Читать книгу Pretty Girl Thirteen - Liz Coley - Страница 8

“ARE YOU OKAY WITH THIS, ANGIE?” MOM ASKED FOR THE third time in three minutes. Her cheeks were flushed red, like she was embarrassed by the flurry of activity their arrival had caused at the emergency room.

“I just want to get it over with,” Angie said. A dull throb sat between her ears. She was too tired to feel anything stronger. Mom was anxious enough for both of them anyway. “Not like I have any choice, do I?”

Detective Brogan turned at the sound of her voice. “Technically, you do. They’ll need your consent. But I can’t emphasize enough how important this is to the investigation.”

On soft, white-sneakered feet, a nurse approached with a clipboard. She glanced between her paperwork and Angie, a wave of pity crossing her face. “Let’s head back to an exam room and go over this.”

Dad looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he picked at his thumbnails. “I’ll just, uh, I’ll wait here with the detective.”

The room was shockingly white, except for the cloudscape painted on the pale blue ceiling. The exam table was much too short to stretch out on, and Angie wondered how she wouldn’t fall off. She listened with a numb, detached feeling while the nurse explained the rape kit procedure. This couldn’t be happening.

The nurse held out a pen. “Sweetie, here’s where you sign. Okay?”

Very slowly, in perfect handwriting, she wrote Angela Gracie Chapman, wishing she had a few more middle names to make it take even longer. The blank line next to it asked a question she couldn’t possibly answer. “Mom, what’s the date?”

“September eighteenth,” Mom answered.

Angie blinked hard and wrote it in. Then she handed the pen to Mom to sign as the “parent/guardian of minor.”

Without a word, Mom drew a single line through the year and corrected it.

Angie swallowed the acid in her throat. Three years. Gone with the slip of a ballpoint pen. How could things like that happen?

Mom’s hand still hovered over the page. “She’s never even had a pelvic.”

“Do you want to be in the room with her?” the nurse asked.

Angie met her mom’s flustered look. She shook her head. “That would be too weird,” she said. “Mom should wait out there. With Dad.”

The nurse touched Mom’s shoulder. “Mrs. Chapman, I’ll be present for the entire procedure. I’m very experienced with this sort of case. Why don’t you give me her change of clothes?”

Mom’s face was stuck between guilt and relief. She signed the form and kissed Angie on the cheek. “I’ll be right nearby, hon. Just right by. Out here.”

As the door clicked closed, Angie felt much less than sixteen, less than thirteen, even. Maybe seven. She wanted to call Mom back to hold her hand, to tell her it would be okay soon. She wanted Mom to remind her to get a sticker on the way out or to ask her where she wanted to get a double scoop when they were done. That’s how she always got through checkups, the embarrassment of taking off her clothes, the chill of the room, the dreadful anticipation of the needle.

“Okay, Angela. Hang in there.” The nurse spread a tarp on the floor. “Please stand in the middle of the pad and place all your clothes on it, not touching the floor.”

“Why?” Angie asked as she unbuttoned the flowered top. She fumbled with clumsy, quivering fingers.

“There may be evidentiary hairs or fibers on your clothes. Shoes, too.”

“Oh.” Self-consciously, she unzipped the pants she was wearing. She couldn’t call them hers—she’d never seen them before. She slid them to the ground, pushing off her shoes. Her skin glowed white in the sterile light. It shrank against her muscles as she broke out in goosebumps. Next, she peeled off her socks.

“What are these scars from, sweetie?” the nurse asked, pointing to Angie’s feet.

She followed the nurse’s finger. Her stomach flipped over. Sour liquid burned a path up into her throat. Around each ankle ran a two-inch band, a thick, lumpy welt of scar tissue. She clamped a hand over her mouth to avoid throwing up. “I don’t know,” she whispered between her fingers. Tears collected at the corners of her eyes.

Oh my God. What had happened? Her legs were gross! Disgusting! She would never, ever wear sandals again.

She crossed her arms over her bare chest, hands tucked into her armpits, and trembled in her panties. They were small and faded, but familiar in all the strangeness. They were actually hers. Pale butterflies chased across her hips. She focused on them, trying to draw comfort from the only thing that made sense.

