Lies We Bury(77)

The man moves reaches for me grabs my ponytail and I jump away but trip and fall flat on the floor and pain all over my ankle. He falls on his side still piggy-tied and I feel his fingers grabbing pulling on my arm to keep me close but I scratch kick move away from him and those hands. I press against the wall and watch his fingers stretch and claw reaching for me still.

I breathe heavy hard and fast. The man is quiet facing the Murphy bed now. His fingers stop moving.

My ankle hurts. I try standing but it hurts too much. It’s round now like a ball. Red and bumping like when my head hurts after too much Lith-yum.

The door is open just above the top of the stairs but there’s too many steps. I count them. Eight steps.

I try standing again and this time I start to cry because it hurts so bad.

Mama Rosemary will be outside with police soon and I can’t go to her.

Hot tears fall down my cheeks but I try not to make a sound. The man’s fingers are moving, trying to shake off the ropes but I tied them too tight. I’m proud again then his feet start moving. He starts kicking. Kicking kicking and I get nervous. Worried that he will get free.

Then he goes still.

After a while, I get tired. Bored. I wish Mama Rosemary had turned the television on before she left. My ankle keeps going bump bump and it’s even bigger now. More tears fall down my face and wet my nightgown.

I wonder where they are. Mama and my sisters. I miss them. But I know they’ll come back for me. And we can be a family living together. I hope we’ll share a bed like we do here and not like siblings do on television. I’ll be too cold if we sleep separate.

The man looks like he’s sleeping again. He hasn’t moved in three “Row Row Row Your Boat”s that I sang in my head quiet.

I get sleepy, too. I slide under the bathtub just in case he wakes up before me or he’s a liar and only pretending to be asleep. My foot pushes a bunch of puzzle pieces out of the way.

I close my eyes and lay my head on my arms. I prop up my ankle on my other foot. It feels a little better but not so much.

I miss Mama and Twin and Sweet Lily and wish they’d come back already. I close my eyes because I’m tired.

I start to dream of running with my sisters and Mama making pasta in the kitchen. Then someone calls my name and my head hits something hard. The bathtub. New tears come because my head hurts just like when I burned my arm on the stove. I slide out from under the bathtub and rub my hair then push back quick against the wall far away.

The man is still on his tummy. His head flipped over and he’s watching me now. He smiles. He is a liar.

“That is your name, isn’t it?” he says. “Why don’t you untie me, sweetheart? I’ll get you more candy. You like Mars Bars, right?”

I don’t answer him. Instead I cradle my ankle and think about the way Mama Rosemary smells. How warm her arms are.

I feel so sleepy and the man looks so awake.

Mama Rosemary better hurry back soon I don’t know how much longer I can stay awake.

I touch my head again where it hurts most. Something wet. I pull back quick and blood is on my fingers. When I look up, the man sees, too.

He smiles.





Thirty-One

Chet and I stand unspeaking, eyeing each other across the neatly furnished sitting room. Nothing decorates the walls apart from a shelf displaying trinkets from another era. Miniature Russian dolls line up in a row beside a lone wine cork. From down the hall, a buzzer sounds; Nora must be doing laundry.

As the video clip—and the dozen user comments beneath—suggested, Chet appears rested, clean-cut. He regards me with ease now that he’s out from behind the six inches of glass in the prison visitor wing. As if he hasn’t been locked up the last twenty years for crimes so heinous, only a few twisted individuals can be considered his contemporaries. The tan leather jacket he wears fits his narrow shoulders, as if tailored to his measurements.

With a sickening drop in my stomach, I recognize his tapering frame in my own. Whereas Rosemary’s broad shoulders balanced wide hips, I’ve always been slender to the point of androgynous. Dark eyes the same shade as mine return my stare with an unnerving ability to forgo blinking.

“What are you doing here?” I finally ask. Gripping the fire poker tighter in my fist, I widen my stance. “Shouldn’t you and Karin be halfway to Canada by now?”

He lifts thin eyebrows. “Isn’t it obvious? I wanted to reconnect. To see all of you. I have no intention of breaking parole, Marissa.” His tone is chastising, as though he’s deluded himself into believing he has paternal rights.

A shiver rolls across my neck. “You don’t get to connect with any of us. You don’t get to be here,” I hiss.

He takes a step toward me, and I step back, still wielding the poker.

“Didn’t Karin tell you?” he begins, lifting both hands palms out. “I tried to make it clear when you came to see me. I only want some sort of relationship with you girls. It’s too late for me and Karin to have kids—she found me too late.”

I shake my head, feeling my nerves fray, unraveling at the ends. “Bullshit. You’re a terror. A sexual predator. What are you doing here?” I repeat.

Chet’s appearance at Nora’s home, right when I arrive, can mean only one thing. “You’re working with her, aren’t you?”