Читать книгу Pretty Girl Thirteen - Liz Coley - Страница 9

DAWN LIGHT FILTERED THROUGH THE CURTAINS A LITTLE after six thirty. Angie had the strangest urge to leap out of bed and start cooking, but that was ridiculous. She didn’t know how to cook. She stretched like a cat, working the stiffness out of her legs. Her feet touched the carpet with a jolt. The blisters and rubbed spots clearly hadn’t healed overnight. She forced herself to look away from the scar bands around her ankles.

“If I can’t see them, they aren’t there,” she lied to herself.

Angie listened for her parents moving around in the house. Water was running—probably Dad’s shower. She padded over to the dresser to find some clothes. She picked out one of her favorite tops, a long-sleeve tee with a dark blue silhouette of a rock climber on a pale blue background and sparkles spelling out ROCK ON. Katie had given it to her to celebrate their rock climbing badges last May … last … May. Oh no. She held it up to her chest and realized it was at least two sizes too small now.

Well, great. Wonderful. What would she wear? She crushed the shirt into a ball and hurled it across the room. It landed on the carpet dents where her rocking chair usually sat. The chair had moved three feet closer to the window. Carpet skids showed where it had been dragged since yesterday. Angie frowned and dragged it back.

With a heavy sigh, she went back to the dresser for the too-big gray sweatshirt she liked to wear when she needed to feel cozy. Without rolling up, the sleeves were just the right length now to cover her wrists. She glanced into her dusty jewelry dishes for inspiration and realized with a start—they weren’t dusty. In fact, the entire dresser top was clean. And so was her desk, and her nightstand, and the windowsill.

Had Mom snuck in at midnight to clean? How totally stupid, but how totally nice of her.

“Knock, knock.” Mom’s voice on the other side of the door startled her.

She jumped back into bed, not to be caught standing there in her underwear. “Come in, Mom,” she called.

Mom pushed the door with her foot, her hands filled with a bed tray and a plate of steaming pancakes. Pancakes in bed! It didn’t get any better than this. And she was starving, even after eating half the macaroni and cheese last night.

“Don’t think I’m going to do this every day,” Mom said with a little smile. “Just days that end in Y.” She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Angie’s face. Maybe she expected her to disappear again overnight.

“Thanks, Mom. This is great, really, but you don’t need to make such a fuss.”

“Of course I do,” Mom said. She perched on the edge of the bed and set the tray across the bump of Angie’s legs. She fluffed the pillows behind Angie’s back.

“The novelty will wear off, and then I’ll just be spoiled.”

“No, it won’t. Never.” Mom laughed and stroked her hair. “Can I brush this for you? It’s grown so long.”

“I’ll probably get it cut soon,” Angie said. “Feel more like me.”

Avoiding mirrors was possible, but ignoring the strange sweep of silky hair over her shoulder wasn’t. It made her wonder about all the things she couldn’t remember—washing it, brushing it smooth every morning. And that led to where had she slept? What had she eaten? Who had cooked for her? Was someone missing her now that she was gone? Ugh. All too weird to think about. Better not to think at all.

She squeezed a huge glob of fake maple syrup over the four-high stack of buttermilk pancakes, watching it waterfall over the cliff into an amber pool on the plate.

Mom was silent until Angie looked up again, wondering why she was so quiet. Mom’s face had that smoothed-over sad look again. “I’m sorry you don’t feel like you. Maybe once you’re back in school, or taking guitar again—I’m sure Ms. Manda would be thrilled to …” She trailed off.

Angie shrugged.

“I’m sorry,” Mom said again. “I’m not helping, am I? Who do you feel like?”

“That’s the weird thing.” Angie cut a wedge with the side of her fork. “I’m the same person on the inside as when I packed for camping. But my clothes don’t fit right, my hair is all wrong, and when I walk by a mirror it’s like I’m seeing the ghost of Angie-yet-to-come. It’s creepy.” She stuffed the whole wedge of dripping pancakes into her mouth. The sweetness stayed on her lips after she swallowed. She sighed. “I don’t know. Who do you see?”

