by Rena Olsen
“Genevieve, take Clara to her new quarters.” Genevieve walks around the table and grasps my arm, her long, talon-like nails digging into my skin. She tries to pull me toward the door, but I resist. I promised Glen I would not leave his side, and there are consequences for broken promises.
I am surprised when large hands plant themselves in the middle of my back and I am shoved from behind. Unable to stop my forward motion, I topple into Genevieve, and we both collapse to the floor. I hear a loud grunt and a crack, and when I look up, the sallow-faced man is dead, staring at the ceiling with blank eyes and a neat hole in his forehead, and Joel has Mr. Harrison by the arms. Glen is holding the gun.
I hear a whimper beneath me and look down to see Genevieve, her eyes wide, staring at Harrison. I jump up and back away from her, fitting myself into a corner, but she makes no move to stop me. She has forgotten I exist.
“My apologies, Mr. Lawson,” Mr. Harrison says, his tone pleading. “I tried to take advantage. Please . . .”
“You underestimate me, just like my father always did,” Glen says through clenched teeth. “But for you there will be consequences.”
Joel forces Harrison to his knees. Harrison begins sputtering, his words incoherent. I watch Glen, astonished. Will he really go through with it?
And he does. The gunshot echoes through the large room, and Harrison slumps to the ground. Genevieve shrieks and backs into a bookcase behind her. Glen turns the gun on her. A quick pop and she slumps to the floor, tears still leaking from unseeing eyes.
Glen doesn’t pause. He holds his hand out for me, and I take it without hesitation. Joel is rifling through the desk, shoving things into a bag I hadn’t noticed before. “Let’s go, Joel,” Glen says, his voice urgent.
We flee from the house, and Joel takes us on a nightmare ride through the unfamiliar back roads. As we rush to the interstate, freedom, and home, I try to erase the images of the last thirty minutes from my mind. One thing I hold on to.
Glen will protect me with his life.
Now
I am in a new room today, a small lounge of sorts, with large windows and comfortable couches. It reminds me of Dr. Mulligan’s office, except there is no desk or file cabinet and the frames on the walls are filled with flowery pictures instead of certificates and diplomas. My mother sits in the chair perpendicular to the couch I am on. It is just the two of us today. My father is working, and Charlotte had to take one of her boys to the dentist. But I’m grateful for this time alone with the woman who would have raised me, had things turned out as they were supposed to.
She fidgets in the chair, and I realize she is just as nervous as I am. The realization calms me, and I smile at her. “I’m sorry . . . I’m not sure what to call you.”
Laughing, she relaxes a bit. “Whatever you’re comfortable with. Maybe you could start with Jane.” She moves her hand to cover mine. “Not that I don’t want you to call me Mom, but I thought maybe it would be easier . . .”
“Jane is good.” I hadn’t been sure what I wanted to call her until she suggested Jane. It feels right, for now.
“And . . .” Jane sounds hesitant. “Would you like me to call you Clara? I know that’s what you’ve gone by since . . .”
Surprised, I take a moment to think. I assumed they would call me by the name they knew. It hadn’t occurred to me that they would consider calling me by the name given to me by the people who took me. What do I want? How often have I even considered that question?
“Of course you’ll want to go by Clara,” Jane says when I do not respond. “It was silly of me to ask.” She digs in the bag she brought. “I was wondering if you might want to paint your fingernails?” She sounds uncertain, treading such an unfamiliar situation. “I guess I thought it would be nice to have something to do instead of just staring at each other. Or we could just talk.” She spills a handful of polish bottles onto the coffee table. “Whatever you like.”
I reach forward and run my fingers over the rainbow of colors on display. I find a pale yellow that reminds me of the fields of flowers where I used to play with my daughters at the compound. The memory stings only a little. Dr. Mulligan has encouraged me to hold on to the happy memories, despite the sadness and pain that might be attached. After all, as she pointed out, I don’t want to lose seventeen years’ worth of memories.
