Authors: Rena Olsen
All goes quiet at once as the doorbell rings. I signal for the other girls to take their places on their beds, and they do so obediently. I stand with Jill and wait to be summoned, my hand resting on her shoulder. I feel a slight tremble and give her a squeeze.
“Jill darling, you are perfect. You will be very happy with Mr. Jamison.”
“Clara! Bring Jill!” Glen calls out. He is using his professional voice. He only uses it around clients, and it is much more pleasant
than how he usually talks. I enjoy meeting clients with Glen just to see that side of him.
I lead Jill into the living area, which is miraculously spotless. I had expected it to look like a tornado ran through. I spare a quick thought to wonder what they have done with the new girl, but my focus is pulled to the interaction between Jill and Mr. Jamison.
Mr. Jamison circles Jill, asking her questions, to which she responds appropriately. I beam with pride, and I can see relief on Glen's face. Mr. Jamison walks over to Glen and hands him a thick envelope, waiting while Glen counts the contents. I give Jill one more look-over and smooth her hair. I always feel a little sad when I am saying good-bye to one of my daughters. But I am confident she will do well. She has not even moved to hug me good-bye, though tears glisten in her eyes. She is ever the lady, just as I taught her.
Mr. Jamison leads Jill out, and after the door latches behind them, Glen lets out a whoop and spins me around. “We did it, Clara! Papa will have to be impressed.”
I smile at him. “He will be.” Jill was the first girl who Glen and I handled completely on our own after taking over her training. It couldn't have gone better, and Papa has to be able to see that.
A crash echoes from the other room. Glen swears. “Can you do something about that tiger? Now that Jill is gone, I expect you should be able to deal with her.”
I nod and hurry to the other room. There is an observation room outside the small bedroom where new girls are put when they first arrive. We need time to observe them and pinpoint areas for improvement. The men have managed to get the girl into the room, but cannot shut the door, as she has wedged herself into the space between the door and the latch. The adorable bedroom I decorated has been ransacked, and there is a decapitated doll strewn across the bed. The girl has wild eyes, and she screeches as I walk into the observation
room. Her dark blond hair is a nest of tangles that will take me hours to smooth out. I shake my head.
My entrance is enough to distract the girl so the men can push her inside and close the door. The girl continues to destroy the room, but it is silent now. The room is soundproofed.
“Sorry about your room, Clare,” Joel says, shaking his head. “This one's a fighter for sure.”
I just nod and wave them off. Joel and his companion leave gratefully. My eyes are glued to the girl on the other side of the window. She appears to be at least twelve or thirteen, a bit older than the girls we usually take in. The girl cannot see me, but has tasked herself with trying to break what she sees as a giant mirror by repeatedly ramming herself into it.
A fighter, indeed. I think I will call her Passion.
They are trying something new today. They have brought me outside to a courtyard of some sort. A picnic table, shaded by a large tree, is centered in the area, surrounded by sparse blades of brown grass. It has been a dry spring. I drag my feet as I walk toward the table. All my energy is gone. I cannot remember my last meal. Connor and Meredith sit on one side of the picnic table, plates of chicken in front of them. Another plate sits waiting across the table, and I collapse in front of it. It is a struggle, but I push the plate away from me and turn to stare at the tree. It is a sad tree. Alone. It looks dead, but small buds give evidence of dormant life.
“You are wasting away, DiâClara,” Connor says. He sounds concerned. More of his tricks. I am worried his tricks are starting to work
on me, because his kind voice makes tears prick my eyes. I will not cry, though. I will show no weakness. Not by talking. Not by eating. Not by crying.
“They have located the parents of all the girls from your house,” Meredith says. “The reunions will be on the news.”
Parents? Those are my girls. Glen and I are their parents. I turn to say so but catch myself just in time. There is a spark in Meredith's eyes that says she knows she almost broke me. I must be stronger. Meredith and Connor take large bites of chicken and talk about some sporting event that happened last night. They pretend I do not exist. Maybe I don't. Not anymore.
