NINETEEN
Déjà Vu Hair Salon was sandwiched in the middle of a strip mall in Bucksport, overlooking the Penobscot Narrows Bridge. It was the third walk-in they’d stopped at, after almost giving up hope of finding a place open on a Sunday. Ava agreed to get a real haircut when her dad suggested it, not only because she couldn’t stand the pained look on his face every time he glanced at her during the last two hours of the ride but because she hadn’t exactly been successful with what she’d set out to do, shearing her hair off in the Target bathroom.
Lucky for Ava, Déjà Vu was nearly empty. Judging from the stares she got walking through the beauty shop toward the stylist’s chair, she must’ve looked even worse than she thought.
“Doll, what were you thinking?” the stylist asked, as she flipped Ava’s hair up in the back, over and over, with her fingertips.
Mirrors weren’t allowed at Mount Hope, which meant she hadn’t seen herself since the night she’d been kidnapped. Back at Target, Ava had taken the plastic bag from her dad, found the ladies’ room, and walked right into a stall without looking. When she’d finished removing tags and putting on the new jeans and sweatshirt, she came out to find a skinny girl wearing an unrecognizable face and baggy clothes staring back at her. The auburn hair, a braid longer than it had ever been before, confirmed it. The girl in the mirror was Ava.
She ripped the elastic off the end of her braid, unraveling the three separate strands as fast as she could. Shaking her head, swinging hair in every direction, Ava still couldn’t get Pax out of her mind. She shivered then, imagining his finger tracing a path from her shoulders down the length of her back by way of her hair. Remembering how much she’d wanted to cut it—to cut him—back at the lodge, Ava starting humming to drown out his voice. Briefly thanking her father for making it so easy, she reached into the Target bag and pulled out the scissors. The blades made a slicing, sluicing sound working through the hair. Metal slid against metal, resistance then surrender. Ava kept slashing and hacking, letting rich red clumps scatter all over the floor. For the few seconds it took, part of her brain told her to stop, the other part cheered her on, encouraging her to finish what she’d started. Staring at her reflection in the Target mirror, hair at her shoulders, Ava still didn’t look like herself. The new ’do reminded her of Mallory.
“Have any idea what kind of hairstyle you want?” the stylist asked, swirling a towel around her shoulders, expertly tucking it in at her neck. “Or do you want to trust me to give you a makeover?”
Through the mirror, Ava could see her dad standing behind her, looking awkward. She was about to tell him to go.
“Mind if I go fill up the tank and grab a few newspapers?” he asked.
Ava shook her head, saying she didn’t mind, even though the pizza and soda she’d eaten back at the food court suddenly started to disagree with her.
He’s not leaving you for good in a hair salon, Ava told herself.
“I’ll be back here in half an hour,” he reassured. “Anything she wants,” he said to the stylist, “doesn’t matter the cost.” Then he was off.
Ava gathered as much of her hair as she could, pulling it back so she wouldn’t have to see the result of her Target freak-out. She watched her eyes get teary like Fringe’s used to, the way Mallory’s did before she went ballistic in that ravine.
“I don’t know about going shorter,” Ava said. “Maybe just a trim.”
“Look, honey, I don’t know why you gave yourself a hack job, but obviously you think it’s time for a change. Sit back and relax. You’re in my chair now. Trust me, with a good haircut, you’ll be a new woman.”
The stylist was right. A warm-water shampoo, the aroma of mint and honey conditioner, and Ava was feeling a little like herself again. Even though the stylist occasionally massaged the sore spot left on her head by the Learning Center floor, she could close her eyes and not be afraid.
Like a magician, the woman pulled strands of hair through her comb and then her fingers, snipping and trimming, some hair feathering down, and what was left of it framing Ava’s face. Without effort, the woman marked her passage from the old Ava to the new.
Just as she spun the chair around so Ava could admire the transformation, her dad walked into the shop. Ava saw him through the hand mirror she held to look at the back of her hair. He put a hand to his chest clutching his newspapers tight. When his mouth opened, a single word flew out. Ava couldn’t hear it over the blow dryers or the stylist asking her if she liked her new do. But thanks to Mount Hope Ava could read lips.