“Would you paint them for me?” I ask, extending the bottle toward Jane. Her entire face lifts with her smile, and the uncertainty vanishes from her eyes.
“I would be happy to, D—” She clears her throat. “. . . dear. Right hand first, I think.”
Her palms are smooth and dry as she holds my hand steady. The skin is soft and warm, and even though we have very little contact, that safe feeling comes over me again. We sit in silence for a few minutes, both concentrating on the shiny yellow polish sliding over the surface of my nails. The coolness of the liquid is a contrast to the warmth of the woman applying it.
“Jane,” I begin, and there is a small tremor in my voice that causes her to look up, a question in her eyes. “I was wondering . . . could you tell me what I was like as a little girl? I don’t remember much before . . .”
Pain slices through her eyes, but they clear almost at once, and the corners of her mouth quirk up before she returns to her task.
“Of course.” She takes a deep breath. “Where to begin . . . You were always an individual. From the time you were born, you wouldn’t let Charlotte boss you around. All my friends said you would walk later, talk later, do everything later than Charlotte, because she would be around to do them for you. But you weren’t having any of that.” She laughs. “You took your first steps at ten months. And you were smart, but not smart enough to be walking so young!” Her hand leaves mine for a moment and travels up to my face. I flinch as she brushes her fingers across my hairline. “This scar is from when you were eleven months old and tried to run after our cat, Freckles.” She traces the thin white line that has always been a part of my features, so much so that I hardly noticed it. “The top half of your body got ahead of your little legs, and you toppled right into the piano bench. It was the first of many bumps and bruises, but you learned.” She returns to her task, bending over my fingernails once again.
I bring my free hand to the scar, feeling the raised line that I had wondered about from time to time, but never given much thought. The enormity of what I’ve missed out on threatens to crush me. Had I grown up with Jane and Doug and Charlotte, the story of my scar would have been repeated, year after year, on holidays, on birthdays, whenever I was being particularly clumsy. Perhaps it would have become a family joke, a warning to others. “Don’t pull a Dee-Dee!” But instead, I am twenty-three years old and learning about it for the first time. A tear escapes, and I brush it away before Jane notices.
“What else?” I am hungry for more information, more clues about the girl I was before I was Clara.
Jane places my hand on the table to let my nails dry and reaches for the other. “You had quite the imagination. You drove your sister crazy with your stories.” A small laugh escapes. “She would trade you play time for quiet time, but she would spend most of the play time ‘setting up’ her area. Of course, you didn’t much follow her quiet time rules, either.”
All my nails are painted, and I admire the buttery color as Jane puts the cap back on the bottle. “Did Charlotte and I like each other?” I ask hesitantly.
“You were sisters.” Jane smiles. “You had your fights, but you loved each other. Lottie was always more serious, especially after . . . Well, you balanced each other out.” She stares out the window, wistful. “I always dreamed of seeing you two as teenagers, sharing clothes, talking about boys . . .” Her voice begins to wobble, and my eyes fill again.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. My life wasn’t the only one affected by Mama and Papa’s actions. I know this, but each time I talk to my family, I realize it mo
re. “I wish . . .”
Jane reaches out to grip my wrists, careful not to smudge my manicure. At first I recoil. Her strength surprises me, but it is not overpowering. I force myself to relax. She is not trying to dominate me, as Glen would if he made the same move. She just wants me to listen. I look straight into her eyes as she speaks, eyes that are so familiar though we were only recently reunited.
“Listen to me, C-Clara.” She stumbles on my name, but her voice remains strong. “This is not your fault. None of this is your fault. Those people stole you from us, stole you from yourself. You did what you had to do to survive all these years, and . . .” Her voice cracks as she chokes on a sob. “I am so thankful that you did.” Her hands release my wrists to cup my face. “I don’t want to waste any more of our time on misplaced apologies or unnecessary guilt. You are my daughter. And I love you. I have always loved you.”
My cheeks are wet. “But there’s so much you don’t know. About me. About what I’ve done.”
