Author: Laurie Faria Stolarz
Category: Suspense
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Hadn’t they?
I’d have noticed otherwise. Wouldn’t I have?
Plus, summer equals air-conditioning, which means closed windows.
Closed windows.
Mom was always reminding me to lock mine too. Our neighbor’s house had gotten broken into, after all, which was why I never asked my parents about finding the window open. Because what if I’d done it and just not remembered? Not to mention that I’d snuck in late that night, way after curfew. And who wants to stir a simmering pot?
I sat up, still waiting for the light, unable to shake the image of the monster climbing through my bedroom window, searching in my closet and going through all of my things. The image had gnawed at me for most of the night like a rat inside my brain. I don’t think I slept for more than thirty minutes straight.
What time was it now?
I stood up and went to take a step, feeling a clump of clothing beneath my feet—the product of my tantrum. I scooched down to the floor and felt all around, raking my fingers over food boxes, strewn T-shirts, and a gallon jug of water. I slid the jug toward me and took a sip. Water poured down my chin and neck. The jug was almost too heavy to hold. My muscles were getting weak. I felt a tremor in my thumb.
Despite the darkness, I lifted the jug, up and down, to do biceps and triceps curls—thirty of each, with each arm, as I waited for the light. I also did fifty leg lifts and thirty squats.
Still.
No.
Light.
But the spurt of activity felt surprisingly uplifting. I used that rush to scoot down by the bed, remembering a movie I saw where the main character took a box cutter to the side of her mattress.
I pushed down on the fabric, able to feel springs. How hard would it be to pry one free and twist it into a weapon? I played the scene out in my head: The guy coming into the room; I would be sprawled out on the floor playing dead. Days’ worth of food would have collected in the hallway, alerting him that something was wrong. With the spring tucked into my sleeve, I’d wait for the guy to bend down to pick me up. That’s when I’d stab him in the neck, right in the jugular vein.
Where was the jugular vein?
Not far from the carotid artery.
Why hadn’t I listened more in bio?
After the stab, I’d kick him in the gut and run for the door. I was sure he’d have left it open. How else would he carry me out?
I ran my fingers over the mattress fabric. It felt thick like vinyl. I needed something sharp.
But I needed light more.
I navigated my way toward the bathroom, trampling over clothes and snack bars. At last, my foot met cold ceramic tile. The light burst on, which felt like a little victory. It shone into the main room, illuminating about a quarter of it—just enough to see the mess.
And just enough.
To feel.
A little less powerless.
I searched the bathroom—in the cabinet, inside the shower—but the sharpest tool I could find was the zipper of my sweatshirt: the jagged edge. Not the best pick, but it’d have to do.
I stayed in the bathroom, doing more leg lifts, trying a few pushups, using the tube of toothpaste to paint stripes on the toilet and grow flowers on the tile as I checked and rechecked the light in the main room.
But it remained dark.
Something was wrong.
The possibilities hit me like a freight train:WhatifthatguydiedandnevercamebackandthelightsnevercomeonandIendupstarvingtodeath? Howlongcanonesurvivewithoutwater?Ifthatguyisn’tdeadwillhecomeintomyroomwhileI’msleepingandwatchme/rapeme/tortureme/killme?Will Iuseupallthelightinthebathroomandendupincompletedarkness?
I scurried back to the cat door and peeked into the hallway, but it was dark out there too.
Don’t panic.
Be smart.
Assess the situation.
Figure out your best resources.
The zipper gripped firmly in my hand, I lay down on the bed and began to poke at the side of the mattress. The fabric seemed unbreakable. Only a handful of threads came undone at first. Still, I pulled and prodded each one, trying to get others to fray and loosen—until my fingers burned raw. I pictured tiny red pinpoints forming beneath my skin, and imagined sitting in the dark for days on end trying to somehow stay sane.
I really needed food, even though I didn’t feel hungry. Maybe it would help me think straight.
I could smell food cooking somewhere—the scent of garlic and stewed tomatoes, like an Italian restaurant. Why hadn’t breakfast come? How long had it been since he’d brought me warm food?
Not since the tantrum.
How long ago was that?
How long had I slept?
Why was I always so tired?
I waited by the cat door, chain-eating from one of the snack boxes—a package of saltine crackers—my mind racing, my insides shaking.
A knock sounded—from the wall, somewhere near the dresser. I didn’t move—didn’t think too much of it initially. There were lots of noises in the building from time to time: valves squeaking, pipes churning, doors slamming, toilets flushing …
I took a sip of water. The knocking sounded again, following a rhythmic pattern: knock, knock-knock, tap, thud. I crawled across the floor, feeling for the dresser. Crouched down beside it, I pressed my ear against the wall. The knocks continued—first fast, then slow, then loud and soft. I curled my hand into a fist and rapped lightly.
The knocking stopped. And so did my breath. I repositioned on my knees and placed my mouth up to the wall. “Who’s there?” I rapped again.
“Mason.” A male voice.
My whole body stiffened—all except for my heart; it hammered inside my chest. I felt its vibration against my bones.