Mom took her left hand. “Just my daughter. A lovely girl on the verge of becoming a young woman.” She rubbed Angie’s knuckles, her fingers stopping on the strange silver ring. “Pretty,” she commented. “I don’t remember this ring from … from before.”

Angie didn’t either, but something stopped her from admitting that. “Sure. I’ve had it for a long time.” A half-truth.

“Oh. Okay. Guess I’m getting old. So, what would you like to do today?” Mom asked. “Shop for a few clothes that fit? And school supplies? Your appointment isn’t till three, but I took the whole day off.”

“Wait. You work? Since when?” Mom was a stay-at-home full-time volunteer.

“The library finally got a budget increase about two years ago, and since we needed … well, since I’d been such a faithful volunteer, they hired me.”

Angie didn’t miss the slip. “You needed the money? Did Dad lose his job?”

Mom’s silver-brown curls jostled as she shook her head in quick denial. “No, no. Everything’s fine there. He even got promoted to district sales manager. No. We just … it was expensive looking for you. Private detectives, advertising. And for God’s sake get that look off your face. Don’t think either of us regrets a single penny.”

Angie shrugged off the sudden feeling of guilt. It wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t a runaway or a juvenile delinquent. As far as she knew.

“It’s okay, hon. We’ll all be fine.” Mom gave Angie an extra-hard squeeze as if to convince herself. A drop of syrup spilled onto the quilt.

Angie dabbed at it and licked her finger. “Have you told anyone else yet? I mean, there aren’t a bunch of reporters on the lawn waiting for me to finish my breakfast and shower, are there?”

Mom made a show of going to the window and pulling back the curtains to check. “Nope. Not even one camera crew. Phil, Detective Brogan, is doing his best to keep any leaks out of the department until you’re ready. That’ll be hard. You, my dearest, were a very high-profile case.” She gazed out the window into the far distance. “So speaking of telling people, are you going to call Livvie today?”

Oh God. What would she say? Hi, Livvie, I’m back from the presumed dead? I didn’t get ravaged by cougars. What’s new with you? Definitely not a conversation she wanted to face right now. “Uh, no. I think I’ll wait till after the psychologist.”

Mom’s eyebrows pressed closer. “But maybe your friends …” She stopped, readjusted. “No, sorry. Of course. You need time to absorb the idea yourself before you deal with other people. That’s sensible. But I did call Grandma, of course. Last night after you fell asleep. Uncle Bill is driving her down on Saturday.” Mom let the curtain drop.

“Yuncle Bill?” Dad’s much younger brother was only eight years older than Angie, hence the nickname she gave him when she was six and he was only fourteen—young uncle was “yuncle.” She hadn’t seen him for ages. “What about Grampy? Isn’t he coming?”

Mom’s face froze. The silence lasted a beat too long. Angie bit her lower lip. Oh no. Please don’t say it, she prayed.

But Mom did. “Oh, Ange, hon. Of course you wouldn’t, couldn’t know. We lost Grampy six months ago.”

The bottom fell out of her stomach. Her cheeks went numb. Silent tears splashed onto her pancakes. What else had she missed?

She choked out the words. “What else, Mom? Anything else I need to know? Anything else I missed?”

Mom’s left hand darted to her stomach, her right to her mouth. Her eyes searched the room. “I … no,” Mom said.

A blind person could have told she was lying. “What, Mom? Spill it. Could anything possibly be more heartbreaking than never seeing Grampy again?” And then an awful possibility crossed her mind, watching Mom clutch herself like that. “Cancer? Oh God. Please, please don’t tell me you have cancer.”

“Oh, honey, no! It’s not … it’s … it’s good news, at least.” Mom bit her lip. “We’re expecting.”

Angie’s mind blanked. “Expecting what?”

“Angie, hon, I’m pregnant.”

