My Name is Anna

by Lizzy Barber

  ‘Mamma, you don’t need to do this. I promise you I won’t leave you. I …’ I try to shake my head from her grasp, but she only presses the cloth against me more firmly. And then she takes my face between her two palms and bores those bright blue eyes directly into mine; I see a mixture of desperation and urgency.

  ‘Pray with me, Anna, please?’

  Her fingers press against the bottom of my jaw, and my pulse thuds rapidly against them. Confusion turns into fear, and I swiftly close my eyes in obedience.

  ‘Dear Lord,’ she begins, as if the power of prayer has calmed her, ‘we pray that You show us guidance, in our time of need. We know that we may have erred, but we trust in Your wisdom, to show us the true path, and to help us weather the storm. Lord, as Anna’s mother, help me teach her forgiveness, and give me the strength to protect her, to keep her safe from harm. In Your name we pray. Amen.’

  ‘Are you my mother?’ The words are out of my mouth before I’ve even had time to process them: the whispered thought I’ve been trying to block, even from myself.

  I watch her body petrify, her limbs becoming hard and stiff as a look of pure terror washes over her. But then something happens: like the white sheet draped over me, her features seem to mask themselves, her mouth unknotting itself and her eyes calm, unblinking. Her hands slide away from my face. ‘Why in heaven’s name would you ask me that?’

  She stands, busies herself with something out of sight. I hear drawers opening and closing, and a foggily familiar clicking sound. ‘You’re sick, Anna. You’re not thinking clearly.’ Too late, I realise why I recognise the noise: it’s the sound of a child safety cap twisting on a bottle. She pushes a spoon at my mouth, filled with a gummy green liquid. ‘Perhaps when you’re feeling better, you’ll be kinder to me.’ Before I have a chance to think, I taste the cold bowl of the spoon between my lips, and then the minty green liquid fills my mouth. Mamma screws on the cap, and places the bottle back down somewhere with a clink.

  She steps towards the door, and I hear the deep chink of the padlock followed by the thud of her footsteps on the stairs.

  And then silence.

  I lie for a long time trying to process what has happened. Mamma is in some sort of reverie, flitting between what she wants to believe and what’s real. I want to trust in the fact that she would never truly hurt me, but right now, drugged, bruised, tied up, how can I be so sure? And I remember Father Paul – his threat to return. How long will it be before he claims us both? The thoughts toss and turn in my head as my eyelids grow heavy. I try to fight it, but a warm fuzz descends over me, and it’s like my body is being forced down, down against the mattress.

  I sleep.

  The noise of the padlock stirs me. The pain in my head has lessened, but in its place is a vague grogginess, like all my edges are rounded off. The heat in the room has swelled, coursing through me, and even without being able to touch it, I can tell my nightdress is stuck to me with damp: when I move my legs against one another beneath the sheet, they’re covered with a thin film of sweat.

  ‘Mamma,’ I croak as she steps into the room. My throat is paper-dry, coated with the sickly residue of the medicine. When I run my tongue around my teeth, I feel the rough lining of sugar.

  ‘How are you feeling, dear?’ Mamma says with white brightness, setting a tray down on the wicker chair. She’s holding something else, busying about the room, and I hear the rasp of a drawer being pulled out, from the old chest of drawers in the corner. Something lands inside it, heavy, leaden. And then the drawer shuts, and she’s back in my eyeline.

  ‘Mamma.’ I can’t help the tears that sting my eyes. How long has she kept me here? How long will she keep me here? ‘Please. Could I have something to drink?’

  It seems to please her, hearing me call her Mamma, asking for her care; she leans over the bedside, supporting my head as she puts a glass to my lips. I gulp thirstily, nearly choking as the cold water floods my mouth, and she snatches it away again. ‘Careful, Anna. You have to move gently with a patient, to avoid overwhelming them. That’s what it says in the books.’

  She crosses back to the chair, sets the tray down on one of the cardboard boxes by the wall and sits, picking up an object from the floor beside her. From my position on the bed I can just make out the dahlia-red cover of her Bible. She opens it out onto her lap, and her fingers move methodically through the pages. ‘I thought we’d do some Bible study, while you’re still feeling unwell. What do you think?’ Her lips fix into a vacant grin. ‘Do you have a favourite chapter or verse you’d like to begin with?’

  ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ I ask. ‘How long are you going to keep me here?’

  ‘Keep you here?’ Mamma’s fingers don’t rest as they trill through the pages. ‘Anna, you’re in your own home. All l’m trying to do is protect you. You just need to stay here a little longer, until you’re well. And then we can go anywhere you please.’ Her fingers pause, and in a low, agitated voice she reads, ‘Is anyone among you in trouble? Let them pray. Is anyone happy? Let them sing songs of praise.’

  ‘Go? Where will we go?’ The word prickles against me. Will she try and take me away – into hiding perhaps? I think of those girls, the ones found in that basement in Ohio – what if she locks me away for ever? I realise I know so much about her outward character, but virtually nothing about her inner mind.

  ‘Is anyone among you sick? Let them call the elders of the church to pray over them and anoint them with oil in the name of the Lord.’

  ‘Mamma …’ I try softly, hoping to reason with her, to make her see sense. But she beats on, relentlessly, her voice growing louder but unbroken in its rhythm.

  ‘And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise them up. If they have sinned, they will be forgiven.’

  ‘Mamma, please, listen to me—’

  She carries on, as if I am nothing but the buzzing of a fly in her ear.

  I squirm against the bed, trying to release my wrists from the ties that bind them: garden twine, I realise, feeling the burn of it against my skin. ‘I’m not sick. I don’t need you to heal me. You have to let me go.’

  There is a wildness in her eyes now, the same religious zeal I see in her preachers on television, a loose smile on her face, as if she truly believes she’s doing the will of the Lord. ‘Why aren’t you hearing me, Anna? I’ve told you: you’re not well. All I’m trying to do is take care of you, as the Lord commands.’

  Anger sears at my insides. ‘You’re not my mother, are you?’

  Her finger, poised over the Bible, stills. Words get snarled in her throat. She places the book on the floor, then she stands, comes over to me and slaps me clean across the face.

  I gasp, swallowing air in shock. My cheek stings, and there’s a ringing in my ear where her hand caught it.

  ‘How dare you disrespect me like that?’ She turns towards the door. I know if she goes I’ll be locked in here again, alone.

  ‘Please, Mamma, don’t leave me here,’ I cry out, trying to reach out for her with my tied wrists.

  She pauses, cocks her head, and turns to assess me. ‘Everything I’ve ever done has been for you, Anna. Perhaps you should think on that, before you upset me again.’ She pushes open the door, but right before she ducks her head through it she gives me a tight smile. ‘Rest now, daughter. Remember your Scripture.’ She nods. ‘You’ll feel better soon.’

  The padlock turns. And once again I am alone.

  She doesn’t return for a long time. From the bed, I watch the light gradually darkening outside the attic window, retreating and eventually fading completely from the room. I place myself at Saturday evening. That means I must have been here nearly a full day.

  My thoughts drift to my childhood. It seems so long ago, those innocent times. We were happy, weren’t we, Mamma and I? Growing flowers, singing hymns, a family of two. I should never have gone looking. I should have forced myself to believe that it was all just a misunderstand
ing. I should have thrown Father Paul’s gifts away.

  I wrench my arms against the twine, trying to break loose. If I can only get free, I can go to her, ask her what Father Paul wants from her, and how I can help her make it all go away. Before I get away from her.

  Father Paul. Mamma. Their figures dance and converge in my mind, shadow puppets in some ancient fable of good and evil. But which represents which?

  I work my wrists back and forth against the loops that circle them, hoping to loosen them enough to slip my hands through. But although this does seem to release the twine’s grip just the tiniest bit, the straw-like material clutches at my skin and makes me cry out in pain such that I can’t bear to keep going. And I can feel a bruise now, forming where first the vase then Mamma’s wrist hit me. When I move my mouth, the skin by my cheek is stiff and achy, and when I close my eye, the area around it feels puffed and thick.

  I hear the dull click of the padlock, see the door slowly open to reveal Mamma’s tall frame, and am instantly frozen. One look at her face and I know that reasoning won’t work. In the past, I’ve always thought of her height as admirable; strong and commanding. Now I only see the menace. The blackness of the room casts an elongated shadow against the wall behind her, as if revealing the true nature that lies within her.

