Little Lovely Things, page 5
The monster would eat them all.
“Dad-eee!”
Andrea crooked her index finger around as many strands of Lily’s hair as she could grasp and tugged.
“Hey!” There was no response. Their song. That would help. “Count the clouds…”
Andrea started to sing but then choked on the teary snot clotting her mouth. She reached hard, searching for her sister’s hand. When she finally got hold, it was hot and limp. She squeezed. There was no squeeze back. A school of nervous fish swam in her stomach. She swallowed hard and sang louder.
“See the birdie—”
Lily’s hand still didn’t move.
“—in the tree…” Andrea sobbed.
Each breath was a gulp of hot, stinky air. She tried to straighten like a spring struggling to unfold. The world spun. Her head cleared a little, then fogged again back and forth. Monsters weren’t real; that’s what her mom said. She wasn’t in a stomach or even underwater. The feel of this tight space along with the smell, like the smoke that came out of the pipe in the back of the station wagon, made her understand one thing.
She and Lily were in a trunk!
A stranger’s face flashed through Andrea’s mind—a woman, pale and thin with mud-puddle eyes—then was followed by a quick memory of a room like a garage. Then a bee sting to her arm. Somehow, the woman’s face separated into two faces. There was also a man with sharp eyes and a pointy beard, just like the devil.
“Help!”
The car’s jiggering became dips and heaves. And then the car swerved into a sharp turn. Andrea pinwheeled with the car’s jolts, desperately trying to free herself—twist, push, dip, kick, push, scratch, dip, kick. The more she fought, the more the blanket twisted and tightened around her waist and chest, making it hard to breathe. Still, Andrea squirmed and clawed with ferocity greater than her fear.
“Lily. Lil-eee!” Andrea pinched her sister’s hand. Why didn’t she move?
The car switched from uneven bouncing to rough jiggling—rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat—like it was on sticks. The motion quivered into Andrea’s stomach. She might throw up again. Tightening her mouth, she kicked wildly toward that small light near her feet, over and over, to open that hole. There was something next to it—a bar, or a latch, like the one on Gretchie’s crate. She blew all the air out of her lungs and rammed that latch as hard as she could.
The car took a sharp turn and dropped hard to one side as if in a hole. The trunk lid bucked open. Andrea’s hand was yanked from Lily’s as she flew upward into a surprising whirl of fresh air. Crashing back down, the lid slammed directly into Andrea’s face—wham—before bouncing open for good. Along with a rush of stars in her vision, the taste of metal filled her mouth, followed by the salty flavor of blood.
A wedge of soothing light, lemon-y and warm, danced across Andrea’s face. She opened her eyes. This wasn’t harsh like the sun—but inviting and seemed to wrap her in a hug, filling her mouth with a rainbow. She could taste the colors, like layered Jell-O: orange and lime, banana-strawberry mixed with orange. It seemed to swim right through her, as her body grew wavy and soft.
The car rocked to a halt with the open trunk lid waggling overhead. Stale spit surged into Andrea’s mouth, along with a thread of blood from the crater in her gum. The trunk lid might fall on her, smash her throbbing head. All of the colors and tastes, given by the special light, drained away as quickly as water spinning down the hole in the bathtub, leaving a terrible dread in their place.
The slam of a car door shuddered through the metal.
Fear inched through Andrea’s body, thick and hot like bad medicine. She almost peed. But it wouldn’t come; it was bound up with everything else inside her. If she played dead, maybe the scary people would just go away. “Lily,” she whispered but heard nothing back. She tightened her eyes shut and held her breath. When someone pushed against her, a small, frightened squeak came from her mouth.
A woman leaned over, blotting out the sky above Andrea. “Dear God!” Her voice, thin and shaky, rattled through the air. “No!”
Andrea felt the quilt unraveling from her legs and then hands underneath her, shuffling through lumpy stuff that pushed into her back. It seemed like forever before the woman found what she needed. Andrea dared to look up. This strange face wavered in her dizzy vision, yet she met the woman’s eyes. They were dark, scary. Twisted with… What? Fear? Anger? She couldn’t tell.