A swooshing sound drowned out her mother’s next words. She saw the lips moving, but she couldn’t hear for the raging storm in her mind. Oh God. It was true. A new baby. They had given up on her. They really had.

And even worse was the thought that while she lay lost and shackled, maybe hungry and cold, maybe tortured and scared, Mom and Dad were kissing and planning and baby-making and moving on without her.

Without warning, she heaved up all over the plate, all over Grandma’s beautiful hand-stitched quilt. Mom slammed both hands over her own mouth and ran from the room.

You helped our mom clean up your vomit in embarrassed, tense silence. Girl Scout wanted to help restore order, but we had agreed to give you this chance. It was too soon to bring you back inside. It was too soon to give up hope that you could manage on the outside.

While the laundry ran, our mom suggested shopping again. And since your old clothes didn’t fit our body, you agreed. You knew you would need them for school soon, anyway.

Mom tried to resurrect the old ritual at the mall, stopping first for cinnamon pretzels the way you always did before, wanting to re-create the closeness, the innocent times. You forced yourself to eat the whole thing, while your stomach cramped. At least it made her smile.

The salesgirl at Abercrombie looked at you funny when you said you didn’t know our size. You took an armload into the dressing room alone and stripped down to try everything on. It was the first time we had seen our whole body in front of a mirror, and I let each of the girls borrow the eyes, just to peek, until our mom knocked. “Everything okay? Need any different sizes?”

I suppose I let them take longer than I should have. You startled as we retreated and you found yourself with a roomful of untouched clothes and your hands cupped over your breasts, weighing their unexpected fullness.

“Hang on,” you snapped at her. “I haven’t even started. I’ll let you know.” You finally tried on all the clothes, but alarmed at the price tags—thirty-five dollars for a T-shirt?—picked only three shirts and one pair of jeans.

“That’s all you’re getting?” our mom asked. “I thought this was your favorite store.”

“That’s all I wanted from here,” you said. “Let’s go somewhere less designer.”

Mom let a little relief show on her face. Money must be even tighter than she’d let on.

When you left the mall, there was a little surprise waiting for you in the shopping bag for later. One of us had very expensive taste and very light fingers.

Detective Brogan came by at two o’clock to explain a few things before Angie’s appointment with his psychologist. Dad had gone to work, as if it were an ordinary Monday, back to the usual routine. Mom and Angie sat on the sofa with the empty cushion dividing them. Brogan glanced between them, and one eyebrow lowered slightly.

“Everything okay here?” he asked. He was wearing a dark suit instead of weekend clothes, his chin was shaved smooth, and the faint scent of citrus wafted from his aftershave.

“Of course, Phil,” Mom answered cheerfully, while Angie thought, This guy doesn’t miss a thing.

Studying Angie’s face, he said, “We’re going forward on a presumption of kidnapping, based on the physical evidence and statements. So Angela, recovering your memory is going to be critical if we’re going to find and prosecute the kidnapper—more importantly, prevent him from finding a new victim, if we’re not too late.”

Words flew out of her mouth. They weren’t her own. “Why are you so sure he’s still alive?”

“A good question.” The detective flattened his expression to open curiosity. “Is he?” Angie saw the flecks in his eyes take on that hunting gleam.

She shifted on the couch, slightly flustered. What had she asked exactly? “What do you mean? Is he what?”

“Is he alive?” He asked it so casually, Angie could have missed the implication that she knew more than she was saying.

But she didn’t. “How should I know?”

“The tone of your voice suggested you just might.” He didn’t go further. She read it in his face, though. The sharpened shiv he’d held so carefully yesterday might be a murder weapon.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“You used the word ‘he.’ We’re talking about a man? One person?”

She searched her brain, trying to force it to cooperate. It remained stubbornly blank. “I don’t know. It just came out that way.”

“Okay.” He levered himself up with his hands on his knees. “Let’s hope Dr. Grant can help us find some answers. I wanted to make sure you understand that the usual doctor-patient confidentiality laws apply. Even though we have an investigation, Dr. Grant can’t reveal any information that you don’t give her explicit permission to reveal to me or to your parents.”

