Still Missing (9 page)

I don't know what the hell happened, it was probably just the stupid hormones, but I started to cry. That was the first time I'd admitted those feelings to
anyone.
He opened his mouth and took a breath like he was about to say something. But he didn't, he just closed it, gave my leg a pat, and stared back up at the ceiling.

What was he afraid of? How was I going to get him to trust me and open up? So far, all I'd been able to do was put myself through emotional hell by dredging up this shit. I'd heard some kids feel loyalty to their abusers. Was that what was holding him back?

"I probably shouldn't even be telling you this stuff," I said. "My mom did so much for me over the years that I feel like if I say anything bad about her I'm betraying her." His head cocked toward me. "But I guess parents are humans who make mistakes too." My mind worked to call up every forgive-your-parent self-help platitude I'd ever read. "I keep telling myself it's okay to talk about these things, I can still love my mom and not always like everything she does."

"My mother was a wonderful woman." He paused. I waited. "We had dress-up time too."

Now things were getting interesting.

"I was only five, but I still remember the day she came to see me at my foster home. The idiot she was married to was there too but he barely looked at me. She was wearing this white sundress, and when she hugged me she smelled clean, not like the fat pig who was my foster mother. She told me to be a good boy and she was going to come back and get me, and she did. Her husband was away on another of his trips, so it was just us, and when we got home--I'd never seen such a clean house--she gave me a bath."

I tried not to show any emotion in my voice when I spoke.

"That must have been nice...."

"I'd never had one like it, there were candles and it smelled good. When she washed my hair and back, her hands were so gentle. She let the dirty water drain away, then she added more and got in with me, to wash me better. When she kissed my bruises, her lips felt soft, like velvet. And she said she was taking the pain out through my skin and into her." He glanced at me, and I don't know how I pulled it off, but I nodded as though what he'd just told me was the most natural thing in the world.

"She told me I could sleep in her bed because she didn't want me to be scared. I'd never felt another human being's skin against mine--no one had ever even held me before--and I could feel her heart beating." He patted his chest. "She liked to touch my hair, like how your mom touched yours, and she said it reminded her of her son's." My hand resting on his curls itched and I fought the urge to pull away.

"She couldn't have any more children, and she said she'd waited a long time to find a boy like me. She cried that first night.... I promised I'd be a good boy." He grew quiet again.

"You mentioned playing dress-up together.... You mean like cowboys and Indians?" It took him a long time to answer. When he did, I wished he hadn't.

"After our bath every night...." Oh,
shit.
"I slept in her bed, it made her feel safer, but on the nights when he was coming back from a trip, we'd have our bath earlier and then I'd help her get dressed." His voice flattened. "For him."

"That must have made you feel kind of abandoned. You get to have her all to yourself, then as soon as he's home you're shoved to the side."

"She had to do that, he was her husband." He turned his face back to me and in a firm voice said, "But I was special to her. She said I was her little man."

Got it.

"
Of course
she thought you were special--she picked you, right?"

He smiled. "Just like I picked you."

Later, when he climbed into bed beside me and laid his head on my chest, I realized I felt bad for him. I did. It was the first time I'd felt something other than disgust, fear, or hatred for him, and it scared me more than anything.

The guy
abducted
me, Doc, raped me, hit me, I shouldn't have given a shit about his pain, but when he told me that stuff about his mother--and I knew there had to be even more--I felt
bad
he had a fucked-up mom who fucked him up. I felt bad he'd been in an abusive foster home, bad that his new dad didn't seem to give a shit about him. Was it because my family's warped? Is that why I felt his pain, because I have it too? All I know is I hate it, Doc, I hate that I felt one ounce of compassion for that freak. I hate that I'm even telling you this shit.

Most people assume the guy had me at gunpoint the whole time, and I don't tell them any different. How could I ever explain? How can I tell them that when he told me about places in the world like the Rock of Gibraltar, where all those monkeys are, I found him interesting and articulate? And that sometimes when he rubbed my feet, they were so damn swollen, I
liked
it. Or that he could be so enthusiastic and funny during book-reading time, or when he was cooking--he had this one stupid dance he did every time he flipped an egg and he'd talk in different accents--I'd see the guy who first stopped at the open house. How could I ever tell anyone he made me
laugh
?

