Later never came. Sometimes Naomi wondered why it mattered. Why did she care if her mother spent time with her? Most teenagers her age wanted nothing to do with their parents.
“Naomi, does that bother you?”
She looked up. “No, I guess not.”
Another glance at the book in her lap. “What are you reading?”
Naomi looked down, her mind shuffling over the first paragraphs of chapter three—something about motorboats slicing their way across the water and oranges and lemons piled into pulpless pyramids. She liked the language and imagery. It was bright and colorful in her mind, even now as she looked up at her mother.
“It’s for school,” she stammered. “The Great Gatsby. I just started it.”
“Oh, that’s one of my favorites.” She smiled brighter than Naomi had seen in a long time. “Do you like it so far? Have you met Gatsby yet?”
A tremor shot from her heart to her toes. She had no idea her mother liked to read anything but thick, dry reference books with complicated law titles stamped into the leather spines. She assumed all the fiction in the library was for sheer decoration.
“Um, no, I haven’t.”
“Don’t judge him too unfairly in the beginning. I promise he gets better.”
Naomi was speechless. It wasn’t that her mother had never surprised her before with random stints of conversation. She sometimes seemed genuinely interested in her life—for about two minutes, anyway, until her cell phone rang or the housekeeper needed something or a quick glance at her wristwatch reminded her that two minutes talking to her daughter was two minutes too long. That was how their relationship worked—little bits here and there like scattered breadcrumbs leading to a real family that spent time together. The only problem was Naomi seemed to keep getting lost in the woods. She had accepted it long ago, but now as she saw her mother looking at The Great Gatsby with a long, thirsty gaze, she wondered if she might be wrong. Maybe there was hope after all and she could catch a glimpse of who her mother really was, and that might lead to something long hidden about herself, as well—something she had always felt was locked away.
Karen shook her head as if waking herself up from a dream and stood up from her chair. Naomi sighed. Nope. There wasn’t anything hiding beneath her mother’s shell. She was who she was. She was probably going to leave. Seven minutes had already passed.
“Let me find something for you,” Karen said, and walked across the room to a bookshelf. “I first read this when I was your age. I think it might be my favorite novel.” She walked back and placed a slender book in Naomi’s lap. “You don’t have to read it. Just let me know what you think if you do.”
She glanced at her watch, and Naomi saw the change in her face from the mother she barely knew to the efficient attorney she hated.
“I came in here to make sure you know about your father’s banquet in two weeks,” Karen said. “It’s to celebrate the commencement of the merger. There will be photographers and dinner, and we want you there. Bring Brad, if you like.”
Now they were back on normal turf.
She nodded without a second thought. “Okay.”
Whatever.
She had heard it all before, been to the banquets, posed for the pictures. The only good thing about any of it was the excuse to buy a new dress. She opened her book again and started the chapter over, but stopped to glance at the novel her mother had placed in her lap.
It was a thin hardback, old and well-worn. One crumpled edge, a smudge of dirt near the spine. A part of her wanted to pick it up and start reading immediately, but another part pulled away and stayed away.
THE BUTTERY scent of scrambled eggs woke her up. It was seven o’clock. Blue morning light glittered through the curtains. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, looked at the eggs and toast on the nightstand, and lifted the plate to her lap.
The eggs were hot, fluffy, and lightly salted. They were so much better than Mindy’s eggs. Mindy was her parents’ current housekeeper, and the eggs she made were too dry.
She was halfway finished before she noticed Evelyn cleaning the bathroom. Already dressed for the day, she was kneeling on the floor with her back to Naomi. Her willowy frame bent over as she swept up the hair she had promised to get rid of two days ago. Then she stood and wiped down every surface in the bathroom. After emptying the trash, she opened drawers and cupboards so she could put away everything Naomi had taken out of the Wal-Mart bags a few days earlier.
