“He’s the patron saint of the lost.” He reaches up and unclasps the chain from around his neck, his fingers running across the engraving on the coin. I bring my hand to my own neck. It might be bare now, but I can still feel the links that lay on the smooth skin, the coin that hung down the center.
“Every day, I prayed to him. I prayed for him to return my lost girls. The girls who could not be found.” His eyes fill with tears as he walks toward Amelia’s bed.
Her chest rises and falls thanks to the work of machines. He places the medallion around her neck, St. Anthony settling between wires.
“And he found them for me. He found my Jenna, my Haylee.” He reaches out to grab Mae’s hand. “But then . . . this . . .” He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. Instead he breaks down, sobbing over her body.
I look over at Mae, lost, but she looks like she might pass out. “I . . . I . . .” She takes a step back and sinks to the tile floor, cradling her head on her arms. If this moment is intense for me, I can only imagine how it must feel to her.
I am not equipped to deal with this. And while part of me wants to get the hell out of here, another part of me, the part I can’t understand, is drawn to him, drawn to Amelia like a magnet.
Dr. Dowling lifts his head and wipes his eyes. “Will you pray with me? Will you pray for her?” He reaches his hand toward me and his voice is so broken, that indescribable force so powerful, that I can’t refuse. I walk toward the hospital bed and before I can second-guess myself, I wrap my fingers around his and cradle Amelia’s with my other hand.
The moment the three of us touch, my world explodes.
Forty-Two
SOMETHING’S BURNING. BUT IT’S NOT THE SMELL OF A CAMPFIRE OR blackened toast. It’s the wrong kind of burning.
And there’s screaming. At first it’s piercing, but then it’s muffled and stifled. And before I can stop myself, I’m screaming too and suddenly, he’s lunging for me. His strange mismatched eyes burning with a fury I can’t understand.
The walls crumple in as she tries to protect me, the side of her face an angry red, one eye swollen shut. The medallion he holds in his gloved hand glows fiery red and it burns brighter and brighter as it dances over the flame of a fat candle.
“You think anyone will ever believe you? With your history? Don’t forget where you come from. No one else will. I know what you did to your stepfather. I know and once I tell them, you’ll rot in jail.” His voice leaves a different kind of scar.
Something clink, clink, clinks to the floor, and he swears, fumbling, vulnerable for the second it takes to find an opening. And we’re scooped up.
She’s running with both of us wrapped in her arms when there’s usually only room for one. The sky is dark and there’s only the sickeningly sweet smell of burnt flesh.
“Good girls, my good girls, my sweet girls.” When we reach the car, she doesn’t even buckle us into our car seats.
Fear hovers behind us, not in front of us. Where we’ve been. Not where we’re going.
And I know. I know.
Forty-Three
IT FEELS LIKE MY SKULL HAS BEEN CRACKED OPEN LIKE AN EGG. THE pain is a lightning strike, a destructive web threatening to incapacitate my entire body. Through a fog of tears and this newly muted world, I watch Dr. Dowling touch his forehead, chest, and shoulders. The action looks all wrong, like he’s got his fingers crossed behind his back as he prays to the wrong kind of God. Amelia thrashes on the bed below him, her fingers clawing at her neck as though she can’t breathe, her eyes wild like an animal’s. She’s awake. He lifts his head to the ceiling, a silent celebration, before calmly disconnecting the girl from all the monitors and tubes and cords that have kept her alive against all odds.
First sound, then color returns. I wake up from the blurry nightmare to a crisp one.
Mae is huddled in a corner of the small room, black streaks down her cheeks, eyes wide. She shakes her head back and forth as though, like me, she can’t possibly be seeing what she’s seeing. My heart roars to life, thrumming in its cage. This cannot be happening again. He is not going to take Amelia. But still the clicks of switches punctuate the silence like gunshots.
I focus on Mae, repeat her name in my mind as though I’m screaming, because if I can switch bodies with one half sister, surely I can direct the other with my eyes.
