The Girl Before

by Rena Olsen

  “Thank you, Tori,” the woman says, handing half the stack to her. “Just set those by my chair, please.”

  The girl, Tori, does as the woman asks. Tori does not look as tired as some of the others, and her eyes have a glow to them that is unfamiliar. She takes her seat as the other woman makes her way into the circle.

  The woman sets her papers down, smooths her hair and clothes, and sits, smiling at the expectant faces around her. All conversations have ceased. She lets her gaze rest on each face, and when she gets to me, I feel the full force of her eyes. It is as if I am the only one there, and it reminds me of the feeling I get when I go to visit Dr. Mulligan. The woman’s smile widens.

  “Dr. Mulligan told me she was hoping to send an addition to our group,” she said. “My name is Heather. You must be Clara.”

  I nod. I am not playing a game this time, refusing to talk. My mouth has gone so dry that I cannot fathom forcing words up my throat and past my lips.

  Heather smiles at me, and I believe the kindness in her voice when she says, “I’m so glad that you’re here, Clara.” She instructs the rest of the girls to introduce themselves, which they do, some more grudgingly than others. I do not commit the names to memory. I don’t know if I will be back or not. The only one I remember is Tori.

  “Clara, do you want to tell us anything about yourself before we get started?” My opinion of Heather sours. I draw my knees to my chest and shake my head. Instead of pushing me to talk, as I expect, she simply nods. “No pressure here, Clara. If you just want to listen, that’s fine. We’re just glad you’re here.” She turns to the girl in the chair next to her, a girl with blond hair and wide, haunted green eyes. “Then Mallory, I believe you were ready to talk today.”

  Mallory takes a deep breath and looks around the circle. Everyone has leaned in. I am impressed at the concentration on their faces. Even those who seem surly are focused on Mallory, as if what she has to say is the most important thing in the world. Dr. Mulligan did not tell me much about this group, and I wish she had filled me in on how to behave. I lower my feet to the floor and turn toward Mallory. Her eyes shift toward my movements, and our gazes meet as she begins speaking.

  “I was a sophomore in college.” Mallory’s voice is hesitant at first. She continues watching me, and I feel an urge to protect her, comfort her in the same way I do my daughters. I give her an encouraging smile and a nod as she continues.

  “I studied a lot. I had a scholarship I needed to keep. My friends would make fun of me for not going out with them every weekend, but I preferred to hang out at coffee shops around the city.” Mallory smiles. “I would pick a different one each Friday and spend hours studying my books and the people.

  “One Friday, I was checking out another new coffee place. It was in a nice area of the city. I was tired and had just finished midterms, and I was also recovering from a fight with my roommate because I didn’t want to go out dancing.” Mallory shakes her head. “What a stupid thing, right? But I was feeling rebellious. So when Eric approached me, I invited him to sit down instead of sending him away like I usually did with guys.

  “Eric was older, and seemed so worldly. He bought me coffee, and we talked until the shop closed at two in the morning. I was worried about catching the last bus, and he offered me a ride home.”

  Mallory pauses, and I notice my heart is racing. I have been watching closely as she shares. Her eyes are dull and her face is losing color. She is completely caught up in the story. So am I.

  “It was stupid. But I agreed. He said he didn’t live far from campus and invited me to hang out with him and his roommates for a while. My friends had been texting all night, so I sent a quick text telling them not to wait up.” A tear escapes from the corner of Mallory’s eye, but she ignores it. Her posture stiffens, and I see her walls go up as she relates the next part of the story.

  “We drove in the opposite direction of campus. I laughed and asked if he’d had too much coffee, but he didn’t answer me. I got nervous, but he wouldn’t turn around. We went to one of the rougher parts of town and he pulled up behind another car. He told me to get out. I didn’t. I begged him to take me home. Another man got out of the car in front of us and came to my door. Eric pushed me out the door. I tried to run, but the other man grabbed me and threw me on the ground. I hit my head and blacked out. When I woke up, I was in the trunk of a car. The music was blaring. I can still smell the smoke and rot. They had taken my shoes, and my hands and ankles were duct-taped together.” Mallory closes her eyes.

