Pray for the Girl

by Joseph Souza

  It takes a few seconds before I realize I can’t wiggle my fingers. I’m horrified to see that someone has buried me up to my chest. I look around in the dark, wondering if a rock will come smashing into my face. Just the thought of it causes me to thrash about. I struggle to free myself, but my efforts are futile. I twist my head, dodging an imaginary projectile headed toward me. A black blanket engulfs me as I scream for help. After a few minutes I realize that no one can hear me, my voice now hoarse. No one will be able to save me from this terrible predicament.

  Everything remains deathly still. A stiff wind whistles through the branches and makes a hushing sound. Trees sway and creak around me. An owl hoots off in the distance. I’m still alive, and this is a good thing. I hope that someone discovers me come morning and calls for help.

  Or will the people who did this come back to finish me off? But why haven’t they already? There are plenty of sticks and stones in these woods.

  The solitude of the night exacerbates the sound of blood pumping through my temples. I take a deep breath and try to relax. Being imprisoned in this ditch is enough to drive a person insane. A sudden thought occurs to me. What if a fox or coyote wanders by and decides to nibble on my face? My monkey brain can’t stop thinking about all the worst-case scenarios. Anticipating what’s out there is the most terrifying aspect of this imprisonment, especially when I can’t see anything.

  There was a doctor at Walter Reed who tried to teach me how to meditate. She claimed that meditation could help ward off pain and said that there were monks so skilled at meditating that they could lower their pulse to within an inch of their life. Proper meditation, she explained, could cleanse the mind of harmful thoughts and allow the individual to enter into another realm of consciousness. I never quite mastered the technique, or bought into the notion that meditation could ease my pain, but her words always stayed with me. I suppose I was too stubborn at the time to believe that my mind played a role in my physical recovery.

  I close my eyes and try to empty my head of all the negative thoughts taking place. I focus on the mantra she taught me to say whenever I needed to enter into that state. Om Namah Shivaya. Translation: I bow to Shiva, the supreme deity of transformation who represents the truest, highest self.

  I begin to say it over and over, and before long I lose track of time, the mantra being the only thing I’m aware of in these dark woods. My past and present come together, and the person I am, and hope to one day become, merge into a vague spiritual entity that I can’t quite explain. The phantom pain in my legs begins to slowly melt away, as do all my fears. I forget about my itching arms. For a brief moment—and I know this sounds crazy—I feel one with everything around me. One with the universe and whoever lords over it. A tranquility settles over my being, and I know that whatever happens, in the end, everything will be okay. If I’m fated to die here in these woods, it will not be the end of my journey.

  * * *

  I open my eyes after God knows how many hours repeating the same mantra and see that the sun has started to rise. A few glints of light begin to illuminate the landscape beyond. The arrival of the sun provides a glimmer of hope that I might soon be discovered by an early morning hiker. A gentle mist lies suspended over the landscape. Ferns and brush are reflective from the dew. When I look up I can just make out the treetops swaying gently in the wind, and I realize with certainty that I’ve been buried in Robinson Woods.

  Now that I’m bathed in light, I’m not as fearful as I once was. Why did the perpetrators leave me here? Why didn’t they kill me as they did those other two kids? Were they sending me another message, warning me to stop digging? For a brief moment I experience pangs of survivor’s guilt. Life is precious, and I’m thankful mine was spared. But why me? Is it because killing me would cast light on the real killers?

  I try to shout out a few words, but my voice is still hoarse from shouting last night. My skin feels moist, and when I shake my head my red hair falls damp around my face. Being buried up to my chest has caused my body to stiffen up and become numb. I’d give anything to be able to free myself and stretch out these vexed limbs of mine.

  What if no one finds me here? I think of Wendy and Russ. I think of Brynn. Having handicapped parents must have been difficult for her these last few years. She might soon be forced to chart her own path in life. If I make it out of this ditch alive, should I play some sort of role in her life? Will she even let me after what I’ve done? If only she knew the truth about me and all that I’ve overcome just to be here today. How I escaped Fawn Grove those many years ago in an attempt to escape from myself.