Jane is already shaking her head before I finish. “I don’t care. Do you hear me? I. Don’t. Care. I want to know you. I want to know what your life has been like. It’s going to hurt like hell, for both of us, but I need to know. And you need to trust that nothing—nothing—you can tell me will change how I feel about you. I won’t let you go again. I promise.”
My mother pulls me into her lap, though I have grown taller than her, and she holds me as I cry, and as she cries with me. She holds me as if she has been holding me for twenty-three years, and she holds me as if she will never let me go.
I believe that she won’t.
Then
It’s dark and I don’t like it. Those people said they would come back, but it’s been forever and I don’t want to stay here forever. My throat hurts from crying. I miss my mommy and daddy, but the lady said that they didn’t want me anymore and that I had to go with them. I wonder if they got rid of Lottie, too.
I’m really hungry. We were gonna get McDonald’s tonight, but I don’t think these new people know that I like chicken nuggets and not cheeseburgers. I hope they have a TV. And I hope Mommy gave them Theo. I can’t sleep without my little stuffed puppy. I start crying again because I really need Theo.
The door opens and that woman is standing there. I can hardly see her because she’s all dark and the light is behind her, but she is scary, so I scoot closer into the corner. She reaches down and grabs my arm, and it hurts.
“Ow!” I say. “That hurts. Don’t do that.”
She shakes me. “You will remain silent, child.”
“My name is Diana.”
I don’t see her hand coming, but she hits me across the face and it stings and I taste blood. It tastes like metal and it’s gross. I always taste it when I lose a tooth, but this time I just bit my cheek. I cry harder. Even if Mommy and Daddy don’t like me, they are nicer than this lady. I want to go back to them. Maybe if I clean my room more they will let me stay.
The woman drags me into another room, a kitchen, and shoves me into a chair at the table. There is a sandwich on a plate. “Eat,” she orders. I pick up the sandwich. Just cheese and butter. Gross. I put it back down.
“No, thank you,” I say, trying to use my polite voice. “Do you have any macaroni and cheese?”
The woman walks over and pinches my arm, hard. “Don’t!” I yell, drawing the word out. She is meaner than Lottie. She doesn’t say another word, but picks up my sandwich and throws it in the garbage.
“You won’t be eating tonight, Clara.”
“My name is Diana.”
“Not anymore, it isn’t,” she says. “My name is Mama Mae, and you will call me Mama Mae.”
“You are not my mom.”
Another slap across the face, and I feel one of my baby teeth wiggle. I only have a few left. I start to cry again.
“You will watch your mouth around me, Clara. You will speak only when asked a question. You will do exactly as you are told, or you will be punished. We will begin your training tomorrow.”
The man who was driving the car earlier walks into the room. “She giving you trouble, Mae?” he asks.
“No. Nothing unmanageable,” Mama Mae says. “Did you find Glen?”
“Yeah, he and Joel were down by the creek again.”
Mama nods, then turns back to me. “This is Papa G. You will do what Papa G says. He is in charge first, and then me. His punishments are harder than mine, so you would be smart to behave. Your old parents said you were smart. Are you smart, Clara?”
It is on the tip of my tongue to correct my name again, but instead I nod. I am smart. Mrs. Weisser says so. I am going to be in the gifted program next year. My heart feels sad when I think about school. I wonder if Mama Mae will let me go to my old school. We have a concert next week that I don’t want to miss. Maybe if I’m really good they’ll let me go.
“Good girl,” Papa G says, his voice gruff. “She’s a pretty one, Mae. She’ll bring in a good price in a few years.”
“And very trainable. That didn’t take long at all for her to stop talking back.” Mama Mae is watching me with a strange look in her eyes. “She is going to do big things for us, Glen.”
Papa looks at me again and leaves. Mama grabs my arm, leading me out of the kitchen and down a dark hallway. She takes a key from a necklace and unlocks a door at the end of the hallway. She pushes me into the room ahead of her.
