The Girl Before (19 page)

Genevieve's face pops into my head. My hands begin to shake. I shove them under myself, but Dr. Mulligan sees everything. It is why she is so good at her job.

“Who were you just remembering, Clara?” Her voice is gentle, curious.

I shake my head. I will not speak. South Dakota never happened. But it did. And Genevieve, who represented a future I may have had if not for Glen . . . I cannot finish the thought. The words are spilling out before I can stop them. “There was a woman, Genevieve. She was . . . special in her house. The same way I am special to Glen, except I think Genevieve was more a possession. We met once. She took care of her girls, though they were older. She was bitter, but there was a connection. Shared circumstances.” I pause, sifting my thoughts.
“She was like the dark version of me. Who I could have been. Who I wanted to avoid becoming.”

Dr. Mulligan should play poker. I watched the men play sometimes at the house. The biggest winners never gave anything away. I brace myself for a strong reaction. More questions like Connor might ask, about how or where I had met Genevieve. Instead, her expression smooth, she asks, “Where is Genevieve now?”

Without answering, I break the seal and open my notebook. The subject is closed. I will not answer any more questions, and Dr. Mulligan does not try to ask any more. I am proud. I managed to bring up a painful memory and keep my promise to Glen. I never mentioned South Dakota.

Swirling my pen around a fresh page of the notebook, I let my mind wander. My entire reality shifted when I learned I was pregnant. A pinpoint of light in the darkness of my present life. Every therapy session, every hour in the questioning room, has been focused on the past. Who I was. What I did. Beyond knowing that my future must include Glen, I have given little thought to what it will look like, how it might be different now that our baby will be there with us. My haphazard swirls begin to take the shape of words, and my pen races across the page.

At the end of the hour, I close my notebook. I finished a letter to Nut, and as I was writing, I realized that I don't want to give them any reason to keep me here longer than necessary. My son will not be born in captivity. I will cooperate and put on a shiny face. They will never know the difference. When Jay knocks on the door, I stand and hand my notebook to Dr. Mulligan. “I think I will go back to the group.”

I wander into the parlor a few minutes early for my training meeting with Mama. Today's lesson is to be on appropriate punishments, and I am dreading it. Though I have been taking a larger role in training, Mama still doesn't trust that I can actually control any of the girls. What she doesn't understand is that they don't need to be controlled. They listen to me because I listen to them. I wonder how Mama would react if I asked to give
her
a lesson. I smirk as I imagine what creative punishment she would find for such a suggestion. I long for the day when Glen and I will be married and have our own group. Things will be much different when we are in charge.

A tall figure blocks the window as I walk through the doorway, and I stop short. Papa stands, waiting, hands clasped behind him as he gazes out at the mountains. “Close the door, Clara,” he says, and I comply immediately, stunned that he has addressed me by my name, something that has not happened since Glen and I became engaged.

Wringing my hands, I stand in the center of the room. A quick glance tells me that I am alone with Papa. It feels weird, wrong. Papa is always around, but Mama is always close by. We all know that Papa is in charge, but Mama serves as a sort of buffer, protecting us from the worst of him.

“Please sit, Clara,” Papa says, shifting from his spot at the window. He hasn't looked at me yet, but his voice is pleasant, not the gruff bark I am used to. In some ways this version of Papa is more intimidating, because I don't know what to expect.

He moves to the liquor cabinet in the corner and pours himself a small amount of amber liquid. He is rarely without some sort of drink
in his hand these days. Mama's face usually takes on a pinched look when she sees him drinking, but she says nothing. I force my eyes away from the glass before he turns to face me. Mostly we just pretend the drinks don't exist.

I lower myself onto the small settee, perching on the edge, ready to run if necessary. It would be stupid to do so, but I like to keep my options open. Papa takes his time swirling his drink in his glass before finally turning to me.

“I suppose you're wondering why I've interrupted your normal training time, Clara.”

The sound of my own name is starting to grate on my nerves, but I only give a small smile and a nod. Always agreeable.

