The Girl in the Headlines

by Hannah Jayne

  Bile itched at the back of my throat, and I took another step toward the door. “I should go now.”

  “Okay.” Rita picked up her keys but sat down on the couch. “Where shall I take you?”

  My stomach sank.

  I really did have nowhere to go.

  “Uh,” I started, licking my suddenly Sahara-dry lips. I would figure something out. “You could just drop me downtown.”

  “It’s nearly nine o’clock at night. I’m happy to drive you somewhere, and I know I’m not your real”—here, Rita made air quotes, and for some reason, it enraged me—“mom, but I can’t just leave you out on the street at this hour. You have a friend waiting for you?”

  “Yes.” I jumped on that. “I do.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Lynelle,” I lied, hoping it wasn’t obvious.

  “Okay.” Rita stood, the car keys clanking like keys to freedom. “Where does this Lynelle live?”

  “Uh—”

  “You got a street name or something?”

  “Maple?”

  I was faltering, freaking out, and she knew it.

  “Look, Andrea, I know you’re frightened. I’m not here to ask any questions—”

  “You think I did this?”

  Rita dropped her keys and held up both hands. “I’m not saying anything. All I want to do is help you. You can stay here if you want, no questions asked, and we can figure something out. Maybe get you a lawyer or something—”

  I swallowed, my stomach churning.

  Did this woman who abandoned me as a child really think I was capable of murdering my father and attempting to murder my mother, the only people who ever cared for me? Was that what she was saying?

  “How do I know you aren’t in on this?” I didn’t know where the bravado, the spite came from, but I couldn’t stop myself. “This is all way too coincidental. You just happen to work at the motel I was dumped at?”

  Rita cocked an eyebrow, her arms snaking in front of her chest. “Maybe you got dumped at the motel I just happened to work at. Look, I recognized you. I didn’t call the police on you. Your little friend did.” She pointed her thumb at her chest. “I helped you get out of there. You really think I would attack your parents—my sister, no less—and take that kid? Look around, Andrea. This isn’t exactly a palace. Where would I hide a kid?”

  I was breathing hard, feeling the breath snake from my lungs. “Why didn’t Mom ever mention you?”

  Rita pinned me with a stare. “She didn’t?”

  I shook my head slowly, still trying to work out how Rita and my mom were sisters. They didn’t look a thing alike; Rita was wiry, and her features were gaunt. My mom was athletic with red-apple cheeks and dimples. My mom was tall and Rita was short…like I was.

  I looked like Rita.

  I racked my brain for the moment when my parents sat me down and told me about Rita. Told me that she was Mom’s sister, that we were really family. But I couldn’t remember it ever happening. Why did my mom never tell me?

  Rita snorted and shrugged. “She said we were going to have an ‘open dialogue’ kind of thing, but I guess that was bullshit. Kinda Beth’s way though.”

  “What do you mean? What do you mean about it being ‘Beth’s way’?”

  “I mean your mom always got what she wanted.”

  “And an open dialogue?”

  Rita patted the air. “It doesn’t matter anymore, does it, Andrea?”

  I wasn’t a stranger.

  I wasn’t the other.

  I was one of them. I was blood.

  I wanted to feel elation, vindication—but it didn’t matter anymore. My father was dead. My mother was hanging by a thread. We were related, but I couldn’t save them. I could feel the lump growing in my throat, but I didn’t want to cry. Not in front of her. “Did you—was it you—”

  Rita eyed me. “What would I have to gain from hurting your parents? They’ve been good to you, right? I mean, you had a nice life, right?”

  The tears were starting. My whole life was upside down, and every moment, things were getting worse. My parents were gone, and my birth mother hadn’t thought of me in the last ten years other than to think I had “a nice life.” She hadn’t ever wondered. She hadn’t ever reached out. She didn’t want to.

  She didn’t want me.

  I opened my mouth and shut it again, my breath snatched away.

  “What are you doing?” Rita stood up. “What’s happening here?”