I was always so proud, proud of my strength. I've always been a no-man-is-ever-going-to-change-me girl, but he did. He did change me. I felt like I still had a little flame inside that was me. Like the pilot light on a gas fireplace, flickering in the background, but I worried that it would blow out one day. I
still
worry it's going to blow out one day.

There are all these books that say we create our own destiny and what we believe is what we manifest. You're supposed to walk around with this perpetual bubble over your head thinking happy thoughts and then everything is going to be sunshine and roses. Nope, sorry, don't think so. You can be as happy as you've ever been in your life, and shit is still going to happen.

But it doesn't just
happen.
It knocks you sideways and crushes you into the ground, because you were stupid enough to believe in sunshine and roses.

Man, did I ever have a big moment last night, Doc. I was asleep--in my bed, which should make you happy--but then I needed to pee, so I stumbled to the bathroom. On my way back I realized what I'd done, and damn if that didn't wake me right up--of course I got so excited, I couldn't sleep for the rest of the night.

It was just an old habit, going in the middle of the night, but that's good because it means my old routines are coming back, right? And maybe it means
I'm
coming back. Don't worry, I remember what you said about learning to accept that I'll never be the exact same person I was before the abduction. But still, it's
something.

Maybe it worked because I'd been asleep and didn't have a chance to think about it first. I've always liked that expression, "Dance like no one's watching." Say you're at home alone and a funky song comes on the radio, you might start grooving to it a little, feeling good, finding the beat, really getting into it. Your legs are going every which way, your hands are in the air, and you're shaking some serious ass. But as soon as you're out in public somewhere you start thinking everyone is watching you, judging you. You go, Is my ass jiggling too much? Am I in rhythm? Are they laughing at me? Then you stop dancing.

Every single day up on the mountain, I was being tested. If he was happy, I got extra privileges. If I didn't do something fast enough or perfect enough, which wasn't often because I was damn careful, I got slapped or privileges were taken away.

While The Freak was busy evaluating my behavior, I was analyzing his. Even after our talk about his mother I couldn't get a handle on what might set him off, and each situation was a clue to be collected and filed in my memory. Interpreting his needs and wants became my full-time job, so I studied every nuance of his expression, every inflection in his speech.

Years of living with a mother whose sobriety I'd learned to judge by the exact droop of her eyelids had honed my skills, but I'd also learned in mom-school that it's like trying to predict the actions of a tiger--you never know whether you're about to be a playmate or a meal.
Everything
depended on his mood. Sometimes I could make a mistake and he barely reacted, then I'd commit a lesser offense and he'd totally lose it.

Around March, when I was about six months pregnant, he walked in after one of his hunting trips and said, "I need your help outside."

Outside? As in
outdoors
? I stared at him, looking for any sign that he was joking or planned on killing me out there, but his face showed no emotion.

He threw one of his coats and a pair of rubber boots at me.

"Put these on."

Before I even had the zipper done up on the coat, he grabbed my arm and pulled me out the door.

The smell of fresh air hit me in the face like I'd walked into a wall, and my chest tightened up with the surprise of it. I tried to check out my surroundings as he led me over to a deer carcass about twenty feet from the cabin, but it was a sunny day and the brightness of the snow made my eyes water. All I could tell was that we were in a clearing.

My whole body stung from the cold. The snow only covered the foot part of my boots, but I wasn't used to being outside and my legs were bare. My eyes started to adjust to the light, but before I could register much of anything, he pushed me to my knees beside the deer's head. Blood still oozed from a hole behind its ear and a slit across its throat that had turned the snow around it pink. I tried to look away, but The Freak turned my face toward the carcass.

"Pay attention. I want you to kneel at the rear of the deer, and after we roll him onto his back, you'll hold his back legs apart while I gut him. Understand?"

I understood what he wanted me to do, I just didn't understand why he was asking--he never had before. Maybe he just wanted me to see what he could do, or more precisely, what he could do to
me.

But I nodded and, avoiding the deer's glazed eyes, I moved to crouch in the snow at its hind end and grabbed its stiff back legs. The Freak, smiling and humming, knelt at its head, and we rolled it onto its back.

