It actually makes her more human … knowing she’s been battling guilt, like me, that she’s had a shame-labeled vault locked up inside her too.
“Now that I know you were telling the truth about being taken,” she continues, “and that I chose not to believe you, I’m left blaming myself again. I’m so sorry—for everything: the silence, the mistrust, the clearing out of your room … I know that isn’t nearly good enough, but right now, apologies and promises to do better are all I have to offer. I hope you’ll accept.”
“I do.” I nod.
Aunt Dessa reaches out to take my hand again. For just a moment, as I look down at our fingers clasped together, I imagine it’s my mom’s hand—her fragile grip, her chewed-up nails, her freckled skin …
“No matter how difficult our pasts have been, or how much shame we carry as a result, we all deserve to allow ourselves to be loved.” She squeezes my hand tighter. “That should’ve always been the number-one rule on our survival list.”
I open my mouth, wanting to ask how she even knows about the list, but I stop myself from speaking because I’d prefer to believe the message was channeled by my mom somehow, that Mom’s here with me, holding my hand, answering my questions.
“I’d like it if we could talk about my mother more.”
“I’d like that too.” She curls back into her pillow. “I’m sorry I haven’t been more open to that.”
I place the initial M up to my lips. “None of us is perfect.”
“Especially not me.”
“So, we have to forgive ourselves for the choices we’d no longer make.”
“That’s a really nice idea, but an unbelievably hard lesson.”
“I’m still learning it too,” I say.
Still adding light to my painting.
Still boldening the trust.
Still working on my paper heart.
NOW
58
I haven’t been on the chat site since the night of the salvage yard, mostly because it reminds me of Peyton, and I really, really miss her.
Sometimes I’ll wake up in the middle of the night, feeling that oh-so-familiar tightness in my chest. My pulse will race, and I’ll work so hard at trying to catch my breath, thinking about things like Story Land and maple syrup packets. My gut instinct will be to log on to Jane—to seek Peyton out. But not half a second later, I’ll remember. She won’t be on. Because she doesn’t exist.
The site is still active, and I miss it too … the other members, “hearing” and reading their stories. So many nights (and so many long, endless days), just knowing that people were on and that I could chat whenever I wanted made me feel a little less alone.
So now, six weeks later, I grab my laptop, wondering if people on the site will comment about how long I’ve been away. After the Peyton/Darwin incident, the Jane Anonymous administrators sent out messages warning members about the potential for online danger and catfishing. Those messages had followed news reports about the disappearance of Charley Mullins, the twenty-one-year-old man who abducted twenty-two-year-old Clara Peyton Adelman from Ashby, North Carolina, a year and a half prior and put her in a shed.
The same man who also abducted me.
Previous news articles regarding Clara’s disappearance stated that she’d been taken by a man who’d been posing as a police officer. Investigators found DNA (aside from Clara’s) among the shed debris, but they weren’t able to link it to anyone relevant until what happened behind the salvage yard. Charley’s DNA was discovered in a pool of blood made by the stab wound; only, by the time the police arrived on the scene, he’d already fled, leaving the mannequin behind, but managing to take the storybook with him.
The Forest Girl and the Wishy Water Well.
No one was able to find it.
Recent news reports didn’t leak my name, but they did detail how Charley had sought me out on a chat site for trauma victims, “under the guise of a twenty-two-year-old fellow survivor of abduction.” They also mentioned the first time I was taken—from my bed, in the middle of the night—acknowledging that it’d actually happened. The fact that they were admitting it felt empowering at first; at last people would know I hadn’t made the story up. But after that initial spark, the power on their words went out. I no longer felt they mattered.
What matters to me now is that Charley is still out there—still capable of taking someone else, still not getting the treatment that he needs. Charley Mullins: the boy who loved storytelling even more than I did, who used to help me escape the inferno inside my head with magical rings and twisty plots; whose own backstory was always too unspeakable to share …
It breaks my heart to know it’s him.
NightTerra has entered the chat room.
JA Admin: Welcome, NightTerra. Remember the rules: no judgments, no swearing, no inappropriate remarks. We here at Jane Anonymous make every effort to ensure a safe space for honesty and support, but, unfortunately, we live in a world where complete safety isn’t always possible. Please alert us to any member’s comments that make you uncomfortable or that you feel should be reviewed.
TulipPrincess: NightTerra!!! Long time no chat.
LuluLeopard: How are you???
NightTerra: I’m ok, and you guys?
LuluLeopard: We all heard about #Peyton
RainyDayFever: Word travels fast around here.
TulipPrincess: Speculation also doesn’t hurt.
TulipPrincess: So, just to be clear, that guy they’re talking about on the news … The storyteller …
TulipPrincess: That’s def him, right? The guy who posed as Peyton and Darwin …
TulipPrincess: They said he was active on a chat site. It sounded like this one … created by a woman who’d been abducted herself … Everyone’s saying it is.
NightTerra: Yes. Same guy.
TulipPrincess: Plus, the story, what they’re saying … It kind of went along with your story, what you went through.
LuluLeopard: But they didn’t mention a well.
NightTerra: Turns out it wasn’t a well. It was an old mining pit for coal. It took them a while to find it.
TulipPrincess: Have you
