My Name is Anna

by Lizzy Barber

  CONTENTS

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  PROLOGUE

  1. ANNA

  2. ROSIE

  3. ANNA

  4. ROSIE

  5. ANNA

  6. ROSIE

  7. ANNA

  8. ROSIE

  9. ANNA

  10. ROSIE

  11. ANNA

  12. ROSIE

  13. ANNA

  14. ROSIE

  15. ANNA

  16. ROSIE

  17. ANNA

  18. ROSIE

  19. ANNA

  20. ROSIE

  21. ANNA

  22. ROSIE

  23. ANNA

  24. ROSIE

  25. ANNA

  26. ROSIE

  27. ANNA

  28. ROSIE

  29. ANNA

  30. ROSIE

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Two women – desperate to unlock the truth.

  How far will they go to lay the past to rest?

  ANNA has been taught that virtue is the path to God. But on her eighteenth birthday she defies her Mamma’s rules and visits Florida’s biggest theme park.

  She has never been allowed to go – so why, when she arrives, does everything seem so familiar? And is there a connection to the mysterious letter she receives on the same day?

  ROSIE has grown up in the shadow of the missing sister she barely remembers, her family fractured by years of searching without leads. Now, on the fifteenth anniversary of her sister’s disappearance, the media circus resumes in full flow, and Rosie vows to uncover the truth.

  But will she find the answer before it tears her family apart?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lizzy Barber studied English at Cambridge University and works as the head of brand and marketing for a restaurant group. Her debut novel, My Name is Anna, was the winner of the Daily Mail crime writing competition and she is currently hard at work on her next thriller. Lizzy lives in London with her husband.

  For Mummy: for the children’s encyclopedias; and for being my A–Z

  I felt a cleavage in my mind

  As if my brain had split;

  I tried to match it, seam by seam,

  But could not make them fit.

  Emily Dickinson

  He watches the silhouette of her body slicing through the dawn, until the horizon claims her completely. With the pads of his fingers touching, poised as if about to make the sign of the cross, he draws an errant grey hair away from his temple, smooths the waist of his white linen suit.

  Behind him: chaos.

  He can hear their moans, their undignified clamouring for help; praying for him, for his guidance, his command.

  But he, at least, is immaculate.

  As he turns his chin to the light, he allows a smile to illuminate his lips, as if echoing the sun on its rise. Because he cannot be sullied so easily.

  Wherever she has gone, he will find her.

  Wherever she is, she will remember him.

  ANNA

  1

  Dirt has a way of falling through the smallest of cracks. You may think there is nothing there, but it will always be found eventually.

  I raise my fingers through the cooling bathwater and check my nails, looking for the invisible fragments of dust I always fail to spot but Mamma hones in on with such definite aim. In my head, I rehearse the words I have whispered to myself so many times I see them written across my lids when I close my eyes.

  Today is my eighteenth birthday and, for the first time, I am lying to my mother.

  I sought out the comfort of the bath, hoping it would ease the tension. But even here I cannot shut out the remnants of my fractured sleep. The ghost of my dream floats on the water’s clouded surface; the dream that has come before, that has grown more frequent as my anxiety has mounted, its creeping fingers reaching for me in the strangest of moments. A dream that feels so real I swear it isn’t a dream at all.

  It taps me on the shoulder now, revolving and gyrating just out of reach. A whirl of bright colours. Laughter, music. A face, the features blurred. And a voice, calling. I know it’s me they’re seeking, but something isn’t right: the name they’re calling isn’t mine.

  I pull the plug and the water begins to swirl around me, milky with the residue of peach-scented foam. My voice penetrates the silence of the bathroom, although I’m not sure if it’s real or in my mind. ‘No. My name is Anna.’

  The bathwater drains, but the dream lingers.

  In the bedroom, I situate myself. Take in the calico curtains that remain always drawn; a hermetic seal against the outside world. The pinewood dresser whose contents are neither numerous nor elaborate. The crucifix on the wall, under whose watchful limbs I say my nightly prayers. The bed. The chair. These things – these petty, everyday things – are the items that make me feel safe. These are the sights that tell me I am home, and happy, when my memory tries to convince me otherwise.