Even though I knew it was already dead, it bothered me to see the deer look so helpless and undignified on its back with its legs held spread-eagle. I'd never seen a dead animal up close before. Perhaps sensing my distress, the baby moved restlessly.

My stomach heaved as I watched the tip of The Freak's knife slice into the skin at the deer's groin like it was butter. My nose caught the metallic scent of blood as he circled the deer's privates, then slit all along down its stomach. I was struck with an image of his slicing into me with that same serene expression on his face. My body jerked, and he gave me a look.

I whispered, "Sorry," gritted my teeth against the cold, and forced my muscles still. He went back to his humming and slicing.

While he was distracted, I looked around the clearing. A big stand of fir trees surrounded us, their branches weighted down with snow. Footsteps, drag marks, and what looked like the odd drop of blood disappeared around the side of the cabin. The air smelled clean, moist, and the snow crunched under my feet. I've skied on some mountains across Canada, and snow smells different in other areas, drier somehow, and it even feels different. The modest amount of snow and the lay of the land, along with the scent, had me hopeful I was still on the island or at least somewhere on the coast.

The Freak talked to me while he sliced. "It's better for us to eat food off the land, food that's pure and hasn't been touched by humans. When I went into town I bought some new books, so you can learn how to cure meats and can foods. Eventually we'll be completely self-sufficient, and I'll never have to leave you alone."

Not high on my wish list, but I have to say I was excited at the idea of doing something, anything, new.

When he finished slicing the whole deer open, and its stomach sack bulged out, he looked up from the carcass and said, "Have you ever killed, Annie?" As if a knife in his hand wasn't threatening enough, he has to start
talking
about killing?

"I've never been hunting."

"Answer the question, Annie." We stared at each other over the deer.

"No, I've never killed."

Holding the knife by the very tip of its handle, he swung it back and forth like a pendulum. With every upswing, he repeated, "Never? Never? Never?"

"Never--"

"Liar!" He tossed the knife up, grabbed the handle as it fell, and plunged it into the deer's neck to the hilt. Startled, I lost my grip and fell onto my back in the snow. He didn't say a word as I struggled to sit up. When I was back in a crouched position, I quickly grabbed the deer's legs and braced for him to flip out because I'd fallen, but he just stared at me. Then his gaze dropped to the slit in the deer's stomach, moved to my belly, and met my eyes again. I started babbling.

"I hit a cat with my car when I was a teenager. I didn't mean to, but I was coming home late and I was really tired, and then I heard this thunk, and I saw it spin up in the air. I saw it land and go into the woods, and I pulled over." The Freak kept staring at me and the words kept pouring out.

"I walked in the woods looking for it, and I was crying and calling, 'Kitty, Kitty,' but it was gone. I went home and told my stepdad, and he came with me back to the spot with flash-lights and we looked for like an hour, but we couldn't find it. He told me it was probably fine and had run home. But in the morning, I looked under my car and there was all this blood and fur on my axle."

"I'm impressed," he said with a big smile. "I didn't think you had it in you."

"I don't! It was an accident--"

"No, I don't think so. I think you saw his eyes reflect in the headlights and for a moment you wondered what it would feel like. And suddenly you just
hated
that cat, and then you floored the accelerator. I think the thud when you connected, when you knew you'd hit it, made you feel powerful, made you--"

"NO! No, of course not. I felt terrible--I
still
feel terrible."

"Would you still feel terrible if the cat was a killer? He was probably out hunting, you realize--have you seen a cat torture its prey? What if the cat was diseased and homeless with no one to love it? Would that make it better, Annie? What if you could tell by looking at it that its owners were abusing it, not giving it enough food, kicking it?" His voice rose.
"Maybe you did him a goddamn favor, did you ever think about that?"

It almost seemed like he wanted my approval of something he'd done. Did he want to confess or just fuck with my head? The latter seemed more likely, so I'm not sure which of us was more surprised when I finally spoke.

"Have you ever...have you ever killed a person?"

He reached out and gently caressed the handle of the knife.

"A brave question."

