The Girl Before (24 page)

“We'll continue this when I get back,” he says, then he turns and is gone with a rush of cold outside air.

I fall backward onto the bed, basking in the glow of my love for Glen and his obvious love for and devotion to me. I feel bad for Mama, that she doesn't have what Glen and I have, but she is clearly doing something wrong if she cannot hold Papa's attention. Thinking about Mama and Papa's sex life grosses me out, so I concentrate on reliving the past two hours with Glen.

My reverie is interrupted by the walkie-talkie that starts squawking from the table. “Lawson, you there? We have a situation that needs your attention. Lawson, Junior. Please copy.”

Glen does not leave without his radio very often. He didn't plan to be gone long, and there typically isn't that much activity at this time of night. I stare at the radio as I try to decide what to do. I could leave it, but if it's important, it might need to be addressed immediately. And Glen might be angry if I don't let him know. Then again, he might be angry if I show up at the main house without his permission. He doesn't like me to be out on my own, especially in the dark. I am not sure why. With so many guards, I am safer here than anywhere else.

“Lawson, do you copy? We need a decision over here. Please check in.”

I make a quick decision and throw a dress over my head. I shrug on a heavy coat and stuff my feet into some boots before grabbing the radio and slipping out the door. I turn the volume knob down, just in case anyone hears me. My feet crunch the gravel of the familiar path through the trees. There are few other sounds aside from the rustling of the trees and the occasional scurrying of a creature in the dark foliage. I am relieved when the brightly lit main house comes into view. I hurry up the steps to the back porch, but pause as I hear shouting.

“You are just like your father!” Mama's voice. I peer through the window and see their shadows.

“What do you mean by that?” Glen is angrier than I've heard him in a long time. Even when he's exasperated with me, he doesn't yell like that.

Mama stalks into view. She turns and jabs her hands in the air, punctuating her point. “You strut around here as if you are a god. I can handle some things on my own, Glen. Remember, I raised you.”

“You were too busy with your precious girls to pay me much attention, Mother.” Glen comes into view, fists clenched at his sides.

Crossing her arms, Mama smirks at him. “And you decided to go ahead and
marry
one of my ‘precious girls,' didn't you? How long before you start visiting the brothel with your father? Just to ‘check the merchandise,' or whatever nonsense excuse he uses. What will you tell Clara then?”

In a flash, Glen hits Mama across the face and pins her to the wall. Her expression is one of pure terror as he cuts off her air supply. “Never. Speak. Of her. Like that. Again.” Mama's mouth and nose are both dripping blood, and tears leak from the corners of her eyes. She nods, the movement almost imperceptible.

“What are you doing?” I jump as a voice speaks from behind me. My finger flies to my lips to hush him.

Joel walks up the steps and peeks inside. “You better get out of here, Clara,” he says, eyeing my scant outfit. “I doubt you're supposed to be seeing this.”

I nod and scurry down the steps. “Clara?” Joel says from behind me. I turn around. “This will be our secret.” There is a twinkle in his eye that makes me uncomfortable, but Glen trusts him more than anyone else. I don't like the idea of keeping a secret from Glen, but I also don't want him to know what I witnessed. I nod and slip into the darkness of the woods as Joel pounds on the door, saving Mama from whatever further damage Glen might inflict.

When Glen returns later, I pretend to be sleeping. He falls asleep without trying to wake me, but it is late before sleep finally finds me.

My fists clench as I curl into a tiny ball in the corner of Dr. Mulligan's couch. I feel as if I have run an emotional marathon since she and Connor showed me pictures of my alleged family. After thinking about it, I am full of anger. These people, these McKinleys, they are just another trick to get me to cooperate.

“Clara, I can tell you're upset. Please talk to me.” Dr. Mulligan is using her best soothing voice, but I am on to her tricks.

“Of course I'm upset,” I say, willing my hands to release. I move my feet to the floor and cross my legs, smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of my pant legs. I look her squarely in the eye. “I almost betrayed Glen because you and Connor told me a fairy tale.”

