I DON’T MOVE long after Lucca leaves.
The space around me sways and dissolves until I’m back in the loading bay.
I was curled up as small as possible, my heart beating faster than the wings of a trapped butterfly. Leah, one of the girls, always caught them in a glass and enjoyed watching them trying to escape when it wasn’t possible. She said that was us—beautiful butterflies in glass cages.
I never showed my irritation toward her; instead, I would wait until she got bored watching the butterfly panic and flap and would leave the room. Once she was gone, I would lift the glass and set the butterfly free. It would soar to the ceiling, looking for a way out. The windows had bars on them, but I could open it enough to allow the butterfly its freedom.
I knew I would be free one day, too. Releasing them gave me hope. Releasing them made me feel I had power over something in my life.
My stomach tightens as I think about how that turned out. Hiding behind all the crates, fearing the security could hear my heartbeat thrash in my chest.
My name had been repeated, barked, and I knew if they found me, my disobedience wouldn’t go unpunished. It wouldn’t be a slap on my wrist.
My shoulder aches again, a wound long healed, but it’s a different kind of pain. I think they call it phantom pain. Like when someone loses a leg, initially they still think it’s there, they still want to scratch an itch, they still want to stretch out a muscle or just wiggle their toes.
My wound still burns and throbs with its own deeply rooted phantom pain.
I slowly come back to Lucca’s living space, and I’m ready to reach back and touch the old wound on my shoulder, but I don’t.
I glance to the left, where one of his security watches me. I raise my chin higher, trying to hide the pure fear that wants my frame to crumble and bend in two.
“I’d like to be shown my sleeping quarters.” I speak as clearly as possible.
He doesn’t smile or give any indication that he heard me, that is, until he moves. His footsteps are extremely quiet on the marble flooring. I expected the solid black shoes to make a tapping noise, but they’re are soundless, like my bare feet.
I gather the dress higher, not wanting to trip, and all my training about walking with grace comes flowing back into my mind without my permission. It’s in me, like a path laid in my brain. I fear I’ll never dismantle it. Maybe I could build a fresh path alongside it one day, but I can never remove it. I just know it. Like I know it’s air that fills my lungs.
The security man pushes a door open but doesn’t enter. He pushes a small black device into his ear.
“Pavel. I’m taking her to the third guest room. Do you want to cover the door?” He stands and waits for a reply, nods at the large white wooden door before standing aside.
I enter, not surprised that someone will watch the door. I don’t close it. It wasn’t something we were ever allowed.
Pavel’s footsteps are heavy, and I listen to the rhythm as he makes his way down the hallway. He arrives at the door and gives me a once-over with disinterest in his brown eyes before facing forward.
The door remains open as I turn to the guest room. It’s large, but I’m used to large. I’m used to luxury, and this is luxury.
My heart stutters and stalls in my chest, and I cover it with my hand, not wanting it to grow frantic. It’s Leah’s screams. They were the loudest. I open the wardrobe; it’s empty apart from towels, linens, and a dressing gown.
Closing the doors, I take my time and move around the room. A smile that shouldn’t be possible crosses my lips, and I bite my lip to stop it. I have no right to smile. But on the head of the four-poster bed is a carving of a mermaid ready to jump into the waves that rise up to greet her.
I want to touch the waves. Even brown and wooden, there is a beauty to whoever carved them, and I’m moving until the tips of my fingers touch the cold wood. I tilt my head and close my eyes, trying to remember the feel of the water on my fingers, but it doesn’t come rushing back like I hoped it would.
My eyes snap open, and I’m moving toward a large arched space. There are no doors, but plants act as a concealment as I step into a bathroom that’s as large as the bedroom. A tub you can step down into becomes my sole focus.
We never had the luxury of our own wash space. Someone did that for us. Different faces, half-covered with red material, would arrive twice a week, and we would be bathed in the same room.
My hands fumble with the taps, and ice-cold water sprays out. The shock of the cold water has a scream falling from my lips that’s so close to a laugh.
Pavel’s heavy footfalls have me looking at the archway as he steps into the bathroom.
He doesn’t ask me what I’m doing, fully clothed in a bathtub. He presses the black device in his ear.
“All clear,” he says before turning and leaving me. The water is freezing as I kneel down and hold my hands under it. A tremble starts quickly, but it jump-starts memories I have craved for far too long.
I’m screaming as something large splits the water behind me. Panic, glee, and something I can’t explain has my small chest pumping as I focus on the shore ahead of me. Large, strong arms wrap around my waist, and I’m airborne.
“I got you.” My dad’s voice is muffled as he pretends to eat my stomach. He got me every time we played this game. He was the shark and me, the victim.
