When I opened the door, it wasn’t the landscaper.
It wasn’t Becky Ludlow either.
I’d made sure of that, peering down from my bedroom window before trekking downstairs to open it. I’d been hunkering down in my bedroom these past few days—it feeling like a bedroom now since it had a real bed in it. I’d eaten my breakfast and dinner there—bad cramps, I told Mom.
Making it downstairs to open the door felt like an epic journey.
Blame it on curiosity. A girl who looked like me was ringing the doorbell.
When I opened the door, she stopped looking like me. She was wearing a tight pink T-shirt that bulged around the middle. Same with her jeans.
“Yeah?”
She stammered something I couldn’t make out.
“What? Oni . . . ?”
She shook her head; her breasts jiggled. “Toni,” she said.
“Toni? Okay. I’m sorry . . . what do you want?”
“I’m Toni Kelly. I thought . . . well . . .”
Toni Kelly. Toni Kelly. I didn’t understand that was supposed to mean something to me, until it did.
I was on my way to Toni Kelly’s house and I was taken . . .
“It’s so amazing . . . ,” she stammered, “I mean, really incredible to see . . . that you’re alive and everything.”
I didn’t know if I should hug her or shake her hand.
“Hey,” I said. “Toni.”
We trekked back up to my room. Like a playdate.
We sat on my bed and didn’t say anything at first.
She looked around the room.
“It looks different,” she said. “I mean, I don’t remember it that well or anything. Didn’t you have a horse collection? You know, those Breyer ones?”
“Yeah. They’re dog food now.” It was a joke, but she didn’t laugh. “I mean, my mom threw them out.”
“Oh. Right.”
More silence. The orange flower had fallen off the cactus—it was shriveled up on the floor.
“So . . . what’s it like?” she asked me.
“What?”
“Being home? You know . . . after, you know, all you went through?”
“Good.” I was fucking up my lines. She’d knocked me off-balance, her just showing up like this. I hadn’t prepared for running through old times with my six-year-old best friend. “Really great,” I said. “Unbelievable.”
That was more like it. She nodded along to that—people expected certain words from you, a proper gratitude for your newfound existence. You needed to follow the script.
“I thought . . . you know, you being home, being back . . . that I should stop by and say hello.”
“Right. Great. Thanks for coming.”
Silence again.
“Was it terrible? I mean, you don’t have to talk about it or anything. In the papers, they said . . . it sounds like it was really awful.”
“It was.”
“How did you . . . like, get away?”
“Look, I’d rather not . . .”
“Oh, sure. I mean, you don’t have to. I was just wondering . . . ’cause of what I read. Anyway, great to have you back.”
“Thanks.” I was counting the rolls of fat under her T-shirt. Three.
“Is it weird being home with your parents? I mean, not seeing them for so long. It must be really strange, right?”
“It’s okay.”
“And all those reporters? Wow. You know, we moved. After you were . . . after you disappeared, I think my mom freaked. Like there must be a kidnapper or something in the neighborhood. We moved to Bellmore. Not that far. But I saw all the reporters around your house—on TV. It looked fucking insane.”
“Yeah. It was crazy.”
“I mean, one of them called me . . . wanted to know how I felt?”
“They called you?”
“Yep . . . you know, because you were headed to my house that morning. When you were . . . you know . . .”
“Kidnapped. I was kidnapped the morning I was headed to your house.”
“Right.”
I was starting to get this feeling. Like I needed to ask her to leave.
“You look . . . great, by the way. I mean, after all you’ve been through. You really look great.”
“So do you.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“Hey . . . can I take a selfie?”
“What?”
“You know, a shot on my phone. Of you and me.”
“Why?” Yeah, it was definitely time to see her to the door and say thanks for coming.
“I don’t know. Is it a big deal? Just a shot of us together?”
“I’m really kind of . . .”
When she pulled out her phone, it felt like she was pulling a gun on me.
“Just take a second,” she said. “One little shot. Please . . .”
Okay, now I get it.
“Is that what he wanted?” I said.
She blushed. “Who?”
“The reporter.”
“Reporter?”
“The one who called you? Who wanted to know how you felt?”
“I don’t . . . huh . . . I mean, I don’t really know what . . .” Back to stammering again.
Jake had told them no, but reporters don’t take no for an answer. They find a way. Or they find a Toni.
“What did he say? Suggest you stop by for old time’s sake? Welcome me back to the neighborhood? Tell me how fucking fantastic I look? And while you’re there, hey, make sure you get a picture.”
“Hey. No need to be a bitch. I thought you’d be happy to see me.”
“I’m sure he was. When you said you’d do it.”
“Like you’re such a big fucking deal. Like anyone really gives a shit. Just because you were like raped by Daddy or Father or whatever the fuck you had to call him . . .” Her face was still red, but not from blushing. A vein in her temple was throbbing up and down.
“Nice seeing you,” I said.
She stared at me with this truly venomous expression. Like if her phone was a gun, she would’ve pulled the trigger.
I didn’t bother seeing her to the door.
Ever wake up from a nightmare and find yourself in a worse one? Almost giddy that it was just a dream, then wishing you could be right back in the middle of it.
Mom was there. In my dream. My real mom, looking okay, too, the way she did during her court-ordered rehabs, not so shrunken and jittery, but almost mom-like. I was curious what she was doing there, in my house—this house, some house, I wasn’t sure whose. But I was surprised by her visit and asking her, Why? Why? The why are you here turning into a different why—it happens that way in dreams—turning into Why did you leave me by the motel? And she was getting real mad at me—the way she was that morning when I wouldn’t get into the stroller and wouldn’t stop hugging her knees.
She walked. Out of the house, out of the parking lot, out of the dream.
And I was screaming at her. Screaming bloody murder at her.
And then, suddenly, the screaming was at me.
Someone was screaming at me, and I had my head between my knees again because we were about to crash.
And die.