My Name is Anna

by Lizzy Barber

  ‘They’re closing down the trust!’ I choke out, wrenching myself away from him.

  ‘Sorry?’ He stops, keys in hand, just short of the car door.

  ‘The fund to find my sister.’ I slow myself, gathering my argument. ‘They’re closing it down, Michael. And when they do, that’s it.’ I bear my empty hands to him, like a magician vanishing a coin. ‘We’ll never know what happened to her.’ I feel Keira’s hand on the small of my back; reassurance.

  ‘Last week, at the party, you said you wanted to see if we were doing OK. Well, we’re not.’ I take a step towards him, not pleading exactly, but coaxing. ‘We’ve been in limbo for fifteen years. You don’t know what that’s like. You don’t know how it felt, as a kid. You come to a stop on the swings, and when you turn around you realise it’s because your mum’s staring at some blonde kid in the sandbox. Every Christmas, the wish at the top of your list, praying that surely you’ve been so good this year Santa will find her. Every holiday, apologising if you’ve ducked out of sight for the smallest millisecond; the guilt, for the rest of the day, at seeing the fear on their faces. Never, ever able to feel totally pleased with the smallest fucking achievement, because you know that nothing you do will be enough to wipe out the pain of losing her.’

  I feel the back of my throat thickening, the threat of tears, and wipe my hand across my mouth, forcing them back. ‘I know you want to protect your family, and I get it. But don’t you think you owe it to us to tell us what you know? If there’s even the smallest, tiniest chance that you know something that could help us, don’t you see what that would mean? You wouldn’t just be saving Emily … you’d be saving all of us.’

  Michael’s hand is frozen on the door handle. I see the tension in his shoulders; the urge he has to pull it open. But then something in him slackens. He turns, resting his body against the car and raking a tired hand over his head, grabbing a fistful of hair. For a moment there is silence. Nothing to be heard but the occasional rumble of a car, or the rustle of a rabbit or pheasant in the undergrowth. And then, at last, he speaks.

  ‘OK,’ he says, squeezing his eyes shut, as if looking at me will make him change his mind. When he opens them, I see a million thoughts running through them: fear and apprehension, but also a tiny shred of hope. ‘You’re right.’ He steps away from the car and stalks towards the house, the keys jangling in his hand. ‘I’ll tell you what I know.’ He looks wearily over his shoulder, and beckons us with a nod of his head. ‘Come inside – quickly.’

  ANNA

  17

  The dress is almost the exact coral shade of the inside of a conch shell. When I turn to see my reflection, the gauzy skirt fans ever so slightly around me, as if mimicking the very frills of a conch’s edge. ‘Mamma,’ I breathe as the fabric twirls around my legs, and I stroke my hands over the soft material.

  For the past few days, an equilibrium has draped itself over the house like the swathe of fabric Mamma has cut and stitched and shaped. Each night, long after I’ve gone to bed, I’ve seen the light on in the living room and the whirr of the sewing machine. Even in the mornings, there she’s been, desperate to prove her love through the hem of a sleeve or measure of a zipper.

  I have done my best to keep up the pretence, to carry on as normal until I am brave enough to make the next step. But my mind has not been able to rest; I have been waiting for the fabric to slip.

  ‘I never got to go to my own prom.’ Mamma stands behind me and looks over my shoulder at our twin reflections. ‘I’d left school by then, to help on the farm.’

  The farm is part of the few hazy details I know about Mamma’s past: where she lived, before she got married; before me. Hearing her offer up this glimpse into it, I can’t help a fleeting hope that maybe she really did have nothing to do with it all, and that somehow Father Paul – who had the air of danger lingering on him so thickly I could almost taste it – drove her to it.

  I could ask outright. Looking back at her in the mirror, I see, properly, the lack of commonness in our features. I can feel the words shaping themselves like the pattern of Mamma’s scissors against the coral fabric: Why did you do it? What does Father Paul want?

  Bad, good, pure, evil … which side does Mamma fall on?

  ‘Mamma?’ I begin. And then I see the softness in the corners of her eyes, taking me in. Feel her hands on my shoulders, hands that have fed me and clothed me and mothered me.

  ‘Yes, Anna?’