“Not to us?” Mom gasped.

Though his answer was for Mom, Brogan’s reassurance was really aimed straight at Angie. “Angela needs to feel completely safe and comfortable with the doctor’s discretion. Believe me, at this point, I’m truly more concerned about her recovery than the investigation.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll probably tell you.” The hurt expression on Mom’s face was small payback for the load she had dumped on Angie this morning.

“Good luck, then,” Brogan said as he reached for the front doorknob. “I think you’ll like Dr. Grant.”

Angie’s lips moved. The words came from her mouth, but again they weren’t her own thoughts—they came out of left field. “Besides, if he isn’t alive, that would be self-defense, wouldn’t it?” It was like someone else was having a conversation with the detective.

His eyebrows flew up. “Most likely. Any more questions?”

“Definitely not.” Angie clamped her jaw shut.

She didn’t expect Dr. Lynn Grant to be beautiful. A doctor with a plain name like that should be narrow-nosed, gray-haired, and pointy-chinned. Dr. Grant looked like a Gwendolyn Foxworthy or a Meredith Johanssen, with tons of white-blond hair softly curling against round cheeks. Instead of a white lab coat, or something stiffly professional, she wore a shell-pink cashmere sweater set and white wool trousers. All she needed was a pearl choker to complete the glamour ensemble. Oh wait. She had one.

It would have been easier to spill her guts to someone less perfect, if she had any guts to spill. Of course that’s why they brought her here in the first place, to dig into the guts and see what they could find inside.

In the car, Mom had tried to warm her up to the idea. “Keep an open mind,” she began. “A counselor can really be helpful.”

“Right. Like you’ve ever gone to one.” The words came out hard and bitter instead of teasing, like Angie intended.

“Your father and I saw a grief counselor for more than a year. She was helpful.”

“Is she the one who told you a replacement child would make it all better?”

The steering wheel jerked slightly as Mom flinched. “I never, ever, ever, ever gave up on finding you.” A surge on the accelerator punctuated each “ever.”

Seems like Dad did. Angie bit back her automatic response. She knew it wasn’t entirely fair, and if she threw out an accusation that sharp, it would cut Mom to the bone.

Wow. Maybe she really did need a counselor.

Mom sat in the waiting room, her hands strangling an old magazine. Angie knew she wouldn’t read any of it in the next hour.

Angie tried to calm her own jitters as she followed the psychologist into her private office. The walls were paneled in pale wood with lots of knots. They felt like a hundred eyes.

“Sit anywhere you like,” Dr. Grant said, and Angie knew that was like the first test. Open mind, she reminded herself.

The room wasn’t overly large, but aside from a tidy desk, there was space for a stiff vertical armchair facing a blue velour couch, a beanbag in a corner, and a plushy leather recliner. What would a sane person choose? She had no idea, so she decided to throw the test back at the doctor. Angie sat on the desk, careful not to knock over the vase holding a single white rose.

Dr. Grant didn’t crack a frown or a smile, just wheeled her desk chair around. She folded her hands in her lap, comfortably. Angie realized her own arms were crossed like a shield and casually let them slide down to rest on her knees.

“So, Angela Gracie Chapman. What do you prefer to be called?”

Oh God. Another test, she thought, and hesitated too long over the answer.

“Your mother called you Angie,” Dr. Grant said. “Is it okay if I do the same?”

Angie shrugged. “Whatever. Dad calls me Angel. Strangers call me Angela.”

Dr. Grant smiled a little. “Okay, Angela. I hear you. But I don’t anticipate being strangers for long. You can call me Lynn or Doctor or Dr. Grant. Whatever you like.”

The silence stretched, and finally Angie said, “So what am I supposed to do?”

Dr. Grant nodded. “That’s the question of the moment, isn’t it? What are you supposed to do?” She waited.

