"What ya cryin' for, ya brat?" Jimbo came three big steps closer. "You'll have all you need here." He looked at Lou, then back at Mary. "Besides, your mama, well . . . she died. She got hit by a car in the city, so don't go cryin' about her anymore. She ain't comin' back."
Mary shook her head. Her mouth opened because she wanted to scream at Jimbo and tell him he was a liar. Her mommy was at work, and she'd be looking for Mary in the morning. "No . . . no, she's not dead!"
"Shut the brat up." Lou waved in Mary's direction and took a drink from the refrigerator, something in a silver can.
"Fine." Jimbo came closer and took her hand. "If this is how you want it, we'll show you to your room."
He pulled her to a door, opened it, and led her down a long row of stairs. Now they were in the basement. Once her mother had taken her to stay with one of her boyfriends, and they had made her stay in the basement.
But that wasn't where she wanted to go. How would her mommy ever find her down in the basement of this little boxy house in the trees? Wait, not in the trees ... in the hill country? "Jimbo, stop!" She squirmed, but she couldn't get free. "I don't wanna go down there!"
"You're going! This is where your room is," he growled. When they reached the bottom, Mary saw a dirty couch against the wall. Jimbo brushed off some leaves and maybe a few spiders. Then he yanked her arm and threw her onto the middle cushion.
"Why are you doing this?" she screamed. Her tears came so hard she couldn't see, but she wasn't even sad. She was mad—very, very mad. Jimbo and Lou had done all of this. "Take me back to the apartment so I can see my mommy."
"Shut up!" Jimbo slapped her hard across the face, so hard her teeth hurt. "Shut up or I'll give you something to cry about." He spread out his fingers and pushed her face so she fell back against the couch. "Don't say another word." He stood straighter, and his eyes got a funny look. The one that scared her every time. "Get a good night's sleep and don't turn on the lights. Tomorrow's your big day, little Mary. The first day of the rest of your life, and you know what?"
Mary turned her face from him.
"You're gonna make me a rich man." He leaned in and touched her where no one was ever supposed to touch her. "Rich and happy."
The first thing Mary did when he pounded up the stairs was reach into her shorts pocket. The purse with the red beads was still there. Even though her whole life felt like it was going crazy, she knew she would be okay. As long as she had the purse. Because that purse had the words that told her God loved her and that He had plans for her. It was proof that her Grandma Peggy loved her too. Her mother might not know where to find her, but her grandma would know, because her grandma was smart. She knew everything.
She pressed the purse to her chest and had a thought. She had to hide it,- otherwise Jimbo or Lou would take it for sure. But first she wanted to hold it and remember how it felt to be in her pink bedroom, the one at Grandma Peggy's house. That's where life was happy and good and safe, and that's where she wanted to be right now. There with her mama's arms around her. She brought the purse up to her cheek, the hot one where Jimbo had hit her. It felt soft and cool, and she felt the fear start to leave her.
She was alone in the basement of a house she didn't know, but tomorrow . . . tomorrow her mother and her grandma would find her. They would find her and yell at Jimbo and take her away. She lowered the purse and looked at it once more. "I miss you, Mama." Tears started to come, and she blinked them away. "You too, Grandma." She closed her eyes and thought about God. Jesus, it's me, Mary. I'm lost and I need some help, okay? Maybe You could find my mama and my grandma and tell them where I am.
A noise happened upstairs. Something loud, like a book hitting a wall.
Mary gasped and looked around the dark basement. There was one window, and through it a bit of light came in. Just enough so she could see things around her. Where should she hide the purse? It had to be somewhere she could reach, somewhere Jimbo and Lou wouldn't find it.
Mary shivered. The basement had nothing in it really. Just the couch and a few boxes. Someone could move the boxes, so she decided on the couch, the place where she was sitting. That would be the best spot. She slid the purse down behind the seat part, deep down into the crack. Then she pulled her hand back and looked. It was too far down to see, but what if it was too far down to get again? She quickly reached into the crack and there it was. Safe and sound.
