The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  * * *

  When I woke up again, the light was still off. I slid my cheek over the ground, making sure that I was still in the well, that he hadn’t brought me someplace else. I ran my palms over the wall, feeling for the crevices I’d dug. I found the first one and moved my hand upward, able to feel the second.

  Using the spine of the book as my pickax, I began digging again. My shoulder ached. My fingertips tingled.

  I stepped into one of the crevices, able to reach upward and feel the bumpy brick surface. The spotlight hung down from the chain about two feet above that. But what was the chain attached to, outside the well? Was it something sturdy enough to hold my weight?

  I continued working, keeping stability in mind. I’d need to anchor myself to the wall so I wouldn’t fall off. I dug extra deep into the highest crevice—the top rung of my makeshift ladder. With stinging-stabbing fingertips, I maneuvered a rock toward me and let it fall to the ground.

  The crevice was elbow-deep now. I reached my arms inside it, steadying myself on the wall. But I was so slouched over. How was this going to work? What would I have to do?

  Keeping one arm secure, I swung outward with my hand extended, trying to feel for the chain. No luck. I jumped back down, then climbed up again. I did this over and over, trying to grab the chain.

  Where was it?

  Just a little bit higher.

  I could swing out farther.

  Finally, my hand hit the rim of the light, producing a gong sound. My heart soared. The chain rustled. I performed the same motions over and over: climbing up the wall, securing myself with the top crevice, then swinging outward, until eventually I was able to grip the chain.

  Keeping steady, I grabbed hold with my other hand too, and continued walking up the wall—left, right, left—moving up the chain.

  I told myself, If I can get to the very top, I can crawl back inside my bedroom window (the one on Bailey Road). I can reverse time, and turn the knob, and open the door, and save my parents.

  So many stories as I continued to climb—one step at a time, up the brick, hand over hand.

  I was almost there.

  Just a little bit more.

  I could smell how close I was—the scent of forest trees and fresh blooms … I took another step, just as my foot slipped off the brick.

  My legs dangled like monkeys on a tree.

  The weight of my body slipped me downward at least a few inches.

  Hold on, I screamed inside my head, swinging back and forth, as my palms seared and my biceps quivered. Don’t fall.

  I clenched my teeth and slipped a little farther. Droplets of sweat rolled down my face. Rule number ten: Don’t panic. You can do this. It’s all a head game: If I could get to the top, I could win my prize, I could save my parents, I could live happily ever after.

  But I felt myself sliding farther. My sweaty palms … if only I could’ve wiped them. Maybe one hand at a time … Did I have enough strength?

  No. I didn’t.

  I slid a few more inches down.

  My feet clonked against the light. What did that mean? How much height had I lost? I held my breath and clung on to hope. But hope wasn’t enough because moments later I dropped to the ground with a hard, heavy thud.

  NOW

  29

  Unable to sleep, I lie awake in bed watching the rain droplets pelt against the windows and throw dart-shaped shadows on my bedroom floor. I’m missing my mother tonight—so hard it hurts. I clench her sweater, wishing the fabric still carried her scent, the rose oil she used to dab behind her ears and the lilac-scented hand cream we used to stuff into her stocking at Christmas.

  I picture her dark gray eyes and the scar through her eyebrow (from a scooter accident as a kid) and imagine that she can hear my voice: “Is there a rule that could help me now?” I ask aloud. What are the chances she’ll answer in a dream?

  Eventually, after what feels like hours of tossing and turning, failing to fall asleep, I fish a pocketknife from my night table and go downstairs, seeking a little fresh air. Aunt Dessa’s backyard is fenced in on all sides. Sliders lead to an open deck. I step outside. The cool fall air bites the back of my neck. It’s probably no more than forty degrees.

  I sit down on the floor of the deck and roll up my sweats as far as they can go to expose more skin. My feet are bare. My arms are too. I stretch out, facing up toward the sky, remembering how exhilarating the rain felt, when I was in the well. What I wouldn’t give to feel that same way now, as crazy as that sounds, as messed up as it is.

  The rain soaks through my clothes and sprinkles inside my mouth, but it doesn’t taste nearly as good as it did in the well, like liquid sugar. Instead, it’s bitter like acid, like the water from old and rusted pipes. I roll over and rest my head against the crook of my arm.

  What am I doing? Why am I out here?

  And what is that?

  On one of the side tables. A figure of some sort.

  I sit up to get a better look. It appears to be a ceramic statue, about a foot tall, painted green, white, and red. I move closer, scooching across the deck, able to see what it is: a garden gnome, dressed in a green and white suit, exactly like William, the troll-like character from the water-well book.

  Wait, Logic says. Don’t jump to conclusions. Rule number nine: Never guess. Always be sure.

  Am I sure? Is this a dream? Pinch, pinch, pinch.

  The gnome is wearing bright red boots that curl up at the toes, different from William’s shiny black shoes. This gnome also has a pale pink face, rather than an orange one. Its hat is different too: tall and red rather than black and rounded.

  But still …

  It has a long white beard just like William’s, and similar enlarged eyes that take up most of its scrunched-up face. Its perma-smile chills me even more than the rainwater. If Aunt Dessa were home, I’d ask her where it came from, but for now I leave it here on the deck table and go back inside the house, locking the door behind me.