  The doorbell chimes, and a flutter of panic seizes at my heart as it has at every ring since my encounter with Father Paul. It’s only a matter of time before he comes again, and I know time is running thin. I am going to have to act, one way or another. Confront Mamma, or run. Indecision calcifies me.

  I answer the door to find Jonah standing on the porch, dressed in a pressed black tux, his hair greased away from his forehead. In his hands, a clear plastic box. He’s actually not that bad-looking; underneath the unfortunate pimples that speckle his face he has those soft, all-American features I know some girls find charming. But he’s not William.

  ‘Good evening, Jonah.’

  He holds out the box. ‘This is for you.’ Inside is a cluster of peach ranunculus bulbs, spray roses and green berries, tied with a coral-coloured organza ribbon. I imagine Mamma orchestrating it. Even in this tiny detail, she has mastery over me.

  ‘They’re lovely, Jonah. Thank you.’

  He scoops the corsage from the box to tie on my wrist, but Mamma is already beside us, taking the flowers and tying them on herself. I wonder if she is already regretting her decision.

  ‘There.’ She executes a neat bow and then stands back to take us both in. ‘Now, don’t you two look smart?’

  ‘Well, we should be on our way, Mrs Montgomery.’ Jonah tips his head deferentially towards Mamma. ‘What time should I have her back?’ He speaks over me, as if I’m a small child he has custody of for the night.

  Mamma’s lips twitch in satisfaction.

  When we arrive at the high school, the place is already heaving. Dance music thuds from the building, and dozens of students are making their way up the grass to the entrance in brightly coloured formal wear. I can tell lots of them are already drunk: the guys seem louder than usual, fist-bumping and bellowing into the darkening night sky, while a couple of the girls are swaying on their feet; one even sits down on the grass bank, and has to be pulled up by a friend.

  The party is held in the school gymnasium. The theme is ‘Happily Ever After’, and already I can see hints of the prom committee’s handiwork when we enter the room: tawdry crêpe paper roses and a cardboard cut-out of a pumpkin carriage. At the far end, a band on a small stage is blaring out covers of pop songs against a backdrop of multicoloured stage lights. A small group of early adopters jerk along in front of them in time to the beat, the girls hiking up their skirts and swinging them rhythmically, while the guys loosen their ties, letting the ends dangle down their shirts.

  Over by the punch bowl, I feel a tap on my arm and turn around to find Ms Abrams is behind me, looking elegant in a forest-green dress, her red hair swept into a neat chignon. I’ve never noticed before that she’s pretty. ‘Anna, you made it! And don’t you look nice?’ I see her looking from me to Jonah.

  ‘Thank you, Ms Abrams.’ I turn reluctantly to Jonah. ‘This is Jonah, my date.’

  Ms Abrams’ smile becomes a little forced, but then she holds a hand out to Jonah. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Jonah.’ I see her hesitate, wanting to say more, but instead she gives us a little nod and motions to go. ‘Well, I suppose I’d best be off chaperoning.’ As she slips away, she touches me lightly on the arm and murmurs in my ear, ‘I’m so pleased your mother listened to my advice, and let you come after all. She did tell me about you and William though; I was so sorry to hear it. Your first heartbreak is always difficult.’

  Jonah and I move across the room, which is slowly filling with people. A row of chairs lines one side of the gymnasium. I glance across at them, eager to
rest my already aching feet, but instead Jonah nudges me towards the stage. ‘Want to dance?’

  I hesitate, but follow. At least if we’re dancing we won’t need to talk.

  Jonah’s movements are angular, jerky. He stands the right distance from me to convey that he is most definitely my partner, without actually being in physical contact with me. My body is awkward. I can feel the rhythm of the music, but I don’t know how to move like my peers, to twist and turn my limbs in the way that seems so natural to them. Where do they get taught this? I sway on my feet and take a long sip of my drink. It tastes as pink as it looks.

  I see some girls I know; they look curiously from me to Jonah. One of them tells me she likes my dress, and when I say thank you, that actually my mother made it, her face creases into an indulgent expression, eyes unnaturally wide, lips slurred upwards. ‘That’s so neat,’ she says, sugar-sweet as the punch. ‘My mom can’t even sew on a button.’ She smooths a hand down the hip of the figure-hugging black dress she’s wearing, and merges into the crowd.

