I wonder if this is the whole reason she asked to meet. Not so I could tell what was missing from my story but so she could tell hers. “Then why are you telling me now?”
“I thought you’d want to know.” She taps the table with her palm. “I thought you’d want to know that when everyone else was giving in to the statistics, he was looking for you. I thought you’d want to know that when everyone else said you were never coming home, he brought you back. He refused to believe you were gone—he just wouldn’t accept it. I thought you’d want to know because I sure as hell would.” She shakes her head, and for a moment, she’s not here in this room—she’s somewhere else, with someone else. “I’d want to know that a man was willing to give up everything for the fraction of a fraction of a chance that I was in that house and the fraction of a fraction of a chance that I was still alive inside. That kind of love, friendship, whatever you want to call it, is worth crossing lines for.”
I inhale, understanding. She’s rooting for the happy ending. She’s advocating the fairy tale. Seems strange coming from a tough police detective.
“Even if that person is a priest?” I glance at her.
She lifts her eyebrows and stands. She doesn’t blink when she answers. “Even if that person is the motherfucking pope.” When I wrestle with a smile, she raps on the table a few times before heading for the door. “There are thousands of priests in the world to spread good, do good, and be good . . . but there’s only one him.”
She’s almost out of the room when she stops, catching herself with a snap. “Oh, I left something for you at the front desk, so grab it before you leave. Some evidence that belonged to you that we collected at Jackson’s.” She looks at me with something meaningful in her eyes. “Something I thought you’d want a chance to finish.”
Ten Months Later
IT’S MY BIRTHDAY. I’m turning twenty-eight. It’s the first one I’ve celebrated in ten years. It feels a little like a rebirth.
That’s probably why I scheduled what I did for this morning.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this, sweetie?” Mom’s sitting on the edge of my bed as I finish with my hair. I got it cut a little shorter, and I still haven’t gotten used to what to do with the different length.
“I’m ready.” I stare at myself in the mirror for a minute, looking for that light in my eyes. It takes a while to find it, but at least I can now. When I leave the bathroom, I do a little spin before slipping into my shoes. “So? How do I look?”
“Beautiful. Just don’t rub up against anything or drink anything or eat anything.” Her eyes scan me, and she motions for me to do another twirl. I do. “White’s dangerous.”
“No, white’s appropriate for the situation.” I run my hands down the smooth fabric and focus on my breathing. I’m nervous, but I have an arsenal of tools at my disposal now for when that happens. Deep breathing, redirecting the negative energy into something positive, focusing on an anchor memory that grounds me. I do all three now.
“Why’s that?” Mom comes over to help me adjust a few things. Turns the pearl necklace so the clasp is hiding. Smooths the seam running down my side. Combs a stray hair back into place.
“Because everyone’s expecting me to wear black. White’s going to take them all by surprise.”
“Why’s everyone expecting you to wear black?”
I shrug, smiling at my light dress. “Because black absorbs everything around it, making it what it is, unlike white, which reflects everything and doesn’t let anything past. I want everyone to know I’m not defined by what happened—it doesn’t make me what I am today. I am who I am, not what’s happened to me.”
Mom lifts a brow at me and smiles. “And here I thought you picked the dress because it fit you like a dream and was on the sale rack.”
I lift a shoulder. “And maybe that too.”
I’ve gotten a job at the public pool, teaching swimming lessons to adults who can’t swim, while I work on knocking out a few college prereqs at the community college in town. I love the job, but it doesn’t pay much. So I shop sale racks and yard sales because I insist on paying my own way. It’s important for me to be able to take care of myself.
“Are you as nervous as I am? You don’t look it,” Mom asks, placing her hand across her stomach.
“I’m so nervous I’m one frayed nerve away from peeing my pants, which, by the way, you did not mention in your list of what not to do when wearing white.”
Someone knocks on my door. They’re ready.
She bites her lips and glances at the door. “You’ll do great. And we’ll all be right there for you.”
I give her a side hug, which turns into her pulling me into a full-body one. She squeezes me so tightly it’s like she’s just been told this is the last time she’ll be able to see me.
“I’m so proud of you, Jade.”
I wind my other arm around her and squeeze her back. “I’m proud of me too.”
When she sniffs, I lean back and find her crying. Well, she’s trying not to cry, but it doesn’t change that she would be if she weren’t putting on The Brave Face for me.
“Wow. Even you’re looking at me like it’s a funeral.”
She shakes her head and pulls a tissue from her purse. “I’m just worried. This is a big day. A lot’s happened. It’s only been a year.” She dabs at her nose and eyes and glances at the door where another knock’s sounding. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait? Make sure this is really what you want?”
I lower myself so I’m at her eye-level. “Exactly. It’s been a year. I’m ready.”
“She’s ready.” Dr. Argent rises from the rocking chair and sends me a wink. “And she already knows she doesn’t have to say anything she’s not prepared to say.”
“See? I won’t say anything I’m not ready to say.” I give Mom a little shake. “I’m good.”