She gulped. Her mouth was so dry. The woman stumbled backward. She held a piece of rope in one hand and a brown bag in the other like the ones Andrea had seen around the roots of the bushes planted in the backyard of her house—her home, so far away.
And then the woman was gone. Andrea couldn’t feel Lily near her anymore.
She started rolling, falling forward, even though she knew the car wasn’t moving. The heat was grabbing the breath from her very mouth. Her mind blinked off and on. A picture of Gretchie panting flashed and then the picture quickly became Butkus and then Jumpers.
Hours, it seemed, passed before Andrea felt fingers brush the skin of her cheek. She jerked away.
“Don’t be afraid, Colleen.”
What? Who was Colleen? This was all a mistake! Despite the ache deep in her lungs, the impossible dryness in her mouth and throat, the whirling world overhead, she forced out words, clear and proud.
“My name is Andrea.”
This took all of her energy, every last bit. There was a moment when the world went still. And then she was floating… No, she was being lifted! Ugh, she squirmed and tried to kick, but the woman’s arms were so much stronger than her sleepy legs.
“It’s okay, little one, hush.”
Andrea arched her back, daring to look again into the stranger’s face. Dark hair and pale skin melted away, and all she saw were eyes filled with tears.
A bird circled overhead, inky black against the sky. It landed somewhere in the trees and called, loud and angry. Caw, caw. Others joined. Caw, caw. Wild birds. Not like Butkus in his cage. Hot tears sprang from Andrea’s eyes as she thought of her mother making waffles, of Gretchie next to her in her bed.
The woman set Andrea on her side in the back seat of the car. Its vinyl cooled her blazing skin, and she began to shiver and tightened herself into a pill bug. She slipped away again and did not move until the rev of the engine rumbled through the car. She would not go with this woman! She strained to work her arms under her middle, thrust her chest upward. She’d follow the sound of the birds still calling outside. They would lead her somewhere safe, wouldn’t they? But everything hurt. Her stomach crawled with insects. She might throw up again.
“We’ll be there soon.” The woman spoke from somewhere far away.
“Mom-eee,” Andrea croaked. Her tongue was so thick she could barely swallow.
The world rushed by in waving treetops as her vision grew smaller. Her head cartwheeling, she held on—fighting for Lily, fighting that horrible dark space, fighting to hold the memories that were now breaking into pieces, marching away like tiny ants.
Chapter 6
Claire
“Claire. Claire, wake up.”
“What? Where…am…I…”
“You’re doing it again, honey. Calling out.”
It was the middle of the morning, and Claire was tucked infant-like on the sofa. Gretchie was stretched tight next to her, wheezing tornadoes of moist air onto her leg. She had barely slept in the two weeks since the abduction, moving through the days in a dark, magical dream state bordering on hallucination.
Someone jiggled her arm as she struggled to think coherently. Claire looked into familiar malachite-green eyes shining with tears.
“Honey, it’s me. Vicki.”
Her older sister’s face came into focus. Unlike Claire’s flat gray eyes, Vicki’s were bright and beautiful, like their mother’s. Vicki’s caretaking was a pattern she’d stepped into when they lost their parents, when Claire was only a junior in high school. A one-two punch that had sent them reeling: their mother to pancreatic cancer, their father to a car accident—both gone within eight months.
“Lily. You were calling for Lily this time.”
Claire squeezed her eyes tight. They would be here, in this room, when she opened them: Lily and Andrea, playing with Barbies or pink LEGOs—the large ones made for stubby toddler hands. “Mommy,” Andrea would say, wearing her jean shorts with a patch. “Can you get the rubber band out of Barbie’s hair?” It would be tangled in a mess, this new hairdo on her doll, and they would need scissors to work it out, and Barbie would end up looking butch or like a punk rocker or something that the manufacturer never intended. Claire opened her eyes and quickly searched the room. There was no one except Gretchie and Vicki, whose hovering, delicate face was fraught with concern. She rubbed Claire’s back gently.
