The Girl Before (9 page)

His grip on my hand has grown painful, and I know better than to question further. I look back at the girls, who are all watching me with hopeful expressions. I barely know them, and I'm about to change their lives forever. “Do you have any preferences?” I whisper to Glen, expecting backlash, but receiving only a small chuckle.

“Just pick a variety,” he says.

I pick five at random, mostly younger girls, two redheads, two blondes, and the small brunette who was so interested in my relationship with Glen. After I whisper my choices to Glen, he nods at Mr. Harrison, who barks orders at the girls. They get up and leave the room on quick feet.

“They will be ready for departure in two hours,” Mr. Harrison says to Glen, though his eyes are on me. “You may wait here or come back for them.”

Glen pushes me behind him. “Joel will wait for them with the van. I'm going to take Clara back to the lodge. It's been a long day.”

Mr. Harrison's eyebrows rise a fraction, but he only nods. “Very well, my boy. I hope this is the beginning of a profitable relationship for both of us.” He comes forward and kisses the air by Glen's cheeks again.

“As do I, sir.” Glen pulls me out of the room before the man can reach for me, and we move quickly down the stairs and out the door.

I am not sure what just happened, but it is a relief to be out of the house. Though the girls were nice, I felt stifled there, like the walls were closing in. As we drive away, I see a curtain on the second floor twitch, and I feel the weight of eyes on me, though I cannot see who is watching. I shift closer to Glen, and his arm comes around me.

“What do you think of South Dakota, my love?” he asks, nuzzling me under my ear. I smile.

“Right now, it's perfect,” I say, and he pulls me closer for a kiss.

I am in an unfamiliar room, curled up in the corner of a cushy couch. Sunlight streams through the window, giving life to the plants scattered throughout the room, but it does nothing for me. The chill I feel has nothing to do with the temperature. I still see the blood mixed with brown all over the woman's face. A woman whose name I never bothered to learn. I still see her deadened eyes, blank with shock. I wonder what put her there. How did she get to the point where she was locked up, fearlessly goading fellow prisoners? I don't even know if she survived. They rushed her out of there, and me soon after. There was so much blood . . .

The woman across from me adjusts her glasses and shifts in her seat. “Clara?” she says, her voice patient, though we have been sitting in the room together for twenty minutes and I haven't said a word. I have said nothing since the prison. When I started talking, things went bad. It's best if I stop, no matter what Glen said. If he knew about everything that has happened, he would tell me to go silent again, too. I am sure of it.

“Clara, this is a safe space.” The woman introduced herself as Dr. Mulligan when I was brought in. She seems nice, but I know that no place is safe. No one is to be trusted. I started to trust Connor, and he put me in the prison. I haven't seen him since the brief glimpse I got as I was brought back to the ward. His face was white as they ushered me back into my room, and if I didn't know better, I would have thought his concern was for me. I know, though. I know he was only worried that I might have been hurt, and that would have hurt his case.

“What you saw yesterday, Clara . . . well, that couldn't have been easy.” No kidding. I wonder if observations like that earned her a doctoral degree. My eyes skitter across the room and I catch sight of her desk. Framed pictures line the edges. A smiling family, laughing children, a wedding photo. Dr. Mulligan has a life outside of these walls. She has no idea.

Dr. Mulligan sighs and sets down her notebook. I catch sight of swirling doodles before she closes the cover. A small smile plays at my lips. I had assumed she was making all sorts of observations with her pen movements. Instead, she really was just waiting on me. I decide I like her just a little more. But I still won't talk.

“I need you to let me know that you're okay, Clara,” Dr. Mulligan says, standing up and walking to a bookcase. “I can see that talking makes you uncomfortable.” She selects something from the shelf. “Would you be willing to write some things down?”

She walks back and hands me a fresh notebook. It even smells new. The cover is a bright blue, and a thick spiral holds the pages in
place. I pause before taking it, but cannot resist having it in my hands. I used to write. Before Glen took over for Papa G. Poetry, stories, adventures that I longed to take. Papa G found it one day and threw it in the fire. He told me that making up stories was not a useful skill, was nothing more than daydreaming, and forbade me from doing it.

