The Girl Before (15 page)

The movie happens to be a love story, and I snuggle closer to Glen, thinking that there's no way there is a more romantic story than ours, now that we have run away together. Mama Mae made me read a story called
Romeo and Juliet
once, about two kids who fall in love and get married against their parents' wishes. I feel just like Juliet. A feeling of foreboding rushes through me as I remember how Juliet's story ended, but I shake it off and increase my pressure on Glen's hand. He looks down, his brow creasing in worry, and I take the opportunity to stretch up and kiss him again. We miss the rest of the movie, and I don't mind.

We are laughing as we exit the theater. We have plenty of time to make it to the bus that will take us away from here and toward our destiny. Our hands are linked, and our arms swing in time with our unhurried steps.

“Okay, kids. Playtime is over.”

I freeze, and the muscles in Glen's arm go taut. His hand is crushing mine. We turn, and, leaning against a van, smoking one of his signature cigars, is Papa G. Glen backs away, pulling me with him.

“Don't make this hard, boy. Just get in the van.” Papa's tone is unconcerned.

“No,” Glen says. “Clara and I are leaving. You can take your business and give it to someone else. I don't want it.”

Papa sighs and pushes away from the van, reaching into his pocket for his tool to cut the burning end of the cigar and replacing both after flicking the end away. “We've discussed this, Glen.” Papa rarely uses Glen's name, and I feel Glen's reaction as he stands up straighter. “You are almost done with your training. There is no one else. You will return to the compound. You will take over for me. And you will let this girl go.”

Glen is shaking his head in denial at every word Papa says. We continue to back up until Papa looks over his shoulder. His men are waiting for us at every possible escape route. We are sunk. I can practically see the gears in Glen's head turning as he tries to come up with a magical solution. Suddenly, he stills.

“You can bring us back, Father,” he says. “But we'll leave again.” Papa opens his mouth in protest, but Glen will not let him speak. “If you sell Clara, I will go after her. I will cause problem after problem until you're forced to get rid of me. I don't care what methods you use to keep me in line, they won't work. That is a promise.”

Papa G stares at Glen, his eyes appraising. I know Glen has stood up to Papa in the past, but never so strongly. He usually gives in. Papa says nothing, though his jaw tightens as he waits for Glen to continue.

“But,” Glen continues, “we will go back willingly, right now, if you agree to let us be together. Clara can be Mother's apprentice and prepare to take over with me when you guys retire.”

“She's worth a lot of money to me, boy,” Papa says, anger coloring his voice.

“She's worth a lot more than money to me,” Glen replies, releasing my hand to wrap an arm around me.

People are beginning to stare. Glen and Papa have kept their voices low enough that no one could overhear, but it's evident that there's a confrontation going on. Papa realizes this first.

“Fine,” he says. “Let's discuss it in the van.”

“No.” Glen's voice is firm, no fear apparent in his tone. “I need your word that you will not sell Clara.”

Papa considers, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deeper than I have ever seen them. “You will have to make up the money for me. Her client will take another girl, but he won't pay as much. You will make up the difference, as well as what I would have gotten for the other girl.”

Glen stares at his father. “You want me to
buy
her from you?”

Papa nods.

“Agreed.” There is no hesitation in Glen's voice. “If I'd known that was an option, we could have avoided this.”

Papa looks at Glen, and I catch a glimpse of something like pride in his eyes, there and gone before I can be sure, replaced with his usual derision. “Of course, you will both be punished for this little field trip.”

Glen flinches, but nods. “Of course.”

We get in the van, and though Glen continues to hold on to me, I feel my freedom forever slipping away as the door shuts us in.

The first waves of nausea wash over me in the early hours of the morning. I do not recognize the feeling at first. By the time I realize what's happening, I am almost too late to make it to the toilet, where the contents of my stomach end up. I feel shaky and cold, and sweat beads along my forehead. I lean against the wall by the toilet and release a soft moan. I cannot move even to make my way back to the bed.