  That name.

  I peek through the curtains and turn my chin to the daylight, allowing it to wash away the last of the disquieting night. It’s another beautiful morning in Alachua County. I’m reminded of my favourite hymn, ‘Morning Has Broken’, and hum the opening notes as I tidy the bed and fold my nightdress under the pillow, making everything neat, precise. When not a speck remains out of place, I pull on the denim blue dress I know Mamma likes best, and release my hair from the knot that has been holding it, damp around the edges from where the bathwater has licked it.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ I tell the girl in the mirror as I rake a comb through the tangles. ‘Today is your eighteenth birthday.’ She smiles back, curious, uncertain, and I ask her, not for the first time, if I am pretty.

  I asked Mamma once, but she shook her head and gave me a little laugh. Not cruel, just dismissive. ‘Pride is a sin, Anna. We are all pretty, because we are all gifts from God.’ I never asked her again.

  I suppose I consider myself pretty enough. My face, though I always find it a little round, is free from marks or blemishes. I’ve never needed braces, which is good, because Mamma despises the dentist. My eyes are clear, and a soft brown like maple syrup, although not Mamma’s enviable sparkling blue. My hair is the colour of wet sand, but it picks up blonde streaks in the summer, and falls about my shoulders in a thick curtain. Some of the girls at school, the so-called popular kids whose names all blur into one, have theirs dyed bleached-blonde and cut into sharp layers, but I know that even if I should have such an inclination, there is no way Mamma would allow it.

  Mamma says we should be happy with what God gave us.

  Dressed, I make my way down the stairs, mentally skimming through that string of words one final time: We’re driving to Ocala National Forest; we’re going hiking; we’re having a picnic. My throat constricts – I swallow sharply. Forest. Hiking. Picnic. Nothing else.

  Mamma’s voice rises out of the kitchen as I go to greet her. She’s singing, which means she’s in a good mood. She loves to sing, even though her voice is a little thin and can come across a tad flat. But I’d take a chorus of tone-deaf, happy Mammas than one single, silent alternative.

  The kitchen is my favourite room in the house. It has big French windows overlooking the backyard, the only ones that aren’t suffocated by curtains, so that daylight streams right in. The big farmhouse table always has a vase of fresh flowers on it, grown by Mamma’s own green-fingered hands. Today they’re tulips, pink and red and yellow, their tight-lipped petals on the verge of spilling their secrets. On the far wall, next to the stern grandfather clock that stopped working yea
rs ago but that neither of us knows how to fix, are the little pencil scratchings which mark how I’ve grown, right back from when I was nigh on three years old and we first moved here, until last year: five foot four, and not likely to have much growing left in me. Mamma is taller; she must hit five eight, five nine, in bare feet, but she always seems to stoop, as if worried her height makes her conspicuous.

  ‘Good morning, Mamma!’ I call, hopeful that I have judged her mood correctly. She turns to me, gives me her best attempt at a smile – the one she saves for the really good days – and I am thankful that I’m right.

  She opens herself out to me. ‘Good morning, Anna dear.’

  I step towards her, breathe in her familiar scent of lavender soap and Lysol. A clean home and a clean body are the first steps to a clean soul. I could pick Mamma out across a crowded room with my eyes closed, through just that scent. I want to throw my arms around her and kiss her cheek, like I’ve seen other girls do. But I know that wouldn’t do.

  Instead, Mamma holds me at arm’s length, and I feel her taking me in, assessing me; her eyes searching me over for any sign of sin or contamination. She lets go with a satisfied nod. My arms drop to my sides. I’ve passed the test. ‘Happy birthday, dear heart. May the Lord bless you and keep you well.’ When she’s content like this, all is right with the world.