Mortified, Naomi watched. She was used to somebody cleaning up after her—her nannies until she was thirteen, then Mindy—but they were paid to do it, and she had never sat and watched them clean up her messes. Should she have been tidier? Should she offer to help? Apologize?
Evelyn stepped out of the bathroom and smiled. “How are the eggs?”
She swallowed. “They’re really good. Thank you.”
Why was she being so damn polite? And why was she ashamed for feeling dependent when they were forcing her to be?
“I’m glad.” Evelyn approached the bed. “Eric made them for you.”
The fork nearly slipped from her fingers. “That was ... nice of him.”
“I thought so. He feels bad about slapping you last night.” She stepped closer to the bed. “That’s not how we’re going to treat you from now on, okay? We want you to be comfortable. You’ll learn to like it here, I promise. Just don’t try to get away.”
There was a pleading tone to her voice. Naomi wanted to promise her she wouldn’t try to get away, but that would be stupid, so she kept her mouth shut. She wondered what went through Evelyn’s mind when she looked at her. Was she merely a prize Eric had brought home one day? Someone Evelyn could “play with” and take care of? For some reason, that didn’t disturb her nearly as much as it should.
“I won’t be able to bring you lunch on weekdays,” Evelyn said, “so today I’ll pick up some snacks at the store you can keep up here to eat during the day. I get home at four and start dinner around five or six. Eric might let you eat with us downstairs, but I’m not sure yet.” She glanced at the toast left on Naomi’s plate. “Is there anything you don’t like to eat?”
She fidgeted with the fork in her hand, considering the fact that the house would be empty for most of the day, and that her own mother had never asked her such a simple question as what she liked to eat. She looked up. “I can’t stand fish.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” She turned and headed for the door. “I’ll bring up a hamper for your dirty clothes. Laundry’s done once a week.”
When she was gone, Naomi looked down at the remaining eggs on her plate. She was no longer hungry. The mere thought of Eric preparing something for her to eat made her stomach twist. She set the plate on the nightstand and curled back under the covers. She needed Brad’s arms around her. He would tell her she was doing the right thing by not fighting back. She missed him no matter what the rational side of her mind kept telling her about not loving him. He only wanted to protect her and love her. What was so bad about that?
THE LATE January air was frigid the night she first realized he might hit her. It was only a few weeks before she was kidnapped. The cold air was expected since the entire winter had been cooler than normal. She had been forced to pull out old, heavy sweatshirts and coats she hadn’t worn in two years.
Brad was lying on his stomach on top of her bed and reached his hands to the floor where she sat Indian-style. She was trying to finish the last chapter of The Great Gatsby.
“Wear your white hoodie,” he said when she told him she couldn’t possibly go since all her winter clothes were downstairs in the laundry room.
“What white hoodie?” She kept her eyes focused on her book, annoyed that he wasn’t letting her finish, and even more annoyed that he wanted her to go for a three-mile walk down the beach to party with a bunch of people from school she didn’t even like.
“The one I bought you, remember? You wore it yesterday; I can see it in your hamper.”
&nb
sp; She twisted around. He was right, and she scrunched her nose. “It smells like fish. It got wet when I reached into the tide pool, remember?”
“It does not.” He jumped off the bed and went to the hamper. “Well, maybe a little,” he mumbled after pressing one of the sleeves to his nose. “But who cares? You won’t be able to smell it outside.”
He was right. Again.
As they headed down the beach hand in hand, the only thing she could smell was the drifting, hot scent of a bonfire. When they finally reached the party, she was freezing. She had only worn flip-flops and could hardly feel her sand-covered toes as Brad led her to a log close to the fire.
He left her sitting between two groups clustered in their own conversations, and as she patiently waited for him to get her some food, she pressed her knees and elbows together and stared into the flames. She was admiring the color when somebody sat next to her.
“You’re Brad’s girl, right?” a deep voice asked.
