Circle Nine (22 page)

“Oh, come on, Addie-cakes. Stop being such a bore. It’s the closest thing to
Addie
that they had,
OK?
At least that I could grab. Plus, it’s kinda cute. Maybe I’ll start calling you Abby forever.” She gives me a wink. “And I know you’ve got an inner thug somewhere in there, Miss Addison. Do me a big ol’ favor and embrace it for once!”

Katie’s doubled over laughing. She knows I’m about the least thuggy person in the history of this world. But I love my necklace anyway.

“Now, hide it,” she says, and I tuck it under my sweatshirt, confused.

“Katie . . .” I start.

“Shhh.” She puts one finger over her lips.

“But where did you —?”

“SHHH!” she practically shouts, looking at me mock sternly. “Not another word, all right?” She flashes her own necklace, identical to mine except for the name,
Katie —
at least she got hers right — before tucking it back under her own long-sleeved T-shirt.

“Now, get back inside,” she says to me. “And don’t show Mama. Our little secret.”

“Where are you going?” I ask as she begins to turn and walk back out the gate that marks the entrance to our front yard.

“Never mind that, Abby,” she says. “Quit being such a tagalong.”

At that, I feel a quick burst of something like anger, but just as quickly, it’s gone. And then I can’t help it. I run after her and tackle her in a huge hug, and before I know it, she’s elbowing me off her scrawny self and squirming away and we’re lying next to each other on the grass for all the world to see, dying laughing, just happy.

I remember so much now. But not the way she died; I can’t remember that. I reach back, and there’s only guilt and pain.

I’m propped up on the cot, a warm green fuzzy blanket tucked around my legs, my body drowning in an unfamiliar oversize T-shirt. The blanket is the kind maybe somebody’s mother would make. It hits me: it’s the kind my mother used to make. The knowledge is enough to make me taste bile. I turn to the side and dry-heave toward the bag on the ground next to me. I am immediately glad I didn’t vomit, because in the bag is what remains of my filthy clothing, along with the
Inferno,
Sam’s tattered book. I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s here — I’ve always kept it close — but somehow I am. In this warm, sterile room, it seems like a relic from another world. I’m truly awake for the first time I can remember. Awake and listening, listening for an endless time to these people who have saved my life. It’s hard to listen. It’s hard to stay awake.

A woman rushes into the room, a man not far behind her. The hunter. The woman sets a bucket next to me. What have I been throwing up? I have my answer right away because, as I wonder it, I am heaving again, and this time water and bile pour out of me. I’m throwing up fluids, remnants of the juice and broth they’ve methodically pumped into me. I feel as though I am dying for the second time.

“You’re safe now,” says the woman who gave me the bucket, Lara. “You’re at Saint Francis.” But three days ago I was in a dense wood, miles and miles from anywhere. I might have died there eventually, lost without food and water, miles from any town, if the hunters hadn’t found me.

“They were hunting deer,” she said. She said they almost hunted me. But instead, they carried me to their truck, because I was too weak and tired to walk much farther. They loaded me up like one of the animals they’d shot. They brought me to the shelter.

“Maybe I shoulda brought her to the hospital,” the one called Frank says anxiously. “That was a nasty bruise on her cheek. But she was walking and talking just fine. . . .”

“It’s OK, Frank,” says the woman named Lara. “You did the right thing.”

“You think,” he starts, then again in a lowered voice: “You think another abuse case?”

“Probably. We’ve got it under control, though. You can stop checking up on her now,” she says to him in a teasing voice. Through droopy eyelids I see her give him a quick kiss on the cheek before he walks away. This little gesture tells me everything. He didn’t know where to bring me, so he brought me to the woman he loved. It makes me happy and sad at the same time. I love someone, too.

My eyes start to droop.

“Abby,” the woman called Lara says. There’s a little tug on my necklace. “It’s Abby, right? Wake up, honey.” I try my hardest to look at her, but all I want to do is go back to sleep. My upper lids are magnets to my lower. I am gone.

“Abby?” I hear. I see a lovely woman, a brown-haired goddess, bent over my bed. It is Lara. I hadn’t known before that she was so beautiful.

My fault . . .

“Yes,” I say, even though I know for certain now that
Abby
isn’t my name at all.

No one can know.

“How are you feeling?” the woman asks.

“OK,” I say, even though I’m not OK; my insides are twisted in pain and sadness.

Don’t show it.

“Sweetheart,” she says, and instead of sounding patronizing, it sounds nice. “Do you remember me? You came in a few days ago and have been in and out of it ever since.”

“I think so,” I say. I do remember her bending over me with the hunter beside her, telling me her name, telling me everything is going to be OK. I remember sensing that this woman is good.

“Honey, can you tell me your full name?”

I pause.

Don’t tell.

I can’t tell her my name. This one thought penetrates all the haze. I can’t tell her my real last name because then she’ll know who I am. Then she’ll know I killed my family. The nausea overwhelms me again, and Lara watches as I relieve myself in the bucket that’s still by my bed.

“It’s Abby,” I say when I’m finally finished. “Abby Jameson.” It’s not quite strong enough but I’m weak, too weak to think of something else.

“How old are you, Abby?” Lara asks.

“Eighteen,” I say. It isn’t true; I’m just over seventeen, but I can’t tell her that. Eighteen is the age where you can do what you want. Eighteen is safe.

“I hate to put you through more than you’ve already dealt with,” she continues, “but do you mind telling me what you were doing out in those woods? Judging by how weak you are, you must have been out there for a while.”