  She points to the vitamins laid out on the sideboard and I duly take them, wash them down with the glass of water waiting. She pulls out one of the chairs from around the kitchen table, motions for me to sit down. I obey, hearing the ping of the toaster and knowing it must be frozen waffles again. Mamma hates to cook, but she sure has a sweet tooth.

  She sets a plate down before me bearing a dense, rectangular slab, a pat of butter and a drizzle of maple syrup slowly melting into each rectangular depression. Sometimes it feels as if Mamma would like to keep me frozen too, for ever her little girl. ‘Thank you, Mamma,’ I say quickly, and raise a hand to pick up my cutlery.

  ‘Anna.’

  My fork freezes in mid-air. I set it down, the waffle untouched, realising my mistake. Eighteenth birthdays aren’t exempt from grace. I clasp my hands together and bow my head as Mamma takes a seat opposite, relieved as she starts to speak.

  ‘Lord, we thank you for all that you give; for the food we see before us, and the home over our heads. Help us to live our lives with thanks and grace, and to always remember that, as long as we have You in our hearts and live pure lives, You will show us the way. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ I mumble into my hands, chastened as always, then open one eye to peek. Hers are squeezed shut, as I know they will be: continuing the secret, silent prayer she always adds on for herself, lips pursed in a thin, pious line. I’ve never asked what it is; never dared.

  Before we eat we each pick up a fork, hold it to the light and then rub it carefully with our napkins. We do the same with the knife, scouring it for any speck of contamination. As always, Mamma leads, I follow. Before I even set the edge of my cutlery against the plate, I wait for the telltale sign: a slight tilt of her head, the barely audible ‘hmm’. When her knife touches the rim of the plate, I can begin.

  I’m so het up I can barely manage a quarter of it. My stomach plaits and unplaits itself as the acidic orange juice Mamma pours us from a carton bubbles against the waffle batter. I do my best to finish the whole thing, knowing how Mamma feels about wasting food, feeling the crunch of sugar against my teeth with each bite. She spies me agitating a piece around the plate and I quickly swallow it down in a swirl of syrup and butter.

  ‘Delicious. Thank you, Mamma.’

  ‘Good.’

  To prove it, I reach across the table for the jug of maple syrup and drown the remaining mouthfuls. The syrup soaks through the batter and is so sickly-sweet I almost wince, but it helps the food slip down my throat with more ease.

  When only crumbs remain on our plates, Mamma surprises me by setting a package down in front of me, wrapped neatly and simply in plain blue paper. I eye it casually, but Mamma gives me an encouraging nod. ‘Go on.’

  She’s not usually one to fuss over birthdays.

  The package is soft to the touch. I unstick the Scotch tape neatly, cautious of Mamma’s watchful eye, and take in the cream hessian that begins to reveal itself. It’s a cushion, a perfect square I know has been sewn by Mamma: across its front is her distinct, careful stitching: I prayed for this child, and the Lord answered my prayer. 1 Samuel 1:27.

  ‘Oh Mamma,’ I breathe, turning the cushion in my hands. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I thank the Lord for you, Anna.’ She turns to look at the picture hanging on the wall, one of the few we have in the house: my parents on their wedding day. ‘And I know your father would too.’ I follow her head towards the picture I have studied so many times I no longer really see it. Mamma in a plain satin dress, a spray of calla lilies resting over the crook of her arm. My father next to her, his stiff grey suit a little too close-fitting, looking younger than his twenty-five years. I was only two years old when he died. A car crash – piled into by some drunken teenagers on their way home from a game. It was after that we moved here: a fresh start. Mamma always said she had no family to speak to, no ties to hold her, no reason to stay.

  It’s hard for me to get a clear picture of him, this shadowy figure who is more of an idea than a reality. Like Mamma, he’s no stranger to height; there must’ve been a short ancestor in the distant past whose unlucky genes I was handed down. And he’s clean-shaven; although somewhere, somehow, I see him with a beard. A whisper of my baby hands reaching out for the coarse hairs on his chin, and then it’s gone. From the picture, it’s hard to tell what features of his are mine. I want to ask Mamma what he was like, what he would think of me, what traits of mine are his. But whenever I ask questions like these, she clams up, keeping her pearls to herself.

