“Where are my parents?” My whole body shook. I looked back at Mrs. Wilder, waiting for her to tell me that my parents were in another room or being checked out at the hospital.
“Sit down,” she said instead, her hand clasped over her mouth. Tears dripped down her face. She pressed her dead husband’s slipper against her chest (a security blanket of sorts, she’d told my mother once).
“Where are they?” I repeated, covering my ears, bracing myself for the words.
Mrs. Wilder shook her head, unable to explain it. And I couldn’t understand it—why my parents were gone, why there was nothing else left except rubble and dust: a heap of lifeless ashes, including inside my heart.
NOW
4
I follow Dave-the-tour-guide over a footbridge and to a tree-lined clearing. I chose Dave specifically, because people say he’s an expert on Hayberry Park, that he knows these woods like the back of his hand: every tree, shrub, rock, and burr.
A woman on a review site wrote that Dave was so “well acquainted with these woods, he’d know it if a single log had been kicked from its beaver dam from one visit to the next.”
I doubt that’s really true, but he definitely sounds like an expert, and that’s exactly what I need.
Dave stands at the front of our group and asks us more of his nature-inspired questions, this time about the age and type of the oldest fruit tree. I don’t really care. I’m not here for nature trivia. I just want to find the place where I was being kept.
There are fifteen of us on tour today, a larger number than most of the tours I’ve taken, likely due to the fall foliage. Nobody in the group seems to recognize me, maybe because of my sunglasses and baseball cap. Or maybe my story has already been forgotten.
The air is cool, so I’ve dressed accordingly in a fleece jacket and hiking boots. Bright orange leaves quiver from the branches of cherry and maple trees. As the sun strikes down, the leaves appear to glow, lighting up like shimmering ornaments. One time, back in elementary school, my dad took me here for a hike around the frog pond. The woods had seemed so enchanting then with their towering oaks and winding trails. I couldn’t hate them more now.
This is my sixth guided tour since my release from the hospital three months ago. When I made the mistake of talking in group about wanting to come back here, the group leader—Winnie was her name—said it wasn’t a good idea.
“I’ll be fine,” I told her.
“You don’t understand,” she insisted. “When something traumatic happens, the brain has a way of storing details from the event—details you may not even consciously remember, like certain sounds, smells, textures, tastes … When exposed to those same details, sometime later, the individual can become overwhelmed and stressed. It can trigger a fight-or-flight response.”
Post-traumatic stress. I knew all about it. I’d already had my fair share of practice with it. “Didn’t you read my chart?” I asked her. “It says that I’m delusional, that I make things up, that you’re not supposed to believe a single word I say.”
Her mouth parted open, perhaps at a loss of words. I almost felt bad for her. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two years old (just a few years older than I was) and completely unprepared for an attitude like mine.
“Please, just be safe,” she said quickly, quietly. “None of you should go anywhere that might prove upsetting—or worse, triggering—unless it’s under the guidance and supervision of a licensed therapist.”
I’ve been coming to this park under the guidance and supervision of no one other than the park ranger assigned to give the tour.
Is it upsetting?
Yes.
Does it trigger me?
Most definitely.
But I want to be triggered. I need to be upset. How else will I know I’m not delusional like everyone says?
“Hello?” calls a voice.
I look up. Dave’s waving at me. He and the group have moved away; there’s at least thirty yards’ distance between us now.
A woman with a fuzzy brown coat whispers something to her partner. It’s only then I realize … The stick in my hand; I’m rubbing it against my cheek. The cool, coarse sensation flashes me back to the cocoon I made in the woods—of brush and burrs—and trying my hardest to curl up tighter and get myself smaller; just a little bit more and he won’t see me.
Rub, rub, rub.
Tuck, tuck.
Sniff, sniff. The musty scent of dirt.
Is someone whistling? The tune to “Mary Had a Little Lamb”?
“Is she going to be okay?” A voice asks. “Shall we take a water break?”