  I tried to breathe. I was desperate to breathe.

  “Shit. You used to do this when you was a baby too.”

  I patted down my pockets, my jeans, my hand thankfully landing on my emergency inhaler. I sucked two puffs and took a slow, steadying breath.

  I wanted my mom. My real mom. I wanted her slow, steady counting. I wanted her palms soft as she dabbed the tears from my cheeks and then pulled me to her, whispering her count now, telling me “It’s going to be okay” in between.

  Rita wasn’t my mother. She wasn’t anything to me but a weird coincidence in my bizarre world. I wondered what Nate was doing back at the motel.

  Thirty-Seven

  “Can I get you something to eat or anything like that?”

  I really didn’t want anything from Rita, suddenly sure that anything she gave me would be tainted somehow, that if I ate anything here, I would be stuck down this bizarre rabbit hole like a modern-day Alice in Wonderland. But my stomach betrayed me with a loud, stupid growl, and I felt my cheeks burn red.

  “Thanks.” My voice was a hoarse whisper, and Rita smiled, yanked open the refrigerator door, and started calling things out over her shoulder while I sat in this alternate reality. This was my birth mom; this was my aunt. My real parents and I were linked regardless of legal documents or signatures on dotted lines. I was one of them.

  “We’ve got some soda. Hmm, those grapes don’t look too good. How about I make you a sandwich?”

  I nodded only because Rita already had a sleeve of puffy white bread in her hand, something that looked like bologna in the other. She talked as she made my sandwich; I tried to follow along, but I was too busy scrutinizing everything in her place. It was almost like a slightly bigger version of the Midnight Inn rooms, only less personalized than Nate’s. The kitchen was small but neat with white curtains pulled over the only window and a white cotton dish towel thrown over the faucet.

  “Y-your place is nice. How long have you lived here?” I didn’t even recognize my own voice; it was quavering and small, and I felt like that six-year-old kid again, sitting in the Child Protective Services office while Rita did her best not to make eye contact.

  “While now. Do you like mustard?”

  I wrinkled my nose. “No.”

  Rita leaned over and smiled at me. “Neither do I.”

  I smiled in spite of myself, my need to connect with someone overwhelming my suspicions and discomfort.

  “What about olives?”

  “Gross,” we said in unison.

  “What about cantaloupe? Are you allergic to it?”

  I snorted. “Who’s allergic to cantaloupe?”

  Rita pulled out the chair across from me, sat, then slid my sandwich and a can of soda toward me. “I am. And you might be one day, too, so stop laughing. Didn’t hit me until I was at least twenty-three.”

  “That’s really weird.”

  “Eat your sandwich.”

  I took a bite, and Rita kept talking about random things: what she did and didn’t like, where she got her couch—apparently the Goodwill on Almaden “had everything”—plus a few choice words about her job at the Midnight Inn. She didn’t talk about my parents or ask any questions about me, and I was glad for that. By the time my sandwich was reduced to crumbs and I had downed two cold sodas, I couldn’t hold back anymore, and I ya
wned, my eyes watering as I did. Rita glanced at the clock.

  “It’s pretty late. You okay staying here tonight?”

  I wanted to say no, I wasn’t, that I had somewhere else to go, but we both knew that was a lie, and whether it was the sandwich, the chat, or my having just escaped the police, I didn’t know, but the exhaustion was pouring over me. My limbs were heavy, and I wasn’t even sure I could leave the table, let alone the house.

  “If that’s all right with you, maybe just for tonight.”

  “We’ve got a spare room and everything.”

  Rita led me down the hall and directed me to a room with the same blank white walls as the rest of the place. There was a twin bed pushed up against the wall, a comforter I was sure was a Midnight Inn castoff, a chipped white nightstand, and a lamp.

  “Again, it’s not much, but it’s yours,” Rita said, and despite everything, I was starting to warm to her. “Bathroom is right there,” she said, thumbing over her shoulder.

