Author: Laurie Faria Stolarz
Category: Suspense
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“Excuse me?”
“A six-letter word for something strong, bold, and addictive. Want to play?”
“I’d rather we knocked down this Great Wall of Separation.”
“Now you’re talking.”
“So then, you agree? We should make the hole bigger? Then we could actually see each other when we talked. Plus, I could help you navigate through the walls and ducts.”
“I thought about that too, but are you really okay with it looking as if you tried to chisel your way out?”
“What do you think would happen?”
“Nothing—unless that guy comes in here and sees. Are you willing to take that chance? Because I could definitely make the hole bigger if you really want me to. It wouldn’t be so hard.”
I really, really did. But maybe he was right.
When I didn’t say anything more, Mason poked his hand through the hole. I pulled my sleeve down over my cuts, then placed my palm on his.
“Think about it, okay?” he asked. “Maybe the benefits would outweigh the risks. Or maybe I could find something to conceal the hole. The problem would be traveling with that something through the air ducts.”
“Is there anything in the room you could use?”
“Not that I’ve been able to see with this useless reading light. Unless … Hold on…” He pulled his hand away.
I could hear him moving on the other side of the wall—the sound of his knuckles cracking and his shoes scuffing. “Mason?”
“I could try one of the ceiling tiles. They’re not very big, though. Maybe fourteen by fourteen…”
“Let’s sleep on it.”
“Are you sure? Because I’ll bet we could make it work. I could try to fuse a couple together.”
“Let’s talk about it tomorrow. I really need to rest.”
“How about we rest together?” He sat back down.
“What about getting caught?”
“I don’t care about getting caught.”
“Yes, you do.” I wanted to be wrong.
“I know. You’re right.” He poked his hand back through the hole and slipped his fingers beneath the cuff of my sleeve so we were touching skin to skin. “Good night,” he said, leaving me wanting more.
After he left, I lay with my face pressed against the hole. The absence in my heart was like nothing I’d ever experienced: a wrenching-burning pain.
This isn’t real, said the Shelley voice inside my head. Your emotions are heightened because you’re starving for companionship. Don’t let it cloud your smarts.
“I’m not,” I said, sitting back up.
I searched my sweats for the hole I’d made. I was in control, my smarts fully intact. I dug the coil back in.
THEN
36
“I have a surprise for you,” Mason said one day at the wall.
“Sweet rolls?” I asked, happy to play along.
“Better.” He poked a chocolate bar through the hole. “I got it with my star points.”
“So then why haven’t you eaten it?”
“Because I wanted to share with you.” He took the bar back, tore off the wrapper, then passed it through the hole again.
I bit into the smooth, dark block. It tasted bittersweet—the kind of chocolate my dad liked to eat, with a velvety texture and a high percentage of cocoa. I passed the bar back.
“Good, right?” Mason’s voice was thick with chocolate.
“More like great.” I took the bar again, unable to help notice the bite mark he’d left—a half-moon impression in the top corner. I placed my mouth in the very same spot and pressed my eyes shut.
“I should’ve asked for marshmallows too,” Mason said, continuing to chatter on—something about camping trips and graham cracker dust.
I took another bite. The block melted against my tongue and slid like syrup down my throat. We went back and forth until the very last bite, which he insisted I eat. But I wasn’t ready to be done. Instead, I brought the bite to my lips, imagining his kiss, wondering what it’d feel like.
“I wish I had something to share with you,” I told him.
“How about a secret?”
“What kind of secret?”
“I don’t know. Something nobody else knows.”
“Hmm…” I pondered.
“Or how about something you did that you’re not exactly proud of? Sort of like my convenience store mistake…”
Stretched out on the floor, I rested my cheek against his palm and brought his fingertips to my lips. They tasted like the chocolate.
“Well?” he asked.
I could tell he was lying down too—that his mouth was a mere whisper away, on the other side of the hole.
“I didn’t have coffee with my mom on the morning that I was taken,” I told him. “Instead I answered a text, and now I’m here.”
“Okay, but do you really think that compares to my convenience store robbery and stint in the slammer?”
“Why not? That’s some therapy-worthy regret right there, don’t you think?”
“Try to go deeper.”
“How deep?”
“To that tiny place inside you that holds a secret regret—something you don’t like to think about.”
“Do you double as a therapist?”
“I just read a lot of soul-searching stuff.”
“Because…”
“Let’s just say that my life, thus far, has given me ample motivation.”
“And apparently your life just keeps on giving,” I said, referring to his current captive status.
“A regretful moment, please,” he insisted.
“What I regret is too embarrassing to talk about.”
“Well, now you have to tell me.”
My face burned just thinking about the incident. Could he feel it too, in the center of his palm?
“It happened in third grade,” I told him. “We had a pet hamster in our classroom.”
“Seriously?” I could hear his smirk.
“The teacher used to let us take turns feeding the hamster and changing the water. I’d wanted my own pet for years, but my parents didn’t think I was old enough to take care of one. And so, I’d see the hamster at school and ache to bring him home.”
