Authors: Rena Olsen
“Yeah, I guess.”
“And did it work?”
“Well, I definitely thought more about what I said to him. He had a look he could give me where I knew I was in trouble. If I could stop myself, I could make him happy and save myself some bruises.”
“So your husband taught you, through hitting and intimidation, that you were not allowed to express yourself to him.”
When she says it that way, it sounds terrible. I do not respond. Glen would not like the direction my thoughts are going, but for the first time I start to question him. Why did Glen not want me to think for myself? He always said I was smart and had good ideas, but if I shared out of turn, I was punished. If I looked at him wrong, I could be punished.
“Sometimes he would just be angry,” I whisper. “It would make him feel better to have sex, but it was always rough. Then he would buy me presents. Connor said yesterday he doesn't like to buy his girlfriend presents after they fight. But he never gave her bruises, either.”
“How did you feel when Connor told you that?”
“Confused.”
“Why?”
“I always felt spoiled when Glen would give me presents, especially when I deserved to be hit, or when I had absorbed his sadness.”
“Absorbed his sadness?”
“Glen puts on a good face, but I saw the real Glen. The Glen who was angry and sad and tortured by the thought of never living up to his father's expectations. When we would have sex when he was in one of those moods, I felt like I could take that from him. And it always showed up in bruises. But it was okay, because he always seemed lighter after.” I draw my knees to my chest, holding them tight, holding myself together.
Dr. Mulligan's eyes look sad, and my fears are confirmed. I am not normal. My beautiful relationship with Glen is not right.
“I would like to write in my notebook now.”
She nods and retrieves it. I don't speak for the rest of the session, but I do not write, either. The blank page stares back at me. I'm not even tempted to peek at the sketch of Glen's face.
I throw what I can into the waiting boxes. Mama is across the room, wrapping her nice china and mumbling to herself. Over the past three days we have sent truckloads of boxes to an industrial area in the city, to an apartment building that will become our home. I pause and look around the room, memorizing the lines of the house I grew up in.
Glen and I have already cleaned out our cabin. We did not have much there to begin with. I wanted to cry over the loss of our first home, but any tears earned me a slap across the face and a stern lecture about being strong.
It was less than a week ago that Papa came home distraught. Glen and I had been visiting with Mama, and Papa burst into the room, lip bleeding, eyes wild.
“It's gone, Mae,” he said, and it was the first time I had ever seen him look lost. He was always so in control, and I was frightened by this side of him.
“What do you mean?” Mama asked, standing and walking over to him. “What's gone?”
“Everything. Everything. I lost it all.” Papa's voice cracked, and Glen's arm came around me to pull me close. He had never seen Papa that way, either.
It was the biggest fight I had ever seen between Mama and Papa. He was quite drunk, so even when he went to punish her for yelling at him, his strikes were ineffectual. Glen and I sat in the background, dumbstruck, as the story came out.
Papa took a big risk and messed with the wrong business partner.
He got drunk and made a stupid bet. Not that I know much about gambling, but the consequences speak for themselves. He lost the entire operationâhis side of it, anyway. We were to be out of the compound in a week, when his partner would come to take over.
I glance at Mama now, trying to ignore the green and purple bruises scattered over her exposed skin. Though Papa was too drunk to punish her the first night, she had showed up the next day to bring us boxes, and she was covered. My guess is that Papa took out more than his frustrations with her.
The only saving grace is that Papa had already turned over a portion of the business to Glen, and that part he has not lost. We had already secured the building in the city, a building Papa's partner knows nothing about. It is an old warehouse with a large apartment on the top floor. Not ideal, but there is enough room for now. The girls on Glen's roster, the ones we are raising, have been moved to the apartment. Papa and Glen will have to build the business from practically nothing, but the seeds are there. I only hope Mama and Papa are able to find another place to live sooner rather than later.
Joel runs in, breathing hard. “They're here!” he shouts. I lock eyes with Mama, and we both scramble up. We were supposed to have another couple of days. Glen and Papa emerge from the study, loaded down with boxes.