"I'm sorry, I've just never met anyone who's...you know. I've read a lot of books and watched TV and movies, but it's not like talking to a real person who's done it." It was easy to sound genuinely interested--I've always been fascinated with psychology, especially abnormal psychology. Murderers definitely fit that category.

"And if you did talk to, as you say, 'a real person who's done it,' what would you ask?"

"I...I would want to know why. But maybe sometimes they don't know, or don't even understand it themselves?"

It must have been the right answer, because he nodded decisively and said, "Killing is a funny thing. Humans make all these rules about when they consider it to be okay." He gave a quick laugh. "Self-defense? No problem. You find a doctor to say you're insane, and that's okay. A woman kills her husband, but she has PMS? If you have a good enough lawyer, that's okay too."

With his head tilted up at me, he rocked back and forth on his heels in the snow. "What if you knew how things were going to turn out and you could stop it? What if you could see something, something no one else could?"

"Like what?"

"It's a shame you didn't find the cat, Annie. Death is simply an extension of life. And if you witness death, the opening of a new dimension, you become aware of how unnecessary it is to limit yourself in this one."

He still hadn't actually admitted to killing anyone, and I wondered if I should leave it alone for now, but knowing when to pull back has never been one of my strengths.

"So what does it feel like? To kill someone?"

His head cocked to the side and his brows rose. "Planning on killing someone, are we?" Before I could deny it, he continued, but not in the direction I expected. "My mother died of cancer. Ovarian cancer. She rotted from the inside out, and at the end I could smell her dying." He paused for a second, his eyes flat and dead. I was trying to think what to ask next when he said, "I was only eighteen when she got sick--her husband had died a couple of years before--but I didn't mind looking after her. I knew how to take care of her better than anyone. But she wouldn't stop crying for him. Even though I'd told her he left and that he hadn't cared about her, not like I did, all she wanted was for me to find him. After everything I'd done for her.... I saw what he did to her. Saw it with my own eyes, but she cried for him."

"I don't understand, you said he died. What do you mean you told her he left?"

"He'd be gone for months,
months
, and we'd be fine. And then he'd come home, and I always knew when he was coming, because I helped her put on the dress for him, and she'd wear makeup. I told her I didn't like it, but she said
he
liked it. He wouldn't even let me eat with them. I know she wanted to feed me, but he made her wait until he was done. I was nothing more to him than a stray dog his wife had brought home from the pound. Later, after dinner, they went into the bedroom and closed the door, but one night, when I was around seven, they didn't close it all the way. And I saw...she was crying. His hands..." His voice drifted off and he stared at nothing.

"Was your dad hitting her?"

I'd noticed before that when he talked about his mom his voice would flatten, and when he answered this time it sounded almost robotic.

"I was gentle...I was always gentle when I touched her. I didn't make her cry. It wasn't right."

"He was hurting her?"

Staring hard at the center of my chest, his eyes vacant, he shook his head back and forth and repeated, "It wasn't right."

He caressed the base of his neck. "She saw me...in the mirror. She saw me." The flesh around his fingers reddened as he tightened his grip on his throat for a second, then he pulled his hand down to rub at his thigh like he was trying to wipe something off his palm.

In a raspy voice he said, "Then she
smiled.
" The Freak's mouth lifted up into a beatific smile, then widened until it was almost a grimace. He held it so long it had to be painful. My heart lurched in my chest.

Finally meeting my eyes, he said, "After that she always left the door open. For
years
she left the door open."

His voice flattened again. "When I was fifteen she started shaving me too, so I was smooth all over like her, and if I held her too hard in the night she got mad. Sometimes when I had dreams, the sheets...she made me burn them. She was changing."

Careful to keep my voice tender and soft, I said, "Changing?"

"I came home early from school one day. There were sounds from the bedroom. I thought he was on a trip. So I went to the door." He was rubbing at his chest now, like he was having a hard time getting air.

"He was behind her. And another man, a stranger.... I left before she could see me. Waited outside, under the porch--"

He stopped abruptly and after a few beats I said, "Under the porch?"

"With my books. That's where I hid them. I was only allowed to read inside if he was home. When he was gone she said they interfered with our time. If she caught me with one, she ripped the pages out." Now I knew why he was so careful with books.