I am still there an hour later, when the guard comes to check on me. He calls for a doctor immediately and helps me back to my bed. I am feeling better, though still dizzy. I fall asleep while we wait for the doctor. When he arrives, the doctor takes one look at me and orders the guard to take me to the infirmary.

The guard wheels me to an unfamiliar area of the building. It is near Dr. Mulligan's office, but we take a few extra turns. I am poked and prodded and asked to pee in a cup, and then I am allowed to go back to my room to rest. I think vaguely of the group I was supposed
to attend today, after some more prodding by Dr. Mulligan, but soon I am swept into a dreamless sleep.

•   •   •

Connor is sitting by my bed when I wake. He is reading a sheaf of papers, and it is reminiscent of the time Meredith sat by me while I slept. This time, however, I am not frightened. Though Connor gets stressed and overreacts at times, he has been patient with me, and I know not to fear him. I wonder where Jay is. I have come to enjoy my time spent in the company of the enthusiastic young agent. I borrow energy from him through long hours of the same questions.

“Hey,” I say, my voice hoarse. Connor looks up from his papers, a ghost of a smile on his lips, but his eyes are worried. I think again that Connor has aged since we met. A little more gray hair, a few more spidery veins around his eyes and lips. Or maybe I am becoming more observant.

“Hey,” he says, stuffing his papers into a folder. “How are you feeling?”

I shove myself into a sitting position and am surprised when I feel only the slight dizziness that comes from sitting up too fast. My head is clear, and my stomach feels fine. “Pretty good,” I say, looking at Connor in shock. “You have some good medical treatment here.”

Connor's smile grows a little wider. “It's not a miracle of science, unfortunately. Or fortunately,” he adds, furrowing his brow.

I shake my head. He is still so confusing at times. “What are you talking about?” I ask.

He looks at me. “You feel up to talking with Dr. Mulligan?”

I groan. “Is she going to make me go to that group?”

Connor chuckles. “Not today,” he says. “We have bigger fish to fry today.”

I roll my eyes. “Let's go, then.”

He rolls the wheelchair over. “Hop in.”

“No way.” I stand, smoothing my pants and shirt. “I can walk.”

“You have no shoes.”

I look down at my bare feet. “Oh. Yeah.” I look around for my slippers, but they have disappeared.

“Just sit, Clara,” he says, sounding exasperated.

I sit, and he wheels me to Dr. Mulligan's hallway. It is carpeted here, so I hold up a hand for him to stop. “Please?” I say, standing. He shakes his head, but allows me to walk the rest of the way.

Dr. Mulligan is waiting for us. I am surprised when Connor takes a seat on the other end of the couch instead of leaving. I raise an eyebrow at him, but he has his attention focused on Dr. Mulligan. With a sigh, I turn to face her as well.

“How are you feeling, Clara?” Dr. Mulligan asks. Her tone is careful this morning. Or is it afternoon? I have no idea how long I slept.

“Much better,” I say. “In fact, I feel pretty good right now. But maybe not good enough to go to that group thing. I don't know if I'm contagious.” I give a little cough to be convincing, remembering too late that I had a stomach bug.

“You're not contagious,” Connor says from his spot on the couch, and Dr. Mulligan glances at him.

I look between the two of them.

Dr. Mulligan squares her shoulders and takes off her glasses.

“You didn't have a stomach bug, Clara. That's why we know you're not contagious.”

“Food poisoning?” I guess. “The food is pretty terrible here.”

Connor snorts.

“No,” Dr. Mulligan says, ignoring Connor. “The food is fine.”

“Clearly you haven't had their meat loaf.”

“Clara, I need you to focus.”

“I am focused.” I am not focused. I had a weird dream before I got
sick that I want to write down before I forget it. I wonder how I can get Connor to leave.

“Clara, you're pregnant.”

There is a hush over the house as I limp to my room. The lashes I have received will become infected if I do not find someone to help me tend them. I wonder if Glen is enduring a similar punishment. I have not seen him since they separated us in the driveway. I was taken to the back, where Mama released her rage on me without saying a word. I have never been whipped before. That is a punishment reserved for the girls who cause trouble, the ones who are sent away. I have never caused trouble. Until Glen.