  NOW

  30

  The following day, when I log on to Jane, I search the chat feed for Peyton’s name. Her message pops up just a few seconds later: Do you want to talk? I click the private room link.

  Paylee22: Hey.

  Paylee22: I hope you’re not still upset with me.

  NightTerra: Honestly, I think I’m more upset with myself.

  Paylee22: You’re more upset with yourself because I lied???

  NightTerra: I’m more upset with myself because I trusted you were being honest with me. And, like you said, why would you be? This is an online chat site. How naive can I be?

  Paylee22: Please don’t be like that. I’m glad you trusted me.

  NightTerra: Trust is for people who haven’t been burned.

  NightTerra: I trusted my parents would always be with me. I trusted my aunt would believe my story. I trusted the people in my life would stick by my side.

  NightTerra: I trusted you, because we’d both been through something similar and because maybe you knew how I felt …

  Paylee22: I do know. You can trust me. I was just trying to protect myself.

  NightTerra: I know and I can’t blame you for that, not at all.

  NightTerra: But now I need to protect myself.

  Paylee22: So, what does that mean for us?

  Paylee22: Please, Terra, you have to believe me when I say that your friendship has been the one thing that’s kept me going these past couple of months.

  Paylee22: Will you still confide in me?

  Paylee22:???

  NightTerra: I’m still going to chat with you.

  Paylee22: I’m really sorry I hurt you.

  Paylee22: You have no idea how much.

  NightTerra: Don’t be sorry. You were just being smart, following all the rules. I should’ve done the same.

  Paylee22: Please, Terra. I really need you.

  NightTerra: I’m right here. I’m chatting with you, aren’t I?

  Paylee22: But it’s not going
to be the same. I can already tell.

  Paylee22: Please, don’t give up on me. You’re like the sister I never had.

  NightTerra: Let’s talk about something else, ok? Like the book that was in your captivity quarters …

  NightTerra: The one about the family that lived in the woods, in tiny shacks, off the grid … You said the setting was the woods, right? And that you were in the woods too, rather than a cornfield…?

  Paylee22: I’m really sorry, Terra. I really need you.

  Paylee22: There are things I want to tell you …

  Paylee22: Like that my family is from Maine, from a small coastal town that’s known for having one of the oldest lighthouses.

  Paylee22: And that the hike I went on the day I was abducted to look for the abandoned school … the trail was just behind the community college, where I was taking classes.

  Paylee22: I worked at the yacht club across the street from the college. I was working on the morning that I was taken.

  NightTerra: Wait, why are you telling me all this?

  Paylee22: Because I really care about you. You really matter to me, Terra. And I want you to trust me.

  Paylee22: He’s coming back for me.

  NightTerra: Or so you think.

  NightTerra: Have you told anybody yet?

  Paylee22: Would you even believe me if I said yes? Or have I completely lost your trust?

  NightTerra: If you haven’t already told someone about the book page in your mailbox, you really should.

  Paylee22: I’m so sorry, Terra.

  NightTerra: Don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself right now. Ok?

  NightTerra: Why don’t we talk later?

  Paylee22: You have to go already?

  NightTerra: You should too. You need to show your parents the message you found.

  Paylee22: Ok.

  Paylee22: Bye, Terra. Love you.

  She logs out, before I can say goodbye. Part of me feels bad if it seems I’m erecting a wall between us. But I guess that’s how I felt too, when she told me she’d lied. So, maybe that makes us even.

  Or maybe it just makes us hurt.

  NOW

  31

  My aunt knocks on my open bedroom door. “Terra?”

  I look up from my laptop.

  Aunt Dessa is standing in the doorway, dressed in the pale green hospital scrubs that make me squirm. Her arms are folded. Her mouth forms a straight, tense line. “Care to explain where you were today?”

  Where I was …

  “Is that a difficult question?”

  “I was here,” I tell her. “Catching up on homework.” I nod toward the calculus book on my desk as if it contains any relevant answers.

  “And the reason you missed your appointment today?”

  Appointment?

  “You were supposed to meet with Dr. Bridges.”

  Who? “I was?”

  “I told you…” Her jaw clenches. “Cecelia Bridges, the woman who does hypnotherapy.”

  Oh, right. I remember: Dr. Bridges, the specialty in false memories, the agreement I made to go for an appointment …

  But did we actually make one?

  “I pulled some major strings to get you in today,” Aunt Dessa says. “How do you think it looks for me when you don’t show up?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know about an appointment.”

  “I told you. This morning. Cecelia texted me late last night. Remember?”

  I really don’t. My aunt and I passed in the hallway this morning. She mentioned coffee and something about fruit, but I don’t recall anything else. I’d been so tired, not having gotten much sleep. I grab my phone and check the screen, but I have no missed messages. “Did you try to call me?”

  “Why should I have to call?” Aunt Dessa’s face wilts like a rose in the heat.

  “I’m really sorry.” I wilt too.

  Her gaze lands on the syrup bottle clenched in my hands before continuing to travel around the room as though searching for other things:

  The yoga blanket … Check.

