Emma educated Rachel in the ways of the world outside her little life.
"Candace is a lesbian," Emma opined one day when they were debating whether Rachel should sneak out late one night and come to a party.
That fact didn't bother Rachel. She understood that some women did not like men. They liked other women.
Emma had explained it all to her after they met, and she took on the education of Rachel in all things she lacked.
"I hate men," Emma explained. "But I don't like women so it's a man I'm looking for. Women need men to survive and you have to find the good ones who will look after you. That's what every girl needs -- a good man to look after them. Give them sex when they want it, and in return, you get a nice apartment, and your food and clothes paid for. I can do that."
Rachel could have hated men, after what she experienced at home and at the warehouse, but she realized that not all men were like that. In fact, Sister Jean said that most men were good. Only a small number of men were evil.
"God made us fallible," Sister Jean said one day when Rachel went for a visit. "Some more than others. Find a good man and marry him. Be true to him and your life will be happy."
Rachel wasn't so sure. Her mother had married and had tried to be a good wife, but her father was just evil. Rachel knew that now. Her father was just the way Sister Jean said.
Evil.
If Rachel ever met a good man, she would consider getting married, but there was a lot of living for her to do before then. Rachel enjoyed the freedom that living with Candace and Leslie afforded her, looking after Sadie while Rachel went out with Emma to parties and dances, and occasionally, they let her sleep over and babysat Sadie.
That was the first time in Rachel's life where she felt somewhat normal. She had an allowance and bought clothes with Emma -- clothes that were fashionable and made her feel pretty.
"You're so skinny, kiddo," Emma would say. "You need some meat on your bones. Guys like a little booty. You should start working out. Squats," she said and performed a few. "Do squats."
Rachel didn't care about being skinny. That's just the way she was, but she did want to look normal. Even just wearing jeans and a hoodie, some Doc Martens like Emma, and some makeup, a streak of pink in her blonde hair, made her feel like she fit in.
Finally, Rachel fit in.
At a dance one night, she finally took Molly, and it was the very best feeling in the world. For the first time in her life, she felt actual happiness. She was so happy, she cried. She hugged Emma and everyone else she met. She loved everyone and everyone loved her.
From then on, whenever she could, Rachel took Molly. It was her go-to drug of choice. While Emma smoked pot and sometimes drank alcohol, Rachel only wanted Molly. She hated alcohol, because it reminded her of her father and the men at the warehouse, who drank so much, they'd puke in buckets.
Then, one night, when she slept over at Emma's place, she tried a line of white powder that Emma was snorting.
"It's Oxy," Emma said. "If you think Molly is good, try this."
Rachel tried it, and Emma was right. If Molly made her happy, Oxy was pure bliss. Oxy was this great enveloping warmth of pureness that chased away all the sadness and bad memories.
Then, she slept.
One of the older guys at the party, she couldn't even remember his name, tried to climb on top of her, and in truth, she didn't even care. She felt so blissed out, she didn't fight. Emma was sober enough to pull him off, but even she eventually succumbed to the effects of the Oxy.
Rachel woke up later to the feel of the guy thrusting inside of her. Her clothes had been partially removed and he was on top of her. Her only thought wasn't the fact he was raping her. It was whether he'd seen the faint scars from the stab wounds and would think she was a freak.
She didn't really care about the fact he was having sex with her. It wasn't anything she hadn't felt many times before in her life, and at least the Oxy took away all the pain.
When he was done, he threw a ten-dollar bill onto the bed beside her.
"He liked you," Emma said when they had both sobered up enough to sit and stare at the bill in Rachel's hand. "You didn't even ask, and he gave you money."
"If I take it, it means I'm a prostitute."
"No, silly," Emma said and pushed Rachel's shoulder. "Prostitutes always negotiate up front and get paid before they have sex. Randy gave you money because he liked you."
"I didn't tell him it was okay," Rachel said doubtfully. "At least, I don't remember saying yes. The nuns said that consent is important in a healthy relationship."
"Randy is a good guy. He wouldn't rape you. You must have said yes and just don't remember because of the Oxy."
Rachel nodded, because she couldn't remember anything after she did the line of crushed Oxy except a warm feeling of bliss and hands on her, touching her.
Nothing about it felt the way she used to feel back at home or in the warehouse.
It couldn't be abuse in that case...
Over the next year, Rachel's life gradually fell apart.
She tried to keep up with her night classes, but in truth, she stopped going altogether, spending her time at Emma's place, high, sleeping with whoever might take a fancy to her because at that point, she didn't care. They always left money and it was only about three months into the arrangement that she finally understood that she was a prostitute.
She and Emma had become prostitutes, working for Randy.
He never forced her, but he gave her money, he gave her drugs, and he had sex with her whenever he wanted.
Leslie and Candace cared for Sadie, and while they encouraged Rachel to get help, to go to a detox center and get clean, they never forced her. She would roll in early in the morning after a night spent at Emma's place, and sleep it off, have a shower, eat some food and play with Sadie for a while, before going out late that night to start all over again.
Leslie stopped her one night before she left.
"You should eat before you go."
Rachel shook her head. By then, she needed her drugs before she could eat.