“I don’t know” is all I can say. There’s a long silence. Then Lara stands up from where she’s been sitting at the foot of the bed; something in her shifts, some pained look turns to stone, and now she’s all business.

“This is my shelter, Abby. You’re lucky you ended up here. Frank’s a good man. We have a dedicated staff here, and it’s women only. We’re a Christian-based organization, and we’re always short on beds; there are always people knocking on our door. Our guests are allowed to stay for thirty days. We give you all the resources you need for getting back on your feet, finding a job. This is, of course, if you don’t have someone you can call, somewhere else you can go.”

I shake my head. “I don’t have a family,” I say.

“Fine,” she tells me. “The amount of time you seem to have spent on your own and the fact that you have no identification on your person would support that. In my experience, if you had someone looking for you, they would have found you by now. I’d turn you over to Social Services, but since you say you’re eighteen”— she gives me a long look —“I’m entitled to leave you be. At least until I check into it. I’m going to be confirming your story for our records, of course. Protocol. Meanwhile, try to use this time to your benefit.” I nod. I don’t know why she is suddenly cold, but I am relieved that she doesn’t seem interested in inquiring much further, and doubly relieved that I thought to give her a different name.

“Oh, Abby?” she says. “There’s one other thing. We require all of our guests to see a consulting psychologist. Donations help pay for his work. The rest he does pro bono; and since it’s something I firmly believe in, I tend to enforce it. You play by our rules, or you go. And in your case,” she adds a little more gently, “it might be especially beneficial. He can see you for up to six months for free, even after you’re not a guest here anymore. We’ll give it a week or so, until your physical health has improved.”

I don’t say anything. I can’t. I’m crying too hard, silent sobs that shatter my broken body. I’ve never felt so alone. Lara hands me a box of tissues, and with a light pat to my shoulder, she is gone.

There are Navajo prints on the walls of Dr. Tessler’s office. The whole place is dimly lit and decorated with shelves of books, various Native American wall hangings, and frayed carpets — the kind that are supposed to look frayed, as though handcrafted. I imagine Dr. Tessler selecting these from a specialty store downtown, considering ambiance and how it will affect his patients, hoping people will think he’s acquired these from some small village in the Southwest. Or maybe he has. I don’t know. Maybe people aren’t always pretending.

I gently ease my body, still aching, into a leather recliner, but there are a few different chairs to choose from. I like that about this place. I chose this one because it looks like it could swallow me whole, wrap its leather arms around me, and tuck me inside itself. I sink farther into the leather, pushing myself down in an effort to make it happen. I don’t want to be here.

After Lara’s hawk eyes, I prepared for more questions. I keep my answers simple:
My name is Abby Jameson. I was in the woods. I don’t know how I got there. I don’t remember anything else.

Dr. Tessler listens patiently at first, taking notes. But then things get harder. He asks me questions — what happened to my family? Did something happen, something scary, before I went to the woods? Can I remember anything that might have been traumatic? Do I have a history of sexual abuse? I field these questions, bouncing them back like Ping-Pong balls, until the hour is nearly up and I am drenched in sweat, all over my body.

It’s not long before the irony hits me: not long ago, I would have been as eager as Dr. Tessler is to know who I am. But now that I know, I have to hide it. I wonder if he can see the truth. I’m sure the guilt is everywhere, seeping out of my pores and lacing my lies. Even as I fight to stay calm, revulsion and something else, something that feels like despair, overwhelm me.
If he knew what a monster I am, what would he do? What would everyone do?
I am biting my lip, but tears come anyway. It’s a relief when they do. All this time, I’ve tried not to think about what happened. I’ve felt storm clouds swirling under my rock exterior, and I’ve wanted to let them out — I have — but instead they stay under the surface, worsening. I’ve wanted to cry. I’ve felt like screaming. I’ve become a ticking bomb. I’ve ignored my own betrayals, let my guilt fester and worsen.

So now that tears have come, I can feel the pressure lessening just a bit.

I can see that Dr. Tessler likes the tears. They make me somehow normal, someone he can wrap his head around. He is the kind of man who looks like a puppy — sincere and hopeful. He looks like he could be beaten down with a stick. He disgusts me. I watch him watching me as I snuffle into the tissue he’s given me, and rage begins to consume me. Here is the man who could destroy me if he asks too many questions. And all the time he’s destroying me, he will think he’s helping.

Something tells me that I am not really mad at Dr. Tessler, that the uncontrollable anger I feel is really just anger I’ve felt all along, but somehow he’s pushed the buttons that have given it freedom, but it’s too hard to think that way and too easy to direct my rage at him. I’ve been not-thinking for days. He’s made me think, and remember.

“I think we’ve made good progress for a first session,” he says gently, and, when I don’t respond he adds, “You’re free to go now, Abby. I’ll see you next week.” I nod and exit his office, which is just a couple of blocks from Saint Francis. I’ll need to think things over before next week. I’ll need to be even more prepared for his probing questions.

He can’t say anything, even if he suspects, I tell myself. It’s confidential. But I know the truth; I’m just fooling myself. If Dr. Tessler knew what I’d done, he’d go to the police. I almost don’t care; I wonder for a quick second if it would be a relief for someone to know, to see me for who I really am. To see the blood on my hands. But I can’t; I just can’t. I don’t know what to do. I can’t be here, hiding my secret, forever. But I’m still sick; I’m so weak. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to survive on my own just yet. Tears are still streaking down my face, and I’m shivering even though there’s barely a chill in the air. I see an alley toward the end of the block and head for it; it looks like it cuts all the way through. A shortcut. I don’t want to be away from Saint Francis longer than I have to.