“We should get going. They’re waiting.” Dr. Argent moves for the door and puts her hand on the handle. She’s waiting for me to give the nod that I’m ready. We’ve spent a lot of time talking about doors and windows, past and present, dark and light.
Since I’d pitched her card in the garbage at the hospital, I had to call them to get in touch with her. I guess she’d been waiting for my call because they forwarded me automatically to her cell. She’s helped me a lot—well, she’s helped me help myself. I guess that’s what two-hour sessions twice a week will do, but she’s right—I am ready. For whatever’s coming. For whatever came. I’m ready.
Ready, however, is different than feeling whole again. That is still a work in progress.
When I nod, she opens the door and waves me through it. When I start to leave, Mom falls in right behind me, hanging so close she’ll crash into my back if I slow down.
I hear a bunch of noise coming from my living room, but I also hear Dad’s and Sam’s voices. That makes it easier to keep going when I want to turn around and tuck back into that closet I’ve spent more than my first night in. I focus on the good and let it propel me forward instead of letting the fear pull me back into its cave.
I glance in the kitchen as I come to the end of the hall. I can’t help but smile at the coffeepot propped on the counter. Maybe one day I’ll get a chance to use it. I’ve figured out how finally.
When I turn into the living room, I roll to a stop. All of my stuff’s still here: the couch, tables, old chair, pictures, and throw pillows, but it looks entirely different. Not only are there at least a dozen unfamiliar faces squeezing around each other in the small space, there are twice as many foreign objects. Lights, cameras, other tech-looking things I can’t name . . . all of it’s overflowing in my little room.
I feel my heartbeat quicken and my palms dampen. Am I ready for this? Am I really ready for this? The reporters camped outside have shrunk in number but not in tenacity. I don’t get followed for quite as long by quite as many of them anymore, but I still can’t have a single private moment in public without feeling like a camera’s wat
ching me.
I finally agreed to this big interview with this giant station with this legend of a reporter because once my story’s out there, I’ll be left alone. Or at least a little more left alone. I guess it’ll still be months before the cameras leave my front door, and years before I can stuff a hot dog in my mouth without having to worry about a camera snapping at the worst possible time.
I can do this. I want to do this.
I repeat that to myself as I position a smile into place. I say it silently as I force my feet to break through the roots keeping them in place. Sometimes I have to pretend I feel brave before I actually do. Sometimes I never make it past the pretending part. But those days are getting fewer and further between.
“Miss Childs.” The reporter who is just as flawless and poised in person as she appears on TV notices me and approaches. She’s wearing a dark skirt suit with a few pieces of gold jewelry popping out.
I glance at my mom with a raised brow, and she sighs. Even the reporter has shown up to the interview like she’s attending a funeral. Black.
No more black. I’m done with it. At least willingly letting it into my life. I’m done letting it strangle me without fighting back.
“I can’t tell you how honored I am to be the one you’re ready to tell your story to for the first time.” She holds out her hand when she stops in front of me, and I shake it without thinking about it. I can shake people’s hands and brush by them and not feel like it’s a giant invasion of privacy.
“Thank you for coming here. I know it must have been a huge inconvenience.” My voice wobbles a little, but if she notices, I can’t tell.
“If you wanted to do this interview on the moon, it wouldn’t have been an inconvenience.” She smiles, and I get the feeling it’s a real one.
This is part of the reason I requested her—because of the genuineness she seems to embody in a profession I can’t exactly say with a lot of confidence personifies that quality. Plus, she actually seems to give a shit about what she reports and the people she interviews. Giving a shit is important.
Dr. Argent taught me that.
“We’re ready when you are, but feel free to take as much time as you need. I know this has to be difficult for you.”
I swallow. I try not to think about the questions she’s going to ask me. I try not to think about my answers. “A little.”
“Everyone I’ve ever interviewed has been nervous, so you’re not alone. Just try to forget about all of this stuff and pretend it’s just you and me having a conversation.” She leans in and points at someone playing with a big camera that’s facing the chair I’ll be in. “If that doesn’t work, just look at Cameron’s beard. That always gets a laugh.”
Hearing his name, Cameron sighs and strokes what I guess some people might consider a beard. “The beard again? Really? Aren’t you a reporter? Fresh material should not be a foreign concept.”
The reporter chuckles and starts toward the chair she’ll be sitting in across from me. “That is not a beard. That is a thirteen-year-old’s peach fuzz.”
Mom and Dr. Argent are laughing, but Mom’s trying to rein it in, I guess for Cameron’s sake. Or Cameron’s beard’s sake.
My feet are able to move, and even though every step becomes harder to take, I keep going.
Dad and Sam are standing off to the side, leaning against the back wall. They flash me a couple of thumbs-ups when I look over. Mom and Dr. Argent join them against the wall. This way, they’ll be right here, just in the corner of my eye.
Everyone’s here—even Patrick and Maisy are milling around somewhere, but now that she’s two, she has a tough time with the whole staying still thing.
I guess almost everyone’s here. One is missing. Today isn’t just my birthday—it’s a Sunday. Since it’s eight o’clock, he’s probably just about to start early mass. Torrin’s suspension ended ten months ago, and he’s gotten back to doing what he does best—being him. He’s helped people, he done the right thing, he’s spreading good like it’s going extinct, and he’s shone a light everywhere he’s gone.