“Did he take you too?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to answer, but no sound came out. Because what if this was a trick?
“There’s a bunch of us,” he said. “I’ve been sneaking through the walls, through the air vents.”
A rustling came from out in the hallway. I braced myself, waiting for the room to crack open, for the monster to burst in.
“Hello?” Mason asked.
I held my breath and counted to five, trying once again to move the dresser farther from the wall, but the chain was too short; there wasn’t enough slack. Mason was talking again—something about heating ducts and a couple of months.
“What?” I asked, trying to keep my voice low.
“—tell him, will you?”
It took my brain a beat to fill in the blanks of his question. But before I could answer, he told me he had to go.
“—tomorrow,” he said.
“Wait. Tomorrow what?”
There was a clanking then, from down the hall, like a fallen pipe; it was followed by a high-pitched whistling.
“—up my plan,” Mason said. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I answered, not even sure what I was agreeing to.
“Wait, what’s your name?” he asked.
“Jane,” I told him, almost wishing that I hadn’t.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jane.”
Would he? See me? I didn’t know what to think. But once upon a time, I couldn’t wait until tomorrow.
NOW
15
At breakfast, Mom slides into the seat across from me at the table. She’s already eaten, but now she wants to watch me. “Everything taste okay?” She forces an awkward smile each time my fork hits the plate, then nods as I take a bite, as if I’m a toddler learning to feed myself.
I pick at a pancake. “It tastes great.” I’m sure it does, but I haven’t noticed any flavor.
She peeks at my pitiful nails. I’ve peeled them down to the nubs. Knowing how much I used to love changing the polish, she recently bought me ten bottles, along with a manicure kit.
“Do you like any of the nail colors I got for you?” she asks.
“I like them all.” But I haven’t used them yet, because I’m still waiting until I earn eno
ugh star points. There are currently six stars on my scorecard. My goal is ten, and then I’ll reward myself with a manicure.
I’ve been giving myself one star each for the following tasks: having meals with my parents; twenty-plus-minute stints outside my room; talking to Shelley for longer than five minutes; therapy sessions; public outings; engaging with old friends; and visits to the shelter.
“But your nails are still bare.” She frowns.
I’ve disappointed her yet again.
“Hey, I was thinking maybe we could go to a show this weekend,” she says. “Or shopping? What do you think? Jane?”
“Yes?”
“Why are you using your fingers? I gave you a fork for a reason.”
“Oh. Right.”
“I’d also be happy to arrange lunch for you and Shelley. Anyplace you want, my treat. Jack would like to see you too. I talked to his mom. She said he asks about you all the time.”
I take another bite, remembering to use my fork, wishing that she would stop, wondering why my stack of pancakes won’t seem to go down.
“We should also talk about your session with Dr. White.”
“I’m sorry for storming off,” I tell her. “For just leaving you there.”
“I was worried about you. I drove around looking. You wouldn’t answer my calls…”
“I didn’t have my phone.”
“Even so…”
I know. “I’m sorry.” But words don’t make it better.
“It’s fine if you don’t want to go back to Dr. White, but you need to continue therapy. We can find someone new if you’d like.”
“I’d rather write about what happened,” I say, retesting the idea on her.
“Writing can be wonderfully therapeutic.” She nods. “But how can it truly help when the pages of a notebook can’t talk back?”
That’s actually the most appealing part.
“Jane…”
“What?”
“We’ll find another therapist.”
Chew.
Swallow.
Sip.
Repeat.
“Sound good?” she asks.
“What if there is no fixing me?” What if I’ll always be broken?
“Every heart can heal.”
“Even yours?”
Her mouth forms a tiny hole. I wonder if it matches the one inside my chest, where there used to be a heart.
“Don’t worry about me,” she says. “I’ll heal when you heal.”
As if there’s not enough on my plate already. I stand from the table. “I think I’ll finish this upstairs.”
She rubs her temples; the conversation has given her a headache. “You spend too much time upstairs. You’re free now, but still you choose to lock yourself up. You should be getting out and reconnecting with all of your friends.”
I should be.
In my room.
And so that’s where I go, locking the door behind me.
NOW
16
I’m not alone for long. I get through barely a chapter of writing when Mom knocks on my door, insisting we go shopping.
“What do you say we freshen up your room?” she asks. “We can give it a new look and change things up.”
Before I know it, I’m inside the car.
Dad’s driving us to the mall.
Music pumps from the speakers—a female vocalist, but still the instrumentals are too reminiscent, and so I ask him to shut it off.
It’s weird going shopping with the two of them, riding in the back seat like a little girl. Eventually, the car stops. And that’s when I notice: We’ve arrived. Dad’s parked by the entrance. I peer out the window at the rows of cars.
“Jane?” Mom asks. “Which store would you like to go to first?”
A red-haired girl, maybe five years old, passes by our car. Some older guy is trying to hold her hand, but she keeps pulling away, scurrying out of reach.