“You’ll share a bed with Macy,” Mama says, nodding toward a girl sitting cross-legged on a double bed, already in a nightgown. “Here is something to sleep in. The bathroom is over there. Any of the girls can answer your questions. I will collect you in the morning.” With a whirl of skirts, Mama Mae is gone, locking the door behind her, leaving me clutching the nightgown she shoved into my hands.
I do not look at anyone, but go in the bathroom and change. The tiny room holds a gross sink with brown spots all over it and a toilet that wiggles when I sit on it. There’s a bathtub, too, but I hope I don’t have to use it. The nightgown I have been given is thin, and I scurry across the cold tile back into the other room. I do not know where to leave my clothes, so I take them back to the bed with me and ball them up to put under my pillow. I don’t want to let them out of my sight.
The other girl, Macy, is already under the covers. I climb in, and she turns to face me. “Hi.”
“Hello,” I say. I am feeling scared again. I want my mommy. The sheets are scratchy and the blanket has holes all over it.
“What’s your name?”
“Which one?”
Macy smiles, and I am surprised there is smiling here. Everyone seems so mean and serious. “Both.”
“My name is Diana. But they keep calling me Clara.”
Macy nods. “I’m Macy. My old name was Ella.”
“How long have you been here?”
She shrugs. “A few weeks?”
“Did your parents give you up?”
A sad look crosses Macy’s face. “Yes. Mama and Papa told me they didn’t want me anymore and wanted money instead. I still miss them, though.”
“Me too.” A tear escapes my eye, and I was trying really hard to stay brave. “Is it always so scary?”
“Yes, but you get used to it.”
A sharp rap on the door interrupts our conversation, as well as the other whispered conversations of the other girls in the room. “Quiet time, lights out!” Mama’s voice says. The lock clicks, and Mama pokes her head in. “You,” she says, looking at me. “You figured out where everything is?”
I nod, afraid to answer her. I don’t want to get hit again.
“Where are your clothes?”
Before I can answer, her eyes shoot to the side of me, where my brand-new Strawberry Shortcake T-shirt is sticking out from under my pillow. She stalks across the room, rips my clothes from under my pillow, and shakes them at me. “You always
put dirty laundry down the chute,” she scolds.
“I-I was wondering if I could keep them,” I say, my voice shaking.
“No.”
Without another word, Mama stomps into the bathroom, and I hear a whooshing sound as my clothes are tossed in with the rest of the laundry. I hide my tears until Mama turns out the light and locks us back in. No one even tries to make me feel better. I cry myself to sleep.
Now
I stare at the ceiling tiles in my room, waiting for Connor to retrieve me for Mama’s visit. I was allowed to call to ask her to visit, since I had denied her last several visits. I rub my rounded abdomen, taking comfort from Nut. I am doing this all for him. I have to be sure of my decision. If I follow through, Mama will be in prison. Glen will be in prison. Nut and I will be free.
Is being free from Glen what I want? I haven’t yet decided. That step will come later. By helping implicate Mama, however, the dominoes will begin to tip. And with the information I’ve already given them on Glen, his fate is almost certain. All they need is a little more proof to put him away forever. A wave of nausea runs through my body. Can I be without him? Before this, I never would have thought so. He has been my world for almost half my life, but I am learning that it doesn’t have to be that way.
I never expected to be in this position. But after learning all the things that Glen has done . . . I can’t help but think that he deserves whatever consequences they come up with. Part of my heart breaks at that knowledge. But the other part breaks for all the families he has destroyed, all the lives ruined, lost, because of his decisions. They deserve justice. I want to help deliver that, even if it means putting Glen away.
A part of me cannot help but wonder what kind of man Glen could have been if he had lived another life, if he hadn’t inherited this legacy. I remember him as that excited boy, the one who convinced me to run away from the only home I’d ever known with only his love and promises of a better life. What if we had succeeded that day? What if we’d gotten on that bus and disappeared? It’s almost painful to imagine what our lives might have been. We might have had our own family, kids we would have raised to be even better than we were. He might have been different. I know I would have been. I tamp down the guilt threatening to rise. Now is not the time for “could have beens.”