by Barnes, Vivi
Most of the results again focus on the various deals of Carlton Brownlow and his company. Pictures of him as an old man are scattered through various articles. His face looks so familiar. I glance at the black-and-white image stapled to the paper in front of me. Maybe I’ve seen him on TV or in the Wall Street Journal. I know it was recent.
I get his place and date of birth, early family life, parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles—recording everything I can find that could be used for a password. It can’t be easy if Bill’s team already tried. Looks like he was married with one child—a daughter named Agnes—and both wife and daughter are listed as deceased.
In an old newspaper clipping, I find a picture of him and his wife in a society paper. They look young and happy, maybe in their forties. The background includes a welcome sign for Niagara Falls, and the caption reads, “Mr. and Mrs. Carlton Brownlow revisit Niagara Falls for park rededication.” Brownlow is obviously quite a public figure, which helps.
I open an article about some arts foundation and scan through it. A close-up of an older Brownlow and his wife and daughter appears at the side of the article. The daughter looks to be in her mid-teens, with dark hair and large brown eyes that seem familiar somehow. I zoom in and stare at the picture for a moment. The caption underneath the smiling family reads, “Carlton Brownlow and his wife, Olivia, are featured benefactors of the arts at this weekend’s event.”
Something snaps inside my head like a trap that finally catches the elusive mouse. I can’t take my eyes off the picture, off the familiar heart-shaped locket the woman in the photograph is wearing.
Shit.
…
Liv
At six o’clock, I shut down the laptop and slip it under my bedspread before joining Denise in the kitchen to help her put together the appetizers for Derrick’s party. She runs through her list with me: deviled eggs, sausage balls, fruit platter with strawberry cream cheese, chips and dip. I peruse the list and decide that since Denise is so picky, I’ll chop the vegetables and fruit. I’m slicing strawberries when Derrick walks through.
“Oh, Olivia, it’s so nice that you’re helping Denise put together the appetizers. Isn’t that nice, Denise?”
I look at him. Does he not remember telling me I had no choice in the matter? He walks over to me with an arm stretched out, but I quickly slide away to the other side of the island. He acts like he doesn’t notice, but I wish he would.
The guests begin to show up at six thirty, and an eclectic group it is. It looks like the only thing they have in common is that they work together. Derrick opens up the liquor cabinets and begins acting as bartender for the group, having me take a Bloody Mary to the vamp-looking woman, a rum and Coke to the guy who’s obviously gay and comfortable with it, a beer to the ex-football-player-turned-salesman. Derrick and the wanna-be-a-football-star guy spend a lot of time talking about their glory days on the high school football team. Bor-ing.
Derrick makes a special martini for his boss, who politely accepts and sips at it, but then slogs it down when he doesn’t think anyone’s looking.
Okay, then.
Derrick himself holds a drink of one kind or another all night, as does Denise. Her usual vodka and tonic in hand, she starts getting loopy pretty early on. I’m starting to see a new side of Denise—one that looks nothing like the withdrawn, mopey woman who barely says two sentences to anyone. She’s making stupid jokes about sausage balls and hanging on Derrick. Derrick has his hands all over her.
Ick. I can’t take any more of this.
Though he had insisted I stay out and help with the party all night, I head to my room. My guess is that Denise will crash soon and Derrick will probably be pissed that she didn’t fulfill any of her promises.
I pull out my laptop and do searches for Z and Sam and Monroe Street Home for Boys and Girls instead. I know it won’t show me anything except generic information—and absolutely nothing on Z—but now that I know what they do, I’m interested in finding any possible hint of information. I find Sam’s birth records in Washington, DC, but nothing else.
It doesn’t make any sense. There was tons of information on me—the proof is sitting in Derrick’s closet in that little box. Which reminds me of the disc in my laptop bag. I reach over to fish around the inside of the bag until my fingers feel the smooth round disc. I pull it out and slip it in the CD slot of my laptop.
The computer whirs for a while, then iMovie opens up. I had assumed the files would be PDF files, not a video. Did they record their responses, too? Curious, I click the play button.
