Author: Laurie Faria Stolarz
Category: Suspense
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“I can’t imagine the trauma that girl’s parents had to endure.”
“Not to mention the trauma she had to endure.”
“Well, of course.” Mom meets my eyes, maybe realizing what she’s said. “But you know what? She’s doing great now. She went back to school and got her GED. She’s now in college, studying psychology. She hopes to one day be a family counselor.”
“Because the world needs one more screwed-up shrink.”
“Excuse me?” Her face furrows.
“Nothing,” I say, thinking I’d be better off in my room.
“Anyway, I thought that might make you feel better—to know that there’s a next page, a chapter two, a second act…” She smiles.
I fake one back.
“So we’ll go in an hour or so.”
“Go?”
“To brunch … I still have some laundry to fold. And Dad’s finishing up some paperwork for a client.”
I nod, even though I don’t want brunch. I just want her to leave. Finally, at thirty minutes, I go upstairs to claim my prize. My manicure kit is already set up on the table. BIWM, nail care was one of my things—something I’d do to unwind. I’d crank the music and choose a shape and shade: gray for a gloomy day, orange and black at Halloween, French nails for sophistication, square tips for a European flair …
I begin by prepping my cuticles, then square off the edges. The nails are shorter than normal and not nearly as angled as I like, but they’re a work in progress, just like me.
I apply a coat of Blueberry Cheesecake. The shade couldn’t be prettier, with a pearly finish. I set my nails under my fan drier before adding a protective topcoat. The transformation is unmistakable. My hands look softer somehow, less damaged maybe.
But I don’t yet feel unwound. On the contrary: Every inch of me feels tight, strapped, strangled, suffocated …
Mom’s footsteps clobber up the stairs. I count the steps—eleven until she gets to the top, half the number it took the monster. I hold my breath as she passes my room and as I hear the door to her bedroom close.
My cue to leave.
I scurry downstairs, past the kitchen, where Dad’s working at the island with his back to me. I whisk open the door to the hallway closet. My pretty purple running shoes are sitting on the floor, basically unworn, practically brand new, flashing me right back to that rainy morning, just BIWM.
I could throw the shoes away or donate them to Goodwill. But I refuse to let them go—refuse to let myself forget how badly I screwed up.
I slip into an older pair and pull a baseball cap over my head, careful to keep my hair tucked. The last key piece to help me feel invisible: sunglasses. I put them on, then flee out the door.
With each stride—every inch I get from home—the pressure dissipates. No one can catch me. Nothing can stop me—until I come to the highway, not quite sure how I got here.
I stand, frozen on the grass, just feet from the breakdown lane, as cars zoom by at eighty miles per hour. I track each one, searching for old sedans, circa 1980-something, picturing myself trapped in a trunk, reaching for the roof above my head, gasping for the air inside my lungs.
Breathe.
Breathe.
My skin flashes hot. A dark green sedan whizzes by. The taillights are intact; I watch them intently, anticipating a break, a waving hand.
Relax, I tell myself, forcing my eyes shut, dislodging the mental stake from inside my chest. I move to sit at the line of trees about ten feet from the road.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and check the screen. There’s a series of texts from Mom and Dad.
Dad: Jane? Is everything okay? Where did you go?
Mom: Jane??? Where are you? Why didn’t you say goodbye?
Dad: Mom thought we were going for brunch.
Mom: Dad is driving around, looking for you.
Mom: Please call or text to let us know you’re okay.
Me: I’m so sorry.
Me: I’m out running. I’ll be home in a little bit.
As if they haven’t suffered enough … I did it again—disappeared without warning. I crawl to the edge of the highway. A car horn beeps. The driver must think I’m getting too close. If only I had the courage, but I stop here, remove my sunglasses, take off the baseball cap, and look straight up toward the sun.
The bright sting of light coupled with the sensation of the wind as the cars whip by makes my eyes run, gives me the sensation of tears. Because I should be crying. I wish I could.
But for now I can only pretend.
NOW
34
When I get back home, Mom is waiting at the door. The color’s drained from her face. Her eyes look swollen.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her again.
She still wants to take me out. Dad is home for once. “Let’s enjoy some family time,” she says.
I agree out of guilt, and we end up at a breakfast place not far from the plaza where Shelley and I bought coordinating black-and-white dresses for the Halloween dance, BIWM, when we dressed up as chess pieces.
We go inside, and I scan the dining area. It’s surrounded by windows (twelve of them). There’s an exit sign on the back wall, opposite a hallway with bathrooms. I look around at the faces of the diners to see if there might be anyone I know. But luckily, it seems safe.
We get seated in a corner booth—Mom on one side, Dad and me on the other. As the waitress hands me a menu, her eyes narrow as though there’s a hint of recognition. I keep my face angled downward and order a cheese omelet.
“Are you sure?” Mom asks. “I hear the strawberry crêpes here are pretty amazing.”
“A cheese omelet,” I repeat.
“But you haven’t even looked at the menu.”
“Do I know you?” the waitress asks, launching her grenade.
I peek up, bracing for the blow.
