Pretty Girl Thirteen (25 page)

Angie wanted to stay. She’d never been to such a nice place. Was Dr. Grant sending the bill to her parents every day? Still, a deal was a deal.

A glimmer of reflected light caught the dessert spoon Dr. Grant was lifting to begin the transfer. Angie reached over and stopped Dr. Grant’s hand mid-twirl. “Wait.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Dr. Grant lowered the spoon. “I should have asked if you were ready.”

“I am,” she said confidently. “But I think I can do it myself.” She felt it, now, deep inside her head, a meeting place, a swinging gate. She reached for it … and there it was, and her hand was guiding. She felt the smile stretch her real cheeks on the outside as she headed in.

While Girl Scout took over, Angie waited on the porch, sitting on the railing, swinging her feet and watching swallows catch flies in the field. Funny how the real cabin had been buried deep in the woods, while her mental cabin sat in this open field. Now and unexpectedly, she remembered the first time she’d come here, thrown into pitch black, terrified and out of control, unable to move or turn her head. Gradually, light had seeped in along with the ability to get up and move around, to talk to the others. Funny also how the cabin sat like a Hollywood front, barely three-dimensional, nothing on the other side of the wall as far as she knew.

On a whim, she knocked on the door. Nothing. She tried the handle, but it was locked securely. She pressed her ear to the door. A faint creaking sound, but that might have been her feet. As soon as she noticed it, the creaking stopped. She had the oddest impression that someone was inside, holding his or her breath, hiding.

“Angie.” The voice behind her made her jump back with a guilty feeling, like she’d been caught snooping. “Don’t go there,” Girl Scout said. “We’re not allowed.”

“Why not?” Angie demanded. “What’s inside?”

“We don’t know. We can’t get in either. Only Angel could. Leave it alone. Come on with me.” Girl Scout held out her hand, taking the lead. She pulled Angie away from the door, the porch, the cabin front, and into the meadow. “Take off your shoes.”

“But the grass will give me a rash!” Angie argued.

“No, it won’t.”

“It’ll tickle.” She hated seeing her legs.

“Oh, come on.” Girl Scout took off her own shoes and socks and rolled her khaki pants up. The wounds around her ankles were raw and chafed. Angie’s were tight bands of scar tissue. She felt foolish for hesitating. The ankles were Girl Scout’s legacy, the wrists were Little Wife’s, and the burns were Tattletale’s. What a road map of pain was written on her skin. Angie released a gust of breath. She took off her shoes and socks. Then, in the warmth of the inner afternoon, alone with herself, she stripped off her clothes. She lay down in the grass with all her scars exposed to the light and said, “I contain multitudes.”

Beside her, Girl Scout quoted another line of the poem they both loved. “Who wishes to walk with me?” They turned their heads to each other and smiled.

Touching fingertips, they recited in unison: “For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.”

They embraced, soft white arms in long green grass, and held each other so tightly that no one could tell where one left off and the other began. And with a shudder and a swelling and a joining and a sigh, there was only one girl, collapsed into herself in harmony.

Pictures flashed through her head, the man’s face both loving and angry. The heavy chains so binding for so long, then unlocked and discarded in a corner, yet still binding. The familiar handle of the well pump. The chipped brown pitcher. Her iron pots and skillets. A book tucked in the pocket of her apron. The bottle of oil for refilling the lamps. The scant pantry filled with canned and dried goods and spices. The mossy pine trunks that led her down the mountain, away from the cabin, away from the cabin, away from the cabin, clutching a bag of a few precious items. The store where she stole the map, having no money at all except the four quarters she’d found under the stove. The quarters bought a Coke to fill her hungry belly after days of walking. Nothing had ever tasted so wonderful.

Nothing had ever tasted so wonderful. Angie’s mouth filled with the sweet, creamy texture of a crème brûlée. The caramel flavor melted on her tongue.

Her eyes flicked up to meet the doctor’s. “This is amazing, Lynn. You should have ordered some.”

“Angela?” The doctor’s eyes were filled with tears.

Angie’s brow wrinkled. “Why did I call you Lynn?”

Dr. Grant grabbed a napkin and dabbed away the damp shimmer. “Girl Scout always calls me Lynn. Is she … with you?”

“Completely,” Angie said. “Hey, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

Dr. Grant—Lynn—sniffed. “Oh dear. How silly. In the middle of dessert, she said, ‘I’m saving this for Pretty Girl.’ She just said, ‘I’m going now,’ and here you are. I never had a chance to say good-bye.”

Angie laughed. “You don’t have to say good-bye, Lynn. I’m still here.” She devoured another spoonful of the crème brûlée and sighed.

“Oh, Angie. Welcome to unity.” Then Dr. Grant broke into blubbering tears, a totally unprofessional and hugely gratifying display of affection.

I
CAME WALTZING HOME FROM SCHOOL WITH THE TASTE OF
crème brûlée in my mouth, floating about a foot off the ground. Mom had been watching me curiously ever since she got home from the library. I was bursting, just waiting for the right moment, the right way to tell her. She gave me the perfect opening as I helped her set the table for an early dinner.

