by Ronnie Allen
Her eyes were locked wide open. The blood had drained from her face and her mind had gone to another place and time, long ago, to somewhere she’d rather not be. She longed to be cuddling with her old blankie right now. That was a lifetime ago, a lost lifetime. It was crocheted, pink and lime green, like her room, with her name in yellow, embroidered on top by her adoptive mommy, and it got carelessly and inconsiderately cast-off the night social services brought her, at four and a half, to her first foster home.
There were six kids in that home. She was the youngest and they all bullied her. They tore her clothes, pulled her hair, held her down, and punched her. No one came to her rescue.
She was the little girly girl with five rough and tumble boys. She envisioned it now. She saw herself on that first night raped by the seventeen-year-old boy, just when she thought she was safely tucked into bed. The rapes happened night after night, until she became so disturbed and acting out the family wouldn’t keep her. Then it was family after family.
She was a beautiful little angel with a turned up nose and big round blue eyes who lost her innocence and childhood that first night. Doubt and fear toward anyone who entered her life had replaced her innocence. Anxieties and anger, that no child should know, replaced her childhood. She yelled incessantly “Don’t come near me!” if anyone came within two feet of her. She would bite, kick, scream, and scratch. She wouldn’t let anyone bathe her, wash her hair, or change her clothes. The little princess, who once had matching barrettes and socks for every outfit, had the stench of urine and filth, and no one cared enough to do anything about it. She remembered it all now as if it were yesterday.
No adult would believe her when she told them what was happening. They just got rid of her to sweep it under the rug. She learned very early on to trust no one and to fear everyone. To become stronger, meaner, crueler, smarter, and acting without remorse, became her defense.
A black fly circled the room, landed on her left arm. She swatted it with her right hand, but the fly escaped. It was enough to give her a wakeup call to return to the present. She blinked her eyes rapidly to erase the wretched memory that cut so deeply into her soul.
Sniffling and feeling weighed down from the pain, she breathed heavily and lifted herself up from the edge of the bed, approaching the closed door while wiping away tears with the back of her hand. She felt all, alone again. Just as she had when she was that lost little angel.
She opened the door to her room and, to her surprise, Jake’s replacement for the night, another uniformed NYPD officer, stood there grinning at her with his muscular arms folded across his chest. Bald, he doubled for Mr. Clean. He was big as Jake and armed, as well, with a Glock .40-caliber. She snuck a glimpse of it and then refocused her attention on him, looking up, way up into his shrewd eyes.
He noticed her take notice. “Hi, Doc. Can I get you something?”
Don’t think I can take this one either.
“Where’s Jake?” Like she didn’t know.
“Shift change. Phil.”
“Well, Phil, can you get me a Diet Coke or something?”
“Not on your life. But they do come around with snacks later.”
“What time?”
“It varies. Why? Planning to go somewhere, Doc?”
“Yeah, tough guy. Right through the walls, just like a ghost.” She wanted to convince him she had resigned herself to staying put.
“Good. As long as we understand each other. And in case you didn’t know, you’re in your room for the evening.”
“That’s fine. I’ll spend my time knitting. Have a lot to catch up on.”
“Good girl.” He closed the door slowly, stopping when he reached her, forcing her to move back.
She was insulted that he cut off conversation and that he asserted himself as the boss, but the less communication she had with this hulk the better. It seemed more than mutual. He probably wanted to do as much as he could to avoid her.
Barbara surveyed the room, discouraged. She dropped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
Damn! Damn! Damn! Fuck him! Fuck him! Fuck himmmmm!
Real tears swelled up in her eyes.
Trenton pulled a fast one. Now what am I going to do? He didn’t miss a fucking beat. He knows about me. He knows everything about me. I’m stuck in this fucking vanilla box, no windows, air vents on the ceiling, disgusting, just look at them so dirty with crud and dust I’d get asphyxiated if I went near them. I can’t reach the fucking ceiling, anyway. Those twelve-inch panels are too small to get through, even for me. And no telling where they lead to. There’s nothing to climb on, anyway. And the only way out is guarded by a fucking behemoth, armed no less. He could do fucking damage to me before I went for his gun.
