Alone.
And crazy.
THEN
21
In the well, using the point of a rock as my crayon, I drew pictures on the walls: murals to feed my brain and keep me distracted. It didn’t matter if the light wasn’t on, I still drew: flowers, faces, abstract designs with diamonds and stripes …
The walls felt smooth beneath my fingertips, the dirt compacted like studio clay, turning my skin orange and brown. Sometimes I made up stories to go with the pictures, flashing me back to the quiet room with Charley, freshman year, and the storyboarding we used to do with markers on whiteboards. I pretended my drawings were like ancient hieroglyphics, weaving tales of princesses being punished for lying or stealing and stuck in a root cellar for days on end. I role-played that I was the princess and that the servants would let me out just as soon as they got the okay from the queen.
One time, so proud of my work, I didn’t want to erase it. And so I lay down on the ground in the center of my creations and closed my eyes, imagining I had long princess hair and an apron-covered dress, hoping the story would continue in my dreams. And continue it did, because later, when I felt something pelt the side of my face, I thought it was one of the servant boys tossing stones into the well to taunt me. It wasn’t until a larger, heavier stone struck my eyelid that I startled awake.
I sat up, shielding my face, peeking out between my fingers, able to see: There were no stones.
The lid was open.
Rain hurled down against the walls of the well, over my mural and over me.
I tilted my head back and opened my mouth wide as the droplets dripped over my dried-apple lips, my sandpaper tongue, and down my desert throat.
More.
More.
More.
I wanted so much more, and so I drew up my sleeves, peeled off my socks, and rolled up the bottoms of my sweats, exposing my bare skin, and suddenly remembering.
The water-well book.
Where was it?
I snatched it from the ground, wiped it with the blanket as dry as I could, and set it on a ledge two feet above the earth to protect it from the rain.
The rain. How long would it last? How high would the well fill? The ground didn’t seem to be absorbing the droplets completely. Instead, they were beading up in places. Was the dirt too dry, too compact? Would I be able to preserve any of the water?
Using the pointed rock as the blade of a shovel, I dug into the ground. My shoulder ached with every drag of the rock, but still I kept going, sculpting a bowl of sorts, about six inches deep and eight inches wide: my makeshift sink, my own personal well. I lined it as best I could with a few of the fallen leaves, the ones that weren’t too brittle. I also made a channel to feed the well, one that sloped down from the wall.
After several moments, rainwater started collecting inside the hole—not a lot, but at least it was something—and I moved to higher ground, a patch that angled upward, and sat back on my heels. My skin had thoroughly pruned. My teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. I rotated my shoulders back in an effort to stretch.
That was when I spotted something about eight feet up, positioned on a ledge. What was it? I stood up to get a better look.
A colorful figure, like a tiny doll. I grabbed a rock and threw it at the figure over and over again, like a carnival game.
Finally, I hit it. Bull’s-eye. The figure toppled from its spot and fell to the ground.
I picked it up. It was the size of my thumb. A squishy, rubber troll-like doll, with a flash of white hair, a long bushy beard, and a scrunched-up face …
Chills ripped up my skin as I made the connection. It was William, the character from the water-well storybook, the minder of the Wishy Water Well. The figure’s eyes were wide and gaping just like in the book. It appeared that someone had painted on the clothes: the green-and-white-striped suit, the same one William wears.
Why was it here?
Had it been there all along, from the start? Wouldn’t I have noticed? Or had someone placed it on the ledge somehow, while the light was out, when the blanket came down?
I squeezed the rubber belly. The eyes bulged even more, bugging out of its face. I rolled it over in my hand; it looked practically new. I gazed upward, desperate to see something, to find some answer. “Hello?” I called.
No one answered.
Nothing happened.
Meanwhile, the rain pelted against a spot on the wall, where the water had washed away a layer of dirt, revealing a smooth rock. I outlined the rock with my finger, pressing into the earth, trying to deepen the perimeter around the rock’s surface. The water helped. But it wasn’t until I was knuckle-deep that the rock started to loosen and I was able to pry it free, leaving a crevice.
How many more crevices could I make?
The spotlight blinked a bunch of times. Was it shorting out? Or was the battery dying? I snatched the rubber troll and huddled against the wall with my wet baby blanket, waiting for something to happen.
But nothing did.
Until the light went out again.
* * *
After I got back from the well, I told Dr. Mary about the William doll.
“Did it scare you?” she asked.
I shook my head. “It turned out to be a comfort, like the water-well book.”
“And yet you didn’t bring either item home with you.” Dr. Mary tapped her chin as though in thought. “And the troll was a doll or action figure, you said?”
“Maybe, but it could also have been a squishy. You know … For stress relief … Like the Panic Pete doll Sally used to carry around. Remember her?”
“Sally had a toy troll too?”
“It was a Panic Pete doll,” I said as if the distinction even mattered.
“A doll that provides both comfort and relief…” She grinned. “How lucky that one practically dropped into your lap during a very dark time. You had a blanket in the well too. A baby blanket … It doesn’t get more comforting than that now, does it?”