“Is there anything special you want for Christmas?” She handed me three sets of silverware.

I grinned at her, bouncing on my toes. “I’ve already got what I most wanted,” I said. “Me, myself, and I. All glued together, more or less.”

Mom gasped. “No! Yes? Really? Already?”

I nodded, my cheeks threatening to snap with joy.

“Oh, Angie. Oh my.” She squeezed me hard, her body shaking. “That won’t fit under the tree,” she said stuffily in my ear, off on another crying jag. She was so sensitive these days.

“Mom, Mom, Mom.” I returned her hug, a laugh bubbling my voice. Silverware jangled in my hands as I avoided stabbing her. “You’re right. How about riding boots?” I recognized Tattletale’s influence, but what would once have felt like separate thoughts were my own now.

“That’s all?” She pulled back, her face pink and wet.

“They’re crazy expensive.” I knew. I’d checked in the tack shop at the stables.

“Do you need those weird pants, too?” she asked. She wiped her eyes.

Also expensive. “Nope. I’ll be fine with skinny jeans for now. Oh, one other thing.” I hesitated. Two weeks out from Christmas, only one thing had me worried, and that was the question of who would be sitting around that dining room table for Christmas dinner.

I wanted more than anything to see Grandma again, to make things right between us. When I thought of the last look on her face, I went hollow inside. She’d never visited me in the hospital. She’d never even sent me a card. I was too nervous to bring it up with Dad.

So now I got up the guts to ask Mom. She unhugged me, holding my shoulders and looking as serious as I’ve ever seen her.

“Since we got the restraining order on Bill, Grandma has refused to come. She scolded me for a good half hour about forcing her to choose between her sons. It wasn’t pretty.” The grim line to Mom’s mouth told me this was probably the watered-down version.

“She doesn’t appreciate that we’re not throwing his ass in jail?”

“Not a bit. She refuses to believe your—our story. And don’t say ass, hon.”

“Ugh. How’s Dad doing?” I asked.

“Not taking it well. As you’d expect. He loved Bill.”

An echo in my head prompted me to reply, “Chah. So did I.”

Mom cringed. Her hands dropped.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “So at least Dad believes me?”

Mom nodded without looking up. “Dr. Grant was mighty persuasive. If we could get her in front of a jury—”

“Stop. We’ve talked this to death. Bill was a minor, except for the last time.” And there was no physical evidence, just he-said, she-said. And even if we had proof, incest had much lighter penalties than stranger rape, for whatever stupid reason. We’d done what we could. “Anyway, now he has to stay away from me. That’s good enough.”

I walked around the circle of the table, placing the forks with precision. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this. I wish I could take back my life and start over.”

“Don’t get me started on do-overs,” Mom said, tearing up again. She grabbed a folded napkin and mopped her face. “I have been asking and asking myself about all the warning signs we must have missed. You just seemed like such a happy, contented child. Even looking back, second-guessing myself like crazy, I can’t find it.”

“Look, Mom. I hid it so deep, even
I
had no clue till I started therapy. I don’t blame you and Dad.”

Mom watched me with a half-hoping, half-skeptical expression.

“Really. I mean it.” I hugged her to prove the point and felt her growing belly press against me. It lurched and bumped. “Mom! He kicked me!”

“Oh, yes. It’s kind of early.” She patted her bulge. “You actually felt that?”

“That’s so weird,” I said, laughing. “He has big feet.”

“Sounds like you’re betting on a little brother.”

“I don’t know why I said that. It doesn’t matter. I’d be happy with a sister, too.” As I told her, I realized it was true. Having another new little life in the family would give us all something wonderful and positive to think about instead of going around in circles with the “Sheesh, we totally screwed up on Angie” thing. I was ready to move on. I just needed Mom and Dad to catch up with me. Mom was close, but Dad was still a basket case ever since the Thanksgiving massacre.

In spite of missing a week of school and going short last week, I was more than ready to move on there, too. The school counselor had given me a couple of exams and said that with the recommendation of my teachers, I could move up to tenth grade after Christmas break. After three months with the thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds, I was definitely psyched for more mature company, even if it meant starting over with a new set of peers. Especially if it meant starting over. Time to come out of my own isolation. Kate was wonderful, my north star, but I needed to expand my social set, and maybe bring her back into the fold along with me.

And there was one more thing I had to put back on track. I hadn’t seen Abraim in two weeks. Kate had arranged the double dates. Abraim and I had never actually called each other or gone out without Ali and Kate. The extra company didn’t make those two shy—maybe they secretly liked an audience to their make-out sessions—but I had a feeling that Abraim and I would be stuck in the same place forever unless we spent time alone. Plus, I was ready to be a bit more truthful with him now. He had to realize a bear trap hadn’t chomped off my hand, after all. And now that he was dating only one girl, maybe, just maybe I could tell him about the others.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to be brave. I called Kate and asked if she had his cell phone number.