The nurse glanced up from her clipboard. “Everything off, sweetie, and hop up on the exam table. There’s a paper gown on it.” She touched the wall-mounted intercom to call for the doctor.

Angie dropped her butterflies and dove for the table. The stiff, disposable gown scratched, but at least she was covered again. Her knees were blue and knobby as her legs hung loosely over the edge. She watched all the clothes gathered into a plastic bag and tagged.

“Quick manicure now,” the nurse said. She scraped under Angie’s nails and saved the gunk in a small vial. “Excuse me.” She peeked under Angie’s paper gown. “Not enough hair to comb,” she commented mysteriously, and dropped the paper back over Angie’s lap. Angie crossed her ankles tighter together.

“Open, please.” Mechanically, Angie opened her mouth for a huge swab. Her gag reflex kicked in, and she breathed hard through her nose so she wouldn’t vomit. Her cheeks and tongue were thoroughly scrubbed and the swab dropped into a long glass vial.

The nurse picked up her pen and clipboard. “Date of your last period?”

Angie flushed. “I haven’t started yet. I’m sort of a late bloomer.”

A sharp knock, and the doctor entered. Angie’s breath caught. The doctor was a man. Oh God. She’d never been examined by a man.

Knees pressed together, Angie shivered and watched him closely. He looked old, with white hairs mixed into his beard and a wrinkled, friendly face. At least that was less humiliating than a cute, young doctor. She loosened her laced fingers and shook the hand he offered. Hers was sweaty, his warm and dry.

“Hi, Angela. I’m Dr. Cranleigh. Is there anything you’d like to ask me before the examination?”

She thought. “Will it hurt?”

“There may be about thirty seconds of discomfort or cramping. That’s all. Okay?”

Angela nodded. No false promises. She liked that. “Even though I’m a virgin?” she asked.

“Even if you’re a virgin,” he replied. “I understand that you may be suffering from traumatic amnesia, yes?”

She nodded again.

“I’m very sorry about your ordeal.” He turned to the sink to wash his hands.

What was the correct response to that? “Um. Thanks.”

The nurse hovered in the background, now a silent observer. Angie wondered what she was thinking, how many other young girls or women she had seen through this. Maybe it was different if you actually had been raped, if you were filled with fury, if you were aching for vengeance.

But she wasn’t.

Dr. Cranleigh snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “So. A mystery. We’re looking for clues then, to explain anything about what has happened to you, where you have been. Think of us as a team. I promise to be as quick and gentle as possible. You promise to tell me if anything hurts. If we need to stop and take a break, we can do that. Also, very important, Angie, tell me if anything in the examination triggers a memory—a memory of any kind. Okay?”

Angie wasn’t so sure she wanted to trigger any memories. Something truly awful had happened to her feet. She couldn’t bear to look at them, dangling down from the edge of the examining table. And there were those dark ridges on her wrists as well. There must be a really good reason she couldn’t remember.

A bubble of resentment rose to the surface of her mind. She didn’t have to be here. She could have refused all this. Maybe she still could. Why was it so important to find everything out, anyway? Couldn’t everyone just be glad she was home and leave her alone? She was safe. She was alive. Let it go.

“Okay, now, Angela,” Dr. Cranleigh said. “I am going to check you for bruises and scars on the outside.” With impersonal and quick hands, he lifted the gown and examined every inch of her skin while Angie focused on the light above her, which flickered slightly. One fluorescent bulb was yellower than the one beside it, and she concentrated on the pattern of blinks.

Dr. Cranleigh spent a considerable time on her feet and wrists before he paused to jot a few notes and take photos. She watched the hands of the clock creep around and breathed in time with the ticks, trying to ignore the nauseating, dull, rubbery sensation when he touched her scars.

Angie forced herself to ask. “What do you think … I mean, what could have done that to me?”

The doctor met her question square on. “Healed wounds like these are typical of repeated chafing from restraints, most likely metal, not leather. The wrists suggest something more like rope or twine. The appearance is not consistent with self-injury. Any thoughts?”

“No,” she answered numbly. She’d been restrained? Shackled? She chased the word around in her mind, trying to find a wisp of memory. Her mind resisted, pressing back with dark blankness. “I just don’t know.”