She rolled onto her side into a fetal position.
I’m doomed. Life without parole. Maybe if I tell him some stuff at least, I’ll be eligible for parole. I’ll turn on Clancy. That’s it. I’ll turn on them, all of them. Shit. Can’t do that either. They’re all dead and buried where no one will find them. Maybe he’d confine me to a state institution instead of jail. I couldn’t do prison. No way could I do prison. Heck, I spent eight years here. I’m doomed. I can’t be doomed. Now I know how a lioness feels pacing back and forth in her cage with no freedom in sight.
Maybe I should talk to him. He wanted to listen but I shut him out like everyone else. What the hell am I going to say to him? Dr. Trenton, I’ve been revenge killing since I was eighteen. That would go over big. Then he’d want the details. Who remembers them all? I should remember them. I read once that murderers remember their kills. Me, I just do it and block it out, like it was someone else doing the killing. But it was me. It was me, with all of them. He seemed like he wanted to help me for real, not like I do with those damn kids.
She sobbed real tears as she managed her way to the door and opened it.
“Barbara, what’s the matter?” Phil kept her at arms distance, holding out his left arm with his palm facing her. “You okay?”
Crying, she asked, “Do I look okay? No, I’m not. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to go for your gun.”
“Go inside.” He closed the door behind him. “Go sit on the bed and tell me what’s going on.”
She followed his directives. “Is Dr. Trenton coming back tonight?”
He stood rigid with his arms folded across his chest a few feet away from her.
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Can you please call him? I really need to talk to him.”
“It’s late, already.”
“I don’t care. Please. I’m falling apart here.”
“Sure.” He dialed John’s number, not taking his eyes off her.
“Dr. Trenton.”
“Yeah. Doc. Phil. Montgomery wants to talk to you.”
“Really?”
“Yup.” He handed her the phone.
The crying had eased up but her breathing was still strained. “Dr. Trenton, I really need to talk to you.”
“Okay.”
“Are you coming back here tonight? I feel like I’m dying here. And isn’t it illegal to keep me in seclusion?”
“You’re not in solitary confinement. Phil will keep you company. I can have a nurse stay and talk with you. You’re not in seclusion, by any means.”
“No. That’s okay. I’m knitting. I’ll be okay alone. Can you come back?”
“Actually, I was on my way back but got called to a crime scene in Manhattan. We’re just finishing up. I can be there in about an hour. Okay?”
“I have a lot to tell you.”
“Good. I will listen.”
“Thank you.” She handed the phone back to Phil and plopped down on the bed again, very depressed. Tears cascaded down her cheeks.
***
John, Sal, and Tony walked to their cars. Parking was not attainable at this hour on a Friday evening in the partying club area of Chelsea, so they double parked in front of Morgan’s building. John acknowledge
d the fact that she’d said “Thank you,” contemplating the conversation for a few moments, staring into space with his hands in his pockets, before taking out his car keys.
“What was that all about? Was that Montgomery?”
John ignored Tony.
“Hey! John. Is that your head or did your neck grow a bubble?”
That startled John back to reality. “Yeah. She wants to talk to me.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No. Guess she doesn’t see a way out for herself.”
“Where can she possibly go?” Sal teased.
“Can’t. Got all the bases covered. Every nurse knows her face. I made sure of it.”
***
Inside her room, Barbara lay on the bed on top of the blanket, staring up at the moveable panels on the ceiling. Her knitting bag was next to her, but she couldn’t focus on that now. She closed her eyes for a moment in desperation as childhood anxieties set in, drifting her mind into another daydream...