The video is black and white and seems to be from high above in a room. I watch, but nothing is moving. I peer closer. It looks very much like…my room.
I gasp. It is my room. I can see my Believe poster on the wall, over my bed. Why is my room being recorded? Nothing happens for a minute, then I watch as I walk through the door, kicking off my shoes and pulling my Slice of Happy polo over my head. I’m in my bra, searching in my closet for a T-shirt.
I’m in my bra!
I stare at the screen, my throat suddenly constricted so badly that I can’t breathe. Why are they recording me?
Not “they.”
He.
As soon as the thought enters my mind, I know it’s true. The memories of the seemingly kind touches and fatherly gazes flood through me like pinpricks all over my skin. Derrick has been watching me. He’s a pervert of the worst kind.
My stomach churns as I watch myself slide out of my pants and slip on some shorts—and between, a clear shot of my panties—then grab my homework folder and lie down on the bed. I force my eyes up from the screen toward the ceiling, and there’s what seems to be a small hole where the ceiling meets the wall.
The door bursts open suddenly and I slam the laptop cover down. My hands are shaking, but I slide them under my legs and fight against the bile rising into my throat as I face Derrick.
“’Livia, you’re not supposed to have that,” he slurs. “You’re gonna get in trouble with the missus, but don’t worry, I won’t tell.” He holds his finger to his lips. His eyes are glassy and unfocused.
“You should knock,” I say, my voice raspy. The words register in my brain only after they’ve left my lips. It’s a little late for knocking.
“Oh shhure. Come on out. I need help cleaning up; everybody’s leaving.” He stands there for a moment, lurching on his heels, then shuffles away.
I slip the laptop under my covers and pull my knees up to my chin. As if on fast replay, my mind shifts quickly through memories of helping Derrick in the kitchen, trying to avoid his casual hugs and touches.
Oh, God.
Maybe I should go to Sam. Maybe Z…no, not Z. He’d go ballistic.
Maybe the video is just to see if I’m doing drugs. Maybe this is a ploy of both Denise and Derrick to see what the bad foster kid is doing. I close my eyes and pray that’s all it is.
I hear my name being called. I grit my teeth and step out to the living room to get this over with. Maybe I can convince Derrick to go to bed so I can clean up in silence. He doesn’t drink often, but from what I’ve seen from the few times he’s had too much, he gets riled up easily.
There are only a few people left now. Denise is nowhere to be seen, so I assume she’s already crashed. The vamp lady is running a hand along Derrick’s chest as she leaves. He slaps her on her ass and she winks suggestively at him.
I look away before I lose whatever’s in my stomach.
Another couple guys stumble out the door with Vamp Lady, apologizing for having to leave early, since she’s their ride. Last to leave is his drunk boss, who slurs about how grateful he is to have such a great employee.
I pick up the cups off the floor and stack them on top of dirty, discarded plates. I offer to Derrick that I’ll clean everything.
“Nooo, ’Livia. I made the mess; I help clean it up.” He gets a black trash bag and puts the paper items into it, clean and dirty, whistling the whole time. I give up
and head to the sink to wash the serving dishes. As I dump what’s left of the salsa down the drain, I sense Derrick watching me. I cut my eyes over to see him tilting his head at me, smiling. My gaze switches back to the sink as I rinse out the bowl, my mouth suddenly dry.
“Okay, I’ll clean the rest in the morning. Let’s call it a night,” I say, turning around with bowl in hand.
“Olivia, you’re so pretty,” he says, moving closer to me. My heart pounding in my ears, I try to slide around the island but slip in a puddle of something and fall forward onto the tile, smashing the salsa bowl and cutting my hand.
“Crap!” I pull a large shard of glass out of the oozing red gash on my hand and press it against my stomach to stop the bleeding.
“Oh, no, let me help you,” Derrick says as he crouches to push me up. I try to move around but he’s gripping my injured hand, making me wince in pain. “You’re bleeding. I need to have a look at that.”