“Thank you, Angela. Now lie down please, with your feet in these stirrups, knees up and apart, so we can look for any internal injuries.”

Angie’s chest suddenly squeezed too tight to breathe. Hide! a tiny voice screamed. A blinding pain shot through her skull, and she covered her eyes with her hands.

In the distance, she heard the doctor’s voice. “You may feel a slight pressure… .”

But she didn’t. The headache lifted as quickly as it had come, and her eyes fluttered open with surprise. The nurse extended a hand to help her sit. “All done, sweetie,” she said. “Thank you for being so cooperative. You can get dressed.”

All done? That was the exam? Where was the doctor? He couldn’t have snuck out in the two seconds her eyes were closed, could he?

Her heart skipped a beat. It was only two seconds, wasn’t it? She hadn’t blacked out, had she?

Angie’s eyes flicked from the nurse to the clock. Only a few minutes since she last looked, and they’d been talking for part of that. Relief eased the tightness in her chest. Guess the doctor was just quick on his feet.

Anyway, thank God it was all over. Time to go home and forget all of this. She smiled briefly at her unconscious choice of words. Could you forget about forgetting? Maybe so.

In spite of all the evidence, proof even, she didn’t feel like three years were missing. If she could just convince her parents to chill, she could get on with her life as usual—call her friends, go back to school, pick up where she left off. Why not? She pulled on the soft sweater Mom had brought and hugged her arms around herself. Trust Mom to remember her favorite oversized fuzzy blue sweater.

Angie slid her slender legs into the pair of tan cords, feeling almost normal again, until she stood straight and realized the pants were a couple of inches too short. And there it was. Proof again. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t just continue with her life as usual. Her life didn’t fit her anymore.

The nurse walked Angie down the corridor, to a room marked PRIVATE. “Doctor’s talking to your parents. Go on in, sweetie. Good luck with everything.”

Yeah. Good luck. How was she supposed to be a size-thirteen girl in a size-sixteen life?

Angie put a hand on the knob and began a slow twist. The doctor’s voice penetrated the door, and she paused to listen to what he was telling Mom and Dad. She caught, “Severe lacerations … unusual internal scarring … no doubt of repeated assault … ankles … not typical of self-mutilation … wrists … suicide … good health … not pregnant … psychiatric …”

Angie retreated to the hall bathroom, cranked the bolt, and sank against the locked door, weak at the knees. Repeated assaults. Internal scarring. The words whirled in her brain. Oh God. This wasn’t the kind of thing that happened to real people! This was TV stuff.

She’d left for camp as a normal kid, someone who belonged in a sitcom or family drama. Now she was the unwilling star of her own special crimes unit episode. Someone was rewriting the script of her life. Without her permission.

Angie didn’t realize she was crying until a tear rolled off her chin and splashed the cold tile floor. What was she doing here? What happened? According to Mom and Dad, more than a thousand days had been stolen from her. And no matter what the calendar in her head said, the flow of time and some cruel experience were written all over her. Right there. On her arms and legs and face.

Salty teardrops burned tracks down her cheeks. She smeared them off with the heels of her hands.

Angie stepped to the sink to splash cold water on her face, and there she was again. That stranger in the mirror. With the eyes that looked old and tired, full of knowledge they refused to share. Regretful, concerned.

Angie hurled a handful of water at the image. “I want my life back, you bitch,” she hissed at her reflection.

Oh, Angie, you were so angry at us. You didn’t know how we saved your life—how I worked with the girls and the gate to keep you pure and hidden and untouched, our Pretty Girl-Thirteen. That’s what we called you. We’re sorry there was nothing we could do about the scars.

“She can’t start school yet,” Dad said. “Not until we get a thorough psychological evaluation. We don’t even know which grade to put her into, after all.”

He and Mom were “discussing” her life in the front seat as if Angie weren’t there inches behind them and hadn’t just been strip-searched in the hospital. She felt sore and sticky, though she couldn’t remember any part of the short exam to account for it.

Dad hadn’t made eye contact with her the whole way through the hospital and out to the car. When Angie tried to slip her hand into his, he fake sneezed and moved his hand away to get a handkerchief. Was sixteen too old for public displays of affection? The rejection hurt, all the same.

