Mine aren’t red or blue but blond, a perfect match for the light wood cabinetry in the bathroom. On my knees, I run my hands over the smooth bottoms of the drawers, searching for any irregularity. I don’t need to count the pins I find. I need one.
Keep looking.
I keep looking, but only after I throw up the thin mix of water and juice I’ve managed to keep down until now. And then I look again until I find it. The lone bobby pin is there, in the second drawer down, wedged into the joinery. I pry it out and hold it up like the goddamned Olympic torch.
Ten minutes later, I’m a sweaty mess, lying on hardwood by the door to my room with a racing heartbeat for company. I can’t breathe.
Breathe. Think of Freddie and Anne. And breathe.
I can’t. Oxygen comes to me in shallow, bird-like bursts as I hear the purr of an engine, far away, then closer, telling me Malcolm is back. In a way, I’m thankful for the excuse to crawl back into bed and hide myself in the sheets.
SIXTY-SEVEN
I have dreams tonight.
I’m in a small room that smells of burnt coffee and medicine while men in white coats pull at my limbs, stretching and contorting me until my muscles scream high notes. On my right and left, girls in pleated blue skirts dance together, arm in arm. One of them is Oma. The others are my daughters, Judy Green, Rosaria Delgado, Mary Ripley. Everyone has the face of a human and the body of a fox. Or maybe it’s the other way around.
There’s a door at the far end of the room, half-open and half-closed. Is the glass half-empty or half-full? the old question goes. I think “full,” and the other part of me says “empty.” I think “closed,” and the other part, the mother part, says “open.” Freddie begins to cry, while Judy Green holds something to my throat, something shiny and sharp.
Lissa and Ruby Jo walk into this room, one on each side. They take turns leaning down to me, whispering.
It wasn’t all coercion.
There was consent, too.
Most people don’t know.
And the ones who know don’t care.
Now, Judy leaves the parade of girls and steps forward, accusation in her eyes. You knew about the tests being swapped out, didn’t you?
No. No, I did not. My lips and tongue form the words, but no sound comes out. Someone has taken out the piece of me that makes sound.
They hurt us in there. They hurt me, and they’ll hurt your daughter soon, too.
I see ugly pictures forming in my mind. I see the fat guard at the state school. I see a key in a lock, and bolts tumbling out of their chambers. I see boots, heavy and black, moving across a wooden floor. I see dirty hands fumbling with zippers, buttons.
And I hear things, too: guttural sounds, feral grunts; the whimper of a no silenced by a cupped palm; rustling sheets and the sharp crack of a slap that turns everything still.
I hear no and No and NO! And then, nothing. Only pillow-stifled cries and that single word everyone says when things get too black to bear. Mommy. Not God, not Jesus, not any spirit from above, but Mommy. And then my own voice, stronger now, saying, Don’t you dare touch my little girl.
Everything hurts when I wake up, squeezing my eyes to a bright November sun. The tray on the side table is still there with its book and crossword puzzle and fresh bottle of water. Instead of quiche, there’s a cold grilled cheese sandwich. Somewhere outside, church bells ring. Sunday morning is here.
I’ve been asleep—or unconscious—for sixteen hours.
I could do the crossword puzzle, I guess. No. Too much mental effort. I pick up the Styron book from the tray and decide to read a few pages. At least the beginning isn’t depressing, and it may take my mind off the fact that I’m closed inside this room while the rest of the world dresses for Sunday services and goes to