The Girl Before (28 page)

And yet . . . the smiling faces of the family in front of me pull me in a different direction. I am not that girl anymore. The one who arrived in this place so many weeks ago. I am stronger than she was. I am smarter than she was. I have more to live for than she did.

I jump off my bed and rush to the door, banging my fists against the metal until I hear a click on the other side indicating the lock has disengaged. I back up as the door opens and one of the regular night guards steps inside. I have never bothered to learn his name, but his badge reads “Tom.”

He raises an eyebrow at me, and I realize I must look like a crazy person. They probably all think I'm a crazy person anyway, and I find it hard to care one way or the other what they think of me. “I need to talk to Connor.”

“Agent Calhoun has not arrived for the day yet.”

I frown. I'm not sure why I pictured Connor as constantly around, always ready to talk when I am. I never imagined that he might have a life outside of this place, despite our conversation about his girlfriend. Friends. Family. All the things that I have lost, available to him. The thought makes me angry.

“I need to speak with him. NOW.” The last word is shouted. I do not want to fade into oblivion. I do not want to shut down. I have been swirling in a storm of confusion since I arrived, and now I want answers.

Tom's mouth tightens. “I'll see what I can do.” He closes the door behind him with more force than necessary.

Rage flows through my veins. I am angry at Connor for having a life. I am angry at Dr. Mulligan for making me think about things I would have rather left alone. I am angry at all the members of the support group for making me question my own actions, angry I might belong there after all. I push that thought away. I am angry at Mama Mae and Papa G for keeping me in the dark, for never fully trusting me, for treating me like a child no matter how old I got. And, most of all, I am angry at Glen. He did not prepare me for this, with his confusing instructions to say nothing and to speak, and his cryptic messages demanding that I rewrite history. I am alone. He is not going to save me this time. It is time for me to save myself.

My feet are starting to blister from my pacing by the time Connor enters the room. I whirl on him, fists clenched. “It's my turn for answers.” My voice is low, almost a growl, and it surprises even me.

Connor studies me, unintimidated and calculating. He nods. “Can you wait a couple hours until Dr. Mulligan is available?”

His calm response pierces my angry haze. I take some deep breaths, the oxygen bringing clarity to my brain. “Fine.”

There is a knock at the door and Tom steps in with my breakfast. I take it and return to sit on my bed, where I pick at the food on the plate.

“Tell you what,” Connor says. “Promise me you will eat everything on your tray and I will personally go speed things along with Dr. Mulligan.”

Instead of responding, I pick up the apple and take an enormous bite. A smile tugs at the corners of Connor's mouth before he turns and leaves the room.

True to his word, Connor returns within the hour to fetch me. I have also fulfilled my part of the bargain and return an empty tray to Tom on the way out. We march through the quiet hallways. It's still early enough that there is little of the normal bustling activity.

I stop short when I see Dr. Mulligan, and Connor runs into me from behind, gripping my shoulders to steady himself. Dr. Mulligan is in jeans and a T-shirt, nothing like her usual business style. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her makeup is minimal. She looks younger, somehow. She smiles as I stare.

“I apologize for my appearance, Clara,” she says. “It's Saturday, so I wasn't planning on being here.”

Saturday? I count in my head. Of course it's Saturday. I lost track of the last couple of days. Weeks.

“I-I'm sorry,” I stammer, guilt washing over me, eroding my anger even more.

Dr. Mulligan's smile is kind. “It's okay, Clara. It's just one Saturday, and when Agent Calhoun—Connor—called, I knew it must be important.”

I nod and make my way to the couch. “I think . . . I think I'm ready to have some questions answered.” I release the photograph I have been clutching and let it float to the table. “Tell me about my . . . about the McKinleys.”

Dr. Mulligan sits next to me on the couch instead of in her chair as she normally does. She picks up the photo. “I have talked to Jane and Doug McKinley. I can tell you what they told me, but you'll learn more if you talk to them directly.”