“Let me help. . . . Dad. I want to get out of here.” Her voice trembles with emotion and I hate how nothing works the way I need it to. They can’t leave with this man. I can’t let this happen.
But Dr. Dowling is already looking up from Amelia’s bed, a manic smile pasted on his face.
“Go find a wheelchair for your sister, okay, honey? Let’s get you girls home.”
Mae rushes off, and I’m left alone with this monster. Every part of my body is screaming for me to run, to escape. The muscles of my legs tense. I’m ready to go when my eyes lock with Amelia’s.
I recognize her fear, her helplessness, her panic. She’s trapped. And I know I can’t let this man take her away. I have to finally do something, anything to save her.
Without thinking, I launch my body toward Dr. Dowling, knocking him off-balance. For one amazing moment, I think I’ve actually stopped him, but then he laughs, like all five-foot-nothing of me trying to stand in his way is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him. He’s still chuckling to himself when his forearm slams into my face. My cheekbone explodes in blinding pain.
A nurse rushes into the room, sees me on the ground, and shrieks in surprise. When she sees a doctor, her face relaxes.
“He’s taking her! Help!” I scream.
Dr. Dowling raises his hands. “Karen, please call security. I found this young woman tampering with the equipment in this room, and it is no longer safe for this patient.”
And then five words ring out across the ICU. Five words I will never forget. Five words that finally have the power to save Amelia Fischer’s life for good.
“Police! Put your hands up.”
Forty-Four
I’VE BEEN AWAKE FOR FOURTEEN HOURS AND THIRTY-TWO MINUTES, according to Mae. She hasn’t left my side since they took our father away. The doctors say I’ll be fine, but I think we’re both worried that I’ll slip back into the coma again if I fall asleep. And so we’ve been sitting here holding hands like we’re little, talking and laughing and crying. Trying to make sense of our lives.
For a while it was just the two of us, but then my mom came back from the police station. Exhausted and scared, but somehow lighter than I’ve ever seen her. And then came Sophie and Mrs. Graham, awkward and reluctant to impose, but somehow unable to stay away. We form a loose circle.
“Once upon a time, there were two women,” Sophie Graham eventually whispers, breaking the silence. I’m not sure what’s more surreal, the fact that my mom, Mrs. Graham, Mae, and Sophie are all in the same room or the fact that Sophie Graham is telling me a story. I’m pretty sure it’s a tie. “Neither of them knew the other, but they were connected. One was a nurse and one was a doctor.”
“Studying to be a doctor,” Mrs. Graham interrupts.
“Same difference,” Sophie continues. “Every story has to have a villain, but ours hid it well. He was handsome and smart and wealthy. Like all villains, he preyed on the weak.” Sophie glances at her mom and my mom and shrugs her shoulders. “Sorry, but it’s true. Well, at least initially. Right?”
I sit up a little bit in bed because I know this story. It’s been haunting us like a ghost with every move, just a little bit out of reach. I look to my mom and Mae, and my mom reaches for Mae’s other hand so we’re all connected.
My mom clears her voice. “Well, my story starts before this and the end won’t make sense unless you hear the beginning.” Mrs. Graham hesitates before reaching out to grasp my mom’s hand. The contact makes her awkward; her chin lowers, her back hunches. “The police showed me your letter.” She looks at me first and then Sophie because I guess it belongs to both of
us now. “You were so close. So smart.” She takes a breath for courage before continuing. “I hate to think about all the pain I’ve caused you girls every time we moved. But it couldn’t have been any different. Lesser-of-two-evils sort of thing. When I was growing up, it felt more like we were running toward trouble than away from it.” Her eyes glisten as she remembers. “All the men were some form of bad, some worse than others. The longer they stuck around, the worse they got. When I was ten, my mom got remarried. I thought maybe it would be different this time because he wasn’t just another boyfriend. I thought maybe getting married meant something more. But for my mom, it just meant she was more stuck. And I didn’t have a choice.”