  I do not want to hear any more. I do not know what Dr. Mulligan was thinking sending me here. What do I have in common with Mallory, who was taken so brutally from her life? I want nothing to do with this story. I tense, ready to bolt, when Mallory’s eyes open and find mine again, and I am rooted to my chair. I cannot leave when she is watching me, when she looks at me with such vulnerability. It’s as if she is taking strength from me. I look at her and I see my daughters. I relax back into my chair, wiping the panicked look off my face. I mimic Dr. Mulligan, who is a master at looking neutral yet supportive at all times.

  Mallory takes a deep breath. “I pounded on the trunk, but no one responded. I doubt they could hear me. There was no lever to pull to escape the trunk. I had read somewhere that if you were in a trunk, you should kick out one of the taillights and wave your arm. I kicked and kicked, but I couldn’t dislodge the lights. It wasn’t easy since I was taped up, and I think I broke a toe or two. I didn’t care. I was in a panic.

  “The car stopped, and when the trunk opened I was surprised that it was daylight. I don’t know how long I was passed out. The man who had taken me was even more terrifying in the light. Scars on his face . . . and he was huge. He threw me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing. We were in the middle of nowhere, by a long tin building. I didn’t see much. Inside, there were wide doors that opened like garage doors. It turned out they were storage sheds. There were many more men inside, and one of them opened one of the sheds. The man carrying me threw me onto a dirty mattress and left.”

  Heather leans over and clasps Mallory’s hand. “Are you doing okay, Mallory?” she asks. “You can take a break if you need to.”

  Mallory nods. “I-I think I could use some water.”

  I need water, too. And space. Everyone moves back, some retreating into their private worlds, others lapsing back into conversation. I jerk to my feet. No one pays attention. Heather is murmuring softly to Mallory. Tori has gone to get Mallory some water. I step toward the door. No one stops me as I slip out.

  In the hallway, I lean against the wall and slide to the floor. I hit my head against the hard surface in rhythm to the thoughts swirling through my head. I place my hand on my stomach, almost imagining I feel flutters, though I know it is too soon for that. As always, Nut calms me. No matter what is going on out here, I know he is safe and sound, and will never be away from me. He is mine.

  “How’s it going?”

  I start. I forgot that Connor was waiting for me in the hallway. I don’t know how I missed him when I came out here. I look over at him, and his forehead is wrinkled in concern.

  “Why am I here?” I ask, ignoring his question. “This has nothing to do with me.”

  “You’ve hardly been in there, Clara,” Connor says, his tone gentle. “Give these girls a chance.”

  “A chance for what? To tell sad stories? To try to get me to tell my sad story? What is it with everyone wanting to know my business? It’s my business! My life!” I slap the floor for emphasis.

  Connor doesn’t react. He watches me for a few minutes. “You promised Dr. Mulligan you would try.”

  “I am trying.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re ready to quit.”

  He’s not wrong. I want to go back to my tiny gray room, or to Dr. Mulligan’s office, or even back to the dreaded questioning room. Anywhere but back into the room to hea
r the rest of Mallory’s story.

  “All you have to do is listen,” Connor says. “Just listen, Clara.” It is not a command. It’s a request. I sigh and nod as Heather sticks her head out into the hall.

  “There you are, Clara,” she says, smiling. “Are you coming back in?” Another question, and an opportunity to refuse. Instead, I scramble to my feet.

  “Yes.” I follow her back inside, glancing back once to catch Connor with a pensive look on his face, which changes to an encouraging smile when he sees me watching. The door shuts behind me before I can acknowledge him again.

  Mallory starts where she left off as soon as we are seated.

  “I don’t know how long I was in that dark storage unit. I cried until I couldn’t anymore. I peed myself because no one came to take me to the bathroom. My feet and hands were numb. I hadn’t eaten in hours. I thought I would die there on that ratty mattress, alone in the dark. Finally, the door opened. A group of women came in and turned on a light. They didn’t talk to me, but they untaped me and undressed me, cleaned me up as best they could. They put a robe on me and helped me across the hall to a makeshift office. A doctor . . . examined me.” Mallory pauses. Her entire body is locked up, and her knuckles are white. Heather doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t ask if she needs another break.

