Hidden Pictures(91)

You smiled and said “thank you” and then ripped the wrapping paper off the next gift—six waxy yellow fruits nestled in a box of white tissue paper.

You just stared at me, waiting for an explanation.

“Don’t you remember, Flora? They’re star fruits. From the grocery store. Remember the day we bought a star fruit?” I turned to your father. “Some days we would walk to the supermarket for Morning Activity, and I would let Flora buy anything she wanted. Any one food item, but it had to be a food we’d never tried before, and it had to cost less than five dollars. So one day she picked out a star fruit. And we thought it was incredible! It was the best thing we’d ever tasted!”

Only then did you finally start nodding, like the story sounded familiar, but I wasn’t sure if you really remembered. And by this point I felt embarrassed. I wanted to take back the tote bag—I really didn’t want you to open the last gift—but it was too late. You yanked off the paper and revealed a small booklet called MALLORY’S RECIPES that I printed up at a copy shop. I had typed up the ingredients and instructions for all the desserts we’d made together—the cupcakes and the cream cheese brownies, the magic cookie bars and the homemade chocolate pudding. “In case you ever want to have them again. In case you want to try any of our old favorites.”

And you said thank you, very politely, but I could tell the book would be put away on a shelf and never touched.

Suddenly, it was painfully clear to me why your doctors didn’t want me to visit—it was because you didn’t want me to visit. You were trying to forget me. You didn’t really know what happened in Spring Brook—but you knew it was bad, you knew the subject made grown-ups uncomfortable, you knew people were happier discussing other things. So you were moving on, you were adapting to your new life. And with a stunning shock of clarity, I realized I would never be part of it.

The front door swung open and your cousins came marching back into the house, triumphantly singing “Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead!” as they stomped upstairs to the second floor. You turned to your father with a pleading expression and his face turned pink. He was mortified. “This is very rude,” he whispered. “Mallory and Adrian drove a long way to see us. They brought you very generous gifts.”

But I decided to let you off the hook.

“It’s fine,” I said. “I don’t mind. I’m glad you have so many friends, Flora. It makes me really happy. You should go upstairs and play with them. And good luck in first grade, okay?”

You smiled and said, “Thanks.”

And I would have appreciated a hug, too, but I had to settle for a quick wave from across the room. Then you bounded upstairs after your cousins and I could hear you gleefully joining them for the final lyric, shouting over all their voices: “Ding-dong, the wicked witch is deeeeeeead!” And then you all exploded with shrieks and laughter while your father stared at his boots.

He offered us more tea and coffee and said he hoped we would still stay for lunch. He explained that your aunt Zoe had made paprikas, a kind of goat stew served with egg noodles. But I said we should probably get going. I explained that we were driving to Canada, that we were visiting Niagara Falls and Toronto. Adrian and I lingered just long enough to be polite, and then we gathered our things.

Your father could tell I was disappointed. “We can try again in a few years,” he promised. “After she gets older. After she knows the whole story. I know she will have questions, Mallory.”

I thanked him for allowing me to visit. Then I kissed him on the cheek and wished him good luck.



* * *



Once we were outside, Adrian put his arm around my waist.

“It’s okay,” I told him. “I’m fine.”

“She seems great, Mallory. She looks happy. She’s on a beautiful farm with family and nature. It’s gorgeous here.”

And I knew this was all true, but still.

I guess I’d hoped for something different.

We followed the winding gravel driveway back to Adrian’s truck. He walked around to the driver’s side and unlocked the doors. And I was reaching for the handle when I heard soft footsteps running up behind me and I felt the full force of your body slamming into my hips. I turned around and you wrapped your arms around my waist, burying your face in my belly. You didn’t say anything but you didn’t need to. And I’ve never been more grateful for a hug.

Then you broke away and ran back to your house, but not before pushing a folded sheet of paper into my hands—one last drawing to say goodbye. And that was the last time I ever saw you.

But I know your father is right.

Some day in the future, ten or twenty years from now, you will become curious about your past. You will read the Wikipedia article about your abduction, you will discover all the rumors surrounding your case, you may even spot one or two inconsistencies in the official police report. You might wonder how the Maxwells fooled so many people for so long, or how a twenty-one-year-old addict pieced together the whole puzzle. You’re going to have questions about what really happened in Spring Brook.

And when that day comes, this book will be waiting.

I’ll be waiting, too.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


I’m so glad Will Staehle and Doogie Horner agreed to draw the pictures in this book—long before I had a contract, or a manuscript, or even a clear idea of what the pictures might be. Thanks, guys, for your faith in this project, for the terrific artwork, and for keeping me company during the lockdown.