Pretty Girl Thirteen
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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.
EVALUATION
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.