  My mom’s sweater … Check.

  The starry doorknob, my basket of troll items, and the collection of fire extinguishers … Check, check, check …

  “I’m sorry,” I say for a third time, hoping the tension in her face will break.

  But she remains as rigid as steel with her lips screwed tight. Eventually, she starts to turn away, but I stop her before she can.

  “Did you buy a garden gnome?” I ask.

  She moves closer as though to hear me better. “A what?”

  “A garden gnome—one of those ceramic ones … about a foot tall? I saw one on the back deck.”

  Her face furrows. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “A garden gnome,” I say once again, getting up from the bed. “I can show you.” I lead Aunt Dessa downstairs and through the dining area. I flick on the outside lights and peel open the sliding glass door.

  The outdoor table sits in direct view. But the garden gnome is no longer there. In its place is one of my aunt’s ceramic planters—a red-and-green one with flecks of gold and black.

  I close my eyes. My stomach twists.

  “Terra?”

  “Did you put this here?” I ask.

  “The planter? No. Did you?”

  Did I? Is this what I picked up and moved? Was my mind playing tricks? Are my meds screwing with my brain?

  Or is it possible I dreamed up the gnome? Had I somehow fallen asleep on the deck? Did I ever leave my bedroom?

  “Terra?”

  “It was here,” I say, searching anyway, beneath the table, behind the potted plants … I pull out every chair.

  “When did you see it?”

  “Late last night. I came out here in the rain.”

  “What were you doing in the rain?”

  Panic fills my mouth: a sickly, sour taste. Sometimes I forget to lie. “I just wanted to sit,” I tell her as if sitting in the rain is normal.

  Aunt Dessa clasps her hand over her mouth.

  “I mean, I thought I heard something. There was a clanking sound, so I came out here … But maybe what I saw was this planter.”

  “And you think the planter made a clanking noise?” She looks toward the row of potted plants. “Nothing appears broken or disturbed.”

  “So, maybe what I saw—and heard—was an owl.”

  And maybe the owl was a ceramic planter.

  And maybe the planter was a garden gnome.

  And maybe the garden gnome is a big red flag that I can no longer trust myself, that I’m truly going crazy.

  NOW

  32

  Back in my room, I change into my mom’s old sweater and burrow beneath the covers. I need to sleep, but thoughts spin like hamsters on a wheel, inside my head, keeping me up. What are the odds that someone who knew about my case placed the gnome on the back deck—only temporarily—as a joke or to make me feel crazy?

  Or what if the guy who took me left it? Could it have been a warning that he’s somewhere nearby, waiting to take me again, just as Peyton fears with her captor too? Do either of those scenarios even make sense when the person would’ve had no way to predict I’d ever see it?

  And what if the gnome was never really there? If I’d only imagined it? My heart races at the mere possibility; somehow, it’s the most terrifying option of all.

  I rub my cheek with the cuff of the sweater, thinking how Mom used to tell me how strong she thought I was. But I don’t feel strong. I feel more like the way she sometimes got, when she’d curl up into her shell like a hermit crab—like the time I came home from school and found her on the living room sofa staring out into space. The TV wasn’t on. There was no book in her hand. I stood in the doorway waiting for her to acknowledge my presence, but it was only when I scooted down and touched her bony fingers that she finally noticed I was there.

  “Terra?” Her eyes met mine. “You’re home early. Was it a half day?” She was still in her pajamas
from the morning. The coffee Dad had made her—and poured into the smiling heart mug—still lingered on the table beside an untouched breakfast cookie. She obviously hadn’t gone to work.

  “Having one of those days?” I asked her.

  Mom faked a smile, but her eyes filled up, which was my cue. I turned away to allow her to cry in peace.

  With my back to her, I asked, “Are you coming to my belt ceremony?” For tae kwon do.

  “Would it upset you if I had to miss?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “I’m so proud of you.” Her voice crumbled like cake. “You’re so strong, so resilient. You’ll always be just fine—no matter what happens.”

  If only she could see me now.

  I stare at the window, half wishing the rainbow bird would visit me again. Somehow the bird, with its unicorn stripes and sparerib gift, seemed so much clearer than this.

  * * *

  Sometime later, my aunt comes into my room again. “Terra?” She sits down on the edge of my bed, no longer wearing the pale green scrubs. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  I roll onto my back to meet her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what was all of that about downstairs, earlier?”

  Where do I begin? And do I even know?

  She takes my hand and pats it like a wounded animal—stroke, stroke, stroke. The gesture takes me aback, and I can feel it in my chest—a churning sensation inside my heart. I pinch my leg beneath the blanket to make sure I’m fully awake.

  “Are you feeling confused again?” she asks.

  Did the confusion ever stop? Pinch, pinch, pinch. My lids feel heavy. My brain is fuzzy.

  “Terra?”

  What does she want to hear? That I’m questioning my reality? That I lied about the well? Sometimes I’m tempted to tell her I did. Would it bring us closer, make things better? I was so screwed up from the fire, I could say. I ran away, just like I did those other times. I’m not sure why. The need for escape? The desire for attention? I’m so sorry. Will you ever be able to forgive me?