  We stood there looking at each other for a beat, and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do: Thank her? Hug her? Kiss her goodnight?

  I didn’t need to do anything as she turned her back and shut the bedroom door softly. I thought about washing my face, maybe trying to finger brush my teeth, but the exhaustion was all over me, so I went to the bed, pushed back the covers, and fell into the blackest sleep of my life.

  * * *

  I must have been dreaming of Josh.

  Each time I breathed, I smelled him, that cut-grass, little-boy scent that I had never appreciated before. When I woke up, I was clutching the blankets to my face, and the room was bathed in darkness. I had no idea what time it was, but my bladder was aching, so I crept out of bed and pushed the door open, vaguely surprised that it wasn’t locked. The hallway toward Rita’s room was lost in blackness, but I could see there was still a light on in the living room.

  A light, and voices.

  My heart slammed against my rib cage, my lips going numb. I heard a man’s voice, a low rumble contrasted against Rita’s breathy, melodic one.

  Who was he?

  Jerry? Jerry’s goon? I didn’t have any idea how Rita and Jerry would have gotten to know each other, but I was at the point in my new life where everyone was against me. Somehow, everyone was working together, and I was just learning the rules of the game—or that there was a game at all.

  I pushed my feet noiselessly toward the threshold of the door to the hallway. I couldn’t go any farther down the hall without them seeing me, and everything inside told me to stay hidden, to keep to the shadows. I leaned out as far as I dared, holding my breath and willing my heart to stop its fire-bell clanging so I could make out their words. They stopped when I did, and my body went stiff and ice cold; I shot back into my bedroom, searched for a lock on the door, then pulled the covers up over my head.

  Sleep wouldn’t come. My ears stayed pricked, hearing the rise and fall of the voices in the other room, and eventually I crawled out of bed again, slinging my sweatshirt over the lamp and turning it on. The diffused light was just enough that when my eyes adjusted, I could make out the bed, nightstand, and closet door. I pushed that aside in molasses slow motion, praying it wouldn’t eek or squeak like the closet door at home.

  Once again, a sob lodged in my chest. This time, it had razor edges, and I doubled over, sitting down hard on the threadbare carpet. I was so far from my old life, from my real life, that I could barely see it anymore, hanging on to unimportant details like a squeaky closet door. Was I already forgetting my parents? The way my mother and father smelled, the softness of her hand, the way he called me cookie? What did my bedroom look like, my sheets, my fluttery pink curtains? I would never be able to walk back into my house no matter what happened, and I might not ever see Josh again. From here on out, I would run.

  I pushed to my knees then, a single voice in my head telling me to pull myself together, that my mother could wake up and clear my name, and Josh could be found, and all this could be over.

  I still edged open the closet door, squinted my eyes. I wasn’t sure if I was hoping to find something or nothing, because I had no idea what to do anymore.

  Thirty-Eight

  The sunlight cut over me in cheery yellow slats, and I rolled over, groaning. I rubbed my eyes and waited a half second for the ache to work itself out of my body, but it didn’t. I had fallen asleep on the floor, half curled in the closet, and everything hurt. I sat up, hoping for a blessed second that I could forget where I was, about the plain white walls and the woman—my birth mother—who had brought me here.

  It didn’t work.

  I was overcome with fear in the daylight, fear and absolute disbelief. It wasn’t a coincidence that Rita worked at the Midnight Inn. Was it a misstep that Nate forgot to mention her?

  I tried to work up some anger toward him, but that flicker of logic kept flaring up: why would he have told me about the other employees at the motel? How would he have connected Rita the maid to Rita my—and here, I choked on the word—mom?

  But Rita said he called the police on me.

  I didn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. Nate didn’t like the police; he told me so himself. He pushed me under the desk when the police came. I wanted so badly for something to make sense. For something to be real and solid and not have fifteen other possibilities.

  I needed answers.

  I straightened my clothes, slipped back into my shoes. My heart kept hammering, tears flicking at my eyes.