Dr. Mulligan's eyes widen slightly, but other than that, she shows no reaction to my statement. Her calm façade only makes me angrier.

“After all this time, I really started to trust you! But you have just been working with Connor and the other agents this whole time, trying to come up with a way to get me to spill. Trying to get me to turn on Glen. Well, sorry, lady, that's not happening. Ever.”

“I see.” Dr. Mulligan purses her lips. “Tell me, Clara, are you unintelligent?”

I frown. “No. That's why I know what you're up to. I figured it out.”

She nods. “Okay. Have I ever treated you as if you were stupid?”

I consider the question for a moment. Of all the people I have encountered since being here, Dr. Mulligan has treated me the most like an adult capable of making my own decisions. “No.” No doubt lulling me into a false sense of security, but I don't say that part out loud. She knows what she did.

“So why on earth do you think I would assume I could get away with telling such a wild tale, if, indeed, telling you about your parents was a trick?”

I think for a moment. “Say they are real.”

“They are.”

I scowl at her. “Say they are real,” I repeat, and she remains silent. “Why would they want to meet me? Why now?”

“I'm confused, Clara. Why wouldn't they want to meet the daughter they haven't seen in almost seventeen years? Would your feelings change about any of your children after seventeen years? Why now? Because you were just found.”

“
It's been seventeen years!
What took them so long? If I had the chance to see my daughters again, I wouldn't waste a minute. And I've been here for weeks.”

“I confess that is our fault, Clara. We didn't think you were ready when you first came in. They were notified as soon as we suspected who you were, but we have been holding off until you seemed more open. Trust me, I've had my share of shouted phone calls from your father and tearful voice mails from your mother. Of course, I haven't even been able to speak to them, not even about whether I'm actually seeing you or not. I won't, not without your permission.”

“You haven't talked to them?”

“No. They have called, but you're an adult. And I promised you that this is a safe place. Talking to parents you haven't seen in seventeen years or so without telling you would be a huge breach of trust.”

“Yes, it would.” I can feel my anger fading and my confusion rushing back. I thought I had figured it out, but Dr. Mulligan always finds a way to surprise me. “So they were angry? At me?”

“Oh no, Clara. Not at all. Your father . . . Doug,” she corrects when she sees my expression, “he's frantic. They both are. They want so
badly to see you, to see with their own eyes that you are alive and well . . . more or less.”

The only time Glen yells is when he is angry. Papa was the same way. They would yell and yell until they became very quiet, and that was the time to get nervous. I wonder if Doug, my supposed father, is the same way.

“Clara?” I realize Dr. Mulligan has been speaking. I look at her. “Will you consider meeting with your family?”

My head begins a slow rocking back and forth, but I pause, raising my shoulders instead. “I think I won't be what they expect.”

“I think all they expect is that you are yourself.”

If only I knew who that was.

“I'll think about it.”

She nods. “That's all I ask.” A knock on the door tells me that our time is up.

I am about to open the door when I turn back. “Dr. Mulligan?”

“Yes, Clara?”

“You . . . you can talk to them if you want. I mean, just to tell them I'm okay. And thinking.”

She smiles and pulls a sheet of paper from a folder on her desk for me to sign. I pause before writing my name, but scrawl “Clara Lawson” in the space.

My heart beats an erratic rhythm as I light the candles and wait for Glen to return. I used Mama's special roast recipe to cook for him tonight. I want him in the best mood possible to ask him what I want to know. It has been a good week, with several new girls coming into
the house, and he has been whistling, which is a sure sign things are going well.

I've been tiptoeing around Glen since I saw him get rough with Mama, but things are going well with them, too. We have dinner over at the house several times a week, and he dotes on her, as a son should with his mother. I smile and rub my belly. I hope to give Glen a son of his own someday. A little boy to follow in his footsteps. But that's for another time.

Glen's boots stomp up the porch steps and my shoulders straighten. Talk of children will come soon, but that isn't what tonight is for. Tonight I want some answers that I'm sure he will give me, now that I'm his wife. I don't know why I've put it off for so long, especially after the wedding. I am not worried that he will get angry. Mostly. But I do worry about the pressure Papa may put on him to keep things from me. I just have to be more persuasive.