  “Another man, Mike, was watching the whole time. When the doctor finished with me, he brought me to another area. It looked like a warehouse. There were three other girls there, naked. Mike took my robe and pushed me over to them. He sprayed us down. After that we were given short shirts to wear, and nothing else. They brought us back to the hallway with the storage lockers. I was put in one with two other women.”

  I feel a soft brush against my fisted hand. Tori has moved to sit next to me. She places her hand over mine, using gentle pressure to urge me to relax. My fingers release, and I see that I have left red crescents on my palm. One has started bleeding. Tori says nothing, but leaves her hand on mine, offering me comfort. I don’t know this girl. But I allow it. I’m not sure why Mallory’s story is affecting me so strongly. It has nothing to do with me. Still, I focus on Tori’s warming presence and tune back in to Mallory’s story.

  “It was only a few days before they took me out for the first time. They had a special van for outside runs. Sex for delivery. There were several different jobs, but the first was always to a high-paying john who wanted a virgin. My first was at least fifty years old. We went to some posh hotel. I didn’t even fight back. It hurt. And I didn’t fight.” Mallory hangs her head, tears falling unchecked into her lap.

  “And you still feel guilty for that?” Heather asks, her voice low.

  Mallory nods. “If I had fought, maybe I could have gotten away. Maybe I could have run for help. Maybe I wouldn’t be living this fucking half existence now.” She pulls her knees to her chest, sobbing.

  I jump when Tori’s voice next to me breaks the silence. “I tried to run away once,” she says. “I mean, most of you know my story is a little different. They kept me in a house in the middle of a city.” She looks at me, guessing that I am the only one who doesn’t know this. “I passed up so many opportunities that I thought I could have escaped. Finally I tried it.”

  Mallory doesn’t speak, but she has raised her head, chin resting on her knees.

  Tori locks eyes with Mallory. “What did they do to girls who tried to escape?”

  “Ice bath.” Mallory’s voice is mechanical. No more tears fall. “Hours in an ice bath. Girls died sometimes. But it didn’t leave marks.”

  Tori nods. “The ones who took me didn’t care about marks. They caught me and beat me until I wished I was dead. I got two days off before I had to service the johns again. You were right not to run, Mallory.”

  I can tell that Mallory wants to believe Tori, but the doubt lingers in her eyes. I feel like I’ve been through the emotional wringer. I don’t understand why Dr. Mulligan thinks a group like this will help. My life is nothing like these tragic stories. I have a beautiful house. I have a beautiful family. I have Glen. I’ve traveled. I am not tortured. Only disciplined when necessary. There is a big difference.

  “I think that’s enough for today, ladies,” Heather says, wrapping an arm around Mallory’s shoulders. “Please stay and visit.”

  I stand, knocking Tori’s hand away from my arm.

  “Clara,” Tori begins.

  I give her a tight smile and stride toward the door. Connor jumps up as I slam out of the room. “Finished? Ready to talk to Dr. Mulligan?”

  “No.” I am vibrating with anger. “I just want to go back to my room.”

  Connor’s smile falters. “I thought you had a session today.”

  “Not anymore.” I never want to speak to her again.

  Then

  It is late afternoon, and the sun slants through the windows of the parlor. Glen is tense beside me as we drink tea in silence. The source of his tension is the imposing man across from us. Glen’s parents insist on gathering us all together each afternoon. Our betrothal was announced to the house two weeks ago. I do not know what happened with my client, Mr. Q. Two girls were sent in my place, but I am unsure what other compensation he was given.

  The discussions in the parlor usually surround our future, the hard work we will need to put in, how much training we both need for our respective roles. When we speak at all. Most of the time is spent in terse silence, the weight of Papa’s judgment feeling like a ten-ton brick, pushing us further into submission.