Meredith pauses and looks at me. “Oh yeah,” she says, as if she has just remembered something. She does this a lot. She slides a scrap of paper across the rough surface of the table and returns to her conversation and her chicken.
I consider ignoring the note, but I am weak. I pull it closer, eyes widening. One word stares back at me from the paper.
Eat.
It is Glen's handwriting.
I eat.
Glen's parents' house is large, located in a gated community in a wealthy area of the city. Though I have been here many times, my hands tremble with nerves as we pull up in the circular driveway. Glen is tense but excited as he hops out of the truck and motions me to
follow. A maid lets us in and leads us to a cozy sitting room. I clasp my hands in front of me, unsure what to do with them.
Mama Mae stands as we enter the room. She embraces Glen stiffly and gives me a kiss on each cheek. Papa G stays seated, his breathing machine tethering him to his chair. Glen walks over to shake his hand and takes the chair next to him.
“Come, child.” Mama Mae takes my arm and leads me out of the room. “Let's have a chat.”
We settle into a small parlor down the hall, and I am telling Mama about the children's progress when there is a loud bang from the other room. Glen stalks into the room and grabs my hand.
“We're leaving.” His grip on my fingers hurts, but I dare not complain. As we reach the sitting room, I see that a table has been tipped. Papa G sits calmly in his chair and does not look up as we pass. Glen drags me out the front door, leaving it open in his wake. Anger rolls off him in waves, and he throws me at the passenger door. I quickly climb in and buckle up. I don't get involved with disagreements between Glen and Papa and know better than to ask what has happened. I know enough to suspect that Papa was not as excited about Glen's decision to expand the business as Glen had hoped.
Glen drives like the devil himself is chasing us, and I cling to the door handle to keep from sliding all over the seat. He drives to a state park and stops the truck in the shadows of the towering evergreens. He is breathing hard and grips the wheel like he is strangling it.
“Glen . . .” I begin, unsure how to help him.
Glen lunges for me, crushing his mouth against mine. I cling to him, trying to absorb the demons he is fighting, if just for a short time. The layers of clothing between us disappear. As he rises above me, his hands find my neck. His eyes blaze and stare into mine, and his fingers tighten. I cannot breathe. I cannot speak to tell him I cannot
breathe. He moves faster and squeezes tighter and my vision begins to blur, black spots dancing over his face.
When I am sure I am dying, his fingers loosen and he falls on top of me, his face buried in my shoulder. I feel the wetness of his tears on my blouse as he shudders and stills. After a few moments, he moves his lips to my neck, kissing the tender skin gently.
The next day, Glen presents me with a silk scarf and a single red rose.
The bruises on my neck linger for a week.
I am back in the familiar questioning room, but feeling stronger. Glen's note has made all the difference. He wants me to fight. I cannot fight if I am weak, so now I will eat. This morning I got up and did jumping jacks and push-ups in my room. I tried to jog in circles, but the space is too small. They will not give me a jump rope. At least they have given me loose pants and cotton shirts to wear. I feel almost human.
The door opens and Meredith strolls in. Instead of taking her normal seat across from me, she drags the chair around the table to place it next to me. The sound of the metal legs on the floor causes me to cringe, and I see a small smile cross Meredith's face. She enjoys watching me squirm as well. Connor is not far behind, wheeling a television on a cart into the space. He pops a tape in the VCR and perches on the edge of the table with the remote control in his hand.
The screen comes to life, and I lean forward as I recognize Daisy. She is running into the arms of two people, who scoop her up and embrace her as if they will never release her. All three are crying.
Jenna has run to another couple, who are inspecting her in disbelief, as if they cannot quite understand that she is real. Simone stands slightly apart from her people. She is a miniature of the woman who is trying to speak to her, but she stares past them. Somber Simone. That is how she got her name.
One by one, I watch as my daughters are embraced and taken away by these strangers. Finally, I see Passion. My wild child. Never quite tamed, at least not for anyone but me. No one has come for her. She watches with disinterest until the uniformed men close in on her again. Then she comes to life, kicking and screaming. The camera pans away, but I can hear her continued shouts. “Clara! Clara!”
