The Girl Before (25 page)

“I can't believe you made me do that, Clara,” he says. He grabs his plate from the table and throws it at the wall, leaving a patch of sticky
strawberry juice and whipped cream on the surface above the plate. “Dammit!” He grabs his coat and storms out into the night, the door slamming hard enough to shake the entire house at his exit.

Tears leak from the corners of my eyes, and I stare at the door in disbelief. I cannot believe that just happened. My cheek is tender to the touch, but I refuse to look at it. Instead, I busy myself with cleaning up dinner. Glen will have plenty of leftovers to snack on over the next couple of days. I sweep and mop the floor, and scrub the wall, eliminating all evidence of Glen's anger.

All evidence except the bright red mark on my cheek, which is rapidly turning yellow. It will be a bruise. I dread facing Mama tomorrow and having to explain.

When Glen hasn't returned by ten, I get ready for bed and cry myself to sleep. It is late when he finally creeps into the house and slides under the covers. He gathers me close, kissing my tender skin, whispering apologies. His cheeks are wet with his regret, and I do not resist as he pulls me under himself. I absorb him. We are one. Always.

When I sit down next to Tori at the next support group meeting, my hands are trembling. After my talk with Dr. Mulligan, she suggested that I share my experience with the group, just to gauge their reactions. I need to sort through my confusing thoughts before I agree to meet my family. All these years I have known that they didn't want me, that they gave me away. Now it appears that may have been a lie . . . which makes me wonder what else in my life has been a lie. In my dreams the past several nights, two little girls play, one blonde, one brunette. They are not new players in my dreamland, and I am
beginning to wonder if these little girls are not just figments of my imagination, but snatches of memory, buried deep, only surfacing in the innocence of sleep. Who are they? What were they like? Did they get along? In my dreams, they laugh and play together, but then the blonde fades away, leaving the brunette in the dark. I want to share my dream with Dr. Mulligan, but she has a way of making me see things in ways I am not always prepared for.

If what I've been told is true, if I was taken from a loving family, what does that mean for the girls I raised? Were these girls all taken as well? Glen had to know. There's no way that I've been able to work it out in my mind that he didn't. I want to talk to him, to ask him why, but part of me is terrified of the answer. Terrified to know the truth, because if he knew, if he orchestrated all of it, then what does that make me? What did he make me?

I look around the circle at the girls who have bared their souls, shared their deepest hurts over the past weeks. I'm even more aware now of how different we are, but now I see the differences in an entirely new way.

Heather is on time for once, talking in low tones with a girl I do not recognize. I have grown accustomed to many of the faces in the group, but they come and go from time to time. I take deep breaths to calm myself as I question whether this is a good idea. What if they tell me that my family really doesn't want me? What if I tell them what I've done and they hate me? I think that is what terrifies me the most. That what I am beginning to suspect about myself and what I have done will be true. That perhaps in the fairy tale of my life, I'm not the princess, but the villain. And there are no happy endings for villains. A soft hand brushes my arm. “You okay?” Tori asks, her eyes filled with concern when I look over at her.

Words escape me, so I just nod. I will tell the group a short story if I cannot make my mouth form sentences. I clear my throat and take a
deep breath. “I'm a little nervous, I guess.” My voice is steadier than I expected, if a bit higher pitched than normal. “I just . . . I don't know. Maybe I'm not ready.”

This time Tori grips my hands, which I have twined together in my lap. “You're ready, Clara. I know you may not believe it, but just being here shows you're stronger than you think.”

My smile is rueful. “I am here to make Dr. Mulligan and Connor happy so I don't have to give birth in a cell.”

Tori looks at me, her eyes appraising. “I can see it in your eyes, Clara.”

“See what?”

“The light. It's coming.” With one more squeeze, Tori turns away to greet the girl on her other side, leaving me once again at a loss for words.