Papa takes my nod as agreement and makes his way to the chair Mama usually occupies. His large frame looks ridiculous on the spindly-legged chair, like a giant trying to sit on a child's chair, but I maintain my composure. I make a mental note to describe the scene for Macy later, but my stomach drops when I remember that Macy isn't around to share these things anymore. I usually do a better job of compartmentalizing this information, only taking it out and examining it in the dark hours of the night, when I can cry in the room we once shared with no questions or interruptions.

My distress must show on my face, but thankfully Papa takes it as anxiety over his presence here. I am brought back to the present situation as he speaks again.

“There's nothing to be worried about, Clara.” I'm not so sure. There is always something to be worried about when it comes to Papa. “Mama Mae and I have decided that you are at the point in your training where you should truly understand where your sisters and future daughters come from, and why they have been offered the opportunity to train here for their futures.”

My heart speeds up in my chest. We are forbidden to talk about
our lives before coming to live with Mama and Papa. I've been here so long I don't remember my life before, but for the occasional flash of memory or feeling of déjà vu.

“As you know,” Papa says, “the men and I go out on scouting trips quite often. We search for young men and women who are in bad situations, where they have been hurt or are unwanted. We rescue them and offer them a better life.”

I lean forward. “Do . . . do they want to come with you?” I flinch, expecting to be berated for my question.

Papa chuckles. “Most of the time, no, Clara, and that is an excellent question. I know you've seen the girls come in here, kicking and screaming, wanting to go home.” He pauses for a drink, contemplating. “These children don't know what's best for them, Clara. They fear what they don't know, and all they know is fear. That's where we come in. Mama, and now you, with your girls, and Glen and me with the boys. We teach them skills, give them chances they would never have otherwise. Our work is very important.” He looks at me, waiting for my agreement.

I grow cold at his words, and I gnaw on my lip as I consider the question I am burning to ask. It will probably make him angry, and he has been so pleasant, I don't want to ruin it.

Setting aside his now-empty glass, Papa leans forward, the chair creaking under his shifting weight. “What is it, Clara? Do you not agree that we offer these young people a better life? A better future?”

I nod, a subtle lift of my chin.

“You aren't convinced.” There's an edge to Papa's voice. He stands and walks to refill his glass.

“It's not that,” I say, rushing my words to prevent an eruption. “You and Mama have given my sisters and me everything, and trained us well. I am grateful, and I know my sisters are as well.”

He leans against the wall, swirling his drink. “But?”

“But . . . I just wonder . . . What about the other girls? The ones who get sent away from here? Who don't complete their training?”
Like Macy.

A slow smile spreads across Papa's face as understanding comes to his eyes. “Ah. Yes. Those girls.” He walks back to where I am seated, but does not reclaim his chair. “You see, Clara, sometimes we get children from families that are broken beyond repair. Poisoned. It's in their very blood, and it comes out eventually. We don't want to send them back to those families from whom they were rescued, but they are not suitable for our program here, either. So they go elsewhere.”

“To do what?”

Papa's eyes slice to mine, heating. I am trying his patience, but I must know.

“What did Macy ever do, Papa? She worked hard. She made a mistake. She—”

The glass shatters against the door of the parlor, the remaining liquid dripping down over the glittering shards. Papa braces himself on the arms of my chair and leans in close.

“Macy was a little slut. We assure our clients that all girls come to them pure and innocent. Macy was none of those things. Macy went where you would have gone if my son weren't so idiotically besotted with you.” His breath is hot on my cheek as I turn my face away, cowering as deep in the chair as I can get. “You will never mention that girl to me again, or ask any more questions about her, or you may find out firsthand what became of her.”

The parlor door flies open, and Mama rushes in. “Glen Lawson, Senior, what on earth is going on in here?”

Papa straightens, smoothing out the wrinkles in his jacket that his outburst caused. “Just finishing up, Mae,” he says. “I think Clara and I are on the same page now.” He turns to me. “Any further questions can be directed to Mama.” Without another word, he stalks out the door.