I look closer. My nose hits the window glass. The girl sees me. Our eyes lock. I wave to let her know I’m here, watching, able to see which car the guy drives. I could call the police if I needed to.
I grab my phone and click it on, then take photos of the guy, just in case. I peg him to be around thirty years old, with a ruddy complexion and light brown hair. I zoom in on the little girl and take pictures of her as well.
“Jane?” Dad’s voice.
The girl’s face cringes in response to my attention. She grabs the guy’s hand and clenches his forearm like a beloved doll. To her, I’m the threat. For me, that comes as a relief.
I lean back in my seat and let out a breath.
Both Mom and Dad are staring in my direction—Dad, through the rearview mirror; Mom leaning over her seat.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
That question again. “Everything’s fine.”
“Which store would you like to start at?” she asks again.
I look toward the mall. “Wood & Crate,” I say, reading the first sign I see.
“Perfect!” Mom beams. “We can shop for rugs, curtains, bed linens, wall art…”
We all go inside. But as soon as Dad spots a comfortable seat, he plants himself down, takes out his phone, and tells us he has some work emails to answer.
“Does that bother you?” I ask Mom once we get out of earshot.
“Does what bother me?”
“That he’s always working? Even on weekends…”
She plucks a pillow from a nearby sofa. “What do you think of this?”
“Is that the reason we no longer have Sunday brunch?”
Mom’s face wilts. “Would you like to do Sunday brunches again, sweetheart? We can start tomorrow, anything you want … Pancakes? Omelets?”
I give a half nod. I don’t want brunch.
She doesn’t want reality.
So where does that leave us? Lost? Alone? On an island of pretty pillows?
Mom pats her pillow as though encouraging me to do the same. “What do you think of this fabric?”
“It’s nice,” I say, stroking the soft faux-fur.
“We could get some drapes to match.”
I look around the store, feeling at a loss. But then I see it—in the middle of a kitchen display. My eyes zero in on a square white dining table.
I make a beeline for it, noting the wide, chunky legs. I run my palms over the smooth beveled edges. “This,” I say, wanting it in my room. I squat down beneath it. The underside looks different from the table in captivity: painted instead of bare. Plus, the legs on this one are carved rather than straight, but still they’re thick enough to wrap myself around.
“A breakfast table?” Mom asks.
“Yes.” I nod, feeling guilty for asking, because I haven’t exactly earned it.
“What do you plan to do with it?”
“I could put it in the corner, to the right of the windows. It’d be good for school projects and stuff. My desk just isn’t big enough.”
“You know you can always spread out downstairs, on the dining room table…”
I sit down in one of the chairs. “This would just be easier. I wouldn’t have to worry about cleaning up after or getting in your way.”
“You’re never in my way. But, sure, you can have it.” She smiles, just “happy” to make me “happy.”
Later, in my room, while Dad puts the table together, screwing on all of the legs, Mom lingers in front of my bookcase, where I’ve emptied two shelves of books and replaced them with jugs of water and boxes of Cocoa Loco brownies.
“These are the brownies that Shelley likes,” she says. “In case she visits?”
I shrug instead of answering.
“You know there’s always plenty of food and drinks in the kitchen. You and your friends can help yourselves.”
“I know, but I just like having some stuff here.”
Mom looks at me, head tilted, as though I’m a puzzle she needs to solve.
“It’s fine,” Dad says, standing from
beneath the table.
More than fine. The table is perfect.
“Thank you,” I say, almost wanting to give him a hug.
Having the table here, in my room, on Pretty Pillow Island, makes me feel just a little bit more at home.
NOW
17
Sometime later, Shelley calls, offering to bring me a coffee.
“I’m a little busy,” I tell her.
“Well, too bad, because I’m not taking no for an answer this time. Would you like your coffee iced or hot?”
“I’m fine—really.”
“And I’m dating Prince Harry, much to the duchess’s chagrin.”
“Excuse me?”
“Iced it is. I’ll see you in a bit.”
“No, wait.” I look around my room, starting with the new breakfast table. I don’t feel like trying to explain it to Shelley, nor do I want to make excuses for the jugs of water or the stockpile of brownies. It’s all pretty screwed up, I know, including the fact that the contents of my closet have been dumped out onto the floor—a jungle of dresses and shoes and handbags and belts—to make room for me on nights when I want to hide.
“Let’s go somewhere,” I say, promising to give myself two gold stars as a reward.
“For reals?” Shelley asks.
“Unless you’d prefer to do this another time.”
“And I repeat: I’m not taking no for an answer. Shall I pick you up?”
“No. I want to walk. Coffee Et Cetera?”
“Great. I’ll see you soon.”
I hang up, feeling a pit in my gut. I picture it like a grenade, knowing my meds will do shit to disarm it. Coffee Et Cetera is a ten-minute walk from the house. I keep my hair tucked inside my sweatshirt hoodie and peer over both shoulders every twenty steps along the way.
Mr. Miller, our neighbor, is outside, watering roses. As soon as he spots me, his focus shifts. Water from the spout gushes over an open storage box. I pull my hood farther over my face just as I hear a loud bang.