I slide to the floor, positioning my legs under the small table in front of the couch. Dr. Mulligan hands me a pen. Black ink. The first strokes of pen on paper are bliss, and I feel the first spark of happiness since the last time I saw Glen. I start with swirls similar to those I saw in Dr. Mulligan's notebook, and the corners of her lips tug up into a smile.

“Guess I'm not so sly at hiding my doodles, huh?” she says, and lifts her notebook from the table. “I'll just continue my doodles here. You write what you want, and I won't disturb you unless you ask me to.”

I nod, earning another smile, and return to my paper. So many words, begging to be released. I am not sure what I am supposed to be writing. She gave no instructions.
I love you, Glen.
It is the first thing that pops into my mind.
I promise I will not betray you. Even though you're not here to help me, I will be strong.
I continue writing my love note to Glen until Dr. Mulligan indicates that our time is finished.

I stand, hugging the notebook to my chest. Will I take it with me? Where will I keep it? Will the guards be as discreet? Will they try to read it? Panic begins to choke me.

Dr. Mulligan's eyebrows rise fractionally, and she regards my anxious stance with sympathetic eyes. She reaches her hand toward me. “Would you like to keep that here, Clara?” she asks. “I can lock it up tight in my cabinet, and no one will read it. Not even me.”

I still don't trust her. She will open the pages as soon as I leave the room. She will laugh at my silly letter to Glen, where I talk about the first time I saw him, the first time he kissed me, the first time we were together. My cheeks heat.

Dr. Mulligan withdraws her hand. “How about this, Clara? I'll take
this piece of tape and seal your notebook shut.” She extracts a roll of blue tape from her desk drawer. “You can write something or draw a picture or sign your name on the tape, and you'll know I didn't open it.”

It could work. I hand her the book and watch as she seals the pages shut. She hands it back to me, and I sign my name with a flourish, partially on the cover, partially on the tape, so I will be able to tell if it's been removed. She takes it from me and opens a drawer in her cabinet. The notebook earns a spot in the back, behind a bunch of folders. She closes the drawer and turns the key.

“There. Your secrets are safe.”

For now.

I stare at the human-shaped lump over on Macy's bed. If only it were a little more convincing, maybe my heart wouldn't be racing and my shaky palms might not be dripping with stress sweat. Mama is due to come for morning checks at any moment, and Macy has not returned. I tossed and turned all night, praying for the sound of the window sliding up, but all remained quiet and still. She has never stayed out all night before.

The sound of Mama's sharp voice carries up to our attic room. She will be here soon. Panicked, I toss back my covers, jump up from my bed, and rush across to Macy's. I toss the pillows and rumple the covers so it looks like her night was as sleepless as my own. Sprinting for the bathroom, I turn the shower on full blast, shut the bathroom door, and leap back into bed seconds before the tap comes at the door.

We are not to get up until Mama comes in the morning. It
discourages late-night or early-morning wandering. Of course, everyone breaks the rule, but we all at least pretend to abide by it. I think Mama expects some rule-breaking, which is why she is so strict. But even small infractions, if discovered, can carry heavy consequences. I do not want to think what our punishment will be if Mama discovers Macy has been not only out of her bed, but out of the house.

“Clara. Macy. Morning.” Mama's clipped tone carries through the heavy door. The knob turns and she is there, filling the doorway, looking in confusion at Macy's empty bed. I sit up, rubbing my eyes, doing my best impression of a groggy teenager just woken from a deep sleep.

“Good morning, Mama.” I yawn, stretching before rubbing pretend sleep from my eyes.

“Where is Macy?” Mama's words cut through my act.

I shoot a confused look at Macy's rumpled covers, then point to the bathroom. “She wasn't feeling well last night. Maybe she got sick?” My tone is innocent, but Mama's eyes narrow anyway.

Mama strides to the bathroom door and knocks hard enough that even my knuckles hurt. Of course there is no answer. “Macy?”

“Uh . . .” I fumble for an excuse. I kick myself. If I had left her bed, I could have played dumb. Now I have played an active role in deceiving Mama, and my punishment will be severe if she figures it out. I am so angry at Macy, I almost admit the entire thing, but I cannot do that to my friend. “It's really hard to hear through that door,” I say. “I'm sure she will be out soon.”