Dave asks, “Can you confirm that you’re still with us?”
I drop the stick, forcing myself back, plugging myself in. The cocoon cracks open. Who was just whistling?
“Hello…” Dave says. Is he talking to me?
I search the faces of the group. But no one’s whistling. Only one girl is smirking. Dave starts talking again, holding a pine cone, staring in my direction. Finally, after a few moments, he turns away, leading the group over a footbridge.
I follow along, curious to know where the bridge came from. The maps don’t show it anywhere, plus it seems misplaced; it doesn’t stand over a stream of water.
I grab my phone to check the online map, but I have no cell reception. We’re in too deep. I search my pockets for the paper map. I have my knife and my mini can of wasp spray, but my map is missing. Did I leave it at home? Or inside my car?
Did I even take my car?
No, I took the bus.
Right.
The thought of driving here makes my insides race. My nerves twitch. I swivel from the bridge, trying to get a new perspective. Have I been here before—to this part of the park, that is? Is there anything distinguishable?
Dave continues chattering away, something about tree bark now … about which bark one could eat if ever caught out in the wild, apparently pine, red spruce, and balsam fir. “Does anyone have any questions before we move on?” he asks.
I raise my hand. “Why doesn’t the online map show this footbridge?”
“A good question.” He grins. “I see someone’s done her homework. Does anyone want to take a stab at the answer?”
Most of the faces in the group remain blank. But then a woman at the front raises her hand to offer a guess: “Because the map was made before the bridge was placed here?”
“Excellent theory,” Dave says, “but not quite right. Anyone else? No? Okay, so the bridge was built by a local homeschool group as part of a hands-on math project. The group often likes to take hikes in this park, and so when they were finished building the bridge, they donated it, requesting that it be placed by this clearing—what they refer to as their outdoor classroom. If you look closer, you can see the bridge’s dedication plaque just under the first step. When our cartographer was making our most current map guides—about two years ago now—he knew about the bridge, but wasn’t sure its placement would be a permanent fixture.”
I move closer to get a good look. The bridge appears to be about twenty feet long by six feet wide. I take a snapshot, including of the dedication plaque, mentally noting the homeschool group as a possible resource.
“Are there any other questions before we wrap up our tour?” Dave asks.
Wrap up?
Already?
I check my phone for the time. How is it that nearly two hours have passed?
“Anyone?” Dave scans the group.
I raise my hand again. “How well do you know this park?”
His eyebrows shoot upward, as though taken aback by the question. “Well, I’m the tour guide, aren’t I? It’s my job to know this place. But to answer your question, I practically grew up in these woods. I camped here, hiked here, volunteered to do cleanups here…”
“Do you know every square inch?”
He folds his arms and widens his stance: defense mode. I know it well.
“I’m not even sure I know
every square inch of my own apartment,” he says. “Why do you ask? Is there a question I haven’t answered for you today?”
Yes. There is. “Where is the water well located?”
His face furrows. He doesn’t know. “Water well?”
My heart sinks.
I look around at the others to see if any of them might be familiar with the well. “People say it’s hidden under brush and brambles, and that it’s tucked behind a grove of elm trees…”
“Really…” He smirks. “Well, as you can see, these woods are full of brush, brambles, and elms.” He motions all around us. “But I can assure you there are no water wells.”
“That you know of,” I say, correcting him.
“No.” He draws the word out for emphasis. “There are no water wells period. You can check your map.”
“I don’t need to check. I know the map. Every square inch of it. The well isn’t on there. The footbridge isn’t either.”
“I know Hayberry Park,” Dave argues. “It has eight water fountains and two fishing holes, miles of hiking and biking trails, the most species of deer and birds in the New England area—”
“And a water well,” I insist.
“Could it be that you have this park confused with another?”
“I’m not confused.” Part of me wonders if the well had been built just for me. But that doesn’t make sense either—doesn’t explain the overgrowth of brush or the aging of the well bricks.
