The guy working behind the counter comes darting out, grabbing a bin.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him, at least that’s what I mean to say.
I look up. Garret is staring straight at me. His mouth parts. Did he just say something—to the worker? To me?
I open my mouth to speak, even though I have no words and know no answers, so nothing comes out. I turn back around and hurry out the door.
NOW
11
I walk back to my aunt’s house, taking the main roads, flashing back to the night of the sorority party and talking to Felix on the long walk home. A year ago, at this time, we had an unspoken agreement: to be one another’s emergency crisis hotline whenever either of us needed it. So many nights, he’d call me with issues about his mom’s new husband or his father’s unwillingness to spend time with him. I did the same, waking him out of a sound sleep to talk about the fire, how I wish it were me that’d gone up in smoke.
“Then who would I cheat off of in health class?” he’d ask.
“It’s health class; you shouldn’t even need to cheat.”
“Still, I wouldn’t survive without you, Terra-saurus. You know I love you deeply.”
“Yes, and I love you too.”
Before he left for college, we made a pact. Over a basket of onion rings in a café not far from the Emo mother ship, we vowed to text, call, or FaceTime at least once a day or as much as either of us needed. But that pact petered out after his first few weeks at school. For me: It hurt to hear how much fun he was having at college. For him: I’m not really sure, but he stopped answering my texts.
Finally, I reach the house. My aunt isn’t home. Only the Subaru is here, parked in the drive. I crawl into the back and curl up on the floor, beneath the yoga blanket. It feels somewhat safe here with my eyes closed and the doors locked. There’s just me and my breath, me and whatever story I want to tell myself about where I am and how I got to this point.
Except the stories aren’t coming.
My mind won’t stop reeling.
It isn’t as easy as it was, freshman year, when Charley, a boy at Emo who loved fantasy as much as I did, would engage me in role-playing and storytelling in an effort to escape reality. As soon as break time hit, we’d flee into the quiet room—where we were never actually quiet—and sit on beanbags, spinning tales inspired by everyday items, like the mood ring I’d won as part of Dr. Beckett’s trivia challenge.
“Let’s use it as part of a story,” Charley said. “Imagine the ring gives the wearer a superpower. Which power would you pick?”
“Time travel. No question.”
“Except practically all our stories are about time travel. Pick again.”
“Invisibility?”
“Now you’re talking. So, think. What’s our story?”
The question is just as relevant now. What’s my story? About Garret? About whether or not he saw me tonight? Does he think I’m as troubled as everyone says?
I reach for my phone and log on to Jane, hoping to find Peyton.
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, Terra! I’m so happy you logged on!!!
NightTerra: Who else is on here?
Paylee22: I think it’s just you and me for now. No one else is chatting.
Paylee22: So, what’s up?
Paylee22: Have you watched Summer’s Story yet?
NightTerra: Not yet.
Paylee22: What are you waiting for? It’s sooooo good!!!
Paylee22: Do you have recs for me? I’ll need something else to binge once I’ve blasted through all the seasons.
Paylee22:???
Paylee22: Hello?
Paylee22: You there?
NightTerra: Yes, here.
Paylee22: Is everything ok?
NightTerra: Define ok.
Paylee22: What happened?
Paylee22:???
NightTerra: I retraced my steps again.
Paylee22: In a word: Why?
Paylee22: Why?
Paylee22: WHY is that a good idea?
NightTerra: I never said it was.
Paylee22: So, then why do you do it?
NightTerra: Sometimes I’m not even sure myself.
NightTerra: Other times, I feel there are too many reasons.
Paylee22: Give me one reason.
NightTerra: Maybe if I found some clue or made some connection, people would have to believe my story.
Paylee22: FYI, the people who love you are supposed to believe you regardless of proof. #Fact
NightTerra: It’s just pretty isolating when everyone thinks you’re a liar. #Truth
Paylee22: I’m in your life and I don’t think you’re a liar.
NightTerra: Maybe doing enough of these searches will help to reassure me that everything happened the way I remember.
Paylee22: Why do you need reassurance?
Paylee22: Are negative voices causing you self-doubt?
Paylee22: I’ll never doubt you, ok?
NightTerra: I really wish you were here.
Paylee22: I’m always here, whenever you need.
Paylee22: And I’ll always believe you.
NightTerra: xo
Paylee22: xoxo
NightTerra: I should probably get something to eat. My stomach keeps growling.
NightTerra: Except I don’t want to log off yet.
NightTerra: You help keep me sane.
Paylee22: So, take me with you!
NightTerra: While I make my food?
Paylee22: Why not? I can open a private room. It’ll be like I’m right there in the kitchen with you in case you want to chat.
NightTerra: Are you sure?
Paylee22: Of course. I know you’d do the same for me.
NightTerra: I would!
Paylee22: Exactly. I’ll send you a link now. Ok?
NightTerra: Thank you again!! xo
Paylee22: xoxo
NightTerra has left the chat room. There are currently 3 people in the chat room.
