by Rena Olsen
I play until the park is empty and my tummy starts to rumble. I wonder how Lottie got in the house without Mommy checking to see if I was with her. I decide to head home to tell on her. I bet she’ll be in really big trouble. Maybe even get her dumb Barbies taken away. And maybe she’ll have to do all the laundry. I will change my clothes as much as Barbie does if Lottie is doing the laundry.
A car pulls up beside me, and a woman with dark hair leans out. “Hi there,” she says, smiling. “How are you, Diana?”
I stop and cross my arms. “How did you know my name?”
“Your mommy sent me. Get in the car, sweetie.”
“Nuh-uh,” I say, and start walking again. “Mommy said don’t get in the car with people I don’t know.”
“But we do know you! We’re going to your house tomorrow. Jane, I mean, your mom, invited us.”
She knows my mommy’s name. And my name. That means she must be a friend. I open the back door and hop inside. The man driving the car does not turn around. When we turn the wrong way, I get nervous. “Hey, lady, my house is the other way.”
She turns in her seat. “I’m sorry I had to lie to you, Diana. I do know your mommy, but not because of the party. She wanted us to take you. You’re going to live with us now.”
“What? That’s not right. Can we please go back and talk to her?”
“I’m afraid not. Your mommy and daddy don’t want you anymore. They said you are nothing but trouble. But we want you, Diana.”
I start to cry. “It’s not true! You’re a liar! Take me home!” The car jerks to a halt, and the woman climbs out of the front seat and opens the back door. I look around for a place to run, but she blocks my exit. I scramble across the seat to the other door, but it won’t open, no matter how hard I push.
“Calm down, child,” she says, reaching for me.
“No! Nononononono! I want my mommy!” I scream. The man gets out and comes around the car to help the woman. We are in a part of the big park where there are no playgrounds or other people.
“Hold her still, Mae,” the man barks, and pulls a bottle and a cloth from a sack he is holding. The woman’s arms hold me tight and it hurts how she squeezes me. The man pushes the cloth in front of my nose and it smells sweet, and I’m afraid that I won’t be able to breathe, but then I feel sleepy. My arms and legs can’t move anymore. And everything goes dark.
Now
Butterflies dance in my stomach, right alongside Nut, who is doing the rhumba. I fidget as I sit on the bench at the park, brushing imaginary lint from my skirt. My mom and Charlotte sit at the other end of the park, watching Charlotte’s children play on the playground. I rub my belly, talking to Nut. “Soon that will be us, angel,” I say. “I can’t wait for you to meet Grandma and Aunt Lottie and your cousins.”
“Clara?” A timid voice comes from behind me. I stand and turn around. A girl with wild hair and bright eyes stands, her hands lacing and unlacing in nervous rhythm, flanked by a kind-looking older couple. My Passion. She doesn’t use that name anymore.
“Emily,” I say, and walk around the bench, holding out my arms. She looks to the woman, who nods and nudges her toward me. Her face breaks into a grin as she rushes at me. We cling to each other, the wetness on my cheeks matching the wetness pooling on my shirt from her tears.
We have been in regular contact since I moved into a recovery house for trafficking victims, but this is the first time we have seen each other. We have been kept apart because of the trials, first Mama’s and then Glen’s, and my own hearing as well. Emily gave her testimony at Glen’s last week, and we have been granted permission to see each other again.
Emily steps back and her eyes widen at my pregnant belly. “Wow, Clare, you are huge!”
I laugh. “I’m about to pop any day. I can’t wait to meet him.”
She doesn’t ask any of the normal pregnancy questions, like what I’m going to name him. As she always has, Emily reads me and knows those are not questions for today. I take her hand and lead her to the bench.
“How are you? Really?” I ask, looking her in the eyes, not releasing her hands. She smiles.
“I’m really good.” She motions to the couple she came with, still standing a few feet away. “Mary and Leonard have been great. They’re helping me out a lot. I’m pretty far behind in school, but catching up fast. It’s different, but I like it.” Her face lights up. “They let me sign up for art classes. The teachers say I have a gift for seeing detail. I’m thinking about going to art school. You know, after I graduate.”
My heart fills as I look at her, as passionate as ever, but over something she chose for herself. She deserves it. Through letters I have learned that Emily was a foster child when she was taken. She had been in the system for years, bounced from home to home. That’s why no one claimed her that first day. Her current foster parents stepped up to take her in, and she has flourished with them. I stand again, walk over to the couple, and extend my hand toward Mary.
