Redemption (57 page)

“Really?” Jane replied, showing no emotion.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Jenny said, searching for approval. “Comforting, you know?”

“Yeah. Comforting.” Jane could have said more, but the solution seemed absurd, given the ironic religious bent of Charlotte’s
abductor. Jenny led Jane down a cheerful yellow hallway lined with one photograph after another of Charlotte smiling playfully for the camera. Upon reaching the closed door, Jenny softly knocked and announced Jane’s visit. To Jane, it sounded as if she were being introduced to the royal gallery.

“I’m coming.” Jane immediately noted that the child’s voice was restrained.

Jenny self-consciously addressed Jane with a whisper. “She locks the door now.”

Charlotte unlocked the door and slowly opened it. She wore no makeup and, to Jane, the kid suddenly looked younger than twelve. A baggy, brown plaid, long-sleeved flannel shirt hung loosely on her body, obscuring any sign of her large breasts, while a pair of gray sweat pants, also a size too large, completed the drab façade. “Hi....” Charlotte said, obviously self-conscious and tense. “Come in.”

Jane slid past Charlotte and stood at the foot of her bed. Charlotte quietly closed the door and locked it. The yellow shades on the three windows were pulled down. Jane noted that wooden dowels had been placed within each window as an extra safety precaution. While the sun shone brightly outside, the room felt dim and painfully claustrophobic. Charlotte’s bed was covered with clothes from her closet. A large plastic trash bag lay against a near chair, bursting with additional clothing.

“You can sit on the bed if you want,” Charlotte said in a weak voice. “Sorry it’s a mess.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jane took a seat on the edge of the bed, resting her leather satchel on the floor. An unexpected wave of compassion rushed over her. The kid she had privately judged at times was as much an empty shell as she was. Several moments of hard silence passed as their unspoken bond solidified.

“I wanted to....” Charlotte struggled with her words as she fidgeted with the seam of her flannel shirt. “To...say....” Her eyes filled with fat tears. “To say thank you.” Her voice caught as the
tears rolled down her pale cheeks. There was a raw fear behind her eyes, smothered in a dark nightmare she couldn’t quite recollect.

Jane did everything she could to control her emotions. “I’m glad I was there.” Charlotte looked smaller to Jane than she had when she dragged her limp body to safety by the lake.
Fragile.

Charlotte continued to roll the edge of the shirt seam between her thumb and first finger. “I don’t remember anything,” she quickly said. “The last thing I remember is walking into the cabin with him....” Her voice drifted far away.

“It’s okay, Charlotte,” Jane leaned forward and touched the kid’s arm. “You don’t need to dredge it up.”

Charlotte looked at Jane, her hazel eyes glistening with tears. “But it’s right there.” Her young mind desperately tried to reconcile it. “...on the edge of my head.” She looked down at the cluttered carpet, not focusing on anything in particular. “I used to love the smell of cedar. But it makes me throw up now.” Charlotte turned to Jane, searching her face for answers. “Is that crazy?”

Jane recalled the cedar-walled closet that served as Charlotte’s prison for twelve days. “You’re not crazy, Charlotte,” Jane gently replied.

“Are you gonna go to court and tell them what you saw happen to me?”

“Yes,” Jane said with authority. “And you have my word that he will never get out of prison again.”

“I...I heard the sheriff talking to my mom when I was in the hospital. He said I might have to get up in court and...tell them... things. Is that true?”

Jane tried to hide her disgust for a system that insisted on reviolating the victim in court. “If you don’t want to do it, there’s no law that’s gonna make you.”

A look of abject shame fell over Charlotte as tears streamed down her face. “They took pictures of me in the hospital. Pictures of my body. Here and down there.” Charlotte sheepishly pointed to her breasts and groin area. “People I don’t know are gonna see
those pictures and that’s not right.” She broke down, choking on fear and humiliation.

Jane pulled Charlotte toward her, holding her tightly against her chest. The free-spirited child that had posed for the camera in the birthday video was dead. Jane knew the predictable cycle had begun. The traumatic event occurs and you’re never the same again. Your world closes tightly around you. Your perspective of every experience is viewed through victim’s eyes. The pain and shame grow into festering anger and then unbridled rage. You approach each day like a battle and fasten your emotional armor tightly to deflect vulnerability. Emotional detachment quickly takes hold so you don’t have to feel. Numbness sets in and life becomes flat. You feel you have to do it to protect yourself against a world that has become evil and intent on violating those who can’t defend themselves. Then the self-destruction begins.

Charlotte hysterically sobbed into Jane’s shoulder. “I want to—”

“Disappear,” Jane stated in a simpatico tone.

Charlotte lifted her head from Jane’s shoulder and stared at her. “Yeah....” Someone understood her. “People saw me naked....” She fell into Jane’s shoulder, softly crying.