  She flicks on the switch just inside the doorway, and the bulb over the bed plunges me into fluorescent white light. Instinctively I screw up my face, sheltering my eyes from its beam. Wordlessly she stalks over to me, placing a rough hand to my forehead. Her fingers press into the tenderness of my temple. She tuts, brings water to my lips, allows a few measly mouthfuls to trickle down my throat. The sound of my desperate swallowing cuts through the silence.

  ‘Mamma?’

  She doesn’t reply.

  I hear a new sound now: plastic, popping. Her fingers probe my mouth, and I feel the circles of two pills resting on my tongue. ‘It’s late. Take these, they’ll help you sleep.’

  I try not to swallow, to move them off to the side of my tongue and hide them in the corner of my mouth, but they’re already starting to dissolve. Bitterness and chalk flood my mouth.

  ‘I don’t need to sleep,’ I say. ‘I want you to let me go.’

  ‘Don’t argue with your mother, Anna.’

  And then she’s gone.

  I sleep, dreamlessly, the pills dragging me down to the centre of a black hole. It’s pleasant there, and part of me wishes I could stay, let the blackness take over.

  When I wake, it’s already light out, and Mamma is back in the chair. I wonder how long she’s been there. It makes my skin crawl, the thought of her silently watching me.

  ‘How are you feeling, Anna dear? Better rested, I hope?’ She has an uncanny expression on her face, her eyes wide and hopeful. And then in an instant it dawns on me: it’s Sunday.

  ‘What about church?’ Each word feels heavy in my mouth. Mamma may not socialise with her fellow churchgoers, but her presence is as constant as a ticking clock.

  ‘What do you mean, Anna?’ She bustles around me, plumping up the pillows behind me. ‘I’ve been to church.’

  I crane my head to see the sky through the attic window. The sun is high – I notice now, the way the beams hit the bed sheet. The heat has risen again – the cool relief of the night has passed – and brings with it a sickness in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘I’ve been and gone,’ she continues, moving about me to seek out any little imperfections in the room she can find to tidy, smoothing the crumpled bed sheet, adjusting the angle of the chair.

  Her lavender-and-Lysol scent – an empty comfort – curls across the room and licks at my senses, heightened by my lack of sustenance. ‘It was a pleasant sermon. All about faith, obedience and the perseverance of the Lord. It was really very moving.’

  She allows me the indignity of a bed pan she must have bought from I have no idea where, and I let the mortification of this be washed away by the relief that at least she doesn’t expect me to lie in soiled sheets.

  Then she stops, holding a damp flannel half folded to her chest. ‘That William was there. He gave me the strangest look; went quite pale and asked me where you were. Apparently he was with his father in the church all morning; a pipe burst and flooded into the offices. I told him you were all right, just a little under the weather.’ Her face wrinkles into a frown, and she slaps the flannel down on the bed. ‘I wish he’d listen to my advice and let you be. You need to understand, Anna: your relationship with William wasn’t right. You don’t know what boys his age want. He wants to lead you down an unrighteous path. He wants to lead you away from me. But if you’re pure, if you’re good, nothing – no one – can take you away.’

  William. Hearing his name kindles a spark inside of me. I’m not alone. There’s someone for me to fight for. Someone to fight for me.

  ‘I love him, Mamma.’ I speak slowly and carefully, dragging each word out through my dry lips. ‘We’re going to get married.’

  ‘Anna, don’t be ridiculous,’ she brushes it off, ‘you’re only a child,’ but I can hear the quiver at the edge of her voice. I’m encouraged: I think I may have found a chink in her armour. Years of living with Mamma have me attuned to the tiniest of her tells.

  ‘It’s true,’ I say. ‘He asked me, and I said yes. We’re going to get married, Mamma.’ A tiny part of me relishes it, the chance to twist the knife in deeper. ‘It’s not just you and me any more. You can’t keep me locked up here for ever.’

  ‘Stop saying that. You’re not marrying that boy. You’re not leaving me. I won’t let you.’ Mamma is shaking her head, turning away from me.

