Elena Vanishing (33 page)

Dear Lilly Arabella,

I'm sorry I didn't get to meet you. Your mommy misses you so much. She's beautiful, so I know you must be beautiful, too.

You would be so proud of your mommy. She's doing so well.

I'm stunned. The voice in my head is silent. I wrap up the box in my sweater and tuck it into my backpack as carefully as if it's made of glass.

My phone buzzes. It's an unknown number, so I don't pick up.

It calls again.

Don't answer!
warns the voice in my head.
Stalker—rapist—mugger—creepy serial killer—pervert—

How did I not notice before that this is just my anxiety feeding me an endless stream of worst-case scenarios?

I answer the phone. A soft, high voice says, “Elena?”

“Oh my God!” I burst out. “Sam! Where are you? Are you okay? I've been so worried! Your phone's been off for weeks!”

“I'm sorry. It kinda got turned off. I kinda ran away. It was really bad, but I'm all right now.”

“Are you really all right? Where are you? Are you safe?”

“I'm in foster care,” Sam says. “That's how come I have a new number. But, Elena? The foster care family—my new family . . . they're really nice.”

I can feel the smile spread across my face.

“Of course they're nice, Sam. They're lucky to have you!”

“It's weird,” she says. “I mean, they make me follow all these rules. And you know how I love to break rules! But this time, I actually kind of don't mind about them. Because . . . they're for my own good.”

The wonder in her voice as she says this breaks my heart into a million pieces. After so long, to finally live with guardians who want what's best for you . . . I clear my throat to push the lump out of it and cordially wish Sam's parents into the lowest circle of hell.

“I'm so, so glad, baby girl,” I say. “That's the best kind of rule you could have. So, hey, where are you now? At school?”

“No, I'm in our backyard. There's other girls here. I got permission to go outside to call you.”

“And what are you doing now?” I say. “Because I know you're not sitting down.”

“I'm standing in Tree Pose.”

“I knew it!”

I'm still laughing when we say good-bye.

As soon as she hangs up, I call Stella.

“Sam's okay!” I blurt out.

“I know,” she says. “We both left you messages, but I told her you don't listen to your messages.”

The other patients put away their books and file out of the room for mindfulness therapy while Stella fills me in on what happened. Sam ran away, but the police found her. Then she ran away again and got to Clove House. Once they heard what had been happening, they kept her there and arranged for her parents to give her up. So it's thanks to the Clove House staff that Sam's safe now.

Dr. Leben's face appears around the door, with her patented smiling glare, as she gestures for me to get moving.

“Hey, gotta go,” I tell Stella as I get to my feet.

“Talk to you tonight,” she says.

And she will.

Stella and I have kept the promise we made to each other that horrible afternoon when Evey died. We talk almost every day.

Dad picks me up at seven, and we come home to an empty house. The living room looks forlorn and a bit stuffy with no more rainbow-colored toys to perk it up. But we compensate by ordering pepperoni pizza and watching Asian horror movies till Dad falls asleep.

I'm on an Asian horror movie kick these days. Maybe that's because it isn't Jason or Freddy Krueger who kills people in these films. No, it's the little fourteen-year-old girl in the plaid school uniform who was so shy while she was alive that she could barely say two words. Now her black hair's coming out of the walls, and her long, slimy fingers are reaching up out of the drain. Grown men crash
their sports cars and jump off the balconies of their penthouses to escape the wrath of the dead Asian schoolgirl.

At one in the morning, I wake up to discover that Dad and I have left half the lights in the house on. I shuffle to the bathroom in their unnatural glare and discover: red blood. My period has started again.

Shocking images rush at me—blood and death. My stomach cramps as if the miscarriage is happening again. It happened right in this room.

Your fault! Dead baby! Dead baby!

Surf the feelings. Surf the feelings. Don't get swept away. I start the breathing exercises Connie taught us: long inhale, long exhale. It'll get better, just like the urge to put down my arms. Long inhale, long exhale. I can do this.

Slimy, rotting dead things swarm through my mind. Guilt and shame flood through me, and the room goes gray.