His face fades, and I push my arms under the cold water, trying to revive it, but his face disappears. Tears of joy and pain make a pathway down my cheeks as I hunker over and try to force my foggy brain to bring my dad back to me, but it’s too distant.
I can still see the freckles on his arms, along with the silver bracelet with a Celtic design he wore on his right wrist and never took off. I’m shaking from the cold water, I’m shaking from what just happened, and I’m shaking from my past.
I turn off the taps and sit in the cold tub until I have no choice but to get out. Standing, the white dress is heavy. Reaching back, it’s a struggle to open the buttons, but I manage to get them open. The heavy material pools around my feet, and I climb the three steps out of the tub. A full-length gold mirror covers a third of the far wall.
I’m not the girl I see in my head. I’m not a girl. Time has frozen for me inside, but on the outside, I’m a woman who’s fully developed. I separate my long black hair and bring it forward to cover my large breasts. The white panties leave nothing to the imagination as I step quickly across the room and pick up a towel. I wrap it tightly around my body.
My body is a temple. I’m a goddess that will be adored and cherished. That was the teaching. We learned about different men, some attractive, some not so much. But we had to learn their names, likes, dislikes. If they selected us, we had to know about them.
Some girls left our group very early on, and fresh girls replaced them. But most of us grew up together.
Lucca wasn’t one of the men we learned about. I would never forget someone like him. My cheeks burn as I leave the bathroom.
I can picture the girls’ reactions if Lucca was one of the selected. I’m sure he would cause quite the stir. Opening the wardrobe, I take out a nightdress and wrap it around my body. Once I’m covered up, I let the towel fall to the floor.
I spot a pair of feminine white feathered slippers at the bottom of the wardrobe. I’m ready to slip them on but pause. I love the freedom of not wearing shoes. We always had to wear soft slippers. No hard skin would ever be allowed to develop on our feet.
I close the wardrobe door, and a sense of elation has my stomach squirming. I’m looking at the door, expecting to see one of the girls, expecting them to tell on me, but it’s just the back of Pavel’s head.
The room grows smaller, robbing me of my earlier reprieve.
“May I explore the penthouse?”
Pavel turns to me, his soft brown eyes not really belonging to the hard set of his jaw. A contradiction that leaves me unsure if I should relax or accuse him of his deceitful eyes.
“She wants to ‘explore’ the penthouse.” He emphasizes the word explore. His gaze never leaves me as he speaks to the other security member on the end of the mic.
He steps aside. “Go ahead.”
I hold my head high as I pass him. I pause at the door and decide to take a left. The hallway isn’t very wide, and the lighting is low. I’m not alone. Pavel’s clunky shoes give him away as he follows a few paces behind me. I open each door but don’t enter the rooms. Three bedrooms, a gym, then two locked doors have me circling back toward my room. I don’t enter but keep walking until I’m back in the large open space. Windows that run floor to ceiling flood the space with light. I don’t go over to see the city below. Heights aren’t something I like.
I continue walking into a kitchen area; that’s where the other security man is. His eyes aren’t soft. The blue in them is washed out like he’s seen too much from life. He has that same hard set of his jaw that Pavel displays.
I keep walking, opening more doors, including a study that doesn’t look like it’s been used. Then two storage rooms, two more locked doors, and a master bathroom I do step into. Large white statues of lions are placed on either side of the entry. The room is tiled black and white, and it takes me a moment to realize the whole room is a wet room. Several showerheads hang overhead, their golden heads like large-sized plates. Walls of red brick are placed around the space, with lots of plants on them. I can only imagine this room flooded in water.
“Yeah, okay.”
I half turn toward Pavel’s voice.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he says and leaves the room.
I listen to his footsteps, and I’m moving to the door as he disappears around the corner, and it’s the first time no one is watching me.
I’m blinking, my mind screaming for me to run, but I calm the storm inside me. That kind of panic will get me nowhere. I need to learn, and fast. I’m moving, remembering the study. Saliva pools in my mouth as I think about what I’m going to do.
I pause at the study door before entering. Pavel’s footsteps are distant as I slip into the room. There on the table is a phone—an actual phone. I close the door and listen for Pavel, but there’s nothing. The floor under my feet seems to grow further away as I walk to the phone. I’m sure it’s a mirage, but as I touch the device, my heart soars.
Picking it up, I’m slow at bringing it to my ear, expecting to hear a dead tone, but it’s live.
My fingers move across the number pad, my heart filling my throat. A disconnected number has me swallowing more saliva.
No.
I dial my home number again and again until my heart truly feels like it will shatter on the floor.
No.
Eight years. It has been eight years since I disappeared from the shore of County Clare.
Eight years since I saw my home. Eight years, and now, I was forgotten.