Then he said it again, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Rain.”
PART TWO
THE RIFT
TWENTY
Herrick House, Maine
Journal Entry #1
May 14
The last time I was inside Herrick House, I was eight, my sister about to turn seven. In the eight years since—when I dared revisit this place in my mind—memories didn’t come whole like wide open sailcloth. More like snippets and swatches, bits of things I couldn’t always piece together into something pretty. Sometimes little scraps would work their way free, at odd times, like yesterday, when my dad called me Rain in the hair salon. Short for Lorraine, it was the name he called my mother when they weren’t fighting.
My dad told me my new haircut made me look older, more sophisticated, that he could see a resemblance to her in the shape of my face, in the angle of my chin. That’s the most he’s said about her in as long as I can remember.
Then this morning, another memory came crystal clear. No haze, no need to dig for details. The last time we spent the summer in the house around the corner from where my mom grew up above Eggemoggin Reach, a place my sister once called Egg McMuffin Peach, I remember building a fort in the attic with Poppy.
It was Mom’s idea. I was probably driving her crazy, complaining about how many days in a row it was stormy, moping about not being able to play croquet on the side lawn or take the canoe out on the pond. Mom was in the sunroom, curled up in front of the fireplace, on that lumpy green sofa, the one that came from her old house. A log snapped as she put her book of poems down and pulled her legs out from under her. Mom took Poppy’s hand, then mine, a child on either side of her. She marched us down the hallway, with its wide-planked floors, up one flight, then another, the second set of stairs steeper and more crooked than the first. “You girls have to learn to use your imagination. When I was your age, I’d stack my books, position a couple of chairs, use a few sheets, and voilà! A secret paradise to play in.”
The knock on Ava’s bedroom door made her drop her pen, slap her new journal shut, and yank her bedspread up around her neck, all within seconds flat.
“I know you don’t drink coffee anymore,” her father called from the hallway. “But how about a cup of herbal tea? There’s a tray in the sunroom.” He didn’t say anything else, but she knew he was still standing there. His feet blocked the light that crept in under her door.
She would’ve loved a cup of coffee—even settled for the tea—but she didn’t really want to go downstairs. What she wanted, was to be alone. To call up her own soothing memories of her mother and Poppy.
Ava had this new theory, that if she forced her mind to focus on only the good stuff, the nicest bits she could remember, then her crazy brain wouldn’t get stuck on bad things. Mind control by Ava, not by Mount Hope or her father.
She waited until he left, then crawled out of bed, still fully dressed in baggy jeans and sweatshirt. She followed the smell of food.
Aside from some of the rooms being smaller than she remembered, Herrick House was exactly the same. In springtime, a fire was always lit in the sunroom fireplace. Bright light filled the space overlooking the Reach, and the table by the window was set with two mugs and a plate bursting with sandwiches. Ava wondered who’d removed the white sheets that were draped over the furniture as of last night. Looking at the old sofa, she blurred her eyes, trying to imagine her mother there, curled up
reading her favorite poems out loud.
“Hungry?” her dad asked. “James brought us a few things till I can get some groceries delivered. Turkey, ham and Swiss. There might be chicken salad.” He pointed to more food on one plate than Ava had seen in over a month. For a second, she thought about hiding some in her pocket for later.
Ava wanted to ask who James was, but not being up for chatting, she went with neutral conversation. “What time is it?” She shook her head. At times it still surprised her how short the stylist had cut her hair, though she did love how free it felt.
“Two,” her father said, glancing at his watch, pretending he didn’t already know. “That overnight hike wiped you out, huh? A woman I met at the parent session said it’s tough terrain up there.” He took a sip of his coffee, looking at her over the rim.
Her father was fishing. Like she wasn’t going to notice him bringing up something about Mount Hope, thinking she’d spill her guts about the prison without bars he’d just sprung her from.
