Authors: Nancy Werlin

The Rules of Survival (21 page)

BOOK: The Rules of Survival

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I was grateful that I had stayed behind, so Aunt Bobbie wasn’t going through this alone.

I was grateful that you and Callie were safe with Ben in Arlington—and that the lawyer had persuaded the judge, a month ago, that Nikki didn’t need to know her daughters’ exact address until she’d at least gone through some weeks of probation. It was incredible foresight.

I was grateful to Murdoch, who kept in touch several times a day, even though he was having his own problems with Nikki. His front door, too, had gotten the phosphorescent treatment, and in her spare time, Nikki had taken up stalking him again.

“Don’t worry about it, Matt,” said Murdoch, when I tried to apologize to him. “It’s not your fault, and anyway, I can cope. Try to look at it this way: You and I and Bobbie are keeping her plenty busy here in Southie. The more we do that, the less time and energy she has for hunting down the girls and causing trouble for them. Because let’s not forget that she could probably find them if she really tried.”

“I guess that’s true,” I said. I mentioned it to Aunt Bobbie that night—just as Nikki led three or four people loudly up the stairs—and she nodded grimly.

“I’ve thought of that,” she said. “It keeps me going. That and you.” That made me grateful to her all over again.

I was filled with open hate for Nikki now. I daydreamed about picking her up and sending her flying, headfirst, through the glass and boards of her own front window, to land in a pile of broken bones and bleeding flesh on the street below.

I thought, too—and not just because it was Murdoch’s opinion—that this phase could not last forever. Nikki was disintegrating in front of our eyes, careening out of control. She was a half inch from landing in jail again, as soon as she did something a little more serious than disorderly conduct and vandalism of property. She might well self-destruct. It would happen soon. Soon.

TANTRUM

Meanwhile, at the new apartment in Arlington, things had not gone perfectly, and it was all about you, Emmy.

I remember one particular Friday in late September. It was my day to pick you up from school. I had insisted on taking my turn, even though it took me over an hour to get to Arlington from Southie by subway and bus, even though it meant I had to duck out of school early myself. I was only missing a study hall on Fridays, I argued, and it was important to me to do this.

So, I showed up at the your elementary school at two o’clock and waited just inside the front door. The final bell of the day rang, and streams and streams of little kids went past me, and finally one of them was you, with your lower lip sticking out and a mutinous set to your shoulders. You took one look at me and you just exploded.

It was a classic tantrum, involving kicking and punching (at me), screaming, sobbing, and then the heaving of your entire body at full length on the ground. At first, I tried to hold you, tried to say things to calm you down, but along with the kicking and punching, you spat in my face. Finally, I stood a few feet away and just waited. People stared at us as they passed.

You were able to keep up a tantrum for a long time. I was reminded powerfully of Nikki. Maybe that made me more short-tempered than I could have been. Anyway, after a couple more minutes, I had had it with you. I lifted you by the upper arms and held you aloft while you kicked me in the legs. I didn’t even feel it. “You stop this, Emmy,” I said into your dirt-smeared face and open, yelling mouth. “You are a member of this family and you will start behaving like it. That means doing what you’re supposed to do every day, like a little soldier. We can’t cut you any slack anymore. Do you understand me, you spoiled little brat? It’s time to grow up. It’s time to act like Callie does, and like I do. It’s time to do what you’re supposed to do, when you’re supposed to do it. And that means that right now, you’re going home.”

I’m not sure how you could hear me over the sound of your own yelling, but I knew you had. I continued to hold you suspended in midair by the upper arms, and you continued screaming and kicking for another full minute while you stared right back at me. Then you stopped, all at once.

“That’s not my home!” you said. “That apartment.”

“It is now,” I said.

“You don’t have to live there!
You
got to stay at home!”

“Tough,” I said.

“Ben hates me,” you said.

That was maybe where I should have had a little more sympathy, but I didn’t feel it. “Well,” I said, “I guess you haven’t been too nice to him. What do you expect? That’s what I mean about you needing to grow up, Emmy. And act like a soldier. Or do you want to go back to Nikki, huh? Is that what you want?”

Your eyes told me you hated me. “Maybe I do,” you said.

I dropped you. You landed splat on the ground again, hard. You screamed.

I grabbed you again and hauled you away. “You know Ben’s better than Nikki,” I said grimly. You screamed all the way back to the apartment, where I dumped you on Callie and just left, fuming.

And then, of course, came the next Friday. Again my turn to pick you up from school. But I was a little late, and you weren’t there.

MY FAULT

I think now that Nikki was stalling, in Southie, with her spray paint and her systematic trashing of the house, while she figured out how to get to you. It was always going to be you. Of the three of us, you were the one who was most her property. You were her baby.

How did Nikki find you? I don’t know for sure. Maybe she called your old school and asked—in her professional, bureaucratic receptionist voice—about the transfer of records. It doesn’t really matter now. All we really know is that she showed up at your new school, before I got there, and took you away.

Apparently, from what other kids at school said, you did not yell or scream or fight or throw a tantrum. You just got into Nikki’s car with her.

My fault. I knew it. I knew it was because of the harsh way I’d spoken to you last time I picked you up at school.

I should have known.

After I realized you were missing, I called Bobbie and Ben and Murdoch. And of course we called the police. Everything was done that could be done. An Amber Alert sent out with your description and photo. A warrant issued for Nikki’s arrest on kidnapping charges. But the first twenty-four hours crawled by, and we heard nothing. And then it was two days. And then three, and I thought I would go mad.