The same damn pattern was forming, Jane thought. She tenderly lifted Charlotte’s head away from her body. “Tell me why you’re throwing out all this stuff.”

The child scanned the heap of clothes on the bed and the plastic trash bag on the floor. “Because....” she offered weakly, “they’re too...bright.”

“They draw attention to you,” Jane stated.

“Yeah.”

Jane turned around and sorted though the pile on the bed. She pulled out a red spandex top that looked to be two sizes too small for Charlotte’s chest. “Well, this one’s probably not the best choice for you.” She unearthed an orange vest with a diamond pattern. “But this is colorful. Nothing wrong with color—”

Charlotte snatched the vest away from Jane and quickly buried it in the trash bag. “No! People will look at me!”

Jane reached up and stroked Charlotte’s cheek. “Oh, God, Charlotte. Don’t do this to yourself. Take my word for it. You’re walking down a rocky pathway. There’s something called ‘the middle path.’ This is not it,” Jane held up the red spandex top. “But this is,” she uncovered a bright green sweater. Jane collected her thoughts. “Ever heard of Buddhism?” Charlotte shook her head. “It’s not a religion. It’s a philosophy,” she said, recalling a bittersweet memory from only twelve days ago. “They believe in that middle path, among other things. The path between this,” she held up the spandex top, “and this.” She pointed to Charlotte’s oversized brown plaid shirt. “You don’t want to be bold and brazen anymore. I understand that. So this one goes.” Jane tossed the spandex top into the trash bag. “But if you choose this one,” she softly stroked the flannel shirt, “you choose an equally bad extreme. You choose to hide your spirit. And your spirit is why good people love you.” Jane pulled Charlotte close to her. “If you drown your spirit, he wins... and you lose everything.”

Tears rolled down Charlotte’s cheeks. “But I’m scared,” she whispered.

“I know. Believe me,
I know
. But it takes more courage to live strong than die slowly.”

Charlotte nodded. “You know what I told my mom about you? I said you were the angel who saved me.”

Jane lowered her head. “But I’m not.” She withdrew her wallet from the leather satchel and removed a photograph. Fondly, she looked at the photo before handing it to Charlotte. “You have two angels right there.” Charlotte stared at the photo of Ashlee reposed in Kit’s arms. “They’re the ones who made sure you were found safely.”

The child was in awe. “Can I talk to them and tell them ‘thank you?’”

Jane nodded, a well of emotion caught in her throat. “Every morning...and every night.” Jane lifted her satchel and stood
up. Charlotte handed the photo back to Jane. “It’s yours.” Jane hugged the child and whispered in her ear. “Make them proud, Charlotte.”

 

 

Jane hoped the drive back to Denver would ease the numbness within her heart. But by the time she arrived at her doorstep in the early morning hours of January 11, her thirty-sixth birthday, the unnatural emptiness still persisted.

Jane turned on the living room light and set down her bags. Mike had dutifully stacked her mail on the kitchen table next to a pile of
Denver Post
newspapers. Jane scooped up the mail and shuffled through them. A bright yellow envelope caught her attention. There was no return address, but the January 5 postmark was from Oakhurst, California. Next to the stamp was an ink imprint that read, HOWDY! FROM THE BONANZA CABINS! The handwritten address looked familiar. She opened the envelope and removed a greeting card. There was a drawing of a red-tailed hawk on the cover of the card. Its wings swept upward as, beneath it, a snake slithered against a rock. A vibrant blue lotus flower emerged between them. Jane felt a catch in her throat as she read the quote at the bottom; the same quote by T.S. Eliot that Kit had left on her computer.

And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

Jane opened the card. The two missing sobriety chips fell to the floor. Jane collected them. They still had bits of embedded sand from where they’d fallen in Cousin Carl’s front yard. A long handwritten letter filled the inside of the card.

The clear, winter sky in Denver stretched a swath of pink across the horizon. Jane drove around the bend of the cemetery where the two trees converged. That was the only way she remembered the location, since her previous visit had been so brief. She got out of the Mustang, crushing the butt of her cigarette against the pavement. Walking across the matted, brown grass, she checked one headstone after another before finding the one she wanted. Jane stared at the simple engraving of the name on the stone: DALE PERRY. Minutes passed before she spoke with choked emotion.

“Wherever you are, I hope you find peace. I hope your pain stops.” She pulled the snakestone totem from her pocket and tucked it under a mat of grass in front of the stone. “This will help you.” Jane wrapped her hand around the top of the stone. “I forgive you,” she whispered.

That was her first step.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

 

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Copyright © 2009 by Laurel Dewey

 

 

eISBN : 978-1-611-88013-7

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