“It’s okay,” I gasp as I stand and try to wrench my poor hand away. “I’ll go wash it off. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll be right back.” Sometimes the quickest way to get out of a bad situation is to pretend to go along with it. It’s always worked for me in the past.
“No, no, lemme help you. You’re in so much pain, Olivia.” He pushes me back against the sink, crooning, “Poor Olivia,” and I shove at him with my good hand, as hard as I can. He doesn’t budge. His hand moves under the hem of my shirt but I push it away. He laughs but moves toward me again.
“Derrick, get off me. You’re drunk. You don’t want me. Go wake up Denise.”
“Denise is a cold, frigid bitch. Not like you.”
“Get off me. DENISE!” I scream as loud as I can, trying to squirm out of his strong grasp. He shoves one of my arms behind my back, pressing his body against me hard to trap it. He grabs my wrist and pushes it up against the cupboard. It shocks me how strong he is for a drunk. The stabbing pain in my hand doubles as it’s crushed behind my body.
“None of that,” he rasps, leaning close. The stench of stale alcohol sends a wave of nausea through me. “You’re not so innocent. I’ve seen you together—in the kitchen and at the club. I know you’ve been screwing that guy.”
“At the club?” Oh my God. A dim memory of someone who looked like Derrick from the back flashes in my mind. “Why?”
He laughs hollowly and presses closer. “Your little friend got in the way. You didn’t need him. I would’ve taken care of you.”
Derrick drugged me. His admission makes me more terrified, if that’s even possible. I try without success to wriggle away, my knees shaking so badly that I can barely support myself.
He works his leg between mine and moves his free hand up to my chest, forcing his way under my bra and squeezing me hard. I start to cry, my whole body trembling uncontrollably, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t care. He releases my wrist and moves down to fumble with the button of my jeans as his mouth presses hard on mine. I try to shove him away, but my muscles seem to have forgotten how to move. He grabs my hand again and holds it above my head, against the cupboard. I try to scream but my throat is so tight that nothing more than a squeak comes out.
I can’t let him do this.
My senses come reeling back to me and as hard as it is to do, I relax for a moment, just long enough for him to believe I’m going to comply, then turn my face and sink my teeth into his arm. He yelps and yanks it away. The distraction allows me to thrust my knee up into his groin, making him double over in pain.
I shove away from him and run on quivering legs to my room, slamming the door behind me and looking around for something to place against it, since none of the stupid doors in this house have locks. Oh, why didn’t I run out the front? I manage to move the desk chair underneath the knob and sit with my back flat against the door, breathing fast, shaking violently, tears pouring down my face.
“Olivia? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” Derrick’s muffled voice sounds on the other side. He tries to push it open, but the chair holds, blocking his entry. “Come on, let’s talk about this. I want to help you.”
“Go away!” I scream as hard as I can, quaking even more at his wheedling voice. “Go away! Go away!”
Nothing but silence. I pull my shirt over my face and sob into it.
The throbbing in my hand soon reminds me of my other problem. I look at the gash and the blood everywhere. There’s no way I’m going back out there, but I remember a half-empty bottle of water in my backpack. I stumble over and use my good hand to unzip it, grateful to see the bottle still there. I manage to open the cap and pour the water into the wound. It doesn’t do much, and the liquid makes it sting, but I have no other options.
I wrap the hand in one of my clean older shirts, tying the knot with my teeth. Terrified that Derrick may try to break in again, I grab Z’s jacket and slump down in front of the door. I wish I had a cell so I could call Z or Sam. Or the police. But what would happen then? I could climb out the window, but it’s pouring rain, and I have no idea where to go. I crawl on my knees to the alarm clock and fumble with it to set it at 6:00 a.m., so I can get out of the house before Derrick and Denise are up.
My broken thoughts tumble over one another as I crawl back to the door and clutch the jacket to me, rocking back and forth, never forgetting the camera that must be filming everything.
Chapter Sixteen
“Morning drew on apace. The air became more sharp and piercing, as its first dull hue—the death of night, rather than the birth of day—glimmered faintly in the sky. The objects which had looked dim and terrible in the darkness, grew more and more defined and gradually resolved into their familiar shapes.”
—Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist
Liv
I am wearing a veil of flowers against my white satin wedding dress, gazing with love at Z, who walks down the aisle and stands next to me. “You look so beautiful,” he says, curling a tendril of my hair around his finger and making my heart soar. He kisses me on the cheek, then moves to the side and looks down the aisle expectantly. I’m confused at the distance between us, but turn to follow his gaze. Derrick is walking toward me wearing a blood-red suit, his eyes black. I shake my head and back away in fear, but he grabs me and pulls me to him hard. “Now you’re mine,” he says harshly. I look to Z for help, but he’s laughing. “Show him how you kiss me. Show him how you want me,” he says, his voice taunting. The wedding bells start to chime, morphing into a clanging sound that fills my head.
I startle awake, confused, before realizing the alarm is going off. My back and legs ache like I’ve been beaten with a baseball bat, and it’s a struggle to crawl to turn the obnoxious sound off. I pull myself up and rub the sand from my eyes, trying to make sense of why the alarm is set so early. A shadow of the chair against the door is reflected in the darkness, triggering the memory of last night. I shiver and cradle my hand, the pain throbbing from the gash. My head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, and my eyes are on fire from crying.
Knowing that Derrick doesn’t usually wake up until almost seven o’clock, and who knows what time after he’s been drinking, I take a deep breath and pull the chair away from the door. The bus gets here at seven fifteen, so I’m counting on him being so hung over that he won’t bother chasing after me. I tiptoe out into the dark hallway, aware of every sound in the still of the morning. In the bathroom, I pull the door shut quietly, then flip on the light and throw my arm over my eyes at the brightness.
After a few moments, I open them to see a horror movie reflected in the mirror. Eyes puffy and bloodshot, hair a mess, face streaked, not to mention the red-stained torn shirt wrapped around my left hand and the large bruise forming on my other wrist. I grit my teeth and remove the homemade bandage from my hand. The dried blood pulls painfully away from the gash, reopening my wound and making my hand look like it got mangled in a shredder.
I open the cabinets and find a brown bottle of peroxide, which I pour liberally over the wound. It stings and bubbl
es up as it washes out the dirt. There aren’t any bandages in the bathroom, so I settle for a small clean towel to wrap around my hand. It’s not great, but it’s a lot better than nothing. I brush my hair, my fingers quivering like mad, and splash water on my face. It refreshes me slightly but doesn’t do a thing for my puffy eyes.
I change into jeans and pull a sweatshirt over my thin tank, slide my arms into Z’s jacket, and tiptoe with my backpack to the living room. The darkened room is silent except for the sound of light snoring, which stops me in my tracks, my heart racing madly. A faint outline shows Derrick passed out on the couch. I look at the front door and chew on the inside of my cheek, thinking for a moment. I could try to slip out quietly, but if he heard me he’d come after me. Instead, I head back to my room, carefully pulling the door shut and putting the chair under the knob again. Maybe it will buy me some time if Derrick wakes up and thinks I’m still hiding out in here. I walk over to the window and lift it, welcoming the shock of cold morning air against my battered skin.
At the bus stop, I’m the first one. I know it’s not even seven o’clock yet, so I sit on my backpack and wait, facing the direction of my street in case Derrick comes looking for me. I don’t know what I’d do. Maybe run the opposite way.
The other kids gradually appear, starting with Tyson. For the first time ever, I’m glad to see him, though I hope he doesn’t ask me why I look like crap. I take a notebook out of my backpack and hide my hand under it.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I ask as he approaches, hearing my own voice sound in a much higher pitch than usual. He looks surprised that I’m speaking to him.
“Good. You?”
“Pretty good.”
His eyes rake suspiciously over me, eyebrow raised at Z’s jacket, and he puckers his mouth, probably hoping for Candy and the others to show up so he’s not alone with a red-eyed psycho. They finally appear, acting their usual snobbish selves. Candy starts making out with Tyson, cutting her eyes over to me occasionally. I don’t glance away from them like I usually would. It’s like my eyes crave the normalcy of the situation.