"I'll be fine," she said and waved Leslie off. "I gotta go."
"You need help, Rachel," the older woman said, a hand on Rachel's shoulder to stop her. "You're in trouble. I can tell. Candace and I are happy to look after Sadie, but she needs her mother."
Rachel looked in Leslie's eyes and knew what the woman said was right, but by then, she needed to get high to simply get through the night.
"I know," Rachel replied, tears coming to her eyes at the realization. "I'll try."
"You'll lose Sadie if you don't," Leslie said softly. "This can't go on forever."
Rachel wiped her eyes on her sleeve, but she had to leave. She needed a hit.
"I'll be back later," Rachel said. She stopped by Sadie's bed and bent down, kissing the sleeping baby goodnight. "Good night, sweet baby," she whispered. "Mamma loves you."
Then, she went out into the night, her body aching with need. Once she had her first hit, she'd be okay.
Her life went on like that for the next year, with Leslie and Candace becoming more and more insistent that Rachel get help and Rachel spiraling down deeper into addiction.
Sadie seemed a happy baby despite the fact her mother was an addict and prostitute. She was starting to crawl, and Rachel had been away or unconscious for all of Sadie's big milestones. The first time she sat up on her own was with Leslie. The first time she crawled was with Leslie. Her first words were spoken to Leslie and Candace, not Rachel.
The first time she stood on her own, Rachel was passed out in her bedroom, the blackout drapes pulled against the daylight.
Leslie opened the door and stood in the doorway, the expression on her face clearly upset.
"Rachel," Leslie said angrily. "Your daughter just started to walk. You should be the one watching her."
Rachel rolled over and pulled the blanket over her face. "I'm sick," she said weakly. "I need to sleep."
"You're always sick. You need help, girl. If you don't clean yourself up, you'll lose Sadie."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Rachel said dismissively. "I will, I will. Just shut the door."
Leslie stood in the doorway for a long moment, then Rachel heard her sigh heavily. Finally, the door closed, and the room was cast back into darkness.
Rachel wept silently, for she knew what Leslie said was right. She should have been the one watching Sadie, encouraging her first words and steps. But Rachel needed her hit to just get through the day now. She needed to work to keep up her habit.
One day bled into the next, and it was all a huge blur of intoxication, sex and sleep. There were only a few moments of sober reflection on the state of her life and how close she was to losing Sadie.
What changed everything was one of the girls Rachel knew going missing.
Rose Clarke, fifteen, a pretty brown-eyed girl originally from Tacoma, who had been brought up to Seattle to work for Randy.
She went missing one night. Never showed up the next evening to stand on the corner and wait for dates. The last time anyone saw her was after she got into a truck with some John.
"She ran away," Randy said, shrugging. "She probably went back to Tacoma. She was always complaining that she missed her sisters."
But it didn't feel right to Rachel, who had spent a lot of time with Rose.
When they found her body in a dumpster at the edge of town, Rachel knew she had to do something, or she'd end up like Rose.
So, when a reporter and camera man came around, asking for any information about Rose, Rachel told them what she knew. She was afraid again, the way she'd felt back when she lived at home. Afraid for her life.
That was when she met Craig.
He'd come around with a reporter from the Sentinel, asking questions about missing street prostitutes. He kept his eyes downcast when he spoke with her, offering her a cigarette when they stood in the cold winter night while the reporter-lady spoke to one of the other girls who didn't want to be on camera.
Craig was a sweet man, who couldn't make eye contact except through the lens of his camera.
Strangely enough, they fell easily into a relationship. It seemed he could see right into her soul with the lens and asked if he could come by and take some photos of her for his private collection. At first, she was suspicious that he was some kind of weird pornographer, but he wasn't.
He did portraits of street people. He told her that some of his photographs were on display at a local coffee shop and when she went to see them, she was honestly touched.
They were haunting portraits of some of the people she knew from the streets. Homeless old men in black and white, their skin filthy, their wrinkles showing them aging far too soon, toothless, rheumy staring off into space.
Even the prostitutes he photographed had a quiet dignity that was hard to give to women who sold their bodies for drugs.
"Why do you want to photograph me?" she asked one night when he paid her just to talk.
"I can see your pain. I want to preserve it, so everyone knows."
She shook her head. "No one can know," she replied softly. "No one can know who I am. I'm trying to escape my past."
"Just for my private collection, then. Maybe one day, you'll feel safe enough for me to show them."
She finally agreed and met with him in the park during the day. He took hundreds of photographs of her while she sat and smoked, talking about her life before she came to Seattle. She never told him the real truth, of course, because that was too ugly, but she tried to describe the few patches of color in an otherwise black and white life.
He photographed her with Sadie, on the days she had her and was getting better in rehab.
When she was finished with her six weeks detox and therapy, they began a relationship.
She felt he really saw her when he pointed the camera at her.
It was the strangest thing.
It also made her want to stay clean for the first time since she started doing Oxy. She wanted to spend time with him, and he didn't do drugs. He barely even drank.
Craig was a normal, if somewhat strange guy who didn't want to have sex with her. At least, he didn't only want that.
Craig saved her life.
She was sure of it.