***
An ambulance with sirens blaring pulled into the emergency entrance early afternoon on a summer day in 1985. Two drivers ran to the rear, opened the doors, and pulled out little ten-year-old Kellie, on a stretcher, wrapped in a straitjacket, screaming uncontrollably. She wore a tattered yellow dress and her beautiful dark blonde hair, carelessly done in a ponytail, was half falling out. Her eyes were reddened from crying and her face was dirty from smearing her hands across it.
She was locked in a room like this one, all alone and very scared, but pretended to be tough as she ventured into the bathroom out of curiosity. She was cautious, looking all around her. She didn’t know if she was being watched, but she knew there would be consequences. They’d made that clear enough.
She studied a hole in the wall where the medicine cabinet should have been, climbed up onto the toilet bowl, and then onto the dirty and rust stained sink to look inside the hole. It led to an adjoining bathroom.
A matronly nurse, wearing a white-skirted uniform and sailor type hat, startled Kellie, by grabbing her from behind. Then she was tied down on her bed with her arms and feet in Velcro restraints.
She lay screaming and struggling to wiggle out of them in the oversized bed, as the nurse yelled at her to be quiet. She distinctly heard, ‘Be quiet you little brat, or I’ll give you something to cry about!’
Five hours of restraint passed with screaming, and naps, screaming and nightmares, and not once did a doctor check in on her. The five hours led into a year and then another and then another until she was eighteen.
***
She was awakened by present-day sirens outside. Always something to cry about. That was her entire life. Real tears streamed down her face, again. Several psychiatrists declared her too psychologically damaged for placement in a foster home or for consideration as an adoption candidate. The screaming at adults, the physically attacking anyone who tried to touch her, her rabid anger, her violent eyes, then her depression where she wouldn’t say a word rendered her untreatable and, at that time—at ten—to be given up on, to be thought of as a hopeless case, that was unthinkable. Kellie had endured the unthinkable.
Barbara had had to admit children from her schools for short-term hospitalization. She was happy that rules about their treatment had changed. She’d educated herself on the law. Since the late 1990s, children could only be restrained for a maximum of an hour at a time. They had to be monitored by a doctor constantly and only restrained when they presented a danger to themselves or others. She constantly made unannounced visits whenever she had a break in her school day. Just to make sure the caregivers followed the rules.
He’s crazy if he thinks I’m staying here. I can’t. I just can’t. Eight years here were enough. I can’t handle anymore. I have to get out of here if it kills me. And I’m prepared to kill my way out.
Then it hit her--like a ton of bricks. She sat up rapidly, looking around.
Unannounced, a nurse, Jada, opened the door and walked into the room. She wore a casual light blue uniform with different colored lollipops on it. “How are you doing, Barbara? Dr. Trenton told me to check in on you. In the mood for some company?”
He sure is good at telling people what to do.
“Thanks, Jada, but I’m just getting ready to sort out these directions.” Barbara removed the instruction booklet from the bag, opened to the page that showed diagrams and graphs and three full-length columns of directions. “And this is a complicated one. I need to concentrate.”
“Wow, I love those colors. Greens and browns are my favs,” Jada exclaimed. “What’s it going to look like?” Barbara showed her the picture on the cover, as if it would make a difference. “That’s gorgeous. I wish I could knit.”
“My grandma taught me when I was eight. Jada, really, I’ll be fine until Dr. Trenton comes back, now that I know I’ll be able to talk to him tonight. And knitting has always relaxed me.”
“Okay, Barbara, but please feel free to buzz if you need me.”
“Thank you.”
Jada left smiling.
The medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Yes!
In the bathroom, she checked the corners of the medicine cabinets--first, the bottom two edges, then the top two. Ugh, coated with dust. Most people here didn’t use them, anyway. They wiggled from the edge and there were cracks in the plasterboard surrounding it.
They’re loose. Got it! I could pull it out if I had the right tool.
Her mind sparkled with the answer.
And I do. No one in their right mind would think of this. No one in any mind.