“Thank you,” I say, and my voice catches. I can barely speak around the emotion in my throat. “Thank you for taking care of her.”
Mary ignores my hand and pulls me into a hug. “You’re welcome.” No other words need to be said. There are too many and not enough. Emily joins our huddle, and Leonard pats our backs with awkward hands. These are the parents Emily deserves. I was her mother for a while, but Mary can be the mother I never was. And I am glad of it.
Emily and I walk around the park for a while, arms linked, talking about the future, but avoiding discussing the past. She asks about the other girls. I have not been allowed to see any of the rest of them, nor will I be allowed. Though my heart aches for them, I know it is for the best. Emily was a special circumstance, and rather than have her run away to find me, the powers that be made an exception. She will be eighteen soon anyway.
I introduce Emily to my family. She seems so grown up as I watch her interact with my nephews. I feel a pang as I realize that I stole that kind of childhood from her. I take a deep breath and correct myself. I didn’t steal it. Glen did. Mama and Papa did. I am a victim as well. That’s what Dr. Mulligan makes me repeat each time we meet. I hope I believe it soon.
I hug Emily good-bye and we promise to get together again soon. “I love you,” she whispers, her words a balm to my soul. “You will always be my mother.” And then she is gone.
Then
“Girls, start your chores!” I call upstairs. I can hear them giggling, and I smile at their antics. I’m glad Glen is not around. He has been in a strange mood all week. I’ve seen him carrying papers up to put in the safe in our bedroom, and he has burned boxes of papers in the fire pit every night. I hope we aren’t moving again. I love this house.
Daisy stumbles down the stairs, her eyes sleepy, hair rumpled. “Cassidy says I have to help clean the toilet,” she says. “I don’t know how to clean the toilet.”
I smile at her and take her hand. “Let’s get you ready first, and then we’ll talk about it, okay?” I find a brush in the bathroom and sit at the kitchen table. I feel Daisy relax as I begin to pull the brush through her long silky strands. “You have such pretty hair, Daisy,” I say.
She doesn’t reply, but I see her small smile in the reflection in the window. We sit in companionable silence until I hear gravel crunching on the driveway, announcing the arrival of visitors.
Now
I pat the last of the dirt in place and wipe my hand across my forehead. I cannot wait to see how these flowers bloom. I have added to the garden every season in the two years that I have lived in this small cottage. We are just down the block from my parents and across the street from Charlotte and her family.
Charlotte and I had plenty of things to work through, and I still see Dr. Mulligan two times a month. Charlotte carried the guilt of my disappearance for years, believing that if she had not used such harsh words, I never would hav
e gotten into the car with Mama and Papa. It’s strange to see guilt on someone else, and it helped me to realize that we are not just the sum total of our actions. Every choice is an intricate result of many different factors.
My probation ended three months ago, though I will spend the rest of my life attempting to atone for my sins. I work with the local human trafficking task force, volunteer at the women’s mission in town, and speak to groups to raise awareness. I share my story in the hope that others will not go through what I did, and each time I share it, another piece of me is healed. I also took over running the support group that helped me so much when I needed it. In another year, I will earn my college degree, and after that I hope to go on for more schooling. Perhaps someday I will be a Dr. Mulligan for someone else.
Connor called last week to tell me that Mae Lawson had died in prison. She was found hanged in the bathroom, and they suspect foul play. It does not surprise me that Mae would make enemies.
I stand and brush the dirt off my hands. “Ella! Let’s go wash up!”
My daughter stops jumping rope and skips over to me. She gazes up at me with bright blue eyes. Glen’s eyes. “Okay, Mommy!” She kisses my hand and runs into the house.
Ella has been the brightest light in my life. No one was more surprised than I when Nut turned out to be a girl, but I could not have been happier. I dread the moment when she starts asking questions about her father. It will come soon, I am sure, but for now, I am enjoying watching her grow into a little person.
I have tried to hate Glen, but I cannot. He will always hold a part of my heart. My first love. My only love. The man who gave me Ella. For me, she was conceived in love. And I think, in his own way, Glen always loved me, too. He just didn’t have a very good example of what love looked like. Perhaps that’s why I can’t bring myself to hate him. It wouldn’t be worth the energy anyway. Between his trafficking and at least four murders, he will be in prison for life.