Glen dumps the boxes into Joel's arms. “Hide these in the truck when they're not looking, then duck down in the backseat.” Most of Glen's guys are at the new place. Papa's guys will be turned over to the new boss.
The front door slams open as Joel slips out the back. I cross my fingers that he will make it.
“Well, well, well.” A tall man strides in, followed by a group of at least fifteen armed men. “I see I have arrived just in time to stop you from taking all my things.”
Papa steps forward. “We were just trying to get the personal stuff. Mae's china, our mementos.”
“I think you mean
my
mementos,” says the man. He looks around the room. “I don't believe I've met your charming family. I am Neil. Neil Anderson. And you are all in my house.”
“We're going.” Papa says, gesturing for us to follow him.
“Not so fast,” Neil says. “I need to make sure everything is here.” He consults a list in his hand. “All the girls are accounted for?”
“Girls!” Mama shouts, and I am surprised at the strength of her voice. I'm not sure I could even say a word at this point. The girls we have been training, some for years, some only weeks, filter into the room, coming to stand in a line as they have been taught. They know little about what is going on, but they will adjust. My heart breaks as I look at their faces, knowing this is the last time I will see them, unsure about how they will be treated.
Neil walks down the line, counting. “Very good. All here.”
One of Neil's men comes in the back. “All the men accounted for,” he says, his tone brisk, businesslike. Taking inventory of the people who live here as if they are furniture.
“Excellent.” Neil waves a hand. “You may leave my house now,” he says. “Take nothing else.”
We are not allowed good-byes. I lock eyes with each girl, trying to convey my feelings to them without words, and start to pick my way through the boxes and toward the door. I make a wide berth around Neil, but, quicker than I might have expected, his hand shoots out to grab my arm.
“And what of this one?” he asks, and I look at him with wide eyes. “She is not on the roster.”
I try to yank my arm free, but his hold is secure. Glen starts across the room, his expression murderous. I am not sure whether I am more fearful for Glen or Neil.
“That is my son's wife,” Papa G calls from the doorway. “She is not a part of my operation.”
Glen has reached us, and I hold my breath. Neil looks me up and down, lip curling. “Pity,” he says before releasing me. My arm throbs where his hand gripped it, but I am grateful he did not ask more questions. If he had time to look through the paperwork, he might see that I am still listed as collateral. Papa has not gotten around to getting rid of my paperwork, though Glen's debt has been taken care of.
Grabbing my hand, Glen pulls me across the room and out the door before Neil can second-guess his decision to release me. We jump into the truck, where Joel is concealed under a pile of blankets, and Papa guns the engine. Too soon, the house shrinks into the background, disappearing in the clouds of dust kicked up by the tires. Glen squeezes my hand, and I meet his gaze for a moment. Then, with one last look back, I say good-bye to my home, square my shoulders, and prepare for my future.
It is questioning day. I no longer track time by the days of the week, but by group day, therapy day, questioning day, and the occasional visiting day, when Mama Mae comes to gush about how excited she is to become a grandma. Then there are the days in between, the rare days when no one comes for me. Those days I fill by reading my books about pregnancy and motherhood. I think I would like to try a water birth, and I wonder if I'm still here when he is born if they would be able to make that happen. Nut moves all the time now, assuring me of his presence with each gentle flutter.
The door opens and Jay and Connor both come in. Connor looks
grim, while Jay fidgets as if he is nervous. I stand and follow them out of the room. There are no niceties today, and I do not need instructions to know where we are going. I am surprised when they turn the opposite direction of the questioning room and bring me toward Dr. Mulligan's office instead.
“It's not therapy day,” I say, wondering how I could be the only one keeping track of the schedule. “That's tomorrow.”
“I know,” Connor says, not looking at me. “We thought you'd be more comfortable for the questioning today with Dr. Mulligan.”