THEN
12
When I woke up again, I couldn’t see. I blinked a bunch of times, but the darkness remained. Was the lid still closed? How long had I been there? More than a day? Was anyone searching for me?
I crawled to a seated position, with my back pressed against the dirt wall, and closed my eyes, trying to trick myself into believing that it wasn’t so dark, that my lack of sight was of my own choosing.
In that tarry stillness, I asked myself questions, like who he was, and why he picked me, and how long he would keep me there.
Was I his prisoner? Like that movie I saw where the woman locked her daughter’s killer in a cage, behind her house … She brought him food and water, keeping him alive. Would the guy who took me do the same? Or was he planning to do other things?
What other things?
What could I do?
I drew my knees upward and gnawed at my kneecaps, straight through my sweats, breaking the skin, as my mind continued to reel. Was he going to come back? What would be worse: seeing him again or being left there to die?
To stop myself from thinking, I hummed out loud. Sound in place of thoughts.
The taste of blood instead of food.
The sensation of touch because I needed to feel something besides the ache of my bones against the dirt floor and walls. And so, I touched the parts of myself I’d never consciously touched before—the lines on the arch of my foot, the bump on the back of my ear, the bones of my bloody knees, and the smooth tissue inside my cheek.
When, finally, sometime later, the light came on again and the tomb-like lid tremored at least partially open, I made like a cockroach—the way roaches scatter when you turn on a light switch, the clattering of their legs across the tile countertop, like the ones at the summer house my parents had once rented; the shock of light was too much to bear, and l curled up in t
he corner, shielding my eyes, yet wanting to see.
Who was there?
What was happening?
I tried to scream out, but a weird sputtering-hacking sound spewed from my mouth. My throat stung from the sharp edges of my voice. I needed water—more than anything else. I looked up, just as bursts of light shot out in front of my eyes, distorting the images.
Was he leaning into the well, over the opening? Looking down at me? Was that his arm? Was he dangling something?
I closed my stinging-stabbing eyes. When I opened them again, I noticed almost instantly: A blanket sat at my feet—a gray fleece square, about four feet long and wide. Where had it come from? When had it gotten there? While I’d been sleeping? Or just now?
“Let me out!” I tried to shout.
When nothing happened and no one answered, I slid the storybook toward me, across the ground, suspecting a message might be hidden among the pages. I searched the cover for the author’s name, but it didn’t list one. No name was included on the spine or in the interior pages either.
I flipped the book open, my fingers fumbling, the pages sticking. The illustration showed the girl from the front cover, with the braided hair and the long blue dress, leaning over a chicken coop. The book tells the story of Clara, a girl who lives on a farm and goes to a one-room school. Clara wishes to be invited to a classmate’s twelfth birthday party, as all the other girls were. She soon meets William, a troll-like character and the minder of the magical Wishy Water Well, who says he can help her wish come true.
I turned another page just as a banging noise startled my heart.
A gun?
A firework?
I stood up. Was it possible the police had finally come?
“I’m down here!” I screamed as best I could, over and over again, jumping up and down, slapping against the walls, pounding with my fists …
Finally, I tossed the book upward, picturing it popping up from the top of the well. But I couldn’t tell if the book was hitting part of the roof or soaring into the air.
Was no one seeing it?
Nothing was happening, even when I yelled some more, screaming myself sick. Before I knew it, I was hacking up. Bile burned the back of my throat. I sank to the ground and curled into a ball with my cheek resting against the blanket. The stench of my puke—like week-old garbage that’d been baked in the sun—made my stomach churn. Meanwhile, hot, bubbling tears ran from my eyes. I directed them into my mouth, hoping to coat my throat, desperate to escape back to sleep.
NOW
13
Days later, in my room, unable to sleep, I grab my art book and start to draw yet another sketch of the guy who took me. I still picture him hovered over my bed. That’s how I described him too—at the police station, to the sketch artist. But the final product looked far too generic, especially with his masked face and dark clothing; there was nothing distinguishable.
Except those eyes.
I’ve spent countless hours working on them, experimenting with various mediums, trying to get the right shade of blue—not like the sky, or the sea, or any of my pastels. His is a custom color. The closest I’ve come to achieving it is by mixing acrylics—teal, royal blue, and white—and even then … It’s not quite right, not nearly brilliant enough.
Using colored pencils this time, I shade in the chest. It’s too wide in my sketch, but that’s how it felt—wide like a wall. His forehead was wide too, or maybe that was just the mask, and his chin appeared pointed. In my mind, I imagine a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and smallish ears. But that’s part of the problem: what my mind envisions, the place where creativity intersects reality. What did he truly look like beneath that mask?
How tall was he really?
How big were his hands?
“Did you see his eyebrows?” the sketch artist asked. “Did any of his hair peek out? Could you tell if the outline of his ear hit above or below the line of his nose?”
I really didn’t know. “I wish I could remember.”
