Angie scoots down to give Brave’s mane a pat. “I knew you’d be the one to turn her around.”
I take Brave outside. The shelter is lucky to have a decent-sized yard. Dogs run laps around a circular pit—what once used to be a large brick patio. I let Brave go free. Her mouth hangs open as she runs lap after lap; only after at least a hundred or so does she stop to mark her territory, making this her home.
I sit down on a bench and push Play on my CD player. Gigi’s voice pours out, singing about an unrecognizable life. I pretend that she means mine.
Moments later, Brave comes over but lingers a few feet away. Her wide eyes blink, and she sniffs the air as though sensing more broken hearts. I extend my hand, and she licks the crumbs from my fingers before running off again. We continue with this back-and-forth game until she finally lays by my feet.
I scrunch down beside her and stroke behind her ears. Brave rests her head in my lap, allowing me to strap on her leash, contented to stay for love, even if it means getting locked up in a cage.
NOW
66
Later, after my shift at the shelter, I find Jack at the front desk signing in for a visit.
“Hey, you,” he says when he spots me.
“What are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” He sets the pen down. “I want to adopt a pet.”
“Even though your mom is allergic to all four-legged creatures.”
“I thought you might know of a two-legged creature I could bring home.”
“Right.” I smile, feeling my face burn.
“Your mom said you were here,” he explains. “I was hoping we could get lunch.”
“Sure,” I say, even though my gut tells me not to.
We head outside, and Jack leads us to his Jeep. I recognize the eagle wings hanging from his rearview mirror. Jack once told me they symbolize safe travel, that the charm was a gift from his grandfather, who’d spent most of his life in the sky as an air force pilot.
I stop at the front bumper, thinking about all the nights Jack and I spent in this Jeep, driving around, talking until the windows fogged over. I know it’s perfectly safe, but I don’t want to feel caged.
“Do you mind if we walk?” I ask.
“Not at all,” Jack says. “There’s no parking on Main Street anyway.”
On our way downtown, we pass by Shelley’s house. Her car is parked in the driveway. I look up at her bedroom window, remembering Monopoly marathons, campouts in her bedroom tent, and the time she patted my back and listened while I got all emo over not making it into the Honors Club (something that seems so insignificant now).
“You haven’t seen much of Shelley, have you?” Jack follows my gaze.
“What makes you say that?”
“Word travels. Care to share?”
“It’s kind of hard to explain.”
“Try me.”
“Even if it defies logic?”
“Logic is way overrated, in my opinion.”
“Okay. Well, I know Shelley loves me, that she’s only ever wanted what’s best for me … but a part of me still associates her with that day.”
“Maybe you’re not as illogical as you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I get it. At least on some level. After Becky died, it was a while before I could even look at my aunt. She’d been the one driving the car that night. And logically, yeah, I knew it wasn’t her fault. The trucker had fallen asleep at the wheel when my aunt’s car got hit, but that didn’t stop me from blaming my aunt. Why did she get to live? Why did Becky have to die?”
“Were you ever able to forgive your aunt?”
“Yeah, but it didn’t happen overnight. And my brain played all kinds of tricks: What if my aunt had swerved to save my sister? Was it my aunt’s gut instinct to turn the wheel—to protect herself? But eventually those voices quieted, and I was able to accept that it wasn’t really anyone’s fault.”
“Except the trucker’s.”
“Yeah, but even him … I mean, who’s to say? Maybe he’d been forced to work a double. Maybe he hadn’t slept in days because he’d had his own demons … I couldn’t really rely on blame; it just made everything harder. Living without my sister was already hard enough.”
“Wow,” I say, stopping a moment, turning to face him. “You sound really … evolved.”
“Evolved in a good way, I hope … rather than in a way that might make you want to gag.”
“No gagging here. You might actually be the only one who gets me.”
Jack’s eyes crinkle up in a half smile. “Well, I’m here whenever you want me to get you. Just give yourself a break. Your whole sense of trust has been knocked on its ass. It’s going to take some time.”
“How much time?”
Jack turns and plucks a dandelion from the ground. Its cottony white threads wave in the breeze. “Make a wish, but not for something monumental, like finishing school or going back to normal. Wish for something actually attainable within the next sixty minutes.”
“Something like spinach enchiladas?”
“Exactly like spinach enchiladas. I just heard that Casa Abuela got a five-star review in Eat This. What do you say we be the judges?”
I blow the dandelion threads. They float above our heads like tiny thought bubbles. If only I knew what the words read inside his. “And what happens after sixty minutes?”
“No one knows. We all have to wait.”
“How long will you wait?”
“Don’t worry about me. I just want to be in your life, wherever you have room.” He picks another dandelion and blows all the threads.
“Have I told you lately how grateful I am for your friendship? I feel really lucky.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it. I’m only friends with amazing individuals.”
“How can you possibly say that?”
