In a last-ditch effort, I told her the story of my tooth—how, while I was in the well, a piece had broken off and I’d nearly choked swallowing it down. “Could you take me to the dentist?” I asked. Because x-rays didn’t lie. The dentist would be able to see.
We drove into the city the following day. The hygienist sat me in the chair and took a bunch of x-rays.
The dentist came in and inspected the photos.
An assistant inserted a metal instrument into my mouth to keep my tongue from flailing, which was harder than I’d expected, because it flashed me back to the night I was taken, the cloth over my mouth, the poking and prodding …
“Open up a little wider,” the dentist ordered, using her long, gloved fingers to pull my cheek back.
I did as she said, pressing my eyes shut, noticing the trembling of my limbs.
“How are you doing?” a nurse asked, giving my forearm a squeeze.
I pictured a balloon inside my chest, filling up with air. Eventually, the balloon popped, and I let out a loud, retching gasp from the back of my throat.
The dentist withdrew her fingers.
The metal instrument was snatched away.
The overhead light clicked off.
“Are you okay?” someone asked.
I reluctantly opened my eyes as the dentist stepped away. Could she read my mind? Was she giving me space?
She checked and rechecked the x-ray pictures, enlarging them on the screen before coming to her conclusion: “There are no cracks or fractures that I can detect.”
How was that even possible?
“That’s a good thing,” the hygienist said, unclipping my bib. “Everything looks great.”
“How come you don’t look happy?” The assistant frowned.
“Maybe she wants to rinse,” another voice said.
What I wanted was to curl up into a ball with my bottle of maple syrup and shut them all out. Being told I didn’t have a broken tooth—after the story I’d shared about getting it lodged in my throat—just made me look crazier.
“That’s great news,” Aunt Dessa said, but her lip quivered when she said it. Had she been hoping for a fracture too … some outward sign, a shred of evidence to prove her only sister’s daughter wasn’t absolutely nuts?
Investigators thought I was nuts too.
“How is it you were able to get away without barely a scratch? And the scratches you did get—they were from a fall at the mini-mart, not from anything your perpetrator did. Not from the place where you were allegedly being kept.”
“How about the dirt?” I argued. “I came back from the well covered in it. Plus, my palms were cut up … from the chain.”
“Right. Yes. The medical report says there was evidence of a manual struggle.”
Nothing more? “What does that even mean?”
“There were no signs of breaking and entering. So, how do you propose the perpetrator was able to get in?”
“Your aunt states she came home early from her shift that morning, just before four a.m.,” someone else said. “That would’ve put you alone in the house for less than two hours. Is it a coincidence the perpetrator knew when that short window of alone time was?”
“Life can be a real bitch,” Dr. Mary said weeks later in her hospital office. A fleece blanket lay across her lap. It reminded me of the blanket I’d had in the well, distracting me. Why did she have it?
Aunt Dessa was there too. We sat in a circle of seats for what was supposed to have been a “family meeting.” But that obviously wasn’t true, because Detective Marshall was there as well. Her face had a perma-scowl.
Dr. Mary angled toward me, running her fingers over the pale gray fabric. Her voice was the physical equivalent of powdered sugar, nauseatingly sweet. “Maybe I shouldn’t be so crass as to use the b-word, but I don’t believe in sugarcoating. Say it like it is, right? Sometimes when we really need something, and the conscious mind isn’t making it happen, the subconscious one takes over. It finds a way; it may not always be an admirable way. But this isn’t about admiration, is it, Terra? It’s about survival, and you know what? We’re wired for it. You’re wired for it.”
I peered at my aunt, hoping to snag her attention, but she wouldn’t look up from her lap; she just kept fiddling with the drawstrings on her pants: tie, untie, tie, untie. Why wasn’t she coming to my defense?
“I’m not lying,” I told them. “I showed you the place where I was being kept.”
“What you showed us was Hayberry Park,” the detective said. “Do you know how big it is?”
Over a thousand acres. Hayberry is roughly four miles long and two miles wide. Some locals refer to it as the Land of the Lost, the perfect place to hide a body.
“Do you know how many people get lost in all that space per year?” Detective Marshall asked.
Eleven people last year—at least, according to the park rangers I’ve spoken to.
“But not you,” she continued. “Despite a lack of food and water, which, by the way, we were unable to confirm because your medical exams looked good.”
“I’m not lying,” I repeated.
“No one’s accusing you of anything,” Dr. Mary said. “This is a safe space.” Perhaps the biggest lie of all.
“There’s never been a single dwelling in Hayberry,” Detective Marshall persisted. “No cabins or shelters, not even a forest ranger station. Do you know what that means?”
I did. I nodded. We’d been through this before. It meant there was no need for water wells.
Detective Marshall scooched her chair closer, puncturing a hole in the circle. “The person who took you … You say he may have been a jogger you bumped into, but you’re just not sure … If you felt like you were being followed, why didn’t you call the police? You called your friend Felix