I slip into my bedroom and am relieved to see Macy waiting for me, bowl and ointment ready. I remove my shirt and lie facedown on the bed. Macy has stripped the mattress bare. The naked surface is dotted in stains that I try not to think about as I bury my head in my arms. The first dab of the cloth sends pains shooting to my fingers and toes, but soon I am numb to it, as I was to the switch outside.

“Where did you go?” Macy asks after several minutes of tending to my back. I hear the curiosity dripping from her voice, and I know it has been killing her to wait this long to ask. And she deserves to know. Macy has been my confidante for as long as I can remember, and we keep each other's secrets. The fact that I didn't tell her about leaving borders on betrayal, though she does not appear angry. Yet I am still hesitant to tell her.

When I don't answer, she presses the issue. “I heard Glen disappeared, too.”

“How could you have heard that? Mama wouldn't talk about it.”

“I got out of the house and went to Josh's cabin.” Macy pauses. “He said Glen took off last night with one of the girls and Papa came through on a rampage. Tore Glen's bunk apart.”

“You went to his
cabin
? In the daytime?” I gasp, sitting up. The cloths on my back drop to the mattress and I hold my shirt over my chest as I gape at her. Nighttime outings are bad enough. I had no idea she was taking such risks while the sun was out.

Macy's mouth turns up in a sly smile. “It's not the first time I've been there during the day.” She shrugs. “With your extra lessons with Mama, I've had more free time. My client isn't as demanding as yours.” My client demands that I be as educated as if I had attended a private school, excelling in reading, writing, proper speech, and three languages. My heart drops as I imagine the amount of money he has promised for my years of training. I cannot feel too guilty, though, as Glen's face flashes through my memory. He is worth it. And he feels the same about me.

I shake my head, bringing Macy's face back into focus. Her eyes widen. “What will your client say when he finds out?”

“He won't find out,” I say, returning to my position on the bed. “At least not the details.”

“What details?” Macy's tone is ravenous, willing me to share information.

A knock on the door interrupts before I can formulate an answer. Macy's shoulders sag as she stands to open the door. Mama fills the doorway.

“You can go to your chores, child,” she says to Macy, moving aside. “I'll finish up in here.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Macy says, looking at the floor, the picture of a demure teenage girl. I wonder if she has really fooled them as much as
she thinks. Mama's eyes narrow as she watches Macy depart, before she steps in and closes the door behind her.

I remain still, waiting for any sort of directive. Mama crosses the room and her hands take over where Macy left off with cleaning and applying ointment and bandages. I flinch at the first touch, expecting Mama's usual gruffness, but I am surprised at the gentleness of her hands. Her swift fingers move across my back faster than Macy's had, and she soon motions for me to sit up.

“Get changed and come down to the parlor,” she says, standing and moving toward the door. “We'll have a chat.”

My shirt is ruined, but I toss it in the hamper anyway. I will try to get the stains out and mend it later. It is the shirt Glen gave me to wear to run away with him, and I do not want to part with it. I will have to hide it to keep it from becoming rags. Glen's shirt should not be used to polish furniture.

After I change into an understated skirt and top, I make my way downstairs, my feet dragging until I am within earshot of the parlor. Then I perk up and walk at my normal pace. No use putting it off any longer. I am anxious about what Mama is going to say. It was clear from the whipping she gave me that there was more than just punishment on her mind.

Mama is already seated in one of the high-backed chairs by the window when I arrive. “Close the doors, please, Clara,” she says, not looking up. I push the French doors closed until they click, and then move to the seat across from Mama. “Please, sit.” Mama motions to the chair. I sit, careful to keep my back away from the hard surface. The movement sends waves of pain through my body anyway.

It isn't long before the silence grows uncomfortable. I burn my tongue as I sip from the tea Mama has poured for me. I know not to speak first. I have been punished once already. Though talking out of
turn would not earn me another lashing, there are other ways Mama could seek out her revenge.