“Cute.”
Not cute. “One day, I was the first person in the classroom. My teacher was running late, caught in city traffic, and the other kids were still in the hallway, putting away their coats and bags. My heart practically exploded as soon as the idea hit: What if I brought the hamster home and kept him in my room? I had a ten-second window to decide what to do, and in that window, I unhooked the latch on the cage door, scooped up the hamster, and brought him to my lunchbox. But then I decided against it. I mean, it was way too risky. I’d either get caught by the teacher or by my parents. Still, I did it anyway—shoved him inside the box, closed the metal cover, and sat down at my desk like nothing happened. Only everything happened: My stomach started hurting. My skin broke out in a rash. Everybody in class asked if I was feeling okay. It wasn’t until lunchtime that people noticed the class pet was missing. By that time, there was no turning back. I told everyone I still had a stomachache so I wouldn’t have to open my lunchbox. When Mr. Turner noticed the open cage door, he blamed himself, saying he must’ve forgotten to latch it properly and so the hamster got away. By the time I made it home from school, the hamster had suffocated.”
“Yikes.”
“I know.” I was still able to picture the disappointment on Mr. Turner’s face. He kept shaking his head and looking away as though unable to face us. Watching him confess to something he hadn’t done was almost as horrible as finding our dead class pet inside my lunchbox. “I still have nightmares about it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No—I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“No wonder you work at an animal shelter now.”
“You do double as a therapist.”
“And as your therapist, I say it’s high time y
ou forgave yourself. You were a kid, don’t forget. You saw something you wanted and acted in the moment.”
“How did we even get talking about this?”
“I asked you to share a secret.”
“Oh, right, that—trying to get inside my mind to see all of my flaws.”
“Correction: trying to get to know you better. But since you mention the mind…”
“What?”
“I’ve been curious about what goes on inside the head of the guy who took us … like, what are his secrets? What makes him tick? What leads someone to take a bunch of seemingly random people?”
I’d been trying to understand the monster too, at least on some level, as I was writing the letters. “Do you think he regrets taking us?”
“I don’t know. But it’s sort of easier to think of him as someone who made a mistake—someone who still has the power to correct it. I mean, think about it. We’re not dead hamsters inside a box. He can still let us out.”
“Do you think that’s how people back home see us … as dead hamsters?”
“Who are you talking about, specifically?”
“My parents, my friends, Shelley…”
“Shelley’s your closest friend, right?”
“Right,” I say. “Does she feel regret?”
“Regret for…”
“Cutting her camping trip short, sending me a text on the morning I was taken. I’d been on my way out for a run, but she really wanted to meet. She begged me.”
“Why did she cut her trip short?”
“It was her birthday, and she didn’t feel like spending it in a tent with her family.”
“Wow.”
“I know.” The excuse sounded stupid. If Shelley had been sick, or if there’d been an accident, or if something monumental had caused her to come home early … But it was none of that. And meanwhile I was here.
“And so now you’re stuck asking yourself what if. What if she hadn’t sabotaged the trip? What if she’d never texted you that morning?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I ask myself what if all the time.”
“What if you never joined me on this adventure in captivity? We never would’ve met.”
“Do you always look for a silver lining?”
“I always try. And how about a boyfriend?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how come there was no guy looking out for you that morning?”
I bit my lip, unsure how to answer, but knowing I didn’t want to talk about Jack.
Mason wriggled his fingers beneath my cheek to get my attention. “Is that a tough question?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Not exactly, but pre-abduction, there was someone I’d wanted to be my girlfriend. Does that count?”
“Did she know how you felt?”
“Negative. She didn’t even know I existed. Though you may find this hard to believe, outside the bounds of captivity, I’m not the charming, confident, and charismatic soul you’ve grown to know and love.”
“So then what are you?”
“Shy, awkward, often tongue-tied in front of pretty girls.”
“Where did you and the girl first meet?”
“More like where did I first see and fall hopelessly in like with her?”
“Okay, that.”
“It was at the beach, maybe four or five years ago. She was with some friends. I overheard them talking about getting dinner and going for a swim … Anyway, I couldn’t exactly intrude.”
“Wait, you saw this girl four or five years ago and she still doesn’t know you exist?”
“Hey, don’t judge. I tried to talk to her a couple of times—once at a party and another time while running errands in town—but both proved mortifying.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Spontaneous mutism at the party; I totally clammed up. I promised myself that if I ever got another chance, I’d at least get her number. That second chance came: I saw her on the street. In my mind, I asked her to lunch. In reality, I made weird guttural sounds.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”
“Tell my shrink that.”
“Ha.”
“Exactly. My romantic game’s pretty laughable. But back to your love life … If you were my girlfriend, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight. I’d always be looking out for you.”
I pressed his fingers against my face, wishing that Jack had felt the same—that he’d have been the one to call or text me that morning.
“I should probably go,” Mason said.
“Not yet.” I held his hand captive.