“Hey, wait,” Dave says. His face brightens, the look of recognition, of puzzle pieces fitting together. “I think I may’ve heard about you. You’ve been on a lot of these walking tours, haven’t you?”
“No. I don’t think so.” My face flashes hot.
“Yes. You have.” He’s smiling now, his suspicions confirmed. “You’re that girl.”
The people in the group are gawking at me now.
“Is she okay?” a female voice asks. Which one of them said it? The lady in the brown coat?
“I’m not,” I say. “That girl,” I mean.
“Your name is Terra, right?” Dave takes a step closer. “You’re Terra, the girl who was on the news?”
“I’m not.” I’m no one. I turn away and keep on walking.
NOW
5
Later, in my room, behind an art desk that’s loaded with the sharpest of tools; beneath a blanket that reminds me of the pink one my mother knitted me; and with all the windows closed, locked, booby-trapped, and duct-taped, I log on to the Jane Anonymous chat site. My chat name, NightTerra, pops up on the screen to announce my attendance.
JA Admin: Welcome, NightTerra. Remember the rules: no judgments, no swearing, no inappropriate remarks. This is a safe space for honesty and support.
Paylee22: Hey, NightTerra! So glad to see you!!!
NightTerra: Is anyone else on here?
Paylee22: Logged on maybe but not chatting. It’s been pretty quiet, so I’m binging my way through Season 3 of Summer’s Story. Have you watched it yet?
NightTerra: No, but I tried those Swiss Rolls you recommended.
Paylee22: And?
NightTerra: So good.
Paylee22: Told you! Sometime, we should go into a private chat room, watch Summer’s Story, and eat Swiss Rolls, so it’ll be like we’re together.
NightTerra: Definitely. :)
NightTerra: Can I ask you something?
Paylee22: Of course. Anything.
NightTerra: Do you think I’m crazy? Like, for real, beyond mentally unstable.
Paylee22: Seriously? Again??? What’s with you and the c-word?
Paylee22: If you were really, truly crazy, you wouldn’t be asking if you’re crazy.
NightTerra: Do you really think that’s true?
Paylee22: I really, really do.
NightTerra: Sometimes I just feel so completely alone, even when others are around, which I know sounds crazy coming from someone who was trapped in a well.
Paylee22: The crazy part is that it doesn’t sound crazy at all, not to someone like me who’s been through something similar. For me, other people make the lonely feeling worse—the fact that I can’t really relate to them, and they don’t relate to me.
Paylee22: Just the other day, with my mom … I was trying to describe what it was like for me, trapped in that shed, not knowing what was going to happen or if I’d ever get out …
Paylee22: I was telling her how thoughts of my little brother Max came up, how I felt like his spirit was with me somehow, in the shed, how I imagined doing card tricks with him … His favorite trick with the Aces and the Queens …
Paylee22: But I couldn’t really share much because my mom started crying as soon as I said Max’s name. So, then I felt bad, like I had to soothe her, and lonely because I had no one to tell those Max memories to.
NightTerra: You’ll always have me.
Paylee22: xoxoxo
Paylee22: I really miss him. His giggly little laugh, his obsession with Polymer clay, all those snails he used to sculpt … He made a DIY video tutorial. Sometimes I watch it just to keep him close.
Paylee22: His heart just wasn’t strong enough for his larger-than-life spirit.
NightTerra: I’m really sorry, Peyton.
NightTerra: Sending you a virtual hug.
Paylee22: Thanks, Terra. What would I do without you? I don’t ever want to know.
Paylee22: Now, back to you. Are you feeling a little less alone and unstable? I hate the c-word, btw. Delete crazy from your vocabulary.
Paylee22: And while I’m prescribing, don’t go surfing online for symptoms. Need I remind you that I’m way better than Dr. Google.
Paylee22: I’m Dr. P.:)
NightTerra: What’s my diagnosis, Dr. P?
Paylee22: Paranoid, with a side of mistrust, a hefty helping of isolation, and a scoop of low self-esteem.