  Jonah unexpectedly takes hold of my arm: ‘Hey, let’s—’ He upsets my already tottering balance, unsteady on charity shop heels, and my glass of punch jerks towards me, tips. I watch as a rivulet of bubblegum pink makes its way down the centre of my dress.

  Jonah claps a hand to his mouth, his eyes round O’s in his face. ‘Gosh, I’m sorry, Anna. I honestly didn’t mean to …’ He holds his empty arms out towards me, useless in their lack of comfort or napkins.

  I look down at the ruined silk. ‘It’s OK,’ I say, ‘it was an accident. I … I better go clean it up, before it stains.’ I turn to leave, pushing my way through gyrating bodies to the exit. The gym is almost full now, and I feel as though the very walls are pulsating with the noise that thuds inside my skull.

  The double doors swing shut behind me, suffocating the sound. In the restroom, I dab at the dress with a wad of paper towels, watching the pink fade, to be replaced with dark coral water spots I’m not sure will ever fully disappear. The edges of the room are slightly fuzzy, and a warm, tingling sensation spreads across me. I think back to the punch, to its sickly-sweet taste. Could someone have spiked it? I’ve heard rumours of such things happening. Perhaps this is what it’s like to be drunk? And I’ve barely eaten anything today. As a wave of dizziness overwhelms me, I hold on to the sides of the sink, feeling the cool Formica beneath my hands, and look into the mirror.

  Who did I think I was fooling, playing out this fantasy? The ruined dress says it all: there is no place for me here. I have been moulded and shaped by the way Mamma has raised me; I don’t know any other way to be.

  I cup my hand under the tap and bring cold water to my lips, drinking thirstily. When I look up, I allow myself to inspect my reflection in the mirror. I’m pale, despite the warm weather; my eyes are muddy and wan, dark circles forming underneath them; cheeks a little sunken on their bones. How different I look from the morning of my birthday. But then, I am different. A different person.

  Emily Archer.

  Do I look like her? The question shivers into my head. I find myself compelled to look deeper, to see her, to try to remember the fading images of the girl I saw on William’s computer. There is nothing. No friendly freckle or birthmark to help me on my way. It’ll take more than just my face to prove who I am.

  I move to the hand dryer, severing my reflection in two. Whether I’ve banished the Anna or the Emily, I can’t say. In the half that remains, I try out one of those laid-back, carefree smiles I see my classmates performing with such ease. ‘Hey,’ I practise saying to Jonah, with a coy nudge of my shoulder. ‘All sorted now. No harm done.’ My half-reflection remains unconvinced.

  I head back out into the hall with renewed resolve. I am so focused on my intent that I fail to notice the figure I find myself walking into head first.

  ‘William?’ I stare up at his familiar form, taking in his long limbs, my body already responding to the feel of his hands on my waist. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I couldn’t get hold of you.’ There’s a note of panic in his voice. He hasn’t quite let go of me, as if my physical presence is the reassurance he needs that he’s found me. ‘I kept trying the cell – why didn’t you answer? You promised me you’d keep it with you, Anna, but I rang and rang and I got no answer.’ I bite my lip, guiltily picturing the phone, lying in its hiding place in my room. How could I have possibly taken it with me, without Mamma noticing? ‘I rang your home just to check everything was all right, and your mom answered. She told me you were here; she sounded … almost gleeful about it. Anna,’ his eyes dart around, almost as if he expects Mamma to be right there behind him, ‘I have to tell you something. We have to go somewhere we can talk. But we can’t discuss it here. Not like this.’

  He grabs hold of my hand. I try to unpick my thoughts. ‘What about Jonah?’

  ‘Anna, you’re not listening to me.’ He tugs harder. ‘We have to go – now. Tell him anything: tell him you’re sick, that a friend’s giving you a lift home. But do it now.’

  I take in the wildness in his eyes, the urgent way his fingers press into my wrist. Slowly I nod, leave William in the hallway as I make my way back into the gymnasium, which now seems twenty degrees hotter, reeking of hairspray and sweat and stale perfume, their cacophony as loud as the noise level in the room.

  I spy Jonah at the punch table, talking to a couple of boys I recognise vaguely from the football team. I approach them, catching Jonah’s eye as he takes a swig from his glass. ‘Hi,’ I say. He sways slightly. The punch must definitely be spiked.