I paste a smile on my face as the door swings open and my handsome husband enters with a gust of cool air. The days are warmer, but the nights are still chilly. Glen closes the door and spins, a grin covering his face.

“Is that pot roast?” he asks, sniffing the air.

“Yup,” I say, walking over to take his coat as he shrugs it off his shoulders. “Mama's recipe. Potatoes and beans to go with it.”

Glen catches me around the waist and spins me around, backing me into the door. He leans down and gives me a kiss that causes my knees to go wobbly. “How about we start with dessert?” he asks before claiming my lips again.

Laughing, I push against him, giving him a playful swat as he backs away. “Strawberry shortcake for dessert,” I say, making sure to swing my hips as I sashay back to the stove. I give him a coy look over my shoulder. “First dessert, anyway.”

His laugh is loud and happy, and the butterflies still wiggling
around in my belly calm down. He will be reasonable, I am sure of it. A husband and wife can have difficult conversations. I don't know why I have been nervous at all. We risked everything to be together. Certainly a conversation is not much of a risk.

I bring the food to the table and Glen eats with gusto, exclaiming over every bite.

“Really, babe,” he says, sitting back and patting his stomach. “Don't tell Mama, but I think your roast is even better than hers.”

My cheeks warm with pleasure as I set dessert in front of him. I watch him dig in with as much enthusiasm as he's shown the rest of the meal, and a smile plays at my lips even as I gather up the courage to speak.

“Glen,” I say, my voice wavering slightly.

“Yeah, babe,” he says, his focus on his cake.

“I was wondering if I could ask you something.”

He looks up at me then, smile still in place, eyes twinkling. “You can ask me anything, Clara, you know that.”

I nod, exhaling. “I know. I just . . . I don't want you to be angry.”

Glen's eyes tighten at the corners, the twinkle replaced with suspicion. “Why would I be angry?” He takes another careful bite, but the levity of a few minutes ago is seeping away, replaced with growing tension.

Breathe, Clara, I tell myself. No going back now.

“I just wanted to ask about . . . about Macy.”

Glen's fork clatters to his plate, and his hands ball into fists, knuckles white. He squeezes once, then flexes his hands, stretching his fingers. His voice is unexpectedly calm when he speaks. “What did you want to know?”

This feels dangerous, but I push forward anyway. I have his attention. My words tumble out of my mouth so fast, I am worried he won't understand them all. “I wanted to know where she is and if she's okay and if there's a way I can see her.”

Glen's fingers tap against the wooden surface of the table, and the sound seems louder than normal, magnified by the silence of the room. “I thought it was clear that Macy no longer exists, Clara. She is no longer a part of your life, and you need to forget about her.”

“But, Glen,” I say, rising and going to crouch in front of him. I take his hand from the table, silencing the tapping, and sandwich it between both of mine. “You brought her to the wedding. I thought . . .”

His other hand moves to stroke the side of my face, pushing my hair out of the way. “That might have been a mistake. I thought it would bring closure.”

“It did,” I say quickly. “It was a lovely gesture, not a mistake at all. I've just been thinking that—”

The hand I'm holding moves to envelop both of my hands, squeezing to the point of pain before releasing me. He stands, knocking the chair over in his rush.

“There will be no more talk of Macy, Clara. That part of your life is over. You will not think of her or speak her name. There is only me, and Mama and Papa, and the girls. That's it. Do you understand?”

Gone is the man who came in the door a half hour ago. In his place is a statue, a copy of Papa that frightens me. He is showing up more and more, sucking my Glen away a little bit each time. I fear someday my Glen will be gone completely unless I do something. I stand and reach for him, imploring.

“Please, Glen, if I could just see her once more. Talk to her—”

Without warning, Glen's hand lashes out, striking me across the face. I cry out, covering the stinging spot on my cheek and staring at him through the fuzzy edges of my sight. The entire room seems to be tilting. His face, horrified for a moment, settles into a look of derision and rage.