I had a conversation with the South Boston cop Officer Brooks. “The longer she’s gone, the less likely it is that we’ll find her, isn’t that true?” I demanded.

“Not at all,” he said. “We’ll get her. Anyway, you don’t really think she’d hurt your sister, do you? She’ll be okay in the meantime.”

I remembered Nikki dangling you over the rocks in Gloucester. I remembered being in the rental Jeep the night she almost drove us all into oncoming traffic. I remembered the time she took you off with that man Rob. And also, frankly, I remembered the kind of tantrums you were throwing.

“Yes,” I said. “I
know
she would.” I outstared him.

“We’ll do everything we can,” he said. “We’ll get her.”

“Right,” I said. But I didn’t believe him.

I called Murdoch. I outlined again each and every thing I’d done on the day you’d been taken, all the reasons I was ten minutes late. He listened. I knew that he, like me, like Aunt Bobbie and Callie and Ben, had gotten very little sleep in the last few days. I also knew that he and Ben had been checking bars and other places Nikki went, trying to find her or someone who knew where she was. But they still didn’t have a single clue.

And in my heart, I blamed them. No. I didn’t blame Ben, really. My old feelings about him had resurfaced. Useless, useless. But I blamed Murdoch. He had not, after all, kept you safe.

I spent Sunday night walking the streets of Southie. I looked for Nikki, and I looked for you, the way I had once looked for Murdoch, and with the same results.

Empty, finally, I went “home.”

The house now looked as if it had been occupied by the neighborhood crack dealers. Even after I passed through the FAT COW + DICKLESS LITTLE BOY door into Bobbie’s apartment, I was still aware of the wreckage around us.

I went into the living room and found Aunt Bobbie dozing in front of the TV. There was an almost empty bottle of red wine on the coffee table in front of her. At my entrance, she struggled to wake. “Matthew, is that you?”

“Yeah,” I said.

She gestured at the TV, which was tuned to the Home and Garden channel. A perky couple was viewing a possible new home with a Realtor. “As God is my witness,” Aunt Bobbie said, “I want to be them. I’ve been thinking, Matt. When this is over, when we have Emmy back safe, I want to leave this neighborhood and never, ever come back.”

“I understand,” I said. I eyed the bottle of wine.

“Sorry,” said Aunt Bobbie, who could track well enough to follow my eyes. “You know I don’t drink much, but tonight, I needed a little something.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

“You’ll come, too, right?” she continued. “When I leave this neighborhood, you’ll come? I like having you around, Matt.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sure.” At that moment, though, it hardly mattered to me.

“Good,” said Aunt Bobbie. Then she bit her lip, and tears began to roll down her cheeks.

Maybe I should have sat next to her and hugged her or something. “Go to bed,” I said. That was all I could manage. I felt a sort of muted amazement when she obeyed me, clicking off the TV and stumbling into her room.

I went into my room, which had seemed so wonderful to me such a short time ago. I closed its door, and let my futon mattress practically hit me in the face as I collapsed onto it. I didn’t bother to get undressed or to kick off my shoes. I simply shut my eyes and let my mind chase itself down one dark corridor after another. I knew I wouldn’t sleep.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

I was awakened—sharply and completely, and hours later—by the insistent vibration of the cell phone in my jeans pocket.

Instantly, I rolled over and sat up. I fumbled the phone out of my pocket, nearly dropping it in my haste. The phone display said:
Unknown number.
I flipped the phone open. “Hello? Hello?”

“Hello, Matt?” A high, tremulous voice. It was you.

“Emmy!” I said. In the darkness, my eyes managed to fasten on the glowing numbers of my bedside clock. 2:56 A.M. I tried to gather myself together. To think clearly. “Emmy, where are you? Are you all right? Is Nikki there?”

For a moment I only heard breathing. Then you said, “I’m sick.” You hiccupped.

“What? How are you sick?”

“I just threw up!” you wailed. “It’s all over me and the floor.”

“Where are you?” I said tensely.

“I don’t know. It’s a trailer. I’m all alone here.”

“Nikki—Mom isn’t with you?”

“She was but she left. I was sleeping but then I woke up and I’m sick.” There was a gagging noise. “Matt? Can you come get me?”

I clutched the phone. “Yes,” I said. “But I need you to tell me better where you are. Did you get there by car or bus or—Emmy, how did you and Mom get where you are?”

“In Mom’s car.”

“Did it take long?”

“No. I don’t remember. I don’t think so.”

I racked my brains. “You say you’re in a trailer? Is there a window? Or a door? Can you look outside and tell me what you see?”

“All right,” you said. And then, oddly formal, you added: “Please hold.”

I held. It seemed like an eternity ticked by. During it, I realized that it was dark outside. You wouldn’t be able to see much.

Then you were back. “I looked out the window, Matt. I saw one of those big blue things.”

“How could you see in the dark?” I blurted.

“There are lots of lights,” you said.

I blinked. Lights. Okay. That was one clue. I said: “A big blue thing, huh? How big?”

“Oh, it’s very big.” Then you added, “It goes all the way up into the sky. It’s even bigger than a giraffe. It’s like an animal, though. Wait! It’s called a crane.”

And then I knew.

“Is it one of the blue cranes at the port, Emmy? The ones you can see when you’re on the swings at Castle Island?”

Your voice was fainter now. “Yes. I think so.”

“Are there lots of containers around, too, Em?” I said urgently. “You know—containers. They look like enormous building blocks. Are they there?”

“Yes,” you said. “Containers.” But now I could barely hear you.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I said. “Wait for me.”

“I’m going to be sick again,” you mumbled. “Bye.”

BOOK: The Rules of Survival

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