You screwed up! You screwed up! You've screwed up your whole life, you stupid bitch!

Long inhale, long exhale. Get it together. I run cold water on my hands as a distraction. Remember what Jen said.
Don't try to argue. We all know how good you are at that.

The cold water clears my vision, and I totter on shaking legs back to my room. It's the middle of the night. Mom's gone and Valerie's gone. Dad and the dogs are asleep. But I have a new ally in my fight against the flashbacks. I open the top of his terrarium and lift the hollow rock away.

“Mr. Snaky?” I whisper as I scoop him up.

My red corn snake wakes up and lazily begins to explore my hands.

Mouse?
he thinks hopefully.
Mouse?

Jen was the one who convinced my parents to buy me a snake. Mom only agreed when she learned that he wouldn't eat live prey.
Since then, the whole family has fallen in love with him. He's very relaxed and friendly. He doesn't let anything ruin his good mood.

Mr. Snaky is also amazingly beautiful: salmon orange with a line of red Navajo-rug diamonds down his back. He's so colorful and pretty that he doesn't look real. He's like a Disney animation of a sweet, happy, peaceful snake.

I concentrate on watching the light glint on his shining scales and focus on the tickly feeling of him winding through my fingers. He flows like taffy from hand to hand to hand as I keep him from reaching the bed. He isn't getting anywhere, but he doesn't seem to mind.

My feelings are like a hurricane. My snake's feelings are so simple that he's more like a computer than a pet. If he's full, he's asleep. If he's awake, he's hunting for food.
Mouse? Bird? Egg?
he thinks as he twines up to my shoulder.

My snake doesn't know a thing about shame or guilt or hatred. I keep up the breathing exercises and do my best to bring my thoughts in line with his.

Warm
, he thinks as he explores the pocket of my hoodie. He winds his way back out of it.
Daylight. Mouse? Mouse?

Your fault
, says the voice in my head.
Dead baby!

“Her name,” I say, “was Lilly Arabella.”

You've screwed up your whole life. Dead baby!

“Lilly Arabella, Mommy misses you so much.”

Now tears are falling onto my snake's bright scales—real, sorrowful tears. Because this isn't about me and my hatred. This is about a little person who danced inside me with the joy of life for a few—too few—short weeks. Even when she was barely there, she was amazing. She lost the chance to be what she might have been.

“Lilly, Mommy's sorry,” I say into the still night. “Lilly, I wish I could have watched you grow up. Mommy misses you so much.”

The last shreds of my panic dissipate in the warm rain of tears.

Shelter
, thinks my wet snake as he hurries into my hoodie pocket.
Storm. Bad weather. Shelter.
And I laugh because he's an outdoor creature who doesn't like rain. I put him back into his terrarrium, and he curls up under his heat lamp.
Warm
, he thinks.
Comfy. Sleep.

I close the terrarium lid and turn out the light, and I go back to sleep, too.

It is a gorgeous spring day. I am standing on a merry-go-round, and all around me, painted horses are frozen in full gallop. Children crowd past me, laughing, and a beautiful little girl with blond hair and a white dress stands beside me, her small hand in mine.

The children are choosing their horses. My little girl tugs me along to join in the search. In her excitement, she breaks away and dances ahead of me, and I lose her in the crowd.

“Lilly!” I call in a panic. “Lilly Arabella!”

The little girl comes running back. Her hair is like sunlight. She hugs me around the legs and looks up at me, laughing.

She says, “Mommy, don't worry.”

Now a little pearl box lies at my feet on the merry-go-round platform. It glints in the rays of the sun. I look at the name on the lid:
ARABELLA
. I open the box and find a dollhouse inside: charming little bed, perfect little toys, postage stamp–sized windows with pink curtains fluttering in the breeze.

Suddenly, my little girl is tiny. Tiny! She fits in the palm of my hand. I put her on the doll bed, and for one last second, I look at her. Then I shut the lid, and my little girl is gone.

How can I face life without that little hand in mine? My heart swells with love and grief. But again, I hear her sweet voice laugh and say, “Mommy, don't worry.”

And when I wake up, I swear I can hear it still.