  Someone buried me for a reason. They want me to stop digging around in this murder investigation and return to New York. Where do I go from here? Resume my vapid life in the city as a lowly sous-chef lacking in ambition and without the courage to face my demons? Return to a life denying certain truths that enslaved me in fear? A life that wasn’t so much a life but a way to avoid the past by cooking and drinking, and then repeating the cycle. No, I can’t let this happen again. This personal attack will only harden my resolve to track down these killers. Assuming I make it out of these woods alive, I’ll make it my mission to find them. I owe it to that lovely fruit vendor I failed to help.

  I watch as the sun rises higher in the sky. Birds chirp and sing these long, elaborate songs of incomparable beauty. Despite all the trees rising majestically above, I can see that it’s a clear autumn morning. This is a good thing. It means there’ll be plenty of hikers and joggers making their way along these trails. I wait a few minutes for my throat to recover. Then I begin to shout again for help.

  My voice begins to get raspy. I’m not sure how much time has passed before I finally hear footsteps approaching. I shout again, as loud as I can, until a man’s boots appear in front of me. He’s carrying a walking stick, and his golden retriever rushes up and begins to lick my face with his warm tongue. The man kneels to my level and asks if I’m all right, and I beg him to help free me from this pit. My throat is parched, and I ask if he has any water. He pulls out a plastic bottle and holds it up to my lips, and I gulp it down greedily while he calls 911.

  I close my eyes and fight back the tears, grateful that I’ve been found. For whatever reason, my life has been spared. Whoever did this thinks they can frighten me off and send me scrambling back to Manhattan. Thank God for that Indian doctor who taught me how to meditate. It shepherded me safely through the night. For once in my life, the universe is looking out for me.

  * * *

  The medics arrive soon after and work furiously to unearth me from this hole. Once they dig out enough dirt, they grab me by the arms and lift me out, laying me on a blanket that had been spread out over the ground. My sweater and clothes are covered in dirt. It feels as if I’ve been snatched from a fresh grave. It takes a few minutes before I’m able to stand, stretch out, and get the blood flowing through my limbs. Everything in my body hurts, and I’m light-headed. Pins and needles tingle up my arms. For some reason, the skin on my inner biceps still itch like crazy. Bug bites?

  The medics tell me to sit and rest, but my body wants movement, space, freedom. My body feels wholly independent from my mind, and I know I must listen to it. I remember experiencing the same sensation at Walter Reed all those years ago, enduring constant pain and suffering, battling through rehab and endless surgeries. The random bouts of phantom pain never made any sense to me. It felt as if my body were playing a cruel trick on the mind. The doctors explained that my mind and body were not properly aligned and that the mind could not comprehend the fact that my legs were no longer part of the total equation. They used mirror therapy to train my mind to the fact that I no longer had legs below my knees, and after a while my mind began to understand that my body was irreparably broken. Although my lower limbs were gone, their respective pain receptors in the cortex were still alive and well. My mind, at times, wanted to break free from the form and experience what it would be like to go out-of-body, floating
above the fray of constant pain and suffering.

  Surprisingly, I feel more alive now than I have in some time. The medics want to rush me to the hospital, but I tell them that I’m fine and just in need of some rest. I don’t even allow them to check me out. No way am I going to allow some faceless doctor to prod and examine me and to expose my body to their inquiry. Or ask stupid questions that I have no intention of answering. I insist on driving myself home, and I promise the medics that I’ll check with my doctor as soon as possible.