The waitress’s eyes bulge like she’s one of those Panic Pete dolls. “You’re the girl who went missing, right? From the news … With that guy—that monster,” she says, correcting herself, giving me a knowing grin, showing she’s on my side.
Team Jane.
Girl power.
Females united.
I want to throw up. Plates behind the counter won’t stop clamoring. A whiny male voice sings about lost love on the overhead speakers. I fist my spoon and jab it into my thigh, picturing the toilet rod.
Mom fakes a smile. “Our Jane is home now.”
“And she can order anything she wants,” the waitress says. “My treat, on the house.”
“That’s really sweet. Isn’t it, Jane?” Mom says.
“I’ll have a cheese omelet.”
“That sounds good to me too.” Dad collects our menus, coming to my rescue. “I’ll have the same.”
“So quick, you two.” Mom continues to peruse her choices. “I’ll need another minute. And could we get coffee all around?”
“Sure thing,” the waitress chirps. “And take your time.”
As she turns away, the entrance door jingles open, and Shelley, Mellie, and Tanya file in. They stand by the hostess station, waiting to be seated.
“The strawberry crêpes it is,” Mom announces, setting her menu down. “Jane, did you not get a full place setting?”
“A what?”
“You didn’t get a spoon or fork?”
“I did. It’s just…” I set them on my plate, wanting to crawl beneath the table. “I need to go to the restroom.” Keeping an eye on Shelley and the others, I slide out from the booth. They haven’t spotted me yet.
The restroom door swings open. Unfortunately, it isn’t the kind that locks. Inside, I find six stalls, including a handicapped one, plus a large sink area and three windows. I go into the handicapped stall, lock it behind me, and sit on the toilet with my feet tucked beneath me.
I breathe here, flashing back to the last time I saw Shelley: at my door, with the year-old birthday present. We haven’t called or texted one another since. How lo
ng ago was that? And what will I say now? That things are going great?
And, yes, we should get together soon.
I know; I’m loving this weather too.
I tell myself the exchange will be quick and painless. There’s no need to pluck the rod. But then the bathroom door whooshes open. And the voices of Shelley, Mellie, and Tanya pour in.
MELLIE: Wait, those are her parents, right?
SHELLEY: Yes, and so now I’ll need to go say hello. Her mom will ask why I haven’t stopped by.
TANYA: And you can’t exactly say it’s because her daughter’s being a brat.
MELLIE: But who can blame a bratty attitude? I heard that guy raped her.
TANYA: No, he didn’t rape her.
MELLIE: How do you know?
TANYA: My dad told me. He knows someone who worked on the case.
MELLIE: So then was she tortured in some way?
TANYA: Who knows? People are saying she’s totally messed up—that she doesn’t really get what happened to her.
MELLIE: I saw a picture of that guy on the news, and I hate to say it, but he looked like someone I might’ve gone out with. Do you think that made it any easier?
TANYA: Made what easier? Isn’t that the key question?
MELLIE: I just mean that, whatever did happen … at least it didn’t involve some three-hundred-pound ogre with pockmarked skin and really bad teeth. Right?
TANYA: I’ll try to forget you just said that.
SHELLEY: I really want to be there for her. But it’s, like, she’s not even trying.
MELLIE: She’s probably not capable of trying.
SHELLEY: Okay, shall we? I need to get this over with. Plus, our table is probably ready.
TANYA: Strawberry crêpes, here I come.
I count to fifty before climbing off the toilet, opening up the tank, and plucking the rod out. I keep it concealed with my sleeve and return to the dining area.
“Shelley’s here,” Mom bursts out as if that will make me happy.
“I don’t feel well. I’m going to walk home.”
“What happened to your nails? That was such a pretty color.”
I look down to see. My Blueberry Cheesecake nail polish is all scraped off. Did I do that? Sitting on the toilet? “I don’t feel well. I’m going to walk home.”
“What? No.” Mom’s face scrunches like a prune. “Look at you, you’re shaking. Here. Take a sip of my juice. You just need something to eat.”
“I just need to go back home.”
“No. Sit,” she insists. “We’ve already ordered.”
I shake my head. “You don’t understand.” My insides are burning up.
Clamor.
Clank.
Smack.
The smell of garlic fills the air, reminds me of the monster’s stewed tomatoes with the bits of oregano.
Dad fishes the keys from his pocket. “I’ll drive you home.”
“No,” Mom says for a third time. “I thought this was what you wanted.”
I’m ruining breakfast. This was supposed to go smoothly. Dad slides out from the booth.
“This is crazy,” Mom insists. “We should be able to go out for a simple brunch.”
Still, Dad ushers me out—through the dining room, past Shelley and her friends.
“There’s my girl,” the waitress says, fist-pumping the air.
Dad drives me home, not uttering a single sound. Instead, he offers me his sweater, even though it’s eighty degrees. I happily accept it, poking the rod deep into my thigh, still able to hear the voices of Shelley and her friends.
In my room, I close the door behind me, crawl beneath the table, and wrap myself around a table leg. But it isn’t enough. And so I crawl into the closet. But it’s too quiet.
I can’t breathe.
I need air.
What will it take to drown my thoughts?
