Lost Boy

Page 5

He pounds his hand into mine. I hate it. I hate urban things, lazy speech, text talk, and stupidity. Technology is making us less and less likely to survive as a species. We are so reliant on it. It bothers me to no end, that I need all of it to watch her constantly.
He drops me off at the apartment. I have a fridge, microwave, and everything I need to watch her. I may die of scurvy, but I will be able to watch every second. I sit in front of the laptop as she leaves the class. I switch to the hall view, noticing the security guard nonchalantly walking behind her.
She smiles and waves at a girl, the girl she’s always with when she’s free. The Michelle girl that Stuart calls a smokin’-ass hottie.
My girl seems nervous; she holds things tight to her. I can see the panic on her face. She’s counting steps, that’s a bad sign. My heart starts to pick up in pace. I want to make her better, I owe her that. I wish I could be someone else. Someone new and fresh, who won't remind her of the bad things. I shudder when I think about it. I touch my phone in my pocket but I don’t dial. I can't call her. Jane—Doctor Bradley is no longer my doctor. I have to accept that. I have to move past it.
I just hold the phone and fight the urges I get when things are out of control. My skin longs for things I can't have anymore. I have to be different now, for her.
The marks on my back are gone, long gone, but the feel of the whip is there still. The feeling of deserving every mark, every lash, seems to remain even afterwards. I never seem to be free of the heavy guilt.
I’m barely able to catch the glimpse of her getting on the bus, but I can tell she’s uncomfortable.
She’s pushing herself.
The eleven minutes it takes for the bus is long. It’s longer than most things I’ve lived through.
My fingers tap, I pump out fifty pushups, I pace, I shoot the ball into the hoop Stuart demanded.
I hear the bus and drop the ball, rushing to the window to see her blonde hair through the glass. She looks bad.
I bite my lip, watching her window. I count the minutes it takes. That’s a bad sign.
Finally, she flings open the door to her room, dumping sanitizer on her hands. She smells it and rubs it up her arms. She opens the window and sticks her face out. She is taking gulping breaths. My gut aches.
I can see it.
I see her struggle.
It's my fault. I left her and she ended up here.
Shame replaces the anxiety as it passes. She pulls her head in the window and puts on another dose of the sanitizer, looking down the whole time, like a second-class citizen. I want to hold her. It's the wrong kind of thought because she is family. She's my girl in an innocent way.
The ache on my skin of my fresh tattoo is the only thing holding me together. If I can't just talk to her, I’ll have sleeves in no time. Or my back will be covered. Either way, I need to find a way to release it where I don’t have to stay in control.
I have given up my other ways for her. I want to be the person she needs, not the man I am.
Weeks pass, they don’t change much. We watch the same things and the same faces. We watch her make the same moves and live in the same bubble.
Stuart walks into the apartment and looks at my new tattoo bandage. He shakes his head while stuffing a sandwich in his mouth.
“What?”
He nods, “What’s that one look like?” In the last three months I’ve gotten four of them.
I bite my lip and lift the bandage up.
He stays quiet when he sees it.
Neither one of us say anything. I don’t want to talk about it, but for whatever reason, I want him to see it.
I want someone to see it, because I can't show the person I need to show it to. She’s dead. She's dead because I failed her. I should have protected her. That has never changed. At least I have a second chance, with the other girl.
I put the bandage back and pull on a shirt, “I’m going out. Eyes on the camera.”
He gives a thumbs up and continues chewing.
I grab the sandwich he brought me and carry it out onto the street.
Stuart texts me, 'Yo, she's on the move.'
I pace until I see her leave the building, walking with a friend, the Michelle Monkton girl. They get into a car. I get into the truck and follow them to the other side of town where the houses are nicer and more family oriented.
They get out. The girl is nattering on about something. She doesn’t notice my girl is sad about something. She has the fake look on her face that she gets around other people. She doesn’t usually get it around Michelle.
My girl walks inside, fidgeting and looking unsure. I hate it.
I want to save her. I want her to know someone loves her; I just need to find them. I know she isn’t a Spicer. I think I always did.
The dead look in her eyes came from loss. The loss of her family, safety, and love.
I sit parked for a minute, as she goes inside and closes me out. Knowing I can't sit here and wait, I get out and walk around the block to the street behind Michelle’s house. The house behind them looks like no one is home. I walk around the side yard, like I am supposed to do it and enter through the backyard. I like trusting, small-town people who leave their back doors unlocked.