Mama bustles out of the room and is back in seconds with a broom. “Go get the mop, Clara. Let's get this cleaned up before the entire room smells like bourbon.”

My limbs unfreeze and I force myself to stand and do as I am told. Mama and I clean in silence. She does not ask what happened, and I am not planning to volunteer any information. Even thinking about Macy hurts, and I know I must put her away in the darkest recesses of my memories, at least for now.

When we finish, Mama shoos me away to help the younger girls with their lessons, but I don't miss the concerned look on her face. I pray I have not ruined everything already.

I am immersed in a book on giving birth when Jay walks in. I'm surprised to see him. The next group is not until tomorrow, and there was not supposed to be any questioning today. I raise an eyebrow at him.

“You have a visitor,” he says, his voice cautious. “You can send her away if you want.”

“Her?”

“Glen's mother is back.”

Instinctively, I place a hand over where Nut grows. I wonder if Glen has told her the news. Of course he has. That is why she's here. I am not sure if I want to see her. I hadn't thought of this before. Will Mama try to have control over my son? I want him to know his grandmother, but only if that is the role she chooses to fulfill. There will have to be clear expectations about how much say Mama will have in our son's life. I'm not sure it's a conversation I'm ready for today, but
the possibility that she will bring news of Glen is too tempting to dismiss.

I stand. “I will see her.”

Jay nods and leads the way out of the room. I am not cuffed this time, not even when he drops me off in the visiting room. Mama and I are alone again. She stands as I enter and moves forward to embrace me. I'm shocked as her arms come around me. If we are supposed to be playing strangers, why is she hugging me on our second visit?

“It's all right, dear,” Mama says, loud enough for those listening in to hear. “Glen told me about the baby. We are family forever now.”

Forever. I had planned forever with Glen. Forever sounds so long when Mama says it, though I've always assumed she would be around. She always has been. I give her an awkward pat on the back, and we sit on the molded plastic chairs across from each other.

“Hello again, Mrs. Lawson.”

“Please, call me Mae,” Mama says, her eyes bright.

“Mae. What can I do for you today?”

Mama laughs. “I just wanted to come to visit my grandbaby.” She leans back, studying me. “Are they feeding you enough? You look thin. I can't even see a bump.”

I try not to be offended. I am more confused by this version of Mama. She seems more shrill than she did before, and I wonder if she has taken something. “My pants are getting a little tight, but there is no noticeable bump yet,” I say. “The doctor says I will really start to pop when I reach the second trimester.”

Mama nods. “I showed late with my babies, too.”

I do not like hearing her compare herself to me. I smile anyway. “When did you talk to Glen?”

“A few days ago. He's looking better. He credits you for his recovery. He is fighting again, determined to get out and help you raise that baby.”

Pride bubbles inside of me. I knew telling Glen about Nut was a good plan. My confidence grows. We will make it through this. We will be a family. They cannot take this son away from me as they have stolen my daughters. He is mine. “Is his lawyer good?” I dare to ask.

I see the disapproval in Mama's eyes. I am not supposed to ask these questions, but I do not shrink away. Mama holds no power over me in this place. She cannot say or do anything to reprimand me, and it is a perfectly logical question to ask the mother of the man I love.

“The best I could get,” Mama says, her voice colder. “It wasn't easy to secure someone willing to defend him in a case like this.”

My forehead wrinkles. Lots of people get lawyers to defend them for murder. And the kidnapping charges will never stick once they figure out what really happened. “A case like what?”

Mama laughs. “You are so smart, Clara, but so naïve.”

I ignore her dig and press for more information. “Will he be released?”

“I don't know, child. I really don't know.”

I want to know more, but instead I allow Mama to babble about baby clothes and the things I will need to stock up on before transitioning into stories about Glen when he was a baby. It should be a natural conversation from one mother to another, but it feels forced, and I am grateful when Jay walks in. “Time's up, Mrs. Lawson. Let's go, Clara.”