Mae squeezes my fingers and I know my mom did the same to her. I think about that word: choice. Mae and I never had a choice when it was time to go, and the older I got, the angrier it made me. But there are all different sorts of choices. I know that now.
“The mean started slow. It always did. It was just words at first. And then the manipulation—accusations that started as lies, but somehow began to feel true so that when he finally started hitting us, it felt like our fault. He would drink and smoke and hurt. I would hide, but our house, if you could call it that, was never big enough. I dreamed of running away, but where would I go? My mom had no family I ever knew. It was just her and me. And him.”
I’m not sure anyone’s breathing while listening to her talk. I’ve never heard my mom say so many words. She feels like a complete stranger at the core of this circle of women.
“I lived that way until I was seventeen. I’d hidden enough money from my mom to leave and never look back. I remember wondering if I would miss her, if I could ever help her. Save her.” Tears fall down my mom’s cheeks and land on the sheets, leaving a circle that grows larger as I watch it. “She wasn’t home at the time. I didn’t leave a note because I didn’t want her to try to find me, although it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He was on the couch passed out and I knew he’d kill her one day. I’d hear about it on the news. So I lit one of his cigarettes and I threw it on the floor beside him. The room went up fast, so fast I barely had time to get out. I left that night and started a nursing program. I buried my past and threw myself into work. I let myself forget. And then, almost five years later, I met someone even more broken than me. And I remembered. He felt like a second chance to make up for everything I’d done. But instead, I just ended up right back where I started.”
We weren’t moving, we were running. Mae and I could have been just like her. She could have been just like her mom. But she hid. She protected us. It was all for us.
Mrs. Graham reaches for Sophie’s hand before picking up the story. “You have to understand that he was charming. And even though, at first glance, everything about him seemed perfect, there was something a little dangerous too. Something I thought I could fix. When you’re twenty-something, finally away from your parents for the first time, and an older doctor pays attention to you, it matters. But I learned very quickly that he wasn’t just another bad boy. He had problems that I couldn’t even begin to understand. When I found out I was pregnant, I thought about telling him. I knew he was married and stupidly wondered if he’d choose me. But when I overheard a resident congratulating him on his wife’s pregnancy, I knew I had to go. The day I dropped my classes, my advisor pulled me aside. She knew. It was like she sensed it. She gave me a tiny wooden house from her hometown with a slip of paper inside that said, To help you find your way home.”
“The house angel,” Mae and I whisper in unison.
“Well, I took it as a sign,” Mrs. Graham continues. “Instead of letting my parents drag me back to Chicago, I moved to Morristown and met a nice lawyer. I was lucky. I got away. And I got to keep you.” She kisses Sophie on the cheek.
“The princess lost her happiness . . . and then came Sophie. . . .” I whisper, smiling a little at Sophie through the dim light. Mr. Graham told her the story as a child. The memory is wrinkled and frayed at the edges, but still there. For now. I consider Mr. Graham and his hollow veneer of perfection. I know he’s a lawyer. I know he’s Sophie’s father. And yet there are other conflicting details and half truths that I’ve already lost, but still somehow feel, shadows of memories that haven’t completely faded.
I reach for Sophie’s hand and close the circle. If this were a movie, we’d see sparks or something. Instead, I just feel hope.
“I wish I could have warned you.” Mrs. Graham’s voice cracks as she looks at my mom with tears in her eyes.
She shakes her head. “I believed him.” My mom shrugs her shoulders. “I wanted to believe he could get better, that we could be a family. I was so young. And he knew about my stepfather. He threatened me. And it almost worked. But then I had my girls.” She looks between me and Mae, back and forth like it’s the first time she’s ever looked at us, like we’re babies and not gangly teenagers. “I didn’t have a choice. It was easier because it wasn’t just about me.” She smiles sadly. “Plus, I got my own sign. The day before we ran away for good,” my mom continues, “someone left me a tiny wooden house at the end of my shift. I didn’t recognize the handwriting, but the note said, Everyone deserves a safe home, and gave me a number to call day or night when I was ready to leave. I never did call that number, but the house became my talisman, a lifeline. There’s an address of the historical home printed on the bottom and I remember running my fingers over the name of the city, promising myself that one day, when it was safe, we’d live there. Happily ever after. So I saved Morristown for last.”