“I don’t want to get caught.” He tugged.
I tugged back. “And I don’t want you to go.”
“Even after we get out?”
“Especially not then.”
“You mean it?”
“I mean it.”
“Okay. I won’t go.”
I snuggled against his palm and then closed my eyes for sleep.
THEN
37
I paced the floor of my room for at least twenty miles. And filled sixty-four pages in my journal to help pass the time.
I also changed my bed linens twice, washed my dishes in the sink, set out three bags of trash, doodled an animal farm, picked and batch-counted eighty-nine tissues (forty-three times), worked out with water jugs, read the novel Forbidden (admittedly unable to put it down), and earned enough stars to ask for something new.
If all of that wasn’t enough, I took a (clothed) shower, carved soap animals using the edge of a toothpaste tube, and plotted an escape that involved shimmying through a heating duct, sneaking up on the guy who took me, and stabbing him in his sleep—through his back. I pictured the metal coil poking out his chest.
Additionally, I made friends with a spider: Tiger, I called him, because of his orange-and-brown stripes. I watched his spinnerets as he wove a web that reminded me of stretched cotton and that joined the dresser to the wall. How had I never noticed this miracle of spiders—this innate ability to construct a network of silken ladders?
Last, I crafted yet another calculated letter to my captor:
Dear Person Who Took Me,
I’m wondering if that day at Norma’s, you saw a brief window of opportunity and acted in the moment, not really giving it much thought. And so now, here I am. And meanwhile, there you are, on the opposite side of the door, not really knowing how to fix things.
Am I right?
Even a little?
If so, please know that I’m willing to help. Believe me, I’ve done things I’ve regretted before too.
Please write back.
Yours,
Jane
I did all of these things as I waited for Mason. I hadn’t seen him in twelve meal deliveries, and I had no idea why. Had I said something to offend him? Did he get caught out of his room? Was he stuck somewhere, in an air vent or heating duct? Each time I thought I’d heard a familiar knock or clamor, I flew to the wall, only to be disappointed.
Where?
Was?
He?
Didheescapewithoutme?DidhelieaboutSamantha?Maybeitwasherhecaredabout.Maybetheyescapedtogether.Maybeheneverhadanyintentionofsavingmetoo.
After the fifteenth meal since his last visit, I didn’t feel well. There was a twisting in my stomach. I lay down on the bed, curled onto my side, trying to remember what Mr. Yeager had said in bio class … when he talked about which position to sleep in for best food digestion. I tried my left and then my right. But nothing felt better, and I wanted to throw up.
I dangled my head over the side of the mattress. Strands of spit trickled from my mouth, eventually dripping onto the floor. Was this an allergic reaction to something I’d eaten? But everything had tasted fine: the manicotti with marinara sauce, the baked ziti, the slices of pizza … I’d practically licked them all off the plate. So maybe it was the broccoli spears in my last meal? I could still taste them somehow—with each sour belch.
The knife in my stomach turned. I let out a moan, flashing back to a girl in French class who used to make herself puke. I stuck my fingers into my mouth and pressed down on my tongue, wondering if I could do the same, but I gagged in the process, letting out a loud, retching wail.
The door at the end of the hallway whined open. Was it mealtime again already? I listened for the click of the latch, the jangling of keys, and the twenty-two footsteps as he got to my door.
“Please!” I shouted at the clack of a tray. “I need help!” I pleaded at the rustling of a trash bag and the clamoring of dishes.
The knife twisted again. Bile shot into my mouth. The contents of my stomach lurched onto the floor, splattering over the side of the mattress: a mound of red tomato mush mixed in mangled green bits. “Please,” I repeated. Tears filled my eyes, and my throat burned with acid.
I tried to get up—to grab some napkins and clean up the mess—but the knifelike sensation had transferred to my head, straight through the crown, slicing my skull in two.
Scrunched up by the dresser, I poked my hand through the wall, still waiting for Mason to come, even four additional trays of food later. At one point, I got up and grabbed my score sheet. On the line for my prize, I scribbled the words stomach medicine. On the back, I wrote another note:
Dear Person Who Took Me:
I don’t feel well. I threw up a couple of times. My head aches, and I have the chills. I’m not sure what kind of medicine would help, but maybe an antacid. Or could you bring me to a doctor?
Also, I’ve run out of paper and would like to keep writing, so if you wouldn’t mind getting me a new notebook and pen. Thank you for considering.
Jane
When at last my prize came, it was on a tray with unbuttered toast, a bottle of ginger ale, a journal and pen, but no antacids. My gut reaction: It was all my fault; I never should’ve asked for more than one thing.
I tried a bite of the toast. It went down easily at first, but the pain quickly returned. I writhed on the floor, letting out a long and labored moan, my eyes watering, my body burning from the inside. I threw up once again, but this time I didn’t have the strength to clean myself up. It was all I could do to grab a blanket and drape it over me in an effort to stifle the chill. Then I lay by the hole, praying to the god of death to take me in my sleep.