Lies We Bury(45)

Lucky number three depends on you. Three more days, Missy.

“Claire?” He pushes thin glasses higher on his nose. A black ink smudge covers the bone of his wrist.

Although he was drafting his manuscript before we met, Shia has been working day and night to make progress faster. He’s already one hundred pages in.

He leans across the tall bistro tabletop. “Think hard. I’m sure it was normal in a lot of ways, but how was it abnormal, knowing what you know now? Try and remember what it was like, being a five-year-old underground.”

My legs dangle from the chair as I weigh his prompt. “I was generally happy for most of it. We were like any kids in tight spaces, bumping into each other, playing games, and retreating to our separate corners when we needed space; we didn’t know what we didn’t have. Rosemary allowed us to watch television, and at first, she said it was all make-believe—that the people we’d see on there weren’t real. Then when we got older and started asking questions, she said some things were real—people on talk shows—while other things were just make-believe and for fun—like cartoons and movies. Nora was there for the first few years before she escaped, and I remember her telling me that ice cream was real when I was about three years old. Rosemary was so pissed because she thought that would start the landslide of questions from us girls. And she was right. I sympathized, even as a small child, but I was also beyond curious to know what it tasted like after that and what else was real that I thought was a game or make-believe.”

Shia slides his phone closer to me, recording my every inhale and crunch. “Where is Nora now?”

I shrug and wipe my hands on a paper napkin.

“Don’t know. She seemed enthralled with the florist shop she bought with her settlement money. I haven’t heard from her in years, but I know she’s taken up traveling recently.” My voice drops off, hearing my sadness at not having contact with a woman who was so involved in my life at the beginning. “Jenessa actually asked to live with us after we were out. It was a big thing between Nora and Rosemary.”

“Wow, I’ll bet. How did that turn out?”

“I think the courts kind of decided? I felt terrible for Nora after that. She went through rough phases of depression and was in and out of psychotherapy. I know she was on some medications, and Jenessa said there were a few months of dissociation, too. No one really processed our time in captivity well.”

“Except you.”

I pause in wiping the beads of sweat from my beer glass. “What does that mean?”

“You’re the only one who managed to adjust to outside living, to deal with all the emotional baggage of your past. You made it. Whereas everyone else, all the other women, and Chet included, have struggled to get by.”

Shia looks at me with something like arrogance. Part of me wants to throw his drink in his face and then smash the glass on the warehouse floor. “You don’t know me. You don’t know how I’ve processed anything, and you sure as hell can’t judge me against my sisters or mothers.”

He nods and uses my moment of ire to take another sip. “Fair enough. I overstepped. Let’s talk about your mothers. Was that ever weird calling them all Mom?”

“Mama,” I correct, still huffy. “They were all Mama plus their first names.”

“What was that like, having multiple mothers? Did you feel more affectionate toward one or the other?”

Mama Bethel used to braid my hair before bed, and I would lay my head on her belly and wait for the baby to kick. “They were so young, and all of us were desperate for comfort and kinship. I would say no. It was like one big commune. Everyone cared for each other, regardless of who birthed you. We were all connected anyway.”

“You were all connected by tragedy and circumstance?”

“You could say that.”

Shia writes something down. He looks up. “What was your interaction like with Chet?”

The question stiffens my back. “I went to see him. Earlier today.”

He lays the pen on the page. “Really? What was that like?”

For a moment, I debate keeping my knowledge to myself. But I doubt the snarl on my face will allow that much longer. “I found out you went to visit him.”

His face blanches. “You did?”

“What were you doing there?” Heat climbs my neck. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He sits forward. “I went to speak to him, just like I asked Jenessa and you to speak to me. Chet didn’t want to see me, though. So I left without even a face-to-face.”

I cross my arms. “Is that supposed to make it okay?”

A smile slides across Shia’s mouth. “This is my job, Claire. I was trying to get sources for my book. I’m sorry if I gave you another impression.”

“You didn’t,” I snip. We sit awkwardly for a minute while we both digest that I thought Shia was better than seeking out the monster who ruined so many lives.

“Who is Karin Degrassi?” I ask.

Black eyebrows draw together. “No idea. Should I?”

“She was Chet’s other visitor this month.”

“Huh.” He chews his pen a moment. “Sounds familiar. I’ll do some digging and let you know if I find anything. Do you want to talk about your visit to him? Your impressions of Chet?”