  I was right. I’ve got her. ‘Mamma, come on now.’ I speak forcefully, but with caution. Now I’ve taken hold of her, I can’t afford to set her free. ‘Look at me. Look at what you’ve done to me.’ I hold up my wrists, tense against their bonds. ‘You can’t keep me here like this; it’s not right. I know that whatever drove you to this, you must have had good reason. I want to understand what that is. And I want to try and help you, to protect you. But to do that, you have to tell me the truth, and you have to let me go. I’m not your little girl any more.’ I swallow, delivering the blow I know will devastate the most: ‘I’m not your little girl at all.’

  She presses herself against the padlocked door, holding her hands over her ears to block out my voice. ‘No, no, no, no, no.’

  ‘Please, Mamma. Tell me. Tell me the truth. I’ll listen.’

  ‘No, no, no, I won’t listen. You’re my daughter. You’re mine.’ She rocks back and forth.

  ‘We both know that’s not true, Mamma. You have to face up to it. It’s a lie. It’s all a lie.’ I thrash my wrists. All the hurt, all the churned-up feelings of the last few weeks rise inside me, and I need to know who Mamma really is: my mother, or my captor? ‘You took me. You tricked me. Why did you do it? What drove you to it? Let me go. Tell me, and I swear I’ll understand.’

  ‘No.’ There’s a storm in her voice. In a flash, she is beside me, standing over the bed. I try to look into her face, to find some semblance of the mother who raised me. ‘I won’t let you go. I have to keep you safe. I have to keep you pure. I won’t let him take you from me again, Anna. He took you from me once, but I won’t let it happen again.’

  ‘Who, Mamma?’ But I know the answer already. I picture his face, leaning towards me, the dazzling whiteness of his suit.

  Her whole body is trembling. She looks wildly around the room, as if she’s afraid someone is going to burst in and attack her.

  ‘It’s Father Paul, isn’t it?’ At the sound of his name she cowers into herself, an animal struck. ‘It is, I know it. Mamma, I met him: I know he’s a dangerous man. I understand why you’re scared – he could hurt you, hurt us both. But if you let me go, together we can stop him.’

  She turns to me, her eyes hollow in her head. ‘I can’t stop him, Anna. I never could. There’s nothing we can do.’

  ROSIE

  20

&nbs
p; Michael rises from his chair, places the empty mugs in the sink. With a brief jerk of the head bidding us to follow him, he makes his way into the hall.

  ‘This next bit makes more sense if you see it for yourself.’

  ‘Your sister’s disappearance happened maybe five or six years before I moved to the States.’ He leads us into the living room and gestures to the sofa. We both sit, poised on the edge. Michael moves around the room with ease, pulling files from a shelf and flinging them onto a glass coffee table, rummaging through the drawers of a desk that faces French windows that open onto a small, perfectly manicured garden. ‘I remember the initial burst of news – the search for leads, the backlash against your family. At the time it wasn’t of that much interest to me; it wasn’t the sort of thing I covered, and by the time I’d moved to New York, there was the Crash, Lehman’s going under, et cetera, et cetera – enough fruitful material right in Manhattan alone that some kid going missing in Florida wasn’t really front and centre—’ He catches himself, the storyteller and the host clashing. ‘I’m sorry – that sounds crass. It’s not to say it wasn’t important, it’s just …’

  ‘I know.’ I nod that it’s OK to continue.

  ‘But once I moved back to the UK, I’d lost whatever it was that made me write. I couldn’t make arse or end out of a story. Nothing excited me. I managed to get a steady stream of work as a freelance reporter, but I was a mess. Living in a shitty flat with a roommate I couldn’t stand. Drinking more often than was good for me. And then the ten-year anniversary of Emily’s disappearance rolled around.

  ‘The last few years had been pretty doom-and-gloom in the UK – we were still feeling the recession, the coalition happened, student riots. And amidst it all was this adorable little blonde girl, snatched from Britain’s hands by Evil Corporate America. It was like she became the hope of the nation. Like finding her would make everything right. Suddenly, every journalist I knew was trying to find their own angle on the case. And seeing them all fighting for scraps, I became consumed with a desire to beat them; to prove myself as the great journalist I once was.