“Are you forgetting who was there after I broke my arm in the fourth grade while playing Tarzan? Who volunteered to sit out with me in gym class and stay in with me at recess while the arm was healing? How about the person who came to my house and played Battleship with me for hours on end after Becky died? Who helped get me through freshman bio with sadistic Mr. Webber? And stayed up talking to me until 4:00 a.m. after Darla forwarded those love texts I sent her to everyone in our seventh-grade class?”
“Okay, I get it.”
“It was you. Every time. So don’t forget it, okay? Now, shall we get those enchiladas?”
“Definitely.” I smile. And for just an instant, as we walk by the street with the cookie bakery I like and the indie bookstore where I used to shop, I feel like a dog off a leash, with a life I’m starting to recognize.
NOW
67
I can’t sleep. Memories creep like spiders across my skin: They’re there, but I don’t always know it. It’s not until I see one that I want to swat it away.
Lying in bed, listening to Gigi Garvey’s music, I remember.
That day.
It was the summer following eighth grade. I was at the beach with some friends—not good friends (like Shelley) but girls I’d wanted to be my friends. The sun was sinking fast, and these girls had other plans. Marlo was meeting a boy. Cece was waiting to get picked up by her boyfriend, who drove. And Lucy was trying to convince some guy at the snack bar to take her for a ride on his new moped.
“What happened to getting food?” I asked them.
When Cece had texted me that afternoon, dinner and a swim had been the plan. But clearly the joke was on me, because I was the only hungry one wearing a swimsuit.
“Maybe another time,” Marlo said. “Oh, and if my mom happens to call you—and I seriously think she might—just tell her I’m in the water and then text me, and I’ll call her back.”
“Ditto for me.” Cece laughed. “My mom totally trusts you, so she’ll believe whatever you say.”
After they’d given me my orders, dubbing me their new best friend—and de
signated alibi—they left me on my own.
But I wasn’t alone—not really. Some guy was there, sitting two benches over, sipping an iced coffee. He was cute—really cute. A college boy with wavy brown hair and sun-kissed skin. He’d looked my way a couple of times while Cece and the others were talking. At one point, he even flashed me a knowing grin, silently telling me that he got it—got that these girls were self-absorbed brats, got that I deserved so much better. And, admittedly, his attention made me feel just a little less lonely.
As soon as the girls were gone, however, everything changed. The sky had turned dark. The beach had emptied out. What was I still doing there? And why, more important, was that guy lingering as well?
“Rough night?” he asked as I gathered up my things.
I shot him an awkward grin, suddenly desperate to leave. I stuffed my keys, my beach towel, a Frisbee, and a can of bug spray into my bag, then stepped into my flip-flops.
I began across the parking lot, able to feel him watching me somehow—the sensation of his gaze crawling over my skin. I pulled out my phone and fumbled for Shelley’s number.
She picked up right away. “Hey there.”
“Can you talk?”
“Is everything okay?”
“I’m just feeling a little freaked. I’m walking home alone.”
“Why alone?”
“You were right about Marlo and her clan of clones. They totally ditched me.”
“Ugh, sorry. Want me to ask my mom to come pick you up?”
“No. It’s fine. I’m only down the street from my house.”
Shelley proceeded to make me feel better, telling me about how Kenney had gotten a nosebleed in math class and asked Marlo for a tissue from her bra-stuffing (much to Marlo’s mortification).
Once I’d finally arrived home, I didn’t give the incident at the beach another thought—not until now.
I sit up in bed and grab my phone to text Shelley:
Me: Hey.
Me: There are a couple of things I need to tell u …
Me: First, thank u for always being there.
Me: Second, while I was in captivity, I pretended u were with me.
Me: I know that doesn’t make sense, but I talked to u and had meals with u. I kept you with me. I’m not sure I would’ve made it otherwise.
Me: Your friendship has always meant the world to me. I know things haven’t been great between us. But I hope one day they can be good again.
Me: I just need time and space, and I hope whenever I’m ready, you’ll still be willing.
I go to set the phone back on my night table, but it vibrates right away. Shelley writes back:
Shelley:!!!!
Shelley: So good to hear from u!!!
Shelley: I’m glad I was able to be with you—so to speak—while you were gone. That rly means a lot to me—knowing the thought of our friendship made you feel a little less alone …
Shelley: And just so u know, I’ll always be here—day or night, now or in 50 years. Just lmk. I love u like a sister—now and always. xoxoxo
I set the phone down and turn up the volume on Gigi Garvey as she sings about lost innocence. I’m pretty sure she’s referring to a former love, but still the lyrics seem fitting. I’ll never be the same friend I was with Shelley, BIWM. But maybe that’s okay. Or maybe it simply just is.
NOW
68
Still unable to sleep—even after what feels like hours later—I go down the hall and peek into my parents’ room. Dad’s sleeping on the pullout couch. The bed is unmade and vacant.
A book lies splayed open on the table beside him. I move closer and shine my phone’s flashlight over the title: Father Failure. He’s dog-eared a page to a chapter called “Absence.”
Mom is absent too. I go downstairs and find her sitting in the living room with my doll in her lap. The full moon streams in through the window glass, blanketing her with light.