The confusion and frustration of the last twenty-four hours tumbled out. “I have absolutely no idea.” Angie flung her hands up dramatically. “They totally don’t get it. I mean, look at it from their perspective. They say I was missing. They searched for three years. They spent a ton of money. They eventually got over me and moved on. And then I came back.”

“They moved on?” Dr. Grant asked.

“Did you know my mom is pregnant?”

“No, Angela. I didn’t know that. Pregnant.” She let the word hang in the silence.

Angie picked the rosebud out of its vase and stared into the heart of the white petals. So pure, so clean. “So I guess that was their backup plan. Replace me.”

“I understand your feelings,” she said. “That’s a very natural reaction. Do you want to talk about it?”

Angie shook her head.

“Okay.” The doctor moved on without pushing. That was surprising. “What else don’t they get?”

The outermost petals were browning just at the curled edges. Angie picked one and slid the silken texture between her fingers. “They think I’m sixteen.”

“But you’re not sixteen.”

She felt a glimmer of hope. Finally. Someone believed her. “I’m thirteen. Three years passed for them? No time at all passed for me. Like …” How could she explain? She snapped her fingers. “Like that.”

“Hmm.” Dr. Grant snapped her own fingers, with a puzzled expression. She gestured to a large filing cabinet. “The case notes the department gave me are very sketchy. Why don’t you tell me about the last three days you remember, in as much detail as you can recall.”

So Angie told her about packing for camp, about almost forgetting her toothbrush. She did remember details, like taking her journal, like needing new flashlight batteries, like looking up the weather online and seeing that it might be colder than usual, especially at that altitude, and deciding to take sweatpants. That couldn’t have been three years ago—it was all so clear. She remembered the early morning meet-up in the parking lot at school. She remembered sitting next to Livvie in the Suburban and talking about Greg and how excited she was to have a for-sure date for homecoming. Everything was crystal clear in her head—the first day of hiking in, the campfire songs that first night, ghost stories in the leaders’ tent, then s’mores and off to bed without brushing teeth anyway. Angie told Dr. Grant about waking up early and wondering whether anyone had started the breakfast fire. She remembered eating thimbleberries and looking for a private place.

The doctor listened intently as Angie’s narration came to a sudden stop. She raised her brows with encouragement. “Go on.”

But there was nothing else, like a door had slammed. The hollow silence echoed. Angie glanced around the office in dismay.

Over the doctor’s shoulders, she noticed a pair of pine knots in the paneling. They watched her, like dark, staring, narrow eyes peering out of the wood. She tried to look away, but they nailed her with a rising sense of panic. Strange and familiar. The breath froze in her lungs. Trapped. The roar of storm winds filled her ears. Through the swirling gale, someone screamed, “Quick. Hide!”

And then the room was perfectly quiet.

“Angela … Angela?” the doctor asked. “Hide from what, Angela? What was in the woods?”

Angie stared at Dr. Grant. “Hmmm?”

Dr. Grant leaned forward. “You said, ‘Quick, hide.’ Hide from what?”

“No, I didn’t,” Angie said. “I said, ‘Thimbleberries.’ That’s what was growing in the woods.”

The doctor’s blond eyebrows pulled so tight they nearly touched. “After thimbleberries. It was quite clear. You became frightened and you yelled, ‘Quick. Hide.’ Who were you talking to? I thought you were alone.”

Angie plucked another petal and dropped it on the carpet. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hmm. Okay. Maybe I misheard,” Dr. Grant said. “So you gathered and ate the berries. Then …?”

“Then I was walking home.”

“All the way from the campsite to home? You knew the way?”

Angie shrugged. It was hard to care. “I guess. I don’t remember.” Three more petals hit the floor. “No, I don’t know the way. But I realized I was nearly home, just at the end of our street. My feet hurt a lot—I must have walked a long, long time.”

“Did you notice anything else unusual?”