“Eighth,” Angie said, leaning between their seats. “I’m supposed to be in eighth grade. And I’ve already missed almost three weeks of school. I have to get started.” Her double scoop of mint-chip ice cream sat melting and untasted in its cardboard cup on her lap. At least Mom had remembered.

Mom’s face ran through three tries before she found an expression she liked—polite disagreement. “It’s only three weeks. And the school will help us with tutoring to catch you up—I’ll insist on it. But hon, you need to be with your peers right now. You need their emotional support.”

“My peers are in eighth grade,” Angie insisted.

“Angie, your friends are all in eleventh grade now—Livvie, Kate, Greg.”

“Greg?”

Oh my God. She hadn’t thought of him in … well, whether it was three years ago or two days, the recollection of Greg was a ray of light that pierced this strange, dark day.

A whole bunch of them had gone to Soak City Water Park together at the end of July for the last great adventure of summer. It didn’t start out as a date for Angie and Greg, but then everyone else in the group ditched them at the lazy river. The joke was, they didn’t even notice.

They floated along on their stomachs like seals, sharing one raft. Their feet trailed out behind them in the swift, warm water, the sun blazing down on their backs. And pretty soon, their legs were sliding against each other, and Angie was really glad she’d just shaved. Around the river again, and their feet were twined together and when Greg put his hot, tanned arm across her back, it was the most natural thing in the world to turn her head and look into his shining eyes and meet his kiss halfway. Chlorine and cola flavored.

They crashed into a wall, bumped teeth, cracked themselves up, and kissed some more until the teenage lifeguard blew a whistle and screamed, “Watch where you’re going or I’ll kick you out!”

“Ooh, attitude,” Greg said. “Give them a whistle and they’re boss of the world.”

Angie giggled. “So do what he says and keep your eyes open this time!”

They floated around one more lap, lips and eyes locked on each other but blind to everyone else in the water, in a personal bubble the size of one raft and two people. By the end of the day, they were officially going out. But then they hadn’t actually gone out again before the campout.

Greg. Wow. He was a junior now—how incredibly awkward. How could a junior go with an eighth grader? Wait. She wasn’t, really. But what if he was going with someone else now? That was totally possible—likely, even.

Her heart raced at the idea of seeing him again, but which track was it speeding down—anticipation or fear? Like it was yesterday, she could still taste his kisses.

“Mom, there’s no way I’m skipping to eleventh grade. No way. Think about it. I’m totally unprepared. I can’t catch up that fast.”

Dad jumped in. “Which is why I suggested we give the psychologist a chance to weigh in on the decision. Especially since she has this temporary mental block. Who knows what else it might have affected—spelling, algebra—who knows?”

“She needs a normal routine,” Mom said. “And her best friends.”

A dreadful thought socked her in the stomach. The air punched out of her in a moan. They might not be her best friends anymore. They might have nothing in common. The in-jokes would all be stale. She wouldn’t know the songs and shows and websites they were talking about. And she’d be an oddity, a celebrity, the girl who disappeared for three years.

“Dad’s right,” she blurted. “And I might want to go to a new school anyway.”

“Well, we’ll just have to see,” Mom said, admitting defeat in her own way. “Detective Brogan very kindly arranged for the psychologist to see you tomorrow afternoon. All you have to do for the next twenty-four hours is eat and rest and put everything else out of your mind.”

“It already is,” Angie said with a hint of bitterness.

Dad pulled the car into the garage and killed the engine. His shoulders hardened into a wall. “Angela, I’m not so sure you want to remember anything based on what Dr. Cranleigh told us. Repression is a natural defense. If even half of what he suspects is true … well, never mind.” He turned his head away, but not before Angie caught the sickened look on his face and the swimmy film of tears in his eyes.

“Don’t get me started,” Mom hissed at him, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Right now we’re celebrating our Angie’s miraculous return, however it happened.” She slammed the car door. “I’ll start dinner while you clean up,” she said. “Your favorite? Macaroni and cheese?”

They were acting so weird. So emotional. Angie’s stomach hurt. She could only nod and pretend it sounded good.

“Welcome home, Angie,” Mom said. “Remember we love you with all our hearts, no matter what.” She gave Angie an uncomfortably tight hug.