  ‘Let’s clean up.’ She severs the mood as quickly as she created it, moving across my vision and breaking my contact with the picture.

  The sound of the doorbell wakes us both from our own private thoughts as we stack plates and wash dishes. We both step into the hallway and I can make out William’s shape through the glass on the front door. His arrival makes this all seem alarmingly real, and I feel my breathing quicken, the centre of my palms moisten even as I chide myself to calm down. Just a few more minutes and we’re in the clear.

  Mamma goes to greet him, and his lanky frame slinks into the house, ducking to pass under the Tiffany chandelier – most definitely a relic of before Mamma’s time here – threatening to upset the coloured glass and prompt rainbow shadows to ricochet off the walls.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Montgomery. Good morning, Anna.’ He nods deferentially at my mother, a wisp of hair escaping onto his forehead, and then pulls a bright bouquet of wildflowers from behind his back. ‘Happy birthday, Anna.’

  ‘Oh William. They’re beautiful.’ I take them from him shyly, feeling the tops of my ears burn pink. ‘I’ll put them in water right away.’

  He leans forward as if to kiss me on the cheek, but at the same time he eyes Mamma, pulls back and nods politely at me instead.

  William and I have been dating for nearly a year. He’s older than me, already in college, and Mamma only permits it because he’s the son of Pastor Timothy, and therefore she couldn’t bring herself to deny it. We met in the church choir when his daddy took over our local parish, and we’ve been seeing as much of each other as possible since then. Nothing fancy, just trips to the movies, bike rides on Saturday afternoons, helping out with church fundraisers – our time together carefully meted out by Mamma’s exacting direction. We’ve talked, loosely, about getting married when he graduates next spring, but this isn’t exactly a conversation I have shared with Mamma.

  I parade the flowers into the kitchen and set them in a vase on the sideboard, ready to take up to my bedroom later. When I return, William has his hands in his pockets, his feet shuffling the way he does when he’s running out of polite conversation. M
y secret squirms around me. We are so close to freedom. I stride over to William and take a strong grip of his hand.

  ‘Mamma, we should probably be heading out now, if we want to make good time …?’ I try to sound firm, but I can’t stop the upward inflection of a question nudging its way into my voice. Always asking for permission. ‘We’ll be home in time for dinner, I promise.’ I imagine kissing her on the cheek, wrapping her into a hug. Instead my hand reaches out, pats her upper arm. ‘Thank you for breakfast. And for my present.’

  We’re nearly out the door when Mamma rests her hand on the frame, blocking my exit. ‘Remind me where you two’ll be again?’

  My mind goes blank. Stupid, stupid.

  ‘Just heading across to Ocala for a hike and a picnic, Mrs Montgomery.’ William touches me lightly on my lower back, letting me know he’s got me. ‘I promise I’ll have her back in one piece.’

  She blinks, then gives him a tight-lipped smile. ‘Yes, you did say that. Be careful on the hiking trail, Anna; it’s easier than you think to slip and fall.’ Her hand releases the door frame. ‘You kids have fun.’

  We watch the door creak shut behind us, and then finally we are released into the fresh air. I gulp it in as we make our way over to William’s red Ford Focus, the beaten-up old car he is prouder of than almost anything else in the world. He opens the passenger door and waves me inside. ‘Princess, your chariot awaits.’

  With the doors shut, I rest my head against the seat back as William reverses out of the long drive, and turns in the direction of the I-75. With the roar of the engine in my ears, and the hot breeze fanning my face through the open window, I let go part of the tension I have unwittingly been storing up all morning. But although we seem to have escaped, a part of me does not feel entirely free. The residue of the dream still clings to me, stronger today than ever before.

  I press my hand to the dial on the car stereo, trying to drown out the noise inside me, attempting instead to hum along to whatever lazy pop song is blaring from the station.