The look Mama gives me is dubious, but she turns and heads back to the door. “I'll be back in five minutes. Make sure she's out by then, and we'll have a reminder about out-of-bed rules.”

Wiping my sweaty palms on my nightgown, I nod, thankful that Mama did not just barge into the bathroom. “Yes, Mama. I'll tell her.”

She slams out of the room, heading back down the stairs to wake
the rest of the girls. Almost as soon as she leaves, the window slides open and Macy tumbles through.

“Shit, Clare, just throw me under the bus!” she says, jumping to her feet. “Now I'm gonna get it for being out of bed.”

“It was that or let her find your sorry excuse for a pillow person under your covers,” I hiss. “I put myself on the line for you.”

Macy sneers. “Wouldn't want to give Mama the impression that
perfect
Clara breaks
any
of the rules. I'm sure she'd be interested to know about your little visits with her precious son.”

“You wouldn't,” I gasp, blood rushing to my face.

“No, because I know what it means to be a friend.”

Tears fill my eyes, but I can hear Mama making her way back toward the bedroom. “Get in the bathroom and get in the shower, quick. She's almost back.”

Shooting me one last disdainful look, Macy disappears into the steam-filled room. I busy myself with making my bed and smooth the last wrinkle as Mama storms back in. This time she does not pause, but barrels straight to the bathroom and flings the door open.

“Ah! Mama, I'm almost finished,” Macy screeches.

Mama crosses her arms. “Are you feeling better, my dear?”

“Yes.” Macy's voice floats out with the steam. “Just a bit of an upset stomach. I threw up and then wanted a shower. I'm sorry I was out of bed without permission.”

Gathering my clothes, I head for the bathroom as Macy slips past Mama wrapped in a towel. There is a heavy silence as Mama decides if she believes our story.

“Fine,” she says at last. “Hurry and get ready. I need you to make breakfast. You should probably just have toast, Macy. God forbid you throw up on the laundry.”

“Yes, ma'am,” we both mumble. Mama leaves, closing the door behind her.

“That was close.” Macy sighs, then remembers she is supposed to be upset with me. “Now she's going to make me eat toast all day. Thanks a lot.”

“I saved your butt,” I say.

“You saved your own ass,” she throws back at me.

Without another word, I turn and slam the door to the bathroom, leaving Macy to rage at me by herself.

•   •   •

Stony silence hangs in a cloud of tension over the kitchen, punctuated only by the clatter of dishes and the splashing of water. My hands plunge into the soapy water with more force than necessary, soaking the front of my dress.

“If you keep that up, Mama's gonna make you wash the floors, too,” Macy says, pointing to the small puddle forming at my feet before resuming her task of sweeping. These are the first words she has spoken to me all day, and I have only grown more angry with every passing hour.

“Like you care what Mama does to me,” I say, throwing a glare in her direction. “You only care that
Macy
is happy and gets to do what
Macy
wants to do.”

“And you only care that
Clara
doesn't get in trouble and ruin her perfect reputation. God, Clara, you are so annoying. Not everyone can be as angelic as you.”

I roll my eyes. “I'm not trying to be angelic, I'm just trying to avoid the yardstick.” I cannot believe she is acting this way. If I had left things as they were, she would have been in trouble, bigger trouble than she has ever been in, and I would have been guilty by association, even if I had tried to act like I knew nothing. Macy gets into little scrapes all the time, but being out of the house, especially to meet with one of the boys, is something that could get her sent away.

“You just don't want to screw things up with Glen,” Macy says, and I whirl to face her.

“Keep your voice down!”

She makes a face. “I knew it. You really like him, don't you?”

“Shut up, Macy.” I am even more upset because what she says is true. I like Glen much more than I should, and those feelings have led me to act in ways that I normally wouldn't. I should stay away from him, but I can't. If Mama or Papa find out, it could ruin my chances with the client they have found for me. More and more, however, the thought of leaving here and going to live happily ever after with Mr. Q sends stabbing pains through my heart. More than anything I want to be with Glen, but I am torn between my growing feelings for him and my sense of duty to Mama and Papa, who raised me for the chance to be with someone like Mr. Q.