No matter what? What was that supposed to mean? Angie stood in the circle of Mom’s arms for a minute before breaking loose.

She ran upstairs and opened the door to her bedroom, like the door to a time machine. Everything was picked up and in place, the way she’d left it before the campout. Her cozy blanket was folded in a square on the rocking chair. Her guitar was put away in its niche by the window.

The dresser top displayed a set of four colorfully beaded cream cheese tubs for her jewelry—rings, necklaces, bracelets, and earrings sorted out from one another. A plastic palomino horse, saved from a storage bin, galloped toward a photo of Angie, Livvie, and Katie squished cheek-to-cheek-to-cheek in a Disneyland giant teacup. She dragged her finger through the thick layer of dust over everything.

Her finger came to rest at the foot of the angel statuette Grandma had given her for confirmation a few months ago—or what felt like a few months ago. She picked it up, and stroked the pure white ceramic wings, dusting off a small cobweb that had been spun between them. An unusual choice, she thought again. Not a sissy-sweet Hallmark angel, but a strong, sexless boy-girl with narrow lips and bright eyes. It looked purposeful, even fierce, like Old Testament angels who frightened mortals with their flaming swords. She replaced it carefully, back on the dust-free spot.

In one of the jewelry tubs, the thick silver ring caught her attention. Oh. She’d left it in the bathroom, but somehow it had migrated back to her room. She picked it up for a closer look.

The ring was engraved all the way around with six tiny leaves branching off a single stem, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. She probably should have turned it in as evidence. A beam of sunlight from the window sparkled off an irregular pattern on the inside curve. What was that? An inscription? She squinted to read it: DEAREST ANGELA. MY LITTLE WIFE. The words bounced off a brick wall in her memory, leaving the reflection of one panicked thought. No one should see this.

The ring leaped onto her third finger and nestled into its groove, like it belonged. She must have worn it a long time to reshape her finger like that. She twisted and tugged until the ring pulled free of her knuckle, reluctant to leave its proper place. Her hand looked pale and naked.

She slipped it back on, forgotten already.

The bed was neatly made, with Grandma’s summertime patchwork quilt. On the bedside table was a bookmarked paperback—Animal Farm—which she’d been reading before the trip. Beneath it was her journal. The lock was broken, and it flopped open, somewhere in the middle of seventh grade. The familiar handwriting looped across the pages, day after faithful day until the last entry. August 2. She had written this in the tent by flashlight. Last night. No, not last night. More than three years ago.

She tried to imagine her innocent excitement as she read her own words. “Ouch. Long hike in. Everything hurts but camp stew was amazing and s’mores even better. Tomorrow we hike along the crest trail. Cool. Can’t wait.”

Before that, every page was filled. After that, every page was blank. It gave her the shivers.

Mom’s voice came from the doorway. “When they brought that back from the campout, it was all I had left of you.”

Angie kept her eyes down. She whispered, “You broke the lock. You read it, didn’t you? My private journal.” Not that she had any great secrets, but there were a lot of very personal comments about Greg. About his body, his arms, his lips. The blood rushed to her cheeks.

Mom crept up behind and slipped her arms around Angie’s waist. Mom’s chin nestled on Angie’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Angie. We had to for the investigation. Any clue …”

“Oh God. He read it too.”

“Dad? No, no. I told him there wasn’t anything he needed to know. Just girl stuff.”

“I meant Detective Brogan.” Angie shrank with embarrassment. Of course he’d read it. That was his job.

She felt Mom’s nod against the side of her head. “Anyway.” Mom’s voice brightened into forced cheerfulness, trying to sound normal. “I didn’t change anything in here. I wanted it to be just right when you were found.”

Angie turned and hugged her hard, a life preserver in this crazy, wind-tossed sea. In her arms, she felt Mom sob and shudder once. “I never gave up,” Mom said. “Believe me.”

Angie rubbed her face into Mom’s shoulder. “Do you think I’ll ever remember?”

For a long moment, Mom was silent. Angie pulled back and caught the tortured expression on her face, the mourning in her eyes, a split second before she fixed her expression.

Finally, Mom answered. “For three long years, all I’ve wanted was to know what happened to you. Now … I don’t honestly know if I want you to remember.”

On that point, we had to agree.