Right then, Ava felt like doing a little trawling herself. “Yeah,” she said. “Things got crazy after that girl—you know.” Ava slid a half of a turkey on rye onto a smaller plate sitting next to the mug of tea meant for her. “Hope she’s okay,” she said, taking a bite, watching her dad for clues.
“I don’t mind telling you, I almost had a heart attack when the director told us a girl was MedFlighted to Plattsburgh.”
Yes! Ava had her first concrete detail about Mallory. The way her father said it, Plattsburgh had to be a hospital.
When the back door squealed open and heavy boots hit the hardwood—one, two—her sandwich went flying, sending a tomato slice across the table. Splat.
Then, strangely, the boots and whoever they belonged to retreated.
Her father leaned forward, trying to see who was in the hallway. How safe did she feel? They had an intruder and he didn’t even get out of his chair.
“James, is that you? Come on in,” he said. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Sorry, Mr. Sedgwick. Gonna have to remember to knock.” The kid named James ducked as he came into the sunroom, into their ancient, low-ceilinged house. If she’d had the energy to care, Ava would’ve been mad at her father for inviting someone in when she looked so terrible.
“Ava, this is James St. Croix, our caretaker. James, meet my daughter.”
He was older than Ava, but she couldn’t tell by how much.
“Hey,” James said, whipping off his wool hat. It was the patterned kind, with flaps over the ears and braided strings. He didn’t smooth his hair down, just let it stick up and out in a bunch of different directions.
“Don’t like tomatoes?” James pointed to the one that had escaped from rye. The kid’s eyes were big and brown and kind of droopy, so it was hard to tell if he was teasing or not. Ava couldn’t stop staring at the two scars that ran along the same diagonal plane on his face. The dramatic one through his left eyebrow pointed like an arrow to the faint one that zigzagged from his nose to his upper lip.
Her father pushed a napkin toward her, telling Ava with his hand to pick up the wayward fruit. His eyes told her to stop being rude too.
“I’m not really a caretaker,” James said, walking over to the fireplace. “Just filling in.”
If James lived in Wellesley—whether he was smart or not—he’d be in college, working at some upscale place at night or on weekends, being groomed to work for someone like her father. Instead, as a Maine year-rounder, here he was, counting on them to pay him to take care of a house they never came to.
“I meant to tell you earlier how sorry I was to hear about your uncle passing. How’s Biddie holding up?” her father asked.
“Some days better than others. I bet she’d like it if you stopped in to say hey.”
“I will. It’s been too long. I’ve got a few things I need to do in town. Phone signals drop all over this property. I’ve got to get the landline reconnected, and wireless too. Frank doesn’t still have that pay phone in the back of Bucks Harbor Market, does he?”
James pulled three pinecones from a bowl on the mantel. He tossed them into the fire and stoked the logs. Back at Mount Hope, Ava had thrown pinecones into the pit without a second thought. It wasn’t until James did it in that room—the sappy fragrance released into the air—that she remembered. At Herrick House, that was something her mother liked to do.
“You can get a good signal outside Bucks or you could use mine. I’ve hooked up a phone in the boathouse,” James said.
“Good to know. But I don’t want to disturb your things,” her father said.
“No problem. It’s your place. You sure it’s okay I’m still out there now that you’re back?”
They were like two old ladies going back and forth. For God’s sake, there were five bedrooms in this huge house, and her father was making the kid sleep in the boathouse? Clearly her father had a pattern of banishing kids outside. Any bunkhouse, log cabin, shack or shed would do.
“Later,” Ava said, pushing her plate away, pulling her legs out from under her like her mother used to. Back to her room, back to her happy memories. She’d had enough of real people for one day.