What does she mean, “the light”? Everything has felt dark since the moment they tore Daisy from my arms. Everything except Nut. My hands go to my stomach. Maybe that is the light she sees. My light in the darkness. My angel. My son. My savior. I take a deep breath, drawing strength from the small life inside of me as Heather calls the group to order.

“I understand that Clara is ready to share with us today,” Heather says, lifting her eyebrows in question. I appreciate that she gives me a chance to back out, but I feel a sudden burst of nervous energy. I stretch my fingers, one by one, preparing myself.

“Okay,” I say, nodding. “Okay. I . . . I don't know how much I want to share.” The nerves are back. I can feel the eyes on me, so I concentrate on Heather, on the piece of frizzy hair sticking straight up from her messy topknot. “I am a little scared,” I admit to the hair.

“What are you scared of?” Tori's voice makes me jump, and the rest of the room comes back into focus.

My eyes drop to my knees, and I study the fabric of my loose pants. “I just don't want you to hate me,” I whisper after a few beats
of silence. I look up, meeting the gazes of those in the circle. “My story is very different. I think it might make you angry.”

Tori's hand finds mine again. “No one is judging you. Just talk. We'll listen.”

“Thank you, Tori,” says Heather from across the circle. “That's something for us all to remember, especially since Clara's story may be triggering for some of you. Despite her unique circumstances, I want you to remember that she is a victim as well.”

I bristle at the term. I still find it difficult to identify myself as a victim. At least in the same way as the other women are. Until recently, I had felt like a victim of the agents, of this place, even Dr. Mulligan at times. But after hearing these stories, learning about the family I may have come from . . . the villain role feels more apt all the time.

It is a sign of my growing restraint that I do not call Heather on her use of the word. Instead, I take another steadying breath and begin to speak.

“I don't remember going to live with Glen and his parents.” I shake my head, dispelling the image of the two little girls that has been dancing through my head. “That's part of the reason I'm sharing today. I guess I used to belong to another family. They want to see me, and I don't know if I'm ready.” I have the full attention of the group now. “My earliest memories are of doing lessons with Mama Mae . . . Glen's mother . . .” By now I have admitted to Dr. Mulligan and Connor that I was raised by Mama and Papa. Dr. Mulligan accepted it with little comment, and Connor seemed unsurprised, only saying it was about time I was fully honest with him.

I tell them about life with Mama and Papa, about the lessons we had, our “purpose,” as it was presented to us. That we would adopt a role in the lives of our clients that only we could fulfill. That after being unwanted, cast away, we would be the perfect piece to add to another family, a family we were chosen for. I relay the excitement
over getting a client, and then the drama of falling for Glen instead. To everyone else, Glen is the bad guy. Telling these women about my life, I try to explain to them how I could never see Glen as bad, despite how he acts at times. I give them just an overview of what my role was, that I raised the girls and prepared them for the next phase of their lives.

Some things I leave out. I know eventually I will need to share with them about Joel, about Harrison, about so many things that I have buried deep inside. But for now, for today, I tell them enough to see if they can still accept me. Their reaction will help me determine whether my family will be able to see me and accept me.

There is an uncomfortable silence when I finish. The last thing I talked about was the raid. I do not go into detail about the time I have spent in the hospital in the custody of the agents. That is something they cannot understand. As victims, they were never subjected to incarceration as I have been.

A dark stain marks the center of the circle. I think they use it as a focal point when they set up the chairs each week. I have been staring at it since I began speaking, and now it resembles a cat stretching across the carpet. Or perhaps a rocking horse. It begins to morph again when Erin speaks.

“Holy shit.”

The tension eases a little, and a nervous wave of laughter makes its way around the circle. Even the corners of my mouth lift without my permission as I glance up at Erin. She has proven to be one of the most outspoken of the group, even if she is one of the youngest.

“So, you were, like, my age when you decided you wanted to be with Glen forever?”

I nod. There is another beat of silence. I brace myself, waiting for the anvil of judgment to come crashing down, for someone to start berating me and telling me what a horrible person I am.