“How are you feeling?”
Claire didn’t fully remember going to the hospital the day the girls disappeared. Apparently, she had spent three nights in the ICU, her kidneys coming dangerously close to shutting down. They said she was lucky—a resident in Milwaukee had died from the same reaction. But Claire didn’t feel lucky. She had spent three critical days unconscious. While her girls were Out There, while the search was at its peak, she had been ensconced in a hospital bed, struggling for her life. As soon as she became aware, she felt the crush of guilt weigh on her chest, against her whole body like a lead apron. She’d tried to push it into the deeper recesses of her brain, as it seemed at the very least, self-indulgent and, worse, a handicap to the real focus, which was finding the girls.
“How’s your stomach?”
She didn’t answer her sister, since the reply was always the same—lousy, her stomach felt lousy. The terrible fever had subsided and the storm had cleared her system. By physical standards, she was now fine. So why was she still throwing up? Just the sight of food could elicit an explosive reaction. It was as if her guilt had shifted, had taken up residence in her reptilian brain, the one responsible for basic physical processing like sleep and digestion. Along with nerve-calming meds, she was gobbling the anti-nausea pills, Compazine, like candy.
“Vicki, where’s Glen?”
“Another Staples run. Binders this time, I think.”
Claire cringed. They’d argued earlier that morning about something trivial. His face drawn and impatient, Glen had grumbled over how Claire accidentally knocked Vicki’s contacts into the sink. She, in turn, snapped back. Why did he care about her sister’s stuff anyway? She suspected that it was something else entirely, and that Glen was holding back from speaking his true mind. What he hadn’t said was that Claire should be the one organizing, bringing the energy and determination to carry the friends, neighbors, and extended family through this search process. She’d always been the one with the busy brain and the big ideas—dreaming, pushing, reaching—while Glen was happy with his family and teaching and coaching high school. But now he was fighting for their children, organizing the volunteers. Now he’d converted the house into headquarters, had had an extra phone line installed to track tips, keep communication flowing. Meanwhile, Claire was still trying to summon the strength for the minimum necessary interactions with Detective Juanita Hearns, the reporters, concerned relatives, and friends.
Vicki brushed an eyelash from Claire’s cheek. She’d arranged to stay with them as long as she could, to help maintain a semblance of order, leaving her job and Troy in California. But now it was time for her to go back.
The news from the police wasn’t encouraging. In fact, it was close to nothing. No promising leads. No suspects. Each time Claire and Glen pressed the detective for news, Hearns went over every plausible reason for the abduction, searching for a motive, a starting point. The best scenario, a simple kidnapping, was fading as a possibility since there had been no ransom demand. This left only bleak alternatives, like schemers who sell kids for money on the black market. Of course, Hearns didn’t say this was the best they could hope for. Worse scenarios were left to Claire’s imagination in the darkest part of the night.
Bau-auck!
Butkus screamed from the other side of the house, his grating voice carrying all the way to the couch.
“Ugh.” Claire groaned. “Make him stop.”
“I’ve tried everything. A towel over his cage, the Mozart station on the radio…”
Butkus. A dumb name. Except it matched his bully disposition, his drab coloring. Other parakeets in the store had had bright shiny feathers, squeaked encouragingly. The one they chose—the one Andrea chose—was hunkered in the corner, fluffed up in some form of bird misery. The last one Claire would’ve picked.
“How about him?” Claire had steered her daughter to a sleek azure fellow. “Truly beautiful.”
“Nope, that one.” Andrea had pointed as Butkus hunkered further into himself.
And that was it. Andrea got her way. Glen christened him and everyone loved it. The girls sang to him—“Count the clouds, one, two, three. See the birdie in the tree”—their voices chirpy with anticipation. But Butkus never attempted a single note, not once. Only chatted and cree-ed angrily, shifting as far from the family as possible in his wire cage.