I swallow the lump that has already begun to form in my throat. “I want to know what they told you, and then I'll decide.”

Connor remains quiet, but his presence is comforting. He has chosen to remain standing today, giving this moment to Dr. Mulligan, but the fact that he doesn't leave speaks volumes. He knows that I want him to stay. He has become a constant for me, here since this whole ordeal began. Drawing strength from him, I take a deep breath and turn to Dr. Mulligan. “I'm ready.”

“According to Jane and Doug, on July 14, 1980, their daughter,
Diana—you”—Dr. Mulligan points to me—“went to play at the park with their older daughter, Charlotte. Charlotte came back alone, and when they went to find you, you had disappeared.”

It makes me uncomfortable how she tells the story as if it really was me, a fact of which I am not yet entirely convinced. “So this Diana . . . she just . . . disappeared?”

“Yes. They searched the entire town and the surrounding countryside. There was a large state park, heavily wooded, and lots of fields. The whole town showed up to help look. They put up posters. They alerted the news teams. There was even a special report on the national news. But no one had seen you. You were just gone.”

“So they stopped looking? How long before they gave up on her?” I know my voice sounds bitter.

A gentle smile crosses Dr. Mulligan's face. “Clara . . . Diana . . . they never stopped looking for you. They still put your picture out every year.” She stands and walks to her filing cabinet, pulling out a piece of paper and returning to the couch. She hands it to me. I see the same picture they showed me the other day, a smiling brunette with dark brown eyes. Under the picture the word
MISSING
is printed in bold letters. Beneath that was the pertinent information:
NAME—DIANA MCKINLE
Y, LAST SEEN JULY 14, 1980. WOU
LD BE 23 NOW.
Under the words is a picture of a woman whose face looks just a little off, almost unreal. If I squint, she almost looks like me.

I cannot speak. “They said my parents didn't want me,” I finally whisper. “They told me they paid my parents a lot of money because
they
wanted me so much.” The memories are fuzzy, but that has stuck with me. I never wanted to be unwanted again. I was so obedient to prove to Mama Mae that I was worthy of her time and money. That is why I also felt guiltier than Glen when we ruined their plans for my future.

“It's okay, Clara,” Connor says, speaking up for the first time. “You couldn't have known.”

“But I should have.” My voice is rising. “If my parents loved me so much, how could I not have known? How could I have believed that?” My vision blurs as tears rush to my eyes.

Dr. Mulligan's hand covers mine. “You're trying to make sense of what you did seventeen years ago, Clara.” I appreciate her use of the name I am familiar with. Diana still seems foreign to me. “Children are impressionable. Maybe you argued with them. Maybe you didn't believe it right away. But with enough time, we can be led to believe just about anything.”

I swallow, but ignore the tears spilling onto my cheeks. All my thoughts from the past several days swirl through my brain, the questions I've asked myself, the conclusions I've started to reach. The reality that I may have to accept sooner rather than later. I have to know, but the next question I must ask terrifies me more than anything else that has happened. Especially since I believe I already know the answer. “Can we be led to believe that what we're doing is right? Even if it's wrong?”

Connor shifts, and when I look at him, the intensity of his gaze takes my breath. “What do you mean, Clara?” Dr. Mulligan draws my attention back to her.

“The girls . . . the business . . . the clients . . . I think . . .” Another deep breath. “I think that what I was doing might have been wrong.”

I have never seen Dr. Mulligan speechless. I can tell she did not expect this from me. Certainly not now, and maybe not ever. Perhaps she assumed it would take me much longer to draw this conclusion, or that I would always believe that the world I had grown up in was normal. But the group has achieved its purpose.

I only spoke in the group the one time, but the stories I heard are
all the same when they are stripped down to the basics. Girls being held against their will. Girls forced into servitude, many of them into sexual roles. All brainwashed into believing that what they were doing was their only choice, that there was no escape, no life outside of their current circumstances.