“I didn’t make it up. The doll was there. William,” I said to be clear. “He was the minder of the Wishy Water Well, the character from the storybook … The troll who collected all the well coins and made people’s wishes come true.”
“You know what’s amazing, Terra? The mind. It has a remarkable way of manifesting exactly what we need at very dark times.”
In other words, to her, the troll wasn’t real; my mind had created it as a way to self-soothe. She continued to explain, but everything else she said went unheard; it was just words in the air, passing over the invisible grave I’d made where hope and trust had died.
NOW
22
The following morning, in my room, with a hand mirror clipped to the side of my easel, I dip my paintbrush into a glob of glue and paint the hair of my self-portrait: long, wavy strokes over the golden-brown color. My laptop is open. People are chatting away on Jane. But not Peyton. Where is she?
Into a mixing bowl, I’ve added equal parts dirt and soot. I sprinkle a handful of the mixture onto the glue. I need to get the face as well—to make dirty cheeks and soot-encrusted eyes. But first I want to finish the mouth. I take my lit candle from its dish and let the hot liquid wax drip onto the lips, imagining words that hurt—burning truth, brutal honesty, all the things I no longer feel safe enough to say.
“Hello, hello…” My aunt knocks on my open bedroom door. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
Calling me?
“I’m home for the day.” She flashes me her swollen knuckles. “This is what nine hours of drawing blood and administering IVs will do.”
She looks toward my pillow. Mom’s sweater covers it. For a second, I think she might ask me about it, that we might talk about my mother.
“What’s going on here?” she asks instead, nodding to my laptop, to the feed of conversation climbing up the screen.
“It inspires me.” I could probably say anything.
She doesn’t question it, j
ust continues to look around. Her focus lands on my basket of rubber trolls; it’s filled with squishies, key chains, cat toys, ornaments—all the items I’ve collected in my quest to find the same troll as the one in the well (with or without the painted-on suit). The things in my basket come close, but there’s something off about each of them (the color, the size, the shape, the feel…).
“Did you eat?” she asks.
“Yes.” Though I didn’t have much of an appetite. I forced down some yogurt earlier; it’s burning like lava in my stomach now.
“Okay, good. So, I’m going to go for a run, then I’m going to sleep. Do you need anything?”
She’s already dressed in her running clothes. Her hair is pulled back. If I don’t answer, will she even “hear” me?
Her eyes zero in on the doorknob on my night table. She knows what it is. She was there when I salvaged it from the debris. She’s also seen me toting it around the house, stuffing it into my bag, and turning it in the air as though in an invisible door. But she’s never asked why—why I keep it, what it symbolizes.
“Is everything okay?” I hold my breath, half hoping she’ll ask me now.
Instead, she asks if I really need to have six fire extinguishers in my room. “I thought I moved these out of here,” she says.
“You did, but I got them back.” Lugged them up from the corner of the basement.
“Really? Even though we have perfectly good smoke detectors that I test every six months? And even though I don’t smoke and barely cook? There’s no fireplace or wood-burning stove, no funky lights or heat-generating blankets…”
“Still. I need them,” I tell her.
Aunt Dessa comes a little closer, nodding to my canvas. “What are you working on?”
“Not what, who.”
She makes a face like she’s looking at a monster. “Not anyone I want to bump into late at night, that’s who.”
I gaze back in the mirror, almost surprised she doesn’t see the resemblance: my light brown eyes, my dimpled chin and hollow cheeks.
“Before I forget,” she continues, “I met someone, a woman at the hospital who does hypnotherapy. She helps people who have false memories.”
“False memories?”
“She works specifically with trauma victims. She said that sometimes the brain creates stories as a coping device. It’s all so fascinating … the brain’s ability to preserve and protect. Anyway, when I heard the word stories, I perked right up and thought of you. Would you like to meet her?”
I drip more wax over the mouth—a dark red glob that seals the lips shut. The last time I met one of her doctor friends, I ended up back in the hospital.
“Terra? The therapist’s name is Cecelia Bridges. You can look her up, check her out. She has a website. I really think it’d be a good idea. Terra?”
“Do we still have cocoa powder?”
“Excuse me?”
“Remember?” I ask. “The mochaccinos you used to make after I got back from the well? And the crossword puzzles we used to do?”
Her face fuzzes with confusion. “That was a really difficult time.”
And this isn’t?
“We were talking about your therapy,” she continues. “It’s not a bad word, you know. I’ve been seeing my therapist for more than twenty years. Your mom saw a therapist too.”
I knew my mom had. She had too many dark days not to warrant the need for outside help. I’d watch her from the hallway, outside her and Dad’s room, as she lay in bed staring at the wall. For years, whenever she was having one of “those days,” Dad would say Mom just needed a little extra space. But eventually he told me the truth, that Mom had been dealing with depression.
“It started back in high school, after she was attacked at a party,” he’d explained. “She got trapped in a room by a boy who was drinking. It’s why we’re always so vigilant with you, why we taught you our rules—so we can help keep you safe.”
The night he told me, I wrote the rules of survival all over my arms, picturing each rule like a scratch Mom might’ve gotten at that party, from her struggle. I wanted to feel the scratches too, to help share her pain.