  Don’t fall apart now, I warned myself. Rita is nice enough, and she’ll probably drop me off at the motel with no problem.

  Could I even go back there?

  Were the police still there?

  I sucked in a steadying breath and put my hand on the doorknob, stopping when I realized the knob wouldn’t budge. It was locked. The door was locked, and this crazy woman had dumped me here and locked me in and probably had gone for the cops or to Jerry—how did Rita know Jerry?—or to some other freak to sell me for drugs or sex or… I took a step away from the door and tried the knob again.

  The door clicked open easily, but I was much too riled to feel any relief. Everything in my body was piqued, on high alert, the blood thundering through my ears and pulsing with the power of a thousand snare drums.

  Do I just stroll out into the living room?

  I could faintly smell burnt coffee as I picked my way down the hall. My heart was in my throat when I walked into the living room, my eyes going over the couch, the afghan, the empty chair in the corner. The hook where Rita had hung up her purse and smock last night was empty, and I darted to the window.

  No maroon van.

  There were a thousand tire tracks burned into the gravel drive; it didn’t look like she had raced out of here, which should have been a relief. But strangely, I was wounded, aching somewhere deep because once again, I had been deserted, left behind by this woman I didn’t even know, didn’t even want, but somehow needed.

  “She’ll be back when her shift is over.”

  I whirled, the voice thick and dark as molasses. “Who are—” My mouth dropped open, and my stomach went to liquid.

  The man with the thick eyebrows, those lips I had seen turn up into a sneer. A heavy bandage across his nose. Instinct took over, and I turned, both hands on the front door’s knob, and yanked with all my might.

  But he was ready for me.

  The man crossed the tiny kitchen and living room in two, maybe three strides. Big, meat hook paws on my shoulders. Flung me backward, and I stumbled over my own feet, the edges of the chintzy coffee table digging into my calves as I flew over it, landing in a heap half on the couch, half on that threadbare carpet.

  He came at me again.

  Slower this time, hands out in front of him, brows knitted, lips turned down in a frown that looked—apologetic?

  “
Oh dear. Oh man, I didn’t mean to frighten you—”

  My feet slid against the carpet as I clawed and tried to gain purchase. “Get away from me! Get away!” My voice was a steamed hiss, and I was ready to pounce, to gnaw, to gouge his eyes out if I had to.

  “No, I mean, I’m sorry.” He took a few steps back and went palms flat in front of me. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “You tried to kill me at the motel! You broke into my room and—”

  He cocked his head, lips curling up into a half smile. “Now, I think you’d have liked to kill me that night.”

  “You broke into my room and slammed my head into a wall.”

  “You had that big stick a’ yers.” He pointed to his bandaged nose. “I had to see a doctor about this.”

  “What do you want from me? Why are you here at my—at my—at Rita’s house?”

  “I just wanted to see you, darling. Just like that night, and I do apologize for not making a very good impression. I think we both just got a little confused—”

  “You tried to kick my door down, then came through the bathroom window. I wasn’t confused, you psycho!” I gripped the leg of the coffee table, hoping I could snap it off and use it as a weapon to get out the door. The leg didn’t snap, so I barricaded myself with the table instead.

  “Can we just call a truce?”

  I gaped. “A truce? You tried to kill me! You tried to murder me!”

  “That wasn’t my intention. You just startled me.”

  “How did I startle you? You crawled in my bathroom window!”

  I wanted to scream and cry and hurl that two-dollar coffee table at this—this idiot who thought I would be okay with him crashing through my bathroom window, then calling a truce on the living room carpet. But I was a kid in a place I didn’t know, with no way out and nowhere to go, barricaded behind a coffee table made of tinder and duct tape.

  I expected the man to lunge at me, to toss the coffee table and sink his teeth into my neck or something equally horror movie-esque, but all he did was right the table, sit on it, and start laughing. Shoulder shaking, roundish belly jiggling laughter. Any fear I had was snuffed out by a white-hot stripe of anger.