"Stay there, little purse." She left it hiding in the crack of the couch, and then she lay down. She thought about her mother and her grandma and all the things she'd tell them when they found her. She'd tell them how awful Jimbo was and how he'd hit her. They'd be very mad about that. Then she thought about school, how nice it would be to learn about the letters and words and how to read.
It was getting colder, and Mary wasn't sure she could sleep. She could never sleep good when she was cold. She stood up and looked around again, and that's when she spotted a blanket on the back of the couch. She pulled it down and spread it out so it covered her. Finally, just before she fell asleep, she thought of something else. Jimbo's words: "You're gonna make me a rich man . . . rich and happy."
Mary thought and thought and thought, but she couldn't figure out what Jimbo meant by that. What could she do that would make him rich and happy? She was still wondering when morning came and Lou brought her a bowl of oatmeal and a banana. "Leave your dishes on the bottom step," Lou told her. "I'll get 'em later."
It was a new day, Mary told herself. The day when her mama and her grandma would come. Maybe when she was finished eating. But when she was done and she put her bowl on the stairs with the banana peel inside, Jimbo opened the basement door and stared at her. He came down.
His face had that strange look, and when he reached the couch he smiled at her. "Today's the day, Mary."
"What are you—?" But Mary never finished her question.
He came closer, and he did unspeakable things to her that made her scream—even after he stopped. She felt dead, inside and out, and she threw up her breakfast. Lou came down and cleaned it up.
For three days no one came down to the basement except when Lou brought her food.
Then one afternoon another man came. A man she'd never seen before. He took one look at her and grinned the way the devil grinned in cartoons. Then he gave Jimbo a handful of dollar bills.
Jimbo smiled. "She's all yours." He thudded back upstairs, and now it was the new man's turn.
"This is our special visit, little girl," the man told her. Then just like Jimbo, he hurt her and did awful things while she screamed for her mama and her grandma. "Help me!" She scratched at the man. "Someone, help!"
But no one came and helped, not that day or the next or the day after that. She tried to think of a way to escape. But where would she go and how would she find her way home to her grandma's house? Was this what Jimbo had meant when he said that tomorrow was the first day of the rest of her life? her new life? If so, then she wanted to die.
Mary had no answers, nothing but a sick emptiness. And by the end of the week—with Jimbo and the other man making special visits to the basement—she didn't have to wonder how she was going to make Jimbo a rich and happy man.
She already knew.
* * *
Chapter 6
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Emma felt like she was going to pass out. She slid forward and steadied herself on the edge of her chair. "I ... I have to go."
The voices were back. Yes, go, Emma. Go buy the drugs and get it over with. No one loves you, no one'll miss you.
The fog in Mary's eyes cleared. She was a counselor again, sharp and in control, no longer lost in the sickening days of her tenth year. "We're finished for today." Her tone was firm but tender. "You can get your girls and go to your room. We've assigned you to one on the third floor. We have a library on the first floor and a craft table off the kitchen. If you and your children want to watch a movie, there's a den with a television and a VCR on your floor."
And everyone'll thank you for it, Emma. Your life's been a waste for years now, so leave. . . go get it done. You're trash, and trash needs to he taken out and—
"Emma?"
The voices stopped. Emma shot a look at Mary. "I'm not sure about anything." She needed to flee. The girls were better off without her. If she hadn't wound up here at the women's shelter, she would've been on the streets. And then something terrible could've happened to her girls, the same way it had happened to Mary. The thought was too much to bear. They'd all be better off if she left through the front door and never—
"You promised me you'd come back for the rest of the story." There was a depth to Mary's words that stopped Emma's thoughts in their tracks.
She did promise that, didn't she? But wasn't it obvious where Mary's story went from there? Mary was abused for years, and then she managed to pull herself up from the grime and trouble of the street, get herself educated, and make something of herself.