Angie picked at the only thorn on the smooth-stemmed rose. “You mean besides it was September instead of August? Besides it was three years later? Besides I was taller and thinner? Besides I was wearing strange clothes instead of my pj’s? Anything unusual?” Her voice climbed the scale with each besides. “Nah. Not a thing.”

“So everything had changed. Instantly.”

A rising sob squeezed the back of her throat. “Everything except me. I’m still me when I close my eyes. I don’t know who’s been living in my body for the last three years, but I assure you it wasn’t me.” She waited for the doctor to say how silly and unreasonable that sounded.

Dr. Grant didn’t even blink. “So where do you think you were?”

“A rocking chair,” she answered reflexively. Then, “I don’t know why I said that. I have no idea.”

Steepling her fingers under her chin, the doctor pursed her lips. “Curious. Angela, I think I would like to get your mother’s permission to try hypnosis. We may be able to push past the thimbleberries. How would you feel about that?”

She felt—well, she wouldn’t call it hopeful. She was just being open-minded, that was all. “If you think it’ll help, go for it. I don’t see why you need Mom’s permission, though. I’m the one who needs help here.”

“I’m glad you see it that way, Angela. I’m glad you understand that you need help. Still, I am going to pop out and advise your mother.”

While she was out, Angie moved to the couch. Not knowing what to expect, she figured that if she fell over when she went under, it might as well be soft.

Dr. Grant smiled without comment at Angie’s relocation. “Mom’s on board. Are you ready?”

Angie nodded, wondering about the device in Dr. Grant’s hands. The doctor touched a switch, and Angie watched the light travel back and forth. It was vaguely annoying. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Am I supposed to feel different yet?” Angie asked.

“Patience. Relax. Just breathe in and out,” Dr. Grant said in a swaying voice. “In and out. Imagine a pine tree, a perfect pine tree.”

Angie let an image creep into her head, a perfectly symmetric dark green tree, like the kind a little kid draws. Like a Christmas-card tree.

“There’s another one beside it,” the doctor said. Angie imagined another tree, taller.

“Now there’s a woodsy smell,” she added. “Can you smell it? Breathe in and out, very slowly. In and out. In and out.”

Angie did. She breathed slowly, and caught a hint of pine and wood smoke. “Yeah, I think I can smell something.”

“Now add five more trees.”

She saw them. Unreal.

“Can you take a step toward them?”

In her mind, Angie stepped closer to the trees. She stood and turned around in a circle, slowly. The knots in the paneling watched her relentlessly.

“What are you looking for, Angela?” the doctor asked. “What do you see in the trees?”

“No. Stop,” a loud voice said.

“Angela, Angela.” The doctor had a hand on her arm.

Angie blinked. The light was gone, and she was sitting in the beanbag chair. “How … when?”

The doctor had an extremely serious expression on her face. “I think we have an unexpected complication,” she said.

That’s when she told you about us. That’s when the doctor said, “I think we’ve found the explanation for your amnesia.”

Of course, you wanted to know more.

Dr. Grant had a textbook open on her desk. In large, bold type, the section was headed with the words DISSOCIATIVE IDENTITY DISORDER (DID). “I strongly suspect that your mind is carrying several alternate personalities—multiple personalities you developed to help you cope with the trauma of being kidnapped. We call them ‘alters’ for short.”

“That’s crazy!” you said. “You’re telling me I’m insane? Schizo? Delusional?”

“No, no. Not at all. The word is ‘dissociated’—pulled apart.” She hurried to reassure you. “Alters experience things that are too hurtful or frightening for you. They form a protective barrier between you and what’s happening. That way you don’t have to remember. They’re the brain’s ultimate survival mechanism.”

She was so right. We gave ourselves a pat on the shoulders.

But you laughed. “That’s ridiculous. Why do you think I have multiple personalities?”

“Well, for one thing, there’s the long time period of lost memory.” Dr. Grant leaned over to collect the fallen petals from the floor. “For another, I’ve just spent half an hour talking to one of them. She calls herself Girl Scout. She’s worried about you.”