My brow wrinkles at his words. Questioning has been going okay. I have given them quite a bit of information, though nothing specific to Glen. I think Glen would be pleased with my answers. Just enough to be cooperative, but not enough to get anyone in too much trouble. Like balancing on the garden wall as we did when we were children. Falling off either way would be disastrous, but as long as I stay focused and centered, we will be fine. Mostly the questions have been about my part in things, in training the girls, the clients who we served, that sort of thing. Safe topics. They do not even ask about Mama's visits, though they must be wondering how much I could have in common with a woman I claim to have never met before. I do wonder about that. Connor and Jay are not stupid, and I know they suspect I have met Mama before. It makes me anxious that they have not pushed for more details on that relationship.
At the door to Dr. Mulligan's office, I stop. “Maybe I don't feel very well today. Could we do this another time?”
Connor's eyes are gentle, but his tone is firm. “There are some things we need to talk about, Clara. It's important. It can't wait any longer.”
I chew my lip, contemplating a fainting spell, but instead I move forward, past Jay as he opens the door. Dr. Mulligan stands as we enter and gestures toward the couch.
“It's good to see you, Clara. I hope you weren't caught too much by surprise at coming here today.” Dr. Mulligan knows that I have created a schedule in my mind. She knows more about me than anyone, except Glen. Or maybe not. She may know more about me than even Glen does now. It is an unsettling thought. I perch on the edge of the couch instead of sinking to the floor as I usually do. I sense this is an important meeting.
Connor rolls an extra chair over that has obviously been taken from another office, while Jay lounges against the wall, always watchful, but out of the way. The atmosphere is tense, and while I understand that they want to breach a tough subject in a place that is comforting to me, I resent that they have brought tension to the oasis of Dr. Mulligan's office.
“Clara, you have been with us for several weeks now,” Connor begins. “And we have been going slowly with you. I understand this is all difficult.” He looks at Dr. Mulligan. “Dr. Mulligan says that you have been making some good progress in therapy, coming to terms with some tough issues.”
A flash of betrayal stabs through me, and my eyes shoot to Dr. Mulligan. How could she share what I have been saying with these men?
“Calm down, Clara,” Connor says, and I drag my eyes back to him. “She didn't give us details, only told us that she is happy with your progress and feels you are ready to hear some things that we have been keeping from you.”
I look at Dr. Mulligan with new appreciation. She really does keep my secrets, and she thinks I am strong. She's told me as much before, but this proves that she believes it, and it's not just something she says to make me feel better. I sit up a little straighter. “I can handle it,” I say.
Connor smiles. “I know. But, Clara, this is going to be tough. That's why Dr. Mulligan is here. If you need a break, let us know.”
A break? I've never been offered a break before, even at the beginning when the questions were so overwhelming that I wanted to crawl into myself and never emerge. I clasp my hands together, ignoring the moisture that has covered my palms. I nod. “I'm ready.”
Connor retrieves a folder from his ever present stack of paperwork. He removes a glossy picture and sets it on the coffee table in front of me. A young girl with a missing tooth grins up at me. She has straight brown hair and dark green eyes that twinkle even through the photograph. I smile. “She's cute.”
“Yes,” Connor says. “Do you recognize her?”
I squint at the picture. She does look familiar, but as I riffle through my memory, I cannot place her. She is not one of my daughters. I remember each of them as clearly as if I had just seen them yesterday. Even when Glen's face fades, I can bring each child forward in my memory in sharp relief. “I don't remember her,” I say, shaking my head. “I'm sorry. Should I know her?”
Connor's mouth is set in a grim line, and I resist the urge to cover my ears before he can speak again. “Her name was Diana.”
Diana. That name. That is what they called me when they first took us, what Meredith insisted on calling me for days when I first arrived. Diana. My heart stutters and then begins to race. I think they are trying to suggest . . .
“You think this is
me
?” I ask, disbelief in my voice.
Dr. Mulligan leans forward. “It
is
you, Clara,” she says, her gentle voice soothing my nerves. “Or it was you. You were six years old in this picture. It was taken about six months before you disappeared.”