I’ve managed to find a flicker of my own that burns on occasion, but he will always be my light.
The reporter waits for me to take my seat before she settles into hers. I cross my ankles and fold my hands into my lap. A couple of people approach, and while one dusts my nose with what I assume is powder, the other holds something by my face that looks like he’s measuring it or something. I don’t know. I just let them do what they need to while I focus on keeping calm.
My armpits are already damp, and I start to rethink my color choice for today. By the end of this, I’m going to have sweat stains running down to my belly button.
The same team moves over to the reporter. After they finish powdering and measuring and adjusting, they wander behind the lights and cameras.
It’s just the two of us now, and when a few more lights switch on, everyone around me fades. I can’t make out the forms of my family or Dr. Argent to my right. I can’t see my kitchen across the hall. I can’t see anything, and I feel the world start to shrink in around me again. It’s happened hundreds of time. It comes in around me from all directions, trying to fold me into something no bigger than a speck of dust.
The reporter crosses her legs and checks a clipboard with what I guess are the list of questions she’s prepared to fire at me, and now I’m really shrinking. The lights are blinding. I can even feel the heat coming from them like it’s scorching my skin.
I need an anchor. I need to find it. I need to remember I’m tied to it so no matter how far I feel like I’m falling or how small I feel I’m shrinking or how hollow I feel I’m being carved, I can remind myself I’m not alone. I’m tied to something. Connected. Grounded. Safe.
I close my eyes and search for it—it’s there on the tip of my brain, but the panic keeps shoving it out of my reach.
Opening my eyes, about to tell the reporter I can’t do this, I see the photo. It’s sitting on the end table still, in this inner circle with me. It’s the one of Torrin and me at Westport. It’s in the same shattered frame because after painstakingly gluing it back together, I realized that the view of the photo might have changed but the spirit of it had not.
Try again. Fail again. Fail better. Those words he quoted to me months ago have saved me from waving the surrender flag in life’s direction countless times since then. I’ve failed so many times I’ve lost count—but I’ve failed better and better each time.
Progress . . . one failure at a time.
I take a deep breath, let it spread, then I feel it. My anchor. What I’m tethered to. It’s him. It’s always been him. It always will be him.
“I’m ready,” I tell the reporter.
After giving me a moment to change my mind, she cues the cameras with a twirl of her finger. Cameron lowers behind the camera facing me, and even though I guess I’m now officially being taped, I don’t feel any different. I don’t feel nervous anymore. I feel ready.
Ready to tell my story.
“Jade Childs, thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me today and tell the story of your ten-year captivity with Earl Rae Jackson. The world is anxious to hear your account.”
The reporter’s voice fills my living room, and I notice my family seem to take a collective shift. Now that I’ve adjusted to the lighting, I can make them out again.
“Before we dive into the interview, I want to ask you one question. You’ve been at the epicenter of a media storm for one year and have kept quiet the entire time. You’re breaking your silence now.” The reporter leans forward. “What words do you want to break your silence with?”
I glance at my hands, considering her question. My answer rises from somewhere deep inside. From a place I thought had decayed and could never be brought back to life. I’ve been finding more and more of those pieces—bringing them back into being. I’ve been gluing myself back together, one shattered piece at a time.
When I look up, I star
e right into the camera. I think I’m supposed to look at her when I answer, but I want to look into the world’s eyes when I say this. “When people look at me, most of them see a victim. But I’m a survivor.” My eyes drift to my anchor before they shift back to the camera. “I want everyone to know that a new life—a fresh start—is possible no matter who you are or what you’ve been through.”
“Everything you’ve been through . . .” The dot, dot, dot is written on her face as she leans forward. “How do you do it? What gets you out of bed every morning?”
I’ve had to answer that question for myself so many times, the answer’s always on the tip of my tongue. “I fail. A lot.” I temper my words with a careful smile. “But I remind myself of something someone I respect quoted to me that had helped him in a dark time.” My smile isn’t so careful anymore. It’s eclipsing into a real one from thinking of him. “Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”
I SURVIVED THE interview. Now I just need to make it through the next part, and the rest of my birthday will be a breeze.
It’s another clear day as I wander past the cemetery gates, but this time, I’m not passing through them to unfurl my anger. I’m not coming to mourn either. I’m coming for a different reason—to say good-bye.
I’m not here searching for flowers to leave or to kick dead weeds from a gravestone. I’m here to make peace with this part of my past. I’m ready to leave it behind me for good.
I could tell my family was worried when I left the apartment as soon as the interview was over. I didn’t wait for the crew to pack up and leave even. I’d thanked the reporter, shaken her hand, and left. It’s my birthday, and a rebirth doesn’t just happen on its own. It doesn’t come from one interview—it comes at a much steeper price.
It’s one I’m willing to pay.
Being a sunny Sunday morning in summer, the cemetery’s virtually empty of people. I guess the living don’t want to spend this kind of a day with the dead.