The house is dark and stinks of old cooking smells. I get up to the living room window and sit there, watching the backyard. There’s a pool, it’s not fancy. Nothing is fancy at Michelle’s but it looks homey. Like middle-income people who hug their children, because they had them out of an act of love.
My girl sits at the edge of the pool with her legs in the water. She’s holding something, her hand sanitizer. She’s on edge. I see her trying and I see them attempting to not notice. But no one is succeeding.
She watches one of the brothers. It bothers me. She’s young, too young. She’s fragile and needs me, and that makes her mine.
A slow frown crosses my brow. She isn’t mine like that; she can look at boys her age. I have to stop seeing her that way. I narrow my gaze, pulling my binoculars from my pocket and search for her face.
When I find her, she’s sad. I don’t know what to do about it.
I pull my phone out and dial. I hate that I have to do it but I do.
“Hello?” she answers quickly.
“Jane, this is a mistake. We need to talk to her. She needs to know about me as much as I need her.”
She sighs into the phone, “Eli, you have to stop this. This is bringing you backwards. You need to keep your distance. I’ve seen her every week for the last few months. I know what she needs. I’ve told you before, you shouldn’t be involved until we need you to. She has been safe for a lot of years on her own. She hasn’t needed you to interfere with her. You need to go back to work. This is putting you at risk and taking away from the healing work you’ve done on yourself.”
I speak into the phone but still watch through the binoculars, “She needs me as much as I need her.”
“You’re wrong. You need her far more. I’m excited you have found her. Her DNA matches the mystery DNA from the Spicer’s home. She is the girl. Her fingerprints were on the gun. We all believe you now. No one believes you shot your sister, not anymore. That is an amazing breakthrough for you. You need to let her go, until you can play a part in her healing, when she’s ready to meet you. I don’t even know how we’ll wake her up without putting her further back. I’ve never handled something like this before. Her DNA doesn’t match the Spicers. She wasn’t their child. That means she was abducted and that means we will have a whole other ball of wax to contend with. God knows what they did to her. Just trust me, right now we are on schedule.”
I sigh, “You better be right about this, Jane.”
I can hear her tapping her fingers on the phone, “You need to remember, she isn’t your sister, Eli. That, and we all believe you. Your uncle told me your parents are devastated that they never believed you.”
I press the phone off and focus on my girl again. I don’t give a shit about their feelings, and I don’t see her as my sister. If anyone in the world knows Em is dead, it's me. I killed her by not moving fast enough.
My girl needs me though. I see it on her face. That’s what I care about.
Chapter Four
Chicago 2011
Stuart looks at the fancy house and nods, “If this is her house, holy fuck.”
I swallow and ignore the millionth phone call from my secretary. I pass my phone to Stuart, “Tell Nancy I had to take a meeting, and I have the design team working on the sketches she needs for the water plant.” The words are flat and dead. My heart hurts.
I open the door to the truck and climb out. My shoes gleam in the midday sun. I look up at the house, clutching the envelope.
I climb the front steps, knock and try not to throw up. I don’t look back at Stuart; he makes being weak okay. I can't handle that right now.
A tall man opens the door. He looks at me funny, “Can I help you?”
I shake my head, it’s my natural response to that question. I pass him the envelope, “I can help you.”
He frowns and opens it. His jaw clenches. His eyes lift, searching mine for truth or trickery. “How?” he says slowly.
I sigh, “It’s a long story, but the hospital had taken her blood the day she was abducted, before the surgery. The police kept it in evidence, in case she ever turned up. It’s a perfect match.”
His eyes started to water, “HELEN!” he screams up the stairs. His voice is a shrill sound men don’t make, not normally.
I don’t know what to do with my hands. His wife comes running, no doubt from the panic in his voice.
He hands her the envelope. She drops to her knees and sobs into the picture of my girl. My girl at a distance. She shakes, hugging it, “She looks just like my mother, just like my mother.”
He drops to his knees too, wrapping himself around her.
They console each other. I look around; I had been hoping to be invited in, but the shock stopped them from seeing the house behind them. They don’t even know where they are. I know that feeling.
I sit on the concrete beside them, “Her name, that she uses is Emalyn. She has no idea who she is or where she came from. But she is safe.”