  But then the police arrive and they have their own investigation to conduct. Dalton walks over and gives me a big hug. Oddly, I find myself clinging to him. It’s the first time I’ve felt this way, and it embarrasses me. His face is the only familiar one in the crowd. Tears stream down my cheeks and spill onto his uniform. The medics insist on carrying me out of these woods on a stretcher, but I won’t hear of it. Instead I slowly make my way back to the trail, allowing the blood to return to my arms and lower extremities. The insides of my arms itch like crazy. I emerge into the light and feel the pavement underfoot. A sense of relief overwhelms me. My pickup is still where I left it. Fire trucks and police cars are parked everywhere, lights flashing. Dalton escorts me to my pickup and tells me to relax and take a few deep breaths. He’s gone from being a cruel bully to my personal savior.

  “Jesus, Lucy! What the hell happened in those woods?”

  “I was out for a walk when someone attacked me. This time they made good on their threat.”

  “I’m so glad you’re all right,” he says, and he looks as if he really means it.

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Why didn’t they . . . ?”

  “Kill me? Throw stones at my face?”

  “I don’t even want to think about that.”

  “Someone in this town obviously wants me to stop looking into those kids’ deaths.”

  “Maybe you should take this warning to heart and let the police do their jobs.”

  “And give whoever did this the satisfaction of winning? No way!”

  “They won’t win, Lucy, I promise you that. We’ll catch the bastards responsible for this.”

  “This is insane,” I say, appearing contrite. “Maybe you’re right, Dalton. Maybe I should just quit all this foolishness and get on with my life.”

  “I am right about this,” he says. “Are you okay to give a statement?”

  “There’s not much to tell. I went for a walk to clear my head, and the next thing I knew I was buried up to my chest.” I can’t tell him the whole truth.

  “Did you get a good look at them?”

  “No. Whoever did this attacked me from behind.”

  “You must have been terrified being out there all alone at night.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I can’t even begin to imagine how scared you must have been, wondering if they were coming back for you.”

  “The entire time I was in that hole, I kept thinking that a rock might smash into my face at any moment.”

  “You’re a very lucky girl.”

  “I shouted all night, but no one could hear me. Not until that hiker came along this morning could I breathe a sigh of relief.”

  “I care about you, Lucy. I don’t want to see you hurt again.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “I can protect you and keep you safe. Just let me do my job.”

  “Thanks, Dalton, but I don’t need you or anyone else to protect me.”

  He laughs a little too confidently. “Didn’t look that way to me.”

  “Despite what happened in those woods, I assure you I can take care of myself.”

  “The next time this happens, you might end up dead.”

  “There’ll be no next time,” I say. “I need to go home and rest. Then I’ll decide what to do.”

  “Let me at least drive you.”

  “Thanks, but I can drive myself.”

  “Come on, now. You’re in no condition to get behind the wheel.”

  I laugh and hold out my arms, which are still covered over by my long-sleeved sweater. “Then handcuff me and take me away, Detective.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he says, looking sheepish. “Just promise me you’ll stop looking into these murders.”

  I pretend to mull it over. “Sure, if you promise to catch the bastards who did this to me.”

  “Don’t worry, Lucy, I will,” he says, walking away. “And be careful driving home.”

  * * *

  I rush inside the house, past Wendy, who’s calling out my name and asking me where I’ve been all night. Past Big Russ, who’s reclined in his chair and watching a documentary about Angus Gibbons and the plane crash that took his life. Up the stairs I go, past all the family photographs on the wall. Past Wendy’s mechanical chair lift. I breathe a sigh of relief once I reach the sanctity of my room.

  I turn on the lights and claw at the undersides of my irritated arms. It’s as if someone set my skin on fire. I pull off my dirt-encrusted clothes until I’m sitting naked on the bed. My breasts feel raw and chafed, and when I stare down at my arms, I see the cause of my pain. Scrawled over my left bicep are the words GO BACK HOME! On my right arm they wrote B4 UR NEXT! And they’re written in red fingernail polish.