Paylee22: In other words, you’re just like me.
NightTerra: Thank you for being there.
Paylee22: Let’s not leave each other yet. Let’s be alone, together.
NightTerra: What do you mean?
Paylee22: When we go to bed … How about we stay logged on, in case either of us needs to chat?
NightTerra: I actually love that idea.
Paylee22: Great! Let’s exit this chat. I’ll send you a link for a private room, where we can “sleep.” Lol.
NightTerra: Ok. Sounds good.
NightTerra: xo
Paylee22: xoxo
Paylee22 has left the chat room.
NightTerra has left the chat room.
There are currently 3 people in the chat room.
THEN
6
Unable to sleep after the sorority party, I rolled over in bed and stared at the wall, remembering a time when I was seven or eight and my father used me as a makeshift barbell. With one hand wrapped around my ankle and the other holding my shoulder tightly, he lifted me high above his head—again and again, up and down—as I squealed, and laughed, and begged for more.
Sometimes, I imagine he’s in my room, watching over me as I sleep. I imagined it that night as I cuddled one of my mother’s old sweaters (one she’d left in her car on the night of the fire). Once I’d nodded off, I pictured my father—in my dream—standing by the window wearing his favorite sweatpants, the blue ones with the torn back pocket.
Eventually, as I slept there soundly, I felt him grow closer, his fingers gliding over the wounds on my forearms, the ones from sliding onto the pavement in front of the convenience store.
Terra, he whispered into my ear, inside my brain. It’s time to get up.
It’s weird: sleep. Sometimes you can get caught in that murky place between wakefulness and slumber. Sleep paralysis: a state of restful unrest (if that makes any sense). You feel as though you’re on the verge of waking up, but the claws of slumber hold you in place, keeping you from gaining full consciousness. I asked a therapist about it once—about why it was always happening. She said it’s typically cau
sed by anxiety and fatigue, not to mention the meds I’d been taking for said anxiety and fatigue.
In that moment, lying in bed, after the party, my brain told me to get up, to do as my father had said. But sleep wouldn’t let me, and so I remained snuggled up, somewhat comforted by his voice.
Terra …
I felt his weight then—on the mattress—as though he’d sat down beside me. I felt more of his patting too—over my shoulder and down my arm as he tried to rouse me to full consciousness.
Now, his voice insisted. You need to wake up.
I remember the sensation of smiling, still caught in that cloudy place. Who would ever want to wake from it? There, in dreamland, I had my father back—could hear him, feel him, and smell him too: the scent of the black licorice he used to snack; Sunday afternoons, on the sunporch, we’d sit side by side, reading books and nibbling licorice sticks and pretzel rods.
In my dream, I wanted to talk to him so unbelievably much. I think I moaned from the effort. In my mind, I told him I was sorry for not opening my bedroom door on the night of the fire.
Get up, he persisted. It isn’t time for you.
Time? For what?
I tried to wake up. At one point, I could’ve sworn I’d sat up in bed, that I’d been able to see the room around me—my blue checked covers, my maple dresser, my bulletin board full of pictures, and my fuzzy green chair … But, in reality, I was still curled up in bed, with my mother’s sweater nestled beneath my cheek.
“Don’t you wake up now, pretty girl,” a male voice said. But it wasn’t my father’s; this voice sounded gruffer, deeper, and had a singsong quality.
Where had my father gone?
Why wasn’t I waking up?
I heard a zipper then—zip, unzip—followed by a clattering noise and the jangling of keys. In my dreamy state, I pictured my dad’s gym bag—the lime-green one. He used to keep a stainless-steel water bottle tucked inside. Was he removing the lid and handling his locker keys?
Something thin and light draped over my face, tickling my skin. I pictured the bedsheet game Mom and I used to play, when I’d lie on the mattress while she made it up. She’d toss the top sheet high in the air and let it float down over me, again and again.
The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep Page 3