TWENTY-ONE
I’m standing inside the boathouse on the side lawn of Herrick House, looking out one of the bay windows. It’s a blue-sky day and the ocean is glass. I get the idea to go down to the dock to dangle my feet. When I turn around, suddenly I’m in the bunk room at Mount Hope. Cheez is standing there, holding a geography book like a teacher. With the eraser end of a pencil, she’s pointing to a map of Southeast Asia. Tapping the page, again and again, in two-four time, she chants to a drumbeat. “Phuket. Phuket.” She walks toward me. The closer she gets, the louder she yells, until she’s screaming. The veins in her neck are bulging. I back away from her, covering my ears, but that only makes her shout louder. When I bump into something, I whip around to find Mallory. Her hair is wrapped in a towel like she just got out of the shower. She crowds me too. I’m trapped between both girls. “You didn’t tell your father, Ava. You didn’t do what I told you to, and now look what happened.” With one hand, Mallory yanks the towel, and her head tips onto her shoulder, it rolls down her arm, it’s about to hit the floor—
The images were so jumbled and crazy that Ava knew right off it was a nightmare. Frantically panting, she gripped her sheets and looked around the room. She felt lost.
No log cabin walls. No Justice. She wasn’t at Mount Hope.
No couch against the window. No guitar. She wasn’t in her room in Wellesley.
Ava tried to shake those images from her mind, willing things to come clear. Slowly, even in the dim light, the bamboo shades came into focus. She recognized the sloped ceiling inches from her head and the old blueberries-on-cream bedspread pulled up to her chin.
There was no way she dared go back to sleep with the things that lingered there. The tiny clock by her bed was hard to read. God, let it be morning, she thought, as she pulled open the blinds. She finally took a breath when she saw the sun working its way up over the Reach.
The house was quiet. She listened at the top of the stairs for voices. If her dad and James were yakking in the sunroom, she wasn’t going down there, especially since she was wearing the same getup as yesterday.
With no place to shop for clothes within walking distance, Ava needed to hunt down old things that had belonged to her mother. It was no good to take baths and showers only to keep putting back on the same Target jeans and sweatshirt.
Bare feet on hardwood, she walked as quietly as she could along the back hallway, away from the stairs, toward the other bedrooms. The one next to hers was her sister’s, and Ava walked right in. Nothing about the room seemed familiar. Aside from the watercolor painting, splashes of blue flowers with black circle centers—blue poppies. These were the flowers her sister loved, not the standard orange blooms. These were the flowers Ava remembered flooding her mouth and eyes and ears, overtaking her in one of her fre
ak-outs. Poppies mixed up in a memory from a painting in a kid’s room. Nothing to be afraid of, she told herself.
Trying to tease something nice from the mist and fog that was her brain, Ava touched Poppy’s spread, ran her hand over the arm of her chair; she picked up her pillow and squeezed it. Poppy wasn’t a scaredy-cat kid who begged her sister to sleep in her bed on stormy nights. Ava’s sister wasn’t afraid of anything. And they didn’t play in here. They spent their days outside or in the attic.
The room next to Poppy’s belonged to their parents. Ava’s father wasn’t staying in there though. After they climbed the stairs on Sunday night, dragging themselves toward sleep, she’d watched him lug his bag to the guest room at the far end of the hallway. He didn’t slow his step or touch their closed door; he didn’t even turn his head when he’d walked by it.
Dark wood, nothing mysterious on the outside, the glass doorknob was cool to the touch. Ava opened the door to the room, half hoping that like in Poppy’s place, there’d be nothing there for her.
Since she’d been back, Ava had noticed most of the rooms in Herrick House didn’t hold their personal things. Aside from a few books, lamps and furniture, the stuff that made the house a summer home—that said real people lived there—was gone. Ava and her father hadn’t been inside the place for eight years. Which in a way made it more annoying that he made James sleep in the boathouse.
Her parents’ room was no exception to the new house rules. Their wedding picture wasn’t on the nightstand, and neither was the one of two sisters sitting in the rowboat, with their lips stained by cherry Popsicles. No bottles of lavender perfume were there to uncork, to help her call up her mother’s scent. Bureau drawers were empty. The wardrobe stood vacant.
Then click. There’s a picture in Ava’s mind of her mother reaching behind her back to zip up a fancy dress. Poppy’s jumping on the bed. Click again. Her mother turns from the mirror to wipe Ava’s tears, saying, “Be a big girl. Set a good example for your sister. Daddy and I won’t be gone long. I’ll come home as soon as this silly fundraiser is over.”
Girl Sent Away Page 14