“I’m almost surprised you don’t picture him as more of a monster,” Winnie-the-group-leader told me once. Because obviously monsters don’t come in disguise. Obviously, they’re as clear and cliché as those in storybooks and movies. And so, I played along, telling her about his serpent tongue, his clawlike hands, and his icy stare, further affirming what she already believed—it was all in my head, all concocted by me.
The ironic part: I kind of wanted to believe that too. When people tell you long enough that your story can’t possibly be true, that it’s the result of post-traumatic stress because your parents died and you don’t know how to survive, it feels less isolating to agree, especially when those people are the “sane” ones: the police, the investigators, the doctors, the therapists …
There was no physical evidence.
They checked me out.
I opened myself up.
“No fingerprints.”
“No signs of forced entry.”
“No DNA.”
“No water well within a twenty-mile radius of Hayberry Park.”
There was no broken glass in my bedroom either; the tumbler of water I’d set by my bed that night—that I’d reached for in self-defense—was still fully intact; still sitting, half-empty, on my night table.
“Are you sure you picked it up and threw it at the guy?” my aunt asked me. “You heard the glass shatter?”
Did I? Could I really be sure?
Believing everyone else’s stories—their versions of what happened—would make my life so much easier. So what if I’d had a brief bout of temporary insanity?
Of delusional delirium?
Of post-traumatic dissociation?
Of whatever else they were calling it today?
Big deal.
The only problem: There was no bout. I did get taken. “Why else would I get panic attacks just going to bed at night?”
“Why wouldn’t you get them?” Dr. Mary asked, sitting across from me on her “safe and sound” sofa. “Don’t forget: Five years ago, you went to bed and woke up to a fire that took both of your parents. You lived, while both of them died … I’d almost be surprised if you didn’t experience the occasional panic attack.”
“Okay, but how about the fairy-tale book? My mind wouldn’t have just conjured that up.”
“Or wouldn’t it have? Think about it. The fairy-tale book centered on a sinister wishing well tucked away in a menacing forest. Is it so hard to believe that the well represents the death of hope (literally, wishes, in this case) and a prison your mind’s created to trap yourself in, because you feel the need for punishment?”
“Punishment?”
“Have you ever heard of something called survivor guilt?”
I shook my head, but it didn’t take a psychology degree to guess what it meant.
“Might you be punishing yourself for surviving the fire, something your parents weren’t able to do? Might the vast, thick forest symbolize an overwhelming situation—one you can’t find a way out of?”
Except I did get out. “That’s not it.”
“The burning house is gone now, Terra. But perhaps your mind’s creating its own version of a fire.”
“I am my mind. It’s governed by me.” I squeezed the belly of my troll key chain over and over, making the eyes pop.
“The mind processes information to the best of its ability,” she continued. “It isn’t perfect. It protects itself—and protects you … It perceives events and situations as both real and unreal.”
“I know what’s real.”
She mustered a patronizing smile. “Think of it this way: getting abducted, surviving the well … It brought you closer to your aunt, didn’t it? Isn’t that what you said?”
“Because that was the truth.”
“Maybe you manifested that truth because you longed for that closeness. Maybe prior attempts didn’t get you what you needed.”
“Prior attempts?”
“It’s m
y understanding you had a history of ditching school, disappearing for days, not telling anyone where you were. Isn’t that correct? Didn’t you also get in trouble for shoplifting?”
“It was just a notebook. I needed it for school, and I’d forgotten my wallet. I would’ve paid the store back somehow. Plus, I didn’t disappear. It was just two days at a friend’s house.”
“The point is those attention-seeking strategies didn’t seem to work. So maybe you found another way—a more effective strategy. That’s survival by pure definition. Embrace it. Be proud of that will.”
I continue to sketch, burned out on everyone’s theories, but knowing they aren’t all completely untrue. At some point, during the fire, after the firefighters had arrived, all reality faded away. I know I was there, but I don’t remember watching the scene unfold: the mounting flames, the irreparable damage …
Supposedly, I was checked out by a medic. But I don’t remember that either, or the phone call I had with my aunt in the back of the ambulance.
My patchy memory—like an abyss of its own—is just one of the many reasons I ended up in the hospital after the fire, and probably a major reason why no one believed me, years later, after I got back from the well.
“You woke up in a neighbor’s house with no recollection of how you got there,” Dr. Mary persisted.
“What does this have to do with the fairy-tale book?”
“It has to do with the mind, with how the brain regulates trauma. Does that make sense?”
I shook my head. “The book is real. I’ll prove it.”
But I’ve yet to prove anything. Because I can’t find the book (or evidence that it exists), which is why I’ve started writing the story myself. I’ve asked librarians far and wide, both online and in person, to help me find a copy.
“Reality Bites Press?” most of them ask. “I’ve never heard of it.”
A reference librarian in the town next door asked if it was a self-published title. “But even still,” she continued, “it would’ve been copyrighted, unless the author published it with his own ‘Reality Bites’ printing press, without registering the title first. Do you think that could be a possibility?”
The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep Page 6