  And yet, even thinking the word “us” causes me to sit up a little straighter. Despite the judgment, despite being worked morning until night, the end result is the same. I will be with Glen. We do not have to be apart. Ever.

  Papa is still glaring over the rim of his cup when the door bursts open. One of the older men, Scott, stomps in, dragging a girl by the arm. Her hair is loose, swinging around her face, and with her free arm she is struggling to hold a shirt in front of herself. She is otherwise naked. She looks up and our eyes meet.

  It is Macy.

  I jump to my feet, my teacup crashing to the floor, splintering into a thousand shards that could just as well be piercing my heart. What has she done? Glen’s hand is on my arm, restraining me, but I struggle against him. Macy’s grip on the shirt is slipping, and soon she will be completely uncovered. I can’t let my friend be presented to Papa like that.

  “Stop,” Glen whispers, his voice harsh as he holds me back. “Do not get involved. Do you understand?”

  Papa stands as well, though Mama continues to sit and sip her tea as if nothing is amiss. I wonder if I will ever adopt that uncaring attitude. I hope not. Papa’s eyes narrow as he observes the pair. Two more guards step in behind Scott and Macy, each loosely holding the arm of a boy who is not struggling. Macy’s secret boyfriend, Josh, appears unconcerned. His chest is bare, his pants unbuttoned. His long feet, shoeless, are white from lack of sun.

  “What’s going on?” Papa asks, his voice calm despite the storm I see brewing on his face.

  “Found this girl,” Scott sneered, “entertaining Josh during afternoon break.” He jerked Macy forward. “From what I hear, she’s been entertaining him pretty frequently.”

  I hear a small gasp, but when I look over at Mama, her face is smooth again, the slight shake in her teacup the only indication that she is rattled. And with good reason. Macy is promised to another important client. I had my suspicions about Macy’s activities, but I had hoped she was just fooling around. Her client would not be happy if he found out she’d been making out with another boy, but it wouldn’t be a deal-breaker. But if she’s been having sex with Josh, if she is no longer pure, that is unforgivable, and could cast a bad light on Papa’s entire business. Part of what our clients pay for, what they expect, is that they will be our first experience. A buzzing begins in my ears as the implications of the situation begin to sink in.

&nbs
p; Papa’s fists clench. He picks up the teapot and hurls it across the room. It smashes against the far wall, tea splattering over the furniture and wall hangings. I jump, and Glen squeezes my arm. I no longer struggle against him. I am frozen in place, terrified of what will come next.

  Papa strides forward and grasps Macy’s chin, forcing her face up. She whimpers, but maintains eye contact. “You want to be a whore, little girl?” Papa hisses. Now his voice has become angry. “You were meant for great things. But giving yourself to this boy has sealed your fate.” He looks up. “Take her to the tree,” he says, nodding at Scott. He turns to Josh, who still has a self-satisfied look on his face. “I’ll deal with you later,” Papa says. “Personally.” Josh’s smirk disappears as Scott yanks Macy out of the room.

  My hand flies to my mouth. The tree is where they whip the boys. When I was whipped, Mama did it on the back porch, away from prying eyes. The tree is in the middle of the men’s camp. Whipping is a spectator sport for them. Tears fill my eyes, and Glen’s hand is cutting off the circulation to the bottom part of my arm.

  “You two,” Papa says, not turning around. “You will come down as well.”

  “Now G—” Mama begins.

  “Mae.” There is a warning in Papa’s voice. “This is a part of it. These children think they are ready to take on all the responsibilities? They need to know what comes with it.”

  I do not want to go. I want to run away. I want to hide in my room. I want to find the real Macy and laugh over the mistake, cluck our tongues over the poor girl who made such atrocious choices. I want to huddle in the safety of Glen’s arms, block out the terrible things that are about to happen.

  “Now.” There is no question of disobeying. Glen detaches his vise grip on my arm and claims my hand instead. We follow Papa outside and through the trees to where the men’s cabins are located. I do not look at Glen. I am not sure what I want to see. Do I want to see him scared? Worried about Macy? Or do I want to see the strength, the resolve it will take to do what needs to be done? Glen knows what Macy means to me.