They were able to track down some of the girls we had sold throughout the years using the files in Glen’s safe. Many men were brought to justice, and many girls were saved. For many others, however, rescue came too late. My heart aches every day for the daughters I lost, who will never again know true freedom.
“Excuse me?” A woman is on the sidewalk, staring at me. I have been so lost in my memories that I did not hear her approach.
“Hello,” I say, walking to stand in front of her.
“Hi.” She smiles. “My name is Carol, and we just moved in two houses down.” I had seen a moving van there earlier, but hadn’t paid much attention to who it was. “I have a daughter about your daughter’s age, so I wanted to come introduce myself.”
I smile back at her. Ella will be so excited to have a playmate. I wipe the remaining dirt from my palm and extend my arm to shake her hand.
“My name is Diana.”
Acknowledgments
Making a book is hardly a solitary venture. It would probably take another book just to fully thank everyone who has been a part of this process.
First, I want to thank my parents. You always taught me to believe in myself and to be confident in my abilities. You were the ones who believed in me even when I struggled to believe in myself. To my mom, Martha Olsen, who read The Girl Before numerous times, in every iteration, sometimes in just a day: thank you for your tireless work and all the time you’ve dedicated to helping this book to be the best it could be. And to my dad, Tim Olsen, who has always been my biggest fan, even before the book was written: thank you for your boundless enthusiasm and infectious excitement, even through the more difficult stages.
Thank you to my siblings, both by blood and by marriage, Ben and Heather Olsen, Emily and Martin Moen, for your unwavering support and love. Ben and Emily, you are the best big brother and sister I could ask for. Thank you for being amazing examples in my life, and for pushing me to try new things, especially when one of those new things was trying to write a book. Heather and Martin, thank you for jumping into the family and treating me like a sister. You make our family whole.
To my incomparable agent, Sharon Pelletier, I am so thankful to have you as a partner in this crazy endeavor. You understood Clara in an uncanny way from the very beginning, and helped shape her story into something special.
Thank you to my incredibly talented editor, Sara Minnich Blackburn, who continued the work of shaping The Girl Before into the gem it is today. Every new suggestion, even the hardest ones, made my book even better, and I’m proud of the story we crafted together. And thank you to Liz Stein, who got the ball rolling in making those first changes.
The team at Putnam has been wonderful, and I feel so blessed to be a part of such a prestigious group. There are so many talented people who have had a hand in helping to make The Girl Before into something we can all be proud of. To all the readers, copy editors, the amazing cover designers, and the marketing team, I am forever and eternally grateful for the work that you do. It’s an unbelievable feeling to have so many people believe in this story.
I have been so lucky to have a giant support system of friends that have been cheering me on from the start. Thank you to Andrea Gustafson, my Alpha Gal, who read some of my earliest work and told me years ago that she would see my name on shelves. To Kari Hunerdosse, Beta Babe extraordinaire, who was one of the first to read The Girl Before and tell me it was something special, and who also keeps me on my toes by demanding more words on a regular basis. To Jenny Moyer, who held my hand in the early days of this journey, who was there for the disappointments and the celebrations, and who continued to encourage me through countless lunches and frantic texts. You deserve all the cake, girl.
Kathleen Palm, thank you for being my best cheerleader, my sunshine on rainy days, and for the countless gifts of happiness. You have an uncanny ability to know when I need a pick-me-up, and I’m fairly certain you’re made of magic. Margie Brimer, you are my soul sister. Thank you for your input on the early stages of The Girl Before, and in all aspects of my life, actually. Jamie Adams and Sarah Bales, thank you for hours in the Clubhouse, brainstorming with me and convincing me to keep going. Tana Haemmerle, thank you for your extreme honesty and for your unparalleled friendship and support. I wouldn’t have made it here without you.
To Sara Burrier, I always thought you were just a bit too cool to hang out with me. Thanks for being one of my best friends, and for inspiring me in so many different ways to tell Clara’s story. My life is better with you in it.
And Nicole Worthley, the other half of my brain, my person, and the one who first brought the important issue of human trafficking to my attention. You are a rare and precious gem, and God blessed me when He put you in my life all those years ago.
Thank you to all those who fight daily to bring freedom to the men, women, and children who find themselves in seemingly hopeless situations. You give me hope that someday slavery really will be eradicated.
Most importantly, I thank God for all the beautiful blessings He’s given me. Everything listed above is only a small portion of what I’ve experienced. I truly wouldn’t be writing this right now without Him.
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