It was a Cinderella story, not something that could bring any real hope for Emma and her girls. They'd still be better off without her. She shrugged. "You were trampled by that guy, and after you grew up, you made good for yourself, right?"
Mary's smile fell. "No. My story gets worse. And in the end—I wasn't strong enough to save myself from any of it."
Emma sat back. Not strong enough? Mary Madison? And how could her story get worse? It was enough to convince Emma to end it all. If Mary's story got worse, then her story was bound to get worse too. It was more than she could stand, more than she could imagine going through, especially with two little girls who—
"Emma, are you hearing me?" Mary touched Emma's knee. "I know what you're thinking." She smiled, and in it was that same hope Emma had felt earlier. "My story gets worse, but it isn't finished. Yours isn't either."
Yes, it is, Emma. You're finished. Take the drugs and be done with it.
"I need time." Emma hugged herself and pressed her arms against her middle.
"You need more than that." Mary eased back and folded her hands. "But you're not ready."
Emma's heart raced. "I won't ever be ready. I'm not like you."
"Battered women, abused women—inside we're all alike." Mary's voice seemed to get quieter, calmer even as the tension in the room built. "Our story is the same, and freedom can only come one way."
A drug overdose, Emma thought. That's the only way out of this nightmare.
"Can I be blunt?"
Emma swallowed hard. She wanted to bolt from the room and the building as fast as she could. Instead she exhaled hard. "Go ahead."
"Taking your life isn't the way out."
What? The voices had nothing to say. How could Mary have known what she was thinking? what she wanted to do? She felt the blood leave her face. "How . . . did you know?"
"I told you." Mary lowered her chin, her gaze direct. No one had ever talked to Emma this way before. "I've sat in your chair before. I almost believed the lie that killing myself was the only way to find freedom. But it isn't, Emma." Her tone grew more stern. "You do that, and the nightmare will continue as long as your daughters live. Every day of their lives they'll wonder why their mama didn't love them enough to live."
The shock was sharp and immediate. Emma had been telling herself that a drug overdose would set her daughters free. Someone could take them and raise them or give them to her mother, Grace. Everyone would be better off. But now . . . what if it happened the way Mary said? What if they went through life angry and hurt because their mother wasn't around? They might end up worse than if she lived.
Emma kept her lips tightly pressed together, but inside her heart she felt something change. The desperate urge to run began to dissolve, and in its place came a knowing. She could get through the day. Maybe take the girls to the craft table or watch a movie with them. Something to pass the time until she could be back in this room again, hear the rest of Mary's story, and find out if she was right.
If the two of them really did share the same story.
The look on Mary's face said she knew she'd won. She stood, took Emma's hand, and helped her to her feet. "I'll see you at nine tomorrow morning."
"Okay." Emma drew back and hugged herself again. She wanted to see her girls. But first she looked hard at Mary. "Thank you. For taking the time." Before Mary could say anything else, Emma turned and left. As quickly as she could, she took light running steps to the day-care room.
The same old woman was there, sitting on a small sofa reading to Kami and Kaitlyn, who were sitting on either side of her. When she heard Emma, the woman looked up. "Hi." She closed the book and grinned at the girls. "We'll finish reading tomorrow."
Kami noticed her first. Her eyes lit up. She jumped off the sofa and ran toward her, arms open wide. "Mommy!"
Behind her, Kaitlyn eased herself down and came running too.
The older woman smiled and set the book down. "1 have some paperwork in my office. You three look like you'll be just fine without me," she said before she quietly left.
Emma immediately dropped to her knees. The girls came to her, and she pulled them in close to her chest. Her precious daughters. How could she overdose and leave them alone, without their mommy? The voices were wrong. Her girls needed her. A chill passed over her spine, and she felt a wave of nausea. She'd come so close. If Mary hadn't said something at the end, she might be buying the drugs right now.