The screen goes blank, and Connor turns to look at me. Beside me, Meredith shifts and hands me a tissue to wipe the tears I did not realize were pouring from my eyes.
The sun stretches across the smooth floor of the library, and I scoot myself away from its searching fingers, pulling my pile of books along with me. The window is open, but there is barely a breeze today, and sweat soaks the hair covering my neck. I want to put it up, but Mama insists I wear it down.
Giggling voices float through the open window, and I glare at it. The other girls have been allowed to spend time outside today to escape the oppressive heat inside the house, but Mama assigned me a “special task.” She says it's an honor and she only gives these tasks to the best girls, but it feels like a punishment. I sigh and lift my hair off my neck for just a moment, leaning back against the bookshelf and closing my eyes.
“So lazy,” a voice taunts from the direction of the doorway, but instead of feeling guilty, I smile.
“Buzz off, Macy, I'm special.” I open my eyes and grin at my friend.
Macy wanders across the room to the nest I've made for myself within the pile of books. “What are you doing, anyway? It's too hot to be inside.”
Rolling my eyes as she plops next to me on the floor, I shove a stack of books in her direction. “I'm supposed to pick another language to learn, and one to teach.”
“You're such a pet,” Macy says, but not in a mean way. “How do you even learn those stupid languages?”
I shrug. “I dunno. It's easy. But now Mama thinks that since I can learn them, I should teach them.”
“She knows you're eleven, right?”
“I think she thinks I'm one hundred or something. Not nearly as old as she is, though.”
We look at each other for a moment before breaking out in giggles. I sneak a glance at the open library door, certain that Mama is going to jump out and punish me for saying something like that about her, but the hallway remains quiet.
“Ugh, it is so hot in here,” Macy says when we have calmed down again. “Can't you just pick some and come outside?”
Shaking my head, I reach for the next book. “I want to pick the right ones. Mama got all these books and workbooks, and if I have to use them, I want to at least have fun with them.”
“Only you would talk about lessons as fun.”
I shove her shoulder, toppling one of my neatly stacked piles in the process.
“They can be,” I say, restacking.
Macy reaches over and picks up a thick volume from a pile I
haven't looked through yet. “How about Mandarin?” she asks. “This shouldn't take you more than a week or two.” Her cheeky expression shines at me, bringing a smile to my face despite the teasing.
“Maybe someday,” I say, grabbing the book from her and placing it in the “No” stack. “But I don't want to outshine you too much.”
The smile falls off Macy's face, and I worry for a second that I hurt her feelings. Even though I roll my eyes at Mama's “special” assignments, she makes no secret of the fact that I am her favorite. Macy, on the other hand, is always getting in trouble. Mama says she has too much spirit and needs to learn to be a lady. Macy is really smart, though, and her art skills are better than any of the other girls. I have overheard Mama and Papa talking about clients for her already. She will find a great place to be.
“Hey,” I say, nudging Macy's knee with my foot. “Do you want to learn a language?”
She shrugs. “Mama hasn't mentioned it,” she says. “I don't think she'd let me.”
“Why not?” I ask, pushing a stack of French workbooks toward her. “Pick one. I'll teach you whether Mama approves or not.”
Macy's eyes glint with mischief, as they always do if I mention breaking the rules. “Like a secret tutor?”
“Exactly.”
“Sounds right up my alley,” Macy says, flipping open the book at the top of the stack.
“Sure you don't want to go back outside for a while?” I ask after a few minutes. I start moving my book nest away from the growing patches of sunlight again.
Macy doesn't look up from the book she is looking through. “Nope,” she says. “If you're in here, I'm in here. You're stuck with me.”
I hide my grin behind the Italian language book I pick up next. I can't imagine anyone else I'd rather be stuck with.
When they come for me the next day, I am still lying in my bed. I refuse to move. I refuse to eat. I have soiled my bed, but I do not care. I see Passion's face over and over in my mind. I see all my children running to strangers as if they had no other mother. As if I weren't enough. I will never see them again.