Still holding the toilet rod, I go down the hall into the bathroom and lock myself inside. I turn on the shower faucet and let the water run. The steam hits my face. The warmth slows my pulse.
I step inside, in my shorts and tee, and sit on the bathtub floor. My thigh is red from the rod. I jab at the spot—over and over—as water rushes over my head, as I try to get a grip, and as I remind myself that home is better than being locked up in captivity.
That home is better than being locked up in captivity.
That home.
Is better.
Than being locked up.
In captivity.
THEN
35
In the monster room, with the toilet tank rod gripped firmly in my hand, I squatted down by the bed to work on the mattress spring. The rod was surprisingly strong for its size and shape—about six inches long with the circumference of a pen.
I braced the rod behind the spring and yanked forward and back, again and again, pushing and prodding from side to side.
It wasn’t until my shoulder stiffened that I noticed a definite impact. The coil warped, like a mangled S. I kept on working, motivated by the progress. The metal seemed more malleable now—weaker maybe, thinner hopefully.
When I could no longer focus on the added step of positioning the rod, I used my hands, wriggling the coil every which way, trying to get it to loosen. I repeated this motion at least a thousand times—until at last it happened. The top end of the coil broke free from the grid.
Using the cuffs of my sweatshirt to protect my blistered palms, I wrapped my hands around the spring and pulled hard. No go. The mattress slid toward me a few inches, but the spring remained attached.
I tried again, holding the mattress in place with my feet. My forearms twitching, I counted to three and yanked—hard.
I fell back against the floor. My head smacked the cement with a deep clunk. Staring at the ceiling, I suddenly realized the coil was still in my grip, but no longer attached to the mattress grid.
I’d done it—broken a spring, earned my prize.
I lay in the middle of the floor with the coil pressed against my lips, nearly punch-drunk on the victory. I wanted to tell Mason—so unbelievably much; it just didn’t feel as monumental inside the confines of my head. But I was still so scared, because what if he were questioned?
What if I were, as well? Would I rat Mason out just to save myself?
I looked over at the box of brownies and waved my prize in the air, and though I imagined Shelley’s voice cheering me on for a job well done, it wasn’t the same. I needed to see Mason—even if it meant not sharing this news, but simply sharing the moment.
“I found something,” I said when at last he came to the wall. I told him about the bathroom tile and the message scribbled across the back.
“What were you doing behind bathroom tile? And how is that even possible?”
“You’re missing the point.”
“You’re not holding out on me, are you? Is there some secret passageway you’re not telling me about?”
“Mason—no.”
“Okay, so what did the message say?”
“It said, ‘If you’re reading this, I’m probably dead.’”
“Wait, what?”
“Do you think it’s true? That the person in this room before me is now dead?”
“Well, I didn’t want to say anything…”
“What?” I asked. Blood rushed from my face.
“Samantha’s gone now too.”
“What do you mean gone?”
“I mean, she’s no longer in her room—or at least she’s not answering when I call out to her.”
I pressed the end of the coil into my leg, wondering if it was Samantha I’d heard screaming that day, begging for forgiveness. Had she been too defiant or tried to break free?
“I found something too,” Mason said. “A window. I just need to figure out how I’m going to bust the glass without getting caught. It’s on the third floor, where I’m pretty sure he sleeps, so I need to time things just right.”
“Wait, are you kidding?
”
“I don’t joke about windows. My only fear is that the glass might be tied to an alarm. I’ve heard high-pitched beeping at various times in the building, like someone typing a pass code. It’s usually followed by a door slam. Have you heard it too?”
I wasn’t sure, but I’d definitely heard whistling, as though from water pipes, but maybe it was a beep. “Isn’t an alarm a good thing?”
“Well, yeah, if an outsider hears it, but not if he does. Plus, there’s the added complication of the bars on the window.”
“Bars, like in a prison, meaning we can’t get out?”
“Trust me; finding a window is major progress. When I know for sure he isn’t around, I’ll break the glass. If an alarm goes off, I’ll take the heat, whatever it is. Deal?”
I dug the coil in deeper—through the fabric of my sweats, into the flesh of my thigh.
“Jane?”
“Yes,” I muttered, breaking through skin.
“Are you okay?”
Not okay. I winced from the pain, picturing my mother’s face. What was she doing? Were people still looking? Or had everyone assumed I was already dead?
“I just really want to go home.” My voice wobbled over the words.
“I know, and you will, but you have to hang in there, okay?”
“I wish I knew how my parents were doing.”
“What if they’re doing better than you think? What if your disappearance has made them stronger or brought them closer?”
“They already were close.”
“I’m just trying to be optimistic. I have to believe there’s a reason for us being here—that we’ll learn something or grow in some way, including your parents. Because what’s the point, if not? We may as well be dead.”
I bore down on the cut, using the cotton fabric of my sweats to clot the blood.
“So what do you say? Are you with me?” he asked.
“With you?”
“On the I-refuse-to-be-a-victim train? Trust me; it’s the best ticket in town.”
“Your optimism is nauseating.”
“But you know you love me for it.”
“Love is a pretty strong word.”
“And so is coffee.”