Bau-auck! Bau-auck! His scratchy little voice pierced the air. Claire covered her ears and rolled away from her sister. It occurred to her that she could leave him outside. Tropical birds were susceptible to all kinds of problems once they caught a draft. But the thought of the girls returning to an empty cage, a squawk-less house, prevented such action.
“Come into the kitchen,” Vicki urged, sliding an arm around her sister and pulling her to sit. “I brought you something from the store.”
Claire placed her palm against the edge of her face as the room swam. Nonstop crying in the past few weeks had invited a permanent sinus infection. She was on antibiotics in addition to everything else. It took a moment to grasp her bearings amid the neatly stacked piles of papers in the living room. Glen’s handiwork.
“What’s my assignment today again?” Claire asked her sister.
“Phones.”
A media van showed up in front of their house only every other day now, sometimes every three days. Glen made a point of bringing out coffee, chatting with the reporter.
“Oh yeah. I haven’t missed any calls, have I?”
“No, honey, you took two before you dropped off. Remember?” Vicki smiled encouragingly.
Claire nodded, even though the answer was no. In fact, she frequently lost track of conversations and struggled to remember who she had talked to on what day, or even whether she had spoken to anyone at all. Time was measured from the last view of her girls, a dream moment now, growing ever more distant—Andrea doubled over and Lily wedged in a shaft of golden sunlight.
Moving toward the kitchen, Claire felt her sister’s eyes scanning her ever-shrinking frame.
“You need to eat.”
Gretchie paced around the kitchen, a soldier on duty keeping her eyes glued on Claire.
Vicki opened the remaining flimsy white shopping bag. “I don’t know if this is good or bad for you.” She pulled out a six-pack of 7UP. Claire almost smiled as she surmised what would emerge from the bag next.
“Okay. So far, okay.”
“How about this?” Sure enough, with a flourish, Vicki extracted a bag of Fritos. It was always 7UP and Fritos, even—no, especially—when they were sick, a secret potion conjured up by Vicki when they were small.
“Hmm, let’s see.” Claire separated the top seam of the bag, releasing the corn-chippy odor. At first, the smell brought back old, soothing memories. Encouraged, she put a small piece in her mouth and let the salty goodness coat her tongue. And then she was dashing off with her hand over her mouth, running into the small bathroom, only steps away. The one connected to the girls’ room.
Claire and Glen had agreed to close the bedroom off, in case any further evidence was needed. Even Andrea’s monster repellant on the dresser remained untouched, although it had clouded with algae within a few days of the girls’ disappearance. Now, hovering with her face over the toilet, Claire could see that the pocket door remained open an inch, revealing a small slice of the things left untouched since That Day: rumpled pj’s, a pile of Dr. Seuss books, and Lily’s large-eyed frog sandals, the ones she didn’t choose the morning of That Day, stared from the middle of the floor.
Detective Hearns had requested items the police could use to match evidence, help with identification—did they perhaps have anything related at all to dental work? Claire and Glen worked together in silence to find what they needed. Each object selected became a dagger in Claire’s heart. A small soft hairbrush with both blond and brown hairs had been handed over. Worst of all, Claire had stolen into Andrea’s tooth fairy box and given up her front tooth, the first one she’d lost.
Butkus remained silent throughout Claire’s vomiting episode, as if she and Vicki were now beyond his commentary, choosing instead to attack his cuttlefish bone with his scythe-like beak.
“So sorry, Claire!” Vicki pulled fine strands of hair away from Claire’s face, her fingers soft. “I thought it might help.”
Claire sat back on her heels and wiped the gunk from her mouth.
“I know.” Awash in endorphins, she was, ironically, at her best right after she vomited. “It’s okay. You were just trying.”
Vicki helped Claire into the kitchen, where she settled into a chair. Vicki took Claire’s hands into her own. The concern on her face reminded Claire that her sister would be leaving later that day. She had to. She had a life in California, a husband and a job.
