wire mesh, or steel bars to keep me in.
Just.
Drywall.
A chalky, crumbly cardboard mess. A smarter girl would’ve busted out sooner.
“I’m really sorry,” I told him, hugging the broken piece, unsure if my words were actually a
udible, because Dad didn’t respond.
He just continued to inspect the wall, stepping through the planks to get into the other room.
The ceiling tiles had been torn free, exposing water pipes and what looked to be an air duct that traveled across the ceiling, but it was no wider than a two-liter soda bottle.
“Are any of the ducts bigger?” I asked.
Agent Thomas shook her head. “They’re all like this one.”
“How about passageways behind the walls?”
More head shaking. “Behind these walls, you’ll find insulation, electrical wiring, copper pipes … but no secret passageways. We called in two contractors and a heating company to be sure.”
“There must’ve been some other way.”
“Jane.” Her eyes narrowed.
“What?” I snapped.
“Mason told you this was a warehouse.”
“Because he truly thought it was.”
“And that it had three floors…”
“He must’ve believed that too.” I looked at Dad, hoping he’d help me out. But he was staring at the dismantled desk now, wondering maybe why I hadn’t used the cement blocks sooner.
“You need to check the floors,” I insisted, stomping my foot against the cement.
“This is the basement,” she said. “The only thing beneath our feet is dirt.”
“Then you’d better get digging.” I scanned the room, looking for another possible answer—some unturned corner or crevice.
“How do you explain the lack of bars on windows?” Agent Thomas continued. “Or the audio equipment with the horror-centric sound bites that you identified? Let’s also not forget about the lack of DNA.”
I wasn’t forgetting.
I couldn’t explain it.
I really wanted my coil spring.
“You said Mason claimed to have been taken two to three months prior to your disappearance,” she persisted. “How come there are no missing-persons cases fitting his profile?”
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