She dressed in her corporate business suit. Luckily, the fabric didn’t wrinkle and it still looked fresh. Her undergarments were perfect for this suit. Even the fresh bra and panties that she pulled from the duffle bag matched just the way she liked them!
Thank you, Dr. Trenton. You brought me everything I need.
She put on makeup she always had, with her foundation, blue shadow, mascara, blush, and neutral tone beige glossed lipstick. After all, she had to look like the professional she pretended to be.
She quickly chose what to take. Sneakers. Perfect. The high-heeled boots that lay on the bed would just slow her down and wouldn’t fit into her tote. She turned on the shower so Phil would think she was taking care of personal business. She held up a clean towel against her and then pulled the shower curtain fully across the tub, being careful not to spray water on her suit. Then she took one size-seven plastic knitting needle out of her knitting bag with the first ten inches of sweater hanging on it. She dropped that one onto the tiled bathroom floor. She retrieved the second needle.
Baby plastic, but all I need is the very tip. And if I push it with my gelled finger nail, that should do the trick.
She removed the toiletries and placed them softly on the floor. She levered the tip of the knitting needle around the edge of the cabinet to pry it loose. Very squeaky. Couldn’t afford that. She picked up the tube of shea-butter moisturizer that Trenton had brought her and squeezed it all around the cabinet, making sure it penetrated between the cabinet and the wall. She picked out a Q-Tip from a baggie.
Thank you again, Dr. Stupid.
She moved the Q-Tip around the perimeter of the cabinet, pressing the lubricant in to ease the noise. Rust oozed from behind the cabinet onto the wall and drops splattered on the floor. What a mess she made! But who cared?
First, the bottom. She stopped periodically to listen for voices coming from the adjoining room. So far, none. Now the left side pried loose. She stopped again to listen. Then the right side. Listened. Listened. Listened. She had to be very careful. It was heavy and, if it dropped, the noise would alert someone--Phil, a nurse. It was sixteen by twenty-two inches and three inches deep on each side, so six inches deep all together. At five feet eight and size four, she could easily slip through the hole. She knew for sure there was a big risk here, but what the hell? Her entire life had been a risk. So what if they caught her? She had nothing to lose.
&nbs
p; With much effort, wiggling it by sections, she pried the cabinet out. She clutched it on either side with both hands over some towels, making sure not to allow it to fall forward and hit her on the head. She placed it gently on the floor. There were no toiletries in it from the other room.
Thank God they still haven’t made these permanent.
From the hidden compartment in the knitting bag, she pulled out another phony ID tag, Dr. Pauline Jones, Chief Psychologist, Malloytone Center and clipped it on the collar of her suit jacket. She glanced back at the boots. Damn, I love them. But can’t risk taking them. Threw out 1500 bucks. I hope I can do this. I know I can do this.
She wiped off the greasy rust on the wall, around the cabinet space, with a towel. Couldn’t get any on her thousand-dollar suit. She used three towels and left them carelessly on the floor, wrapping the grimy knitting needle in them.
One last thing. She almost forgot. She put her hand deep into the knitting bag into the false bottom and pulled out a shoulder-length, professional-style, black wig. She pulled back and clipped her hair up, then slipped on the very natural looking, human hairpiece that could easily be taken as her own. She examined herself in the plastic mirror on the cabinet door to adjust it and she was ready to go. As if were an afterthought, she tossed the knitting bag onto the bed, next to the boots and duffle.
She shut off the shower, shimmied up onto the sink, and peered into the bathroom of the adjoining room. No one, yet. The bathroom door was shut. It was too quiet.
***
She climbed through head first, with her hands grasping each side of the ledge of the sink on the other side. She propelled herself off into a standing position, giving a silent thank you to herself for taking those gymnastic lessons. She straightened her suit, which had hiked up her legs, and then pulled though her tote that she left on the sink in her room. So far, so good.