  * * *

  Two days have passed and I’ve barely left my room except to go to the bathroom and take meals. But my decision has been made. My bags are packed and I’m ready to try something bold and different. Lucy Abbott is done meddling around in this town and trying to make a difference. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring down at the pale words outlined on my chafed skin. It took hours of scrubbing before the fingernail polish washed off, but it left these irritated rashes, as well as a distinct imprint. At least no one else knows about this warning scrawled over my arms. If the killer wants Lucy Abbott to disappear, then disappear is what Lucy Abbott will do.

  I see that Dalton texted me last night and wants to reschedule our dinner, but I’m done with him for now. I return his text and inform him that I’m heading back to Manhattan, and would he mind giving me a lift to the bus station.

  I go over to the bureau and check myself out in the mirror. It heartens me to realize how beautiful I am, even after the trauma of two days ago. My red hair is done up nicely, and my face is properly brushed and rouged. The lipstick is hot pink, and I’ve added a few curls to my hair. The lashes are long and luxurious. My fingernails are manicured and painted blood red.

  The hour has arrived. I grab my three bags and make my way into the hallway. The floorboards squeak as I approach Brynn’s room. I notice that her door is open. She spins around in her leather chair and waves to me like one of those beauty pageant contestants. I smile halfheartedly, knowing that this attack must have really frightened her. Part of me regrets embarrassing her in front of her friends that day. I hadn’t meant to do it. She spins back to her laptop as I move down the hallway. Will she be okay in the days ahead, now that two of her classmates are dead and buried? Will she ever speak to me again?

  As I walk down the stairs, I take in each photograph on the wall. The memories from days past linger longer than I would have expected. Photos from when everyone was robust and healthy. I touch Jaxon’s framed face. And baby Brynn in pigtails and smiling, her two front teeth missing. I move past the vacant easy chair and make my way into the kitchen. Wendy is sitting at the table, her eyes red from crying. I go over and hug her. After all that has happened, she knows that this move is in the best interests of everyone involved.

  “You really don’t have to leave,” she says.

  “I’m sorry, sis, but I really do. I’m not going to jeopardize my health, or my family’s well-being, because I’ve become this crazy woman obsessed with these murders. That’s what the police are for.”

  “Can we at least get together every now and then?”

  “Of course we can, although it might be best to wait until this all blows over.”

  “You’re probably right
. I pray they catch the person doing these terrible crimes so we can be a family again.”

  “Of course we’ll be a family again.”

  I kiss the top of her head and make my way outside, where Russ is standing next to Dalton and Nadia. I give Nadia a big hug and then watch as she scampers down the driveway in tears. Dalton takes my bags and tosses them in the back of his pickup. Then Russ turns to face me.

  “Thanks for everything, Russ.”

  “Wish it could have been under better circumstances.”

  “Me too.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “Probably return to my former life. I’m sure my old boss will be more than happy to have me back in place.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  I give him a big hug before kissing his whiskered cheek. His walrus mustache tickles my lips as I pull back. He’s like a big, immobile block of wood encasing a teddy bear soul. He gives me his own halfhearted smile as I climb inside the truck.

  “Call your sister from time to time.”

  “I will.” I wave good-bye.

  “And make sure you eat all your vegetables, Lucy.”

  “You can count on it, Russ. You too.”

  Dalton jumps in next to me, and almost immediately I hear the sound of some gangster rapper going on about bitches and hoes and shooting cops in cold blood.

  “Jesus, I’m sorry about that, Lucy. I let Brandy borrow the truck and she pays me back by listening to this crap.” He pulls out the CD, tosses it in the back, and puts in another.

  “Teenagers, right?”

  “Just kick those fast-food wrappers out of your way while you’re at it.”

  “We were kids once.”

  “She’s a good girl, despite all the shit her mother feeds her about me.”

  “Does she know what she wants to do after high school?”

  “She loves animals and she’s smart as a whip. I keep telling her she’d make a great veterinarian if she could ever buckle down and study, but she doesn’t want any advice from her father.”