Kami pulled back enough so they could see each other. "We missed you, Mommy. Where have you been?"
"Talking to a nice lady." Emma's words stuck in her throat. Looking into Kami's eyes was like looking into Mary's, the way they must've looked when Mary was a little girl. Not that they shared any physical resemblance, but there were innocence and trust in her daughter's eyes that must've been in Mary's at one time.
Until she had been kidnapped and locked in that basement.
Without warning, tears flooded her eyes and spilled onto her face. What sort of life had she made for her girls? At every turn she'd gone against her mother's wishes. Gone against God. In the process she'd exposed her girls to violent abuse and drugs.
She buried her face against them as her sobs came in waves. How many nights had she been so high that she didn't feed them dinner? And how many of Charlie's friends had been around them, holding them and teasing them? It was a miracle something hadn't already happened to them.
"Mommy—" Kaitlyn stroked her hair and dabbed her fingertips against Emma's face—"why sad?"
Kami took a turn, brushing her soft knuckles against Emma's cheeks. "Mommy's having a hard day."
Mommy's having a hard day were words she'd told her girls hundreds of times. Mommy can't make breakfast. . . . Mommy can't take you for a walk. . . . Mommy can't see out of her right eye. . . . Mommy can't lift you up. . . .
Because she was too wasted on drugs or too exhausted from all she'd consumed the day before or too beaten up to be the mother they needed. And always she said the same thing: "Mommy's having a hard day." Her girls must've heard that nearly every day of their lives.
She pushed her sobs down to the deepest part of her heart, the part that never stopped crying. "Girls . . . Mommy's sorry."
Neither girl said anything, but Kami patted her head and kissed the tip of her nose. Kaitlyn drew closer, her head on Emma's shoulder.
They were the sweetest girls. If she hadn't come to the shelter, she might've lost them by now. Maybe she would've taken enough junk that she lost track of the girls. They could've been kidnapped or sold into slavery. Anything was possible. "God . . ." His name was a cry, a quiet moan on her lips. I m sorry.
The girls sensed somehow that this was different than any other time their mother had been upset before. They clung to her, and Kami sta
rted to whimper. Emma closed her eyes and savored the feel of her precious daughters in her arms. What if she'd lost them? What if she'd killed herself the way she'd planned to do? She would never have had a moment like this again. Instead here she was, and suddenly the sorrow and fear and heartbreak that represented her life cleared long enough for her to feel one very real, very clear emotion.
Gratitude.
However it had happened, she was here. Despite her fear and the fact that every inch of her body screamed for a fix, she was here. She had her girls and her life and her hope because Mary had more of the story to tell. What was it Mary had said? Her story wasn't finished, and neither was Emma's.
Finally as she dried her tears and kissed her girls' cheeks, as she took their little hands in hers and led them to the craft table, she was overwhelmed by one single possibility.
Maybe Mary was right.
* * *
Chapter 7
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Grace Johnson had never missed her husband more. If Jay were here, he would've known how to find Emma and the girls, how to reach them and bring them home. Instead, she wandered alone around her small three-bedroom house across the river from the nation's Capitol. How could God have allowed this, and how had everything gotten so bad? Grace hadn't gone a day without blaming herself since Emma left home years ago.
Two weeks ago Grace had dropped by to see Emma and had realized how bad things really were when she'd seen for herself the bruises on Emma's face, the finger marks on her arms. The way the girls had cowered behind Emma even after they saw that the person at the door was their own grandmother broke her heart.
Grace could still see the horror on Emma's face. "Mama! I told you never to drop in without calling!"
The situation had been horrific, so much worse than Grace had ever imagined. Not only was Emma battered, she was painfully thin and her fingers trembled. Sure signs that she'd found her way back to taking crack. Grace wanted to take her and the girls home and never let them back on the streets again. But that wouldn't work any better than it had worked when Emma first moved out.
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