  ‘Hey, I was starting to get worried about you. Anna, this is Jacob and Sam,’ he slurs as he points to each one in turn. ‘Guys, this is Anna. My date.’ In an unprecedented move, he reaches a hand around my waist and tugs me into him so our hip bones smash together. I politely disentangle myself, and exchange the briefest possible pleasantries before turning towards him.

  ‘Jonah, I’m so sorry, but I have to leave.’

  ‘Leave?’ He screws up his eyes, as if trying to process what I’m saying. ‘But we only just got here.’

  ‘I know, but I’m … not feeling well. I think it was something I ate. I have to go home. Now.’

  ‘But how will you get home?’

  ‘A friend is going to take me. But I don’t want you to worry about it. Please, stay here and have a good time. I’m sorry, Jonah. I haven’t been a very good date.’ Rather than allowing myself to linger, I lean over and give him a fleeting kiss on the cheek. And then, before he can say anything else, I extricate myself from the group and go out to meet William.

  He starts the car, and I know without him saying a word exactly where he’s taking me.

  Watermelon Pond is a short drive from the high school. It’s not really a pond any more, it’s almost completely dried up, but it’s a pleasant place to hike, full of blackberry bushes and Florida rosemary and draping yellow jasmine. I know William likes to come here to think. It was one of the first places we went to, when we started dating.

  We park up. The sand is deep and soft underfoot, and I am suddenly alert to the fact that I’m still in my formal wear. ‘Will?’ I look down at my satin sandals, already speckled with grains of sand.

  He ducks into the trunk of his car and appears seconds later with my hiking boots clenched in his hands. I forgot I left them there – before all this began. With the boots on, and his jumper draped over my shoulders, I pick my way with him past the entrance and into the park. It feels illicit doing this now, skirting our way past the bird house that faces the kiosk.

  In the silence, only broken by the occasional bird call, we find a patch of land by a tall loblolly pine. It’s already dark, but the moon is high in the sky, illuminating us with a bright silver glow.

  Only now does William speak. ‘I’ve found some things out about Father Paul. Some worrying things.’

  ‘Will, I don’t care,’ I say. ‘I’ve already decided—’

  ‘No, listen to m
e, Anna. I’ve done some research. He’s the leader of a church – The Lilies, that’s what that means. I asked a pastor about it. Don’t freak out,’ he holds his hands up, seeing the panic seize my face, ‘someone from our old church in Texas. He was really concerned when he heard the name. He said they were a Christian sect, with some pretty extreme views. A lot of them, they sounded just like your mom: the puritanism, the cleanliness, the order.’ He presses his palms together, holds them to his chin. ‘Anna, I think your mom might have been mixed up with them; for all we know, she still might be. It could be the reason that she … for what happened to you. He said he’d heard things – rumours, mainly, about strange goings-on there, aggressive behaviour, severe punishment. I don’t know why this Father Paul is seeking you out now, but you have to get away.’

  ‘Where?’ The hollowness of this thought punches me in my core. All I have is Mamma. Without her, I am Alice, falling down the rabbit hole.

  ‘Marry me,’ William says.

  A brutal laugh escapes me, ripping through the silent night in a ragged gasp. ‘Now you’re the crazy one.’

  ‘I’m being serious. You must have known I always intended it, eventually. We’ll go to my dad, right now. He won’t ask questions; he trusts me. He’ll do it right away.’ He clutches me to him, and I can feel the desperation build in him. ‘You’re eighteen. You’re free to marry who you please. Your mother has no hold on you. Marry me, and we’ll face her together. We could find a way, maybe, of protecting her from Father Paul. And then we’ll go away, just you and me.’ I say nothing, but he pulls himself into me harder, burying himself into my neck and murmuring, over and over, ‘Please, Anna, please. I can’t let anything happen to you.’

  It’s too much, too overwhelming, everything within me conflicting and vying for attention. And in that moment I want to hate Mamma. Hate her for doing this to me; for making me choose, and giving me no choice at all.

  Before I realise it my mouth is on William’s, hungry for the comfort I have so desperately been missing. We sink to the ground, and the rough sear of sand rubs against my back. My skirt has risen up my thighs, and I recklessly nudge my bare skin into him. It feels wrong, so terribly wrong, to be doing this, but at the same time I am overcome with desire; for William, yes, but to punish Mamma too, the way she has punished me, and transgress the bounds she holds so dear.