“Life is hard work,” my aunt continues. “But having a therapist you can trust, whose style works for you, can make all the difference. Mine’s been like pure gold for me. What if it could be that way for you as well?”
“Could we please go back to talking about my mom?”
“What about her?” Aunt Dessa takes a step back. “You know your mother is a difficult topic for me.”
“Because she’s gone?” Or is there something more? Why don’t I remember my mother ever wearing her and Aunt Dessa’s pendant initials too?
“I’m going to make that appointment for you,” she says.
“Okay.” I nod, hoping the agreement will make a difference, make things better.
But she leaves the room without another word, making me feel that it doesn’t.
NOW
23
Later, when I join the chat room, I find that it looks mostly vacant. No one’s typed a message in the last couple of hours.
NightTerra: Hello??? Is anyone else on here?
Paylee22: Terra!!! I’m so glad to see you.
NightTerra: Omg, me too!
NightTerra: Did you get my message?
Paylee22: Yes. Thank you.
Paylee22: I’ve been seriously freaking out.
NightTerra: Why? What’s up?
Paylee22: It’s gotten worse.
NightTerra: What has?
Paylee22: I found a torn page in my mailbox. It’d been ripped out of a book.
NightTerra: Ok …
Paylee22: Not ok. It means he’s getting closer.
Paylee22: He’s warning me.
NightTerra: Ok, slow down. Perspective, remember?
Paylee22: The page is from a book about junkyards. I searched online for one of the paragraphs …
Paylee22: The book is nonfiction, about a guy who gets most of what he needs—furniture, TVs, computer equipment, appliances—from junkyards.
NightTerra: Like a dumpster diver?
Paylee22: I guess.
NightTerra: So, pretty random?
Paylee22: I think it’s a message.
NightTerra: A message about what?
Paylee22: There’s too much to explain.
NightTerra: Not too much for me. I have plenty of time.
NightTerra:???
NightTerra: Peyton???
NightTerra: Is it possible the page got into your mailbox by mistake? Maybe it tore from a book your neighbor ordered and your postal guy didn’t notice, and so now it’s a trigger.
Paylee22: It wasn’t a mistake. We’d already gotten the mail for the day, meaning someone made a special trip to put it in there.
NightTerra: Maybe a kid playing a joke … I once found someone’s math homework in our mailbox.
Paylee22: It’s not a joke.
Paylee22: Like I said, there’s a lot to explain …
NightTerra: Ok, well, I’m here for you, and I want to know.
NightTerra: Pretend I’m sitting right beside you.
Paylee22: Ok, deep breath …
Paylee22: Where I was being kept, in that shed … The only things in there, aside from myself, were a sleeping bag, a jug of water, some trail mix, and a book.
NightTerra: Wait, how come you never mentioned that before?
Paylee22: Which part?
NightTerra: The book.
Paylee22: I don’t know. It just never came up.
NightTerra: What kind of book was it?
Paylee22: From what I could tell, it was about a bunch of people who came together as a family.
Paylee22: They lived in the middle of the woods, in tiny one-room shacks, with their own set of rules, so off the grid, basically.
Paylee22: I didn’t read the book all the way through. And I’m not sure why it was there. Like, did he want me to read it? Was there a message inside i
t? I was too focused on escaping to give it much attention.
Paylee22: But think about it …
Paylee22: A book left in the shed, a page left in my mailbox …
NightTerra: What was the title?
Paylee22: If only I could remember. I’ve been searching for it online, under topic and special interest. To be honest, I don’t even know if it was true or fictional.
Paylee22: But I think the page is his way of letting me know he’s close.
NightTerra: If that’s the case, then why not leave you a page from that same book—about the family living off the grid—or one about abduction…?
Paylee22: I don’t know. Too obvious? Maybe the page about junkyards is a clue for something that’s going to happen …
Paylee22: I have no idea.
Paylee22: What do you think???
Paylee22:???
Paylee22: Are u still there??? Why aren’t you talking?
NightTerra: I’m not really sure what to think.
NightTerra: But I have to go.
Paylee22: Wait, why? I thought you had plenty of time.
NightTerra: I’ll come on later, ok?
I close the lid on my laptop, trying my best to breathe. A motor clicks on inside my heart, flaring my nerves, jumbling my thoughts.
Is the book page just a trigger—for her? For me?
Is it simply a weird coincidence? Both of our captivity quarters having books? And both of our books at least somewhat related to our captive situations? Mine, with the well; hers, with the shed …
Plus, the two of us managing to escape after a handful of days …
I log back on, but she’s no longer there. Meanwhile, my phone alarm chimes. A reminder to take my meds—the fastest way to quiet my mind. Obviously, I ignore it.
NOW
24
In her memoir, Jane Anonymous, the creator of the chat site, describes her experience of being abducted. Among the items she had while in captivity, there was a book. A romance novel. Jane says she read it over and over as a way to pass the time, just as I did the water-well book. So, the fact that Peyton was given a book in captivity too …
The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep Page 10