I clear my throat to get her attention.
She looks up, startled to see me. Her fingers curl around Pammy’s leg.
“Why are you up?” I ask her.
“I couldn’t really sleep.”
“Was Dad tossing too much? I saw him on the pullout.”
She manages a smile, but her eyes can’t lie. “Your father and I have been on two entirely different schedules lately. Sometimes it’s just easier to sleep in separate beds so we don’t disturb one another.”
I feel the tears all the way to my gut; a chain reaction that causes my stomach to convulse, my throat to constrict, and my upper lip to tremble—and not because of the obvious problems my parents are having but more because, despite her own angst, she’s still trying to protect me.
I turn away so she can’t see my face, trying to protect her too. “Do you still talk to Dr. White?”
“I do, and Daddy’s going to start coming to sessions too. Would you like to make another appointment?”
“I think I may have someone else in mind.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Can we talk about it tomorrow? I should really get back to bed.”
“Want me to make you some Sweet Dream Tea? Remember? Like when you were little…”
I do remember. On nights when I was convinced that ghouls and goblins lived under my bed, Mom would make the magical tea, and I’d drift off to heavenly sleep. “You used to sit by my bed until I nodded off.”
Mom snuggles Pammy closer and kisses the crown of her head.
“Do you think you could do that now?” I ask. “Sit by my bed until I fall asleep?”
Mom looks up as though checking to see if she heard me right. When I don’t say anything to correct the words, her eyes fill.
She stands up, setting Pammy down, still hesitating, still not quite believing. She places her hand over the hole that is her heart.
We go upstairs. Mom lies beside me on my bed. It takes me a moment to notice the box of brownies between us, as well as the broken piece of drywall propped against my headboard—the one with the tally marks. Mom doesn’t mention either of them, and neither do I. We simply face one another like bookends with a library of self-help topics between us.
She begins to hum the song about favorite things from The Sound of Music. I close my eyes and picture some of those things (gold-trimmed notebooks, blue-frosted cake, gel pens, novels, and Lemon’s wide hazel eyes), remembering how, back when I was little and Mom used to sing the song, she’d add in all of my favorite items, the way Maria does in the movie.
Part of me is tempted to share my current list so she could do the same now. But instead I roll onto my side and drift off to sleep.
NOW
69
I get off the train and walk several blocks, watching for cars and faces, listening for thwacks and whimpers. My cell phone clutched like a coil spring in my hand, I use the navigation app to find my way.
I know the general vicinity. Whenever Shelley and I used to come into the city, we’d always stop by Stationery Sweets—not only because it has the coolest notebook supplies but also because it doubles as a cupcake shop.
The building I need is a few doors down.
I count my steps along the way—fifty-six—and enter through a turnstile door. There are sixteen steps until I get to the elevator. I take it up seven flights, holding my breath, eyeing the numbers.
Suite sixteen is at the end of the hall, nine offices down. My mom offered to take me, but I wanted to do this on my own as part of a personal quest to find my lucky number seven: someone who doesn’t fall asleep or scratch his groin when I talk, someone who really, truly listens without telling me how to feel or making faces at what I say.
Dr. Molly’s name glistens from a golden door plaque. I’m in the right place. I go inside.
“Hey there,” she says, crossing the room to water a plant.
There are three windows and rose-colored walls. The room smells like spearmint candy—the kind with the thick wax paper that I used to get out of the coin machine at
the supermarket.
Dr. Molly’s hair is tied back. She’s wearing a summer dress. Her smile is just as warm as it was on the day we met, when she sat by my side, telling me about her bulldog, Presley. “Can I get you something to drink? I have water, tea, seltzer, hot cocoa…”
“Hot cocoa,” I say, despite the warm weather.
She makes me a cup with some fancy machine, and we sit down across from one another on tan velvet couches.
“I’m glad you called,” she says.
I force a smile, realizing that I’m sitting on the edge of the sofa, a sniffle away from slipping onto the floor.
She leans back in her seat as though to give me more space.
“Sorry,” I say, scooting back. “I guess I’m really nervous.” I eye the box of tissues on the table between us.
“What do you feel most nervous about?”
“Facing the truth, I guess.”
“The truth about…”
“What happened when I was taken.” I study her face, trying to figure out if she knows my story, if she saw it on the news or read it in the papers.
But unlike most of the others, she shows no expression. “Why don’t you tell me what you think happened?”
“That’s just it; I don’t know.”
“Not any of it?”
“Well, certain things I know, like how I probably trusted the wrong person.”
Dr. Molly pushes the tissue box toward me. “Before we begin, there’s something you need to keep in mind. You’re human, and humans make mistakes. I’m not saying that you made one in this case, but something you just said … about trusting the wrong person; it puts all the blame on you. You need to be kind to yourself—to allow yourself to be human. Does that make sense?”
“I just feel so out of control.” I pluck a tissue. “I mean, this isn’t like me—like the way I was before everything happened.”
“Let’s focus on the way you feel at this moment.”
“Confused. I just have so many questions.”
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