The next question, from a quiet girl named Sara, surprises me. “Do you . . . Are you still in love with him?”

There is no judgment in her question that I can detect, and I take special care as I formulate my answer because I know she is being sincere. “I am,” I say, releasing my words slowly. “I have loved Glen from the moment I met him. I cannot imagine existing and not loving him.” Several of the girls shift in their chairs, but no one interrupts as I continue. “But I think, maybe . . .” I look at Heather for reassurance, and she smiles and nods for me to go on. “I think that you can continue to love someone but still realize that what they have done is wrong. It's easy to look at someone and see them in simple terms, good or bad, right or wrong, but I know Glen too well, every facet of him. I think there will always be a part of me that loves him.”

“I get that,” Erin speaks up again. “I mean, Brady was a dickweed, but I still had this need to please him. I wanted him to be happy with me. And there were times when he acted like a real decent guy. I hate him, but I don't. And I was only with him a couple years. You've known Glen for, like, ever.”

Relief rushes through me. They don't hate me. They understand me. They accept me. They—

“Are you kidding me?” A woman around my age speaks up. I think her name is Pam. She was sold into the sex trade after accepting a modeling job overseas. “I knew people like her.” She shoots me a scornful look, but speaks about me as if I am not here. “Women who somehow got lucky and got on a power trip. They had opportunities to help the rest of us, but chose to save themselves instead. Couldn't risk ending up as one of the underlings again.”

“Now, Pam, that's not what Clara did.” There is warning in Heather's tone.

“Bullshit! It's absolutely what she did! She could have found a way to save those little girls. Instead, she
trained
them, or whatever, and
turned them over to be sex slaves.” She turns to me, jabbing a finger in my direction. “And don't try to tell me you didn't know exactly what purpose those little girls would be serving for those sick fucks. You can play innocent, but you're too smart for that.”

“Pam!” Heather's voice is sharp. “I need you to take a break.”

Pam knocks over the chair in her haste to stand. “Where are all those little girls now, Clara? Scattered around the world? Most of them probably dead. All of them miserable. You did that to them. You say you thought you were training them for a better life, but if you truly believe that, you're lying to yourself. And when you finally wake up . . . well, I wouldn't want to be you.”

Heather and Tori both stand to shield me from Pam, but the damage is already done. Pam has said everything that I feared, everything that I suspect the others are probably thinking as well. Why didn't I save the girls? Did I really think they were being sent to a better place, or did I just want to save myself? Would I have done anything to win Glen's favor?

And what would have become of me if I had never been with Glen?

The drive to Papa's side establishment is short. I have not been here since Glen and I ran away all those years ago. Papa G and Glen have decided that I need to understand the other branches of the business in order to be a good partner for Glen. After three months of marriage, I am glad to be trusted with this information. I'm also hoping to have a chance to speak with Macy.

In the daylight, the long log building looks run-down. Without the flashy lights, it looks like what it is: a dirty brothel in the middle of
nowhere. Glen taught me the word “brothel,” and then cautioned me never to use it to describe Papa's business. He prefers terms like “pleasure palace” and “angels' playground.” Any implication of anonymous sex is discouraged. It is actually called the Treehouse. I have already developed a healthy disdain for this side of the business, but I am led to believe it is quite profitable and important.

We enter the front door and are enveloped by a haze of smoke. Though it is the middle of the day, there are some customers at tables, watching girls dance at poles. The girls' makeup is piled on, and the bags under their eyes hint at sleepless nights, but I am sure the alcohol has dimmed any imperfections in the eyes of their clients. Sure enough, almost as soon as we arrive, a man stumbles to the cashier and points to one of the dancers. Money changes hands and the couple disappears down a long hallway.

“This is the main stage area,” Papa explains, sweeping his arms to encompass the entire room. “This is where the girls hang out for men to make their choices. Most of the girls are sleeping now, as they had long nights.” Papa winks. “But we always have some on the day shift.”