If the McKinleys truly wanted me, if they had not sold me to Mama and Papa as I had been told, then maybe it was all a lie. No, not maybe. It
was
a lie. I have been lied to my entire life, by the only family I have known. I was loved and cared for before that life was stolen from me. Before I was taught that my only value was in what I could do for others. I missed out on so much, and it tears me apart to think about the life that I could have had if Mama and Papa hadn't taken me.

Even worse, I did the same thing to so many other girls. I believed I was saving them from lives of being unloved and neglected, but instead I stole their futures, trained them, convinced them that they would be happiest with greedy men who wanted to exploit them for their own gain.

My soul feels crushed under a weight of guilt, and the sobs breaking forth sound as if they are coming from someone else. I don't recognize the noises I am making, but when Dr. Mulligan's arms come around me, I do not push her away.

I don't know how long I cry. When I am able to focus again, I see that Dr. Mulligan's face is stained with tears, and even Connor's eyes are red-rimmed, his knuckles white from the effort of holding in his emotion.

On the other side of the storm, my thoughts are clearer. I know what must be done, and I know the first step I want to take.

“What can I do to help hold them responsible for what they've done?”

I am listening to an old record of Mama's, washing dishes, when they bring her in. A little girl with a short dark bob and teary brown eyes. She is not wild like Passion, but she is just as stubborn. Glen carries her in because she is playing a game where her muscles are all limp. He heaves her into a chair with a growl and stalks out without a word. We size each other up as the last strains of a song fade out.
Life in the fast lane . . .

“Hello, Lane,” I say, smiling at the inspiration. “You have very pretty hair.”

She squints at me, still not allowing the tears to escape from her eyes. “That's not my name, lady, and you better not call me that again.”

“How old are you, Lane?” I ask, turning to the sink. She huffs, and I smile at the small sound. Usually they are too scared to be at all entertaining, at least right away. I school my features back to a neutral expression and glance back over my shoulder.

“I'm ten, and if you don't bring me back to my parents, they're gonna find you and punch your face.” She crosses her arms and legs as tight across her body as she can make them, scrunching her nose at the same time.

“I don't think I would like that very much, Lane, but I'm not too worried about it.” I dry the last plate and stack it in the cupboard before taking a seat across from the little girl.

Her lip quivers. “Why do you keep calling me that? My name is Maria.”

I tsk. “Hush now, Lane. Maria was your old name. Now you get a new name. How exciting!”

“I wanna go home.” One crystal tear snakes down the dark skin of her cheek.

Scooting my chair closer, I lean in. “This is your home now, Lane. Your parents . . . well . . . they wanted you to have a better home than they could give you, so here you are!”

“That's not true!” Lane shouts, color blossoming on her neck. “I heard them talking about my surprise party just yesterday!” A thread of unease weaves into her tone. She is beginning to doubt.

“Hmm,” I say, placing my chin in my hand. “Do you think maybe
this
was the surprise? You coming to live here?”

“No.” Her voice cracks. “My parents would never get rid of me. They asked me what I want for Christmas and my birthday and where I want to go for spring break. There's no way they would plan all that and then send me away.”

The problem with the older ones is that they have a hard time believing my stories. Of course, these are all unwanted girls, but I have to make up the reasons myself. I try to keep the stories different, in case the girls compare notes, but they rarely do. No one wants to admit to being unwanted, even if they are all in the same boat.

“Well, Lane,” I say, slapping my hands on my thighs, “whatever the reason, you're here now, and I am so excited that you are a part of our family. We will begin your training tomorrow.”

“She went to buy me a book,” Lane says stubbornly. “She said to stay in the car and she would be back in ten minutes. And then those guys came and they dragged me out and I couldn't even scream. And now I'm here. My mom didn't leave me. She was coming back.
She was coming back.
” She whispers the last part, whether to convince herself or me, I am not sure, but I am shaken.

Glen never talks about how he gets the girls. I assume the parents hand them off. In my fantasies, I picture some beautiful scene where he promises to watch over them and give them the best life possible,
and maybe even mentions how his wife will take really good care of them.