Epilogue
I’VE LEARNED THAT MEMORY IS A FUNNY THING. WE ALL WALK around so confident in our memories, so sure of our past. But memories are alive. They live and they breathe. They’re unpredictable, they burn and bend and break like unstable elements when exposed to hate or love or loss. And the truth is, memories can’t be trusted, because memories lie.
The moment I opened my eyes to see my dad praying over my bed, the moment I saw Sophie Graham pale and shaking beside him, the moment I heard the hum of the machines, felt the cords and wires running like veins up my arms, I remembered. From long-buried memories of him hurting my mom, the rows of circular scars of the St. Anthony’s medallion lining the creamy skin of her back, to my time spent as Sophie Graham. It was all there, with blistering, brutal honesty.
But it was like waking up from the kind of lifelike dream that you understand with perfect clarity. You think you’ll always remember. After all, how could you possibly forget something so real, something so true? Then once you’re awake, reality sets in, your day-to-day life is there, demanding to be lived, and slowly but surely, your dream fades into a whisper, a glimmer of something lovely and strange that you can’t quite put your finger on.
I remember the gasp when I awoke in that hospital bed. I remember the panic of his hands ripping the cords off my body. I remember the way he lifted me off the bed like I was two years old again. I remember the police storming in with my mom on their heels. I might even remember a boy, skirting the edges and hanging back. And I definitely remember the relief of my mom’s arms around me again, sure and strong and real.
But the longer I’m awake, the more my memories as Sophie begin to flutter away, like flower petals on a breeze. I would have gathered them up and held them close if I had known it was coming. But it’s too late. Because they’re all spread across my past now and as hard as I might try, you can’t resurrect a flower from scattered petals.
I catch Janie McLaughlin looking at us sometimes. I know she’s wondering if it’s all true, if this all possibly could have happened, and I guess I can’t really blame her. How? Why? The questions hover like spirits whenever I’m with Sophie. Questions we’ll never ask for fear of breaking their spell because it would be far too easy to explain away everything with car accidents and head trauma. And we know better.
“Amelia, can you come set the table?” my mom calls as she pops her head out the door. “Dinner’s almost done.”
The physical therapy really helped. You’d never know by looking at me that I survived a horrible accident. The other kind of therapist helps too. I understand now that I can’t do this alone.
But I still have the dreams. They’re filled with images of dark saints and hooded men.
I remind myself that we’re safe now. Thanks to my sisters. The plural word still feels strange on my tongue, but it’s true. They saved me. Mae rushed into the nurse’s station and called for help and Sophie gave the police all the information they needed to take him in. They have Dr. Dowling in custody now, and they set the bail high enough that he’ll have to stay there until his trial. I have to believe that after all this there will be justice. I have to believe we’ll somehow get our happily ever after.
“Amelia, come on.” Mae drags out every syllable of my name and I can’t help but smile. It’s crazy how even after everything changes, some things stay the same.
“Okay, okay. I’m coming.”
I start to get up, but stop when I hear gravel crunching down our driveway. An old VW Bug rounds the bend slowly. I don’t immediately recognize the driver, but I’m charmed by his choice in cars, and I admire the way his thin T-shirt hugs the outline of his chest when he opens the door and gets out. There’s something remarkable about the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he sees me, and my stomach takes a little dip.
“Amelia?” His voice is shy, hesitant. “You probably don’t remember me. . . .”
But then, suddenly, I do. It’s him. The guy who was taking pictures for the paper at my tennis match. The one who lost his lens cap and ignored a thunderstorm to ask me about it. Landon. His name comes to me from the depths of my memory, even though I could swear he never introduced himself. Somehow Sophie has neglected to mention him.
Now You See Her Page 21