She jumped and turned to face the guy. He was skinny, but not nerdy, with longish, dark brown hair swept across his forehead. She thought he looked handsomely philosophical, with thin, wire-rimmed glasses perfectly balanced on his polished, symmetrical features.
“His girl?” she replied, annoyed. “I guess you could call me that.”
“Oh, sorry. Naomi, right?”
“Yes.”
He reached out a hand for her to shake, something she wasn’t used to from her own age group. None of them were so formal.
“I’m Damien, Brad’s roommate if he decides to come to Berkeley this fall.”
She took his hand, suddenly recalling Brad’s mention of him awhile back—some friend of his she had never met. He had graduated three years ago, and if she remembered right, was supposed to be a great photographer.
“I’m sorry,” she exclaimed sheepishly. “Brad told me about you, but he didn’t say you’d be here tonight.”
His grip was strong as he looked through his glasses into her eyes. “Yeah, I’m visiting my parents for the weekend. This usually isn’t my kind of thing. I mean, the cops’ll probably show up in a few hours since everyone here is underage.”
She dropped her eyes to the beer in his hand and gave him a half-smile. “And you aren’t?”
“I’m twenty-two.”
“Oh, right.”
“Anyway, Brad’s told me a lot about you. Says you’re into photography.” He smiled—a cute smile with dimples. “I’m always looking for somebody else who enjoys it as much as me. You know, who’s actually serious about it.”
She was hooked.
They talked for ten minutes, halfway through which she wondered where Brad was, but kept talking anyway. That was when she learned about the fog.
“This will be a great spring,” Damien said with a toothy grin. “Nice and cold. Perfect for fog. You know, so thick you can barely see through it? If you catch it right when it’s rolling in, you can get some eerie-looking shots.” He took a drink. “We’ll do anything for a great shot, right?”
Chuckling, she lifted her wrists to her nose. The smell was faint, but revolting.
“What’s the matter?” He laughed. “You look like you’re gonna hurl.”
She lowered her hands. “It’s just ... I hate the smell of fish, and I was digging around in this tide pool yesterday to straighten out a starfish. You know, for that perfect shot? Well, I got my sleeves wet and now they reek.”
“What? Tide pool water doesn’t smell like fish.”
He chuckled and dropped his eyes to her hands now lying in her lap. “May I?” he asked, reaching to touch her fingers. Before she could answer, he slipped her hand into his and lifted the cuff of her sweatshirt to his nose.
His touch was gentle, but persistent. His thumb caressed her skin as he looked into her eyes. He slid the cuff up her arm and turned the underside of her wrist to his lips. What did he think he was doing? Every move made her jumpy and hot, like the flames a few feet away.
He breathed slowly, practically kissing her pale skin with his lips. Excitement wound its way through her. How would those lips feel against her mouth? Those sweet caresses on her neck? She tried to shove the thought away as he took a deep, sensual breath that sent heat all the way down to her chilled toes. Finally, when she thought her heart couldn’t beat any faster, he let go.
“You’re crazy,” he said softly, and then with an elegant smile, “I couldn’t smell fish at all. Only you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you smell incredible. Like lilies.”
She wasn’t sure if he was trying to flirt with her or not, if the confident, dimpled smile and the way he had touched her was supposed to make her knees weak and her hands warm, or if she was imagining it all. Either way, she was shocked at how he made her feel; at how easily a complete stranger could sweep her off her feet when she was already in love with Brad.
Where was Brad?
She looked up to see him standing ten feet away, carrying a plate of food and two open beers. He was stopped in his tracks, frozen next to the fire with fury scorching his face. Embarrassed to see him watching her, she pushed down the cuff of her sleeve as he shot an angry glance at Damien.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he snapped.
Damien smiled and shrugged, apparently oblivious that Brad looked like he might deck him. “Yeah, me neither. I’m in town for the weekend and saw Naomi sitting here.” He took a long drink from his beer. “I recognized her from the picture you showed me last summer, remember?”
