Don't Look for Me(21)

“What are you doing?” she asks as I walk out of the room. I hear her follow me, little feet running.

“I just have to get something,” I say. “From the kitchen. Some water…”

My voice shakes as I walk. She is right behind me. I have to get away from her. Away from this house.

They followed me. They took me. They knew I was coming.

I search the drawers.

“What are you looking for?” Alice asks.

I don’t answer. I find a pair of scissors. I take them, and a knife, from a butcher block. I fold them into a dish towel and then set them aside, hoping she doesn’t notice as I get a glass of water and drink it down. My throat is tight. My mouth bone dry as I try to swallow.

I look at her and focus now. I can do this. I can outsmart a nine-year-old girl.

“You know how you have allergies to the outside?” I ask.

She nods.

“Well, I have something similar. I have allergies to the insides of houses. I have to go outside every day for a few minutes or I start to get sick.”

She looks at me, curiously. “Really?” she asks.

“Yes. I am feeling sick now. It happened suddenly when we were playing. I’m sorry if I scared you. The water helped. But I need to get outside. Can I go for a little walk?”

She shrugs. “I guess. I think there’s a lot of woods. What if you get lost?”

“I won’t go far. Maybe just to the end of the driveway and then right back. I can’t get lost doing that.”

She nods. “That might work. When you come back, maybe you should wear the mask.”

“Oh! That would be wonderful,” I say. “Can I borrow it?”

“Sure!” Alice is thrilled to help me.

“Do you know where it is?” I ask.

She nods.

“Can you get it for me and we’ll meet by the front door? That way I’ll have it as soon as I come back.”

She smiles and bounces out of the room. I hear her skipping down the hall. I move quickly, grabbing the towel with the scissors and the knife, rushing to the living room. I open the front door and place them outside. I close the door just in time.

Alice is there now, the mask in one hand. In the other hand, she carries a pair of rain boots.

“You can’t go outside in bare feet, silly,” she says.

I look at my feet. They are bare. My shoes disappeared along with my clothes last night while I slept. I would walk with bare feet across broken glass to get out of here but I shake my head and feign self-deprecation.

“Oh, my! I am silly, aren’t I?”

I take the boots. I can’t tell if they belong to a man or woman. They are big and my feet swim inside them. But I can walk and that’s all that matters.

I smile at Alice. I force myself to pull her close to me. She nuzzles her face into my chest.

“Thank you, Alice. You are a very sweet girl.”

I release her now.

“I’ll be back really soon and I’m sure I’ll feel better. Will you be all right for a few minutes?”

She nods. “I stay here alone all the time.”

“Okay.” I kiss her forehead and open the door. She steps back from it so she doesn’t have to breathe the air from the outside.

My heart dances with the hope of freedom. It is near euphoric.

As I step outside, I hear Alice call after me.

“Be careful,” she says. “Don’t get lost in the woods.”

I look back. And she tells me, “That’s how my first mommy died.”





8


Day fourteen





An hour passed. Then another, and another, until Nic stopped watching the time—until a mild form of unconsciousness had shut down her mind, mercifully.

She came to in the middle of the night. Head still pounding, sheets tangled around her body. Wondering how late it was, and if the bar across the street would still be open.

Where was it coming from, this craving? She scanned her body, looking for the culprit. Her head was the obvious suspect, but that was just a red herring. A clever misdirection.

She thought back to the first time she’d had a drink and felt the relief. It was the fall of her senior year—two years after Annie died. She’d managed the fallout with punishment. Schoolwork and running. She’d gotten a job at a local clothing store to fill the bits and pieces of spare time. She’d lost fifteen pounds because she’d deprived herself of every indulgence.

It was Columbus Day weekend. Three days off from school. No cross-country meets or tests to study for. Her parents had both been gone—her father to a conference and her mother to visit Evan. Saturday she’d woken up and run ten miles. She’d worked her shift at the store, then come home to an empty house. A quiet house. She’d tried to read but her mind had been tired and refusing to cooperate. She’d turned on the television but nothing had been able to pull her in.

That was the first time she’d felt them—the hollow spaces. The emptiness that would not fill up. Not with anything.

She’d gone for another run, at night, until her body had shut down and she’d been able to sleep. But then morning had come and her legs wouldn’t move and her mind wouldn’t focus. The store was closed. She’d run out of distractions.