Dad makes me coffee before he goes to work, and I help him find his car keys and his glasses. Then I shower and drive myself to Sandalwood. But on an impulse, I detour by the new building. The clerical staff are already working there.

Nothing is ready yet. Stacks of boxes wait just inside the front door. But Brenda, the gray-haired receptionist, can't contain her excitement when she sees me. “Isn't it fantastic?” she says. “Come on! I'll show you around.”

I follow her down the halls, as excited as she is. She's right, the new place is fantastic. I walk past cozy nooks and large, inviting rooms where yoga and movement groups will take place. I can just imagine sitting at a table under that skylight to work on a new art project.

At the heart of the new center lies a wonderful little courtyard, filled with the cool shadows of oak trees. Large windows from the offices open onto its protected space. Plants will bloom here, and a fountain will murmur in the shade.

This is a building that will welcome colorful glass mobiles and shaggy textiles and bright artwork in odd places. Already a pink-and-purple mod-podge sign greets everyone who comes through the door. This is a building that will muffle sobs but magnify laughter. Its wide halls reach out like comforting arms to draw the visitor to the peace of its hidden garden.

It has the right will, this building. It's ready to meet its new people halfway. And its people are ready to move mountains and save lives.

I should know. One of the lives they've saved is mine.

Two years have gone by. It's break time at nursing school. Ms. Forbes
sees me drinking an Ensure and comes over to chat.

“So, what is it with you and the protein drinks?” she asks. “I always see you eating.”

You're always eating
, says the voice in my head.
She thinks you're an out-of-control blimp.

Meaning that I'm nervous about what people think of me when they see me eating in public. But what I'm doing is responsible behavior. It doesn't matter if no one understands it.

“I got permission from the director,” I tell her. “It's my thyroid. I have a condition.”

“Your thyroid,” she says, looking thoughtful.

“I have Hashimoto's thyroiditis,” I say. Which is true. “I had to be hospitalized for it a couple of years ago.” Which isn't.

Ms. Forbes' face clears, and she gives me a big smile.

“Thyroiditis. Sure,” she says. “Well, you keep right on drinking those protein drinks, and I'm glad to see you eating. Those ‘thyroid conditions' can result in more than one hospital stay sometimes.”

And she winks at me before she walks away.

Ten hours later, I'm helping my friend Daniel keep control of a rowdy party. It's the night before Halloween, and he invited everybody
he knows. Daniel knows a lot of people. Half the residents of his apartment complex are here.

Dozens of people in all states of costume and intoxication are crowded into the small two-bedroom apartment. As I squeeze through the tangle of bodies, I keep redrawing fire-exit maps in my head: in case of fire, head toward Pocahontas, turn right at beer keg, and exit through balcony door.

“Bacon!” shouts Pocahontas as I force my way into the kitchen. “Everybody who does a shot has to eat a piece.” It's Party Survival 101: you won't get as inebriated if you're eating bacon while you drink.

Eating bacon is barbaric!
says the voice in my head, so I remind myself to grab a piece later. It may be barbaric, but it's definitely joyful eating.

Daniel wanders into the kitchen and sticks a piece of bacon on his Wolverine claw. Then he wanders out again, holding the claw over his head so he can make it through the crush. I can see the bacon waving above the crowd of partiers, still stuck to the end of the claw.

A loud knocking sounds at the door—so loud that I actually hear it. I struggle through the crowd (in case of fire, use Elmo as a human shield and continue path to door) and find a policeman there, ringed by a group of staring superheroes.

“What's the matter, Officer?” I ask. He seems relieved that someone here can still say “officer” on the first try.

“It's two in the morning, and we're getting complaints,” he says. “Time to wrap up this party.”

“We'll shut it right down,” I promise.

“Okay,” he says. “I'll give you a half hour. Don't make me come back.”

He leaves, and I shove my way back into the press again. I tunnel through swaying limbs and cheap nylon capes to Daniel's bedroom
(in case of fire, duck behind Frankenstein and follow dining room wall to balcony) and find Daniel and three of his closest friends engaged in a deep philosophical conversation, the sort that alcohol seems to encourage.