Brad shifted his weight across the sand. “Yeah, I remember.” He stepped forward and sat down on the other side of Naomi. His thigh pressed against hers. “So I guess you two found a lot to talk about while I was gone?” He leaned forward and shoved the two beers into the sand. His irritation was thick and intense. Naomi could have felt it a mile away, but Damien wasn’t reacting to it. He was either extremely imperceptive or he simply didn’t care. She was inclined to think the latter. All she wanted to do was disappear, but she grabbed one of the beers instead and took a long swallow. Maybe it would take the edge off everything.
Damien leaned forward to look at Brad. “Sure, we found a lot to talk about. You know we both like photography.” Then with a heavy sigh, “So have you decided where you’re going to school yet? Should I count on you for the other half of my rent?”
Naomi watched the orange flames of the bonfire shimmer off his glasses before she took another swig of beer and turned to Brad, who was staring down at the plate of food in his lap.
“I don’t know yet,” he mumbled, and leaned forward to snatch the other beer from the sand. He took a long, deep swallow before wrapping an arm around her waist. He squeezed her tightly. So tightly it hurt.
“Baby, are you hungry?”
She looked at the plate in his lap and nodded. The hot dog he handed her was charred, topped with lots of mustard. That was just the way she liked it.
“Looks good,” Damien said and stood. He smiled down at her. “Guess I’ll talk to you later. See how those night shots go, huh?”
“Wait a sec.” Brad set his plate on the ground and stood up to face Damien. Of the two, Brad was more daunting despite his younger age. He worked out nearly every day and was proud of his sculpted biceps and six-pack abdomen. He said he did it for Naomi. He thought she liked his strength, and when she ran her hands across his smooth, muscle-taught skin, she was thinking protector, intimacy, safe—when what she was shamefully thinking lately was pain. Sometimes he was just too rough with her.
“Listen,” Brad snapped into Damien’s face, “I don’t want you anywhere near her, understand? There’s a reason I’ve kept her away from you, and you damn well know why.”
“Sure, whatever you say. Let me know when you’re moving in, alright?”
Damien gave her a brief smile and walked away before Brad could say anything else. He whipped around to face her with clenched fists at his sides.
“I swear,” he hissed as she shove
d her beer back into the sand and shakily ran a finger across her wrist, “if you ever look at somebody like that again ....”
“Like what, Brad?”
She tried to ignore the sweat breaking out on her palms as his fists tightened. He had never hit her before, but that look in his eyes was all too familiar. She was sure he could slam one of those fists into her face without a second thought. Worse than that, he might make her do something in bed that might hurt more than usual. She twisted her trembling hands together at the thought. A fist might be better, but the problem with that was she would have to hide the bruise under makeup, and if someone noticed, she would have to explain it away with some stupid excuse. There was no way she would risk getting Brad in trouble, and he knew it. It was in that moment that something shifted inside her head, like a puzzle piece moving into place.
His fists unclenched and he softened his expression and sat back down next to her. “I shouldn’t get angry with you because of him. He’s a great friend, but he’s a regular player. That’s the main reason I don’t want him near you. Somebody like you ... he’s always looking for an easy—”
He stopped and ran his hand up her back. “Don’t talk to him anymore, okay?”
She spotted some mustard on her thumb, eerily bright in the glow of the fire. “Okay,” she answered softly.
The food wasn’t appetizing anymore as she imagined Brad actually hitting her. For the way she was feeling about Damien, she probably deserved a swift punishment.
VI
March
NAOMI SPENT A LOT OF TIME IN THE shower. She took at least two a day, sometimes three. If she was extremely bored, she took four. Maybe it was because she liked the tile walls. They turned slick and dark under the water and reminded her of moss-covered cave walls or smooth stones at the bottom of a river. Safe, enclosed places.
There was a spot between two of the tiles where the grout had turned soft. With her fingernail, she had scratched a mark for every day she was kidnapped.
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