Lies We Bury(37)

Shia’s words from the coffee shop return to mind. People want to know what happened from a firsthand perspective. Hell, I want to know. So much of what I’ve recalled since he proposed interviewing me have been details without any apparent significance. Freezer-burned vegetables. Games that Jenessa and I used to play together. The scratchy feeling of the blanket I liked to wear as a cape.

I map directions to the location where Shia and I agreed to meet, and find I’m already running behind.



The city library appears ominous under the afternoon’s gray skies. Zigzags made by last night’s rainstorm streak the stone face. The neoclassic design common to so many buildings around here reminds me that these neighborhoods are old by West Coast standards.

Across the street, a tent town that sprouted up on the greenway bustles with activity. A few men and women shake out blankets and cook food over an open flame rising from a metal trash barrel. I skim over the burning yellow and orange ribbons, never allowing myself to focus too much on them.

Inside, in a spacious atrium, readers sprawl in plush armchairs near bookshelves along the perimeter. Shia is seated at a table. He withdraws his phone and a journal from his backpack, then places them carefully at nine and three. He looks around him as though energized by the locale, lamplight reflecting on his glasses. Seeing me, he breaks into a lopsided grin.

“We gotta stop meeting like this.” He rises from one of a dozen tables on the ground floor. “How was traffic?”

“Fine, I was in the area. Are we allowed to talk in here?” I take a seat and try to ignore his stare, the feeling that the seven other people scattered among the neighboring tables are listening. Although I’m sure this is the right way forward, all things considered, it still feels dangerous confiding in a stranger.

Shia’s pen is poised over a yellow-paged journal. He taps a button on his phone to record, and a wavelength undulates across the screen. “Yes, but only in the community room. As I said yesterday, my publisher is anxious for a draft, given Chet’s release on Monday. I’ve been up all night outlining chapters and possible subjects that I’d like to get your thoughts on.” I nod, and he winces. “I’m sorry, but could you try and speak your answers or comments aloud?” He glances down at the phone.

“Oh. Yes. Sorry. Yeah, I’m . . . ready to give my thoughts.”

“Good.” He smiles and flips to another page filled with writing. “Let’s start from the beginning. Please state your name.”

Although I knew this would likely be part of giving interviews, I balk. “Why? I mean, I thought I was going to be an anonymous source. Why would I be recorded saying my name?”

Shia flushes, then clears his throat. “Okay, you don’t have to state your name. This recording is only to facilitate my note-taking so I don’t miss anything. Let’s try another question. What is your earliest memory?”

Lily. My first memory is about Lily, and suddenly the impact of what I’m about to do—share intimate details to every hungry rubbernecker in the country—feels wrong, and not at all my story to tell. She’s barely returned home, pregnant and dealing with problems in her relationship.

Then there’s Jenessa. How would she react if she knew I was itemizing our past for this person? Especially after she turned down his money.

Instead of my first memory, I recall watching my sisters huddled together beneath a blanket on a hospital bed as we waited to be examined by a nurse the night that we escaped. Shame roils through me.

I stand and sling my messenger bag across my chest. “I can’t do this today. I’m sorry.”

Shia’s mouth falls open. He pushes his glasses higher onto his nose. “What? We just started. You’re not doing anything wrong here, and I already gave you cash. You agreed,” he adds in a low voice.

“No, I know. I’m just . . . I’m not feeling well. And we already had a mini session yesterday, right? Let’s try again tomorrow. Or the day after.”

“Claire.” Shia drags the word out through gritted teeth. “How can you know where you’re going unless you examine where you’ve been?”

I grab my sunglasses and haul ass out of there. The woman at the welcome desk looks up when I burst through the doors of the lobby, but I don’t pause. Today, after a failed call to the police and a failed visit to warn my little sister about Chet, the last thing I need is to inflict more damage.





Sixteen

As a child, I always felt an obligation to make sure the others were okay. I knew the cadence of Rosemary’s antidepressants the first several years post-captivity, and I kept an eye on her outgoing mail to confirm utilities wouldn’t be shut off. I kept a stash of Spam and rice in the bottom corner of the kitchen pantry, and the number for the church food bank was on speed dial, just in case. Down in Chet’s basement, it was a regular thing to see Rosemary slide into a catatonic state, but I never wanted to be at the mercy of her emotional voids again.

As the oldest of my sisters—albeit with a head start on Jenessa of seven months—I felt responsible for them, worried about them, as much as a nine-year-old could. I tried to take good physical care of Lily by ensuring her hair was shampooed and she bathed every few days, whenever Rosemary became too distracted, as she put it, and needed to change her dosage. It was harder with Jenessa three hours away in Portland, but I wrote her letters, knowing that Nora was not as consistent as Rosemary in paying utilities like the telephone. I don’t know if Jenessa received every letter, and I never held it against her when her reply wasn’t prompt. She’d write back sooner or later.