They look so much alike that for a second I forget Henry is dead. I suck in my breath, repeating the truth to myself like a soothing mantra.
Henry Harris is dead, which means the man who just stepped onto this plane isn’t my captor.
He can’t be.
But he looks so much like him, from his unshaven face to his beer belly to that gaudy Hawaiian shirt.
Henry is dead, I tell myself. Dead. He can’t hurt me anymore.
He can’t reach me at all.
This man isn’t Henry.
And then I see the girl traveling with him. The fear that looks so familiar behind her haunted eyes.
She doesn’t belong with him.
I stare at the other passengers. Don’t they see? Isn’t someone going to do something? The flight attendants are cheerily helping people load the overhead bins and reminding folks to buckle up. Travelers are scrolling on their phones or reading books or shutting their eyes for a snooze.
Nobody else sees.
Nobody knows.
You’re being paranoid, Anastasia, I tell myself. Paranoid. That’s all.
Just because I happened to be abducted as a teen, just because a man named Henry who always wore Hawaiian shirts kept me locked up in his basement for two years so I could pretend to be his daughter — none of this means the girl I’m staring at is going through anything remotely similar.
She’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt, which make her look even more out of place on this winter flight. Her eyes are puffy, outlined in dark rings. Maybe she’s tired from a full day of travel. Or mad because her dad told her she had to break up with some deadbeat boyfriend. Or worried about her grandma who’s lying on her deathbed in Detroit, praying that her family gets to see her one last time.
That’s what I tell myself. That’s what I have to believe if I’m not going to drive myself crazy.
“Miss Anastasia?”
“What is it?” I don’t have the energy to remind Andrew to call me Mom. I haven’t stopped staring at the girl. Begging God to give me some kind of sign to prove to me that she’s okay.
“You stopped reading again,” he complains.
“My throat’s sore,” I tell him. “I’m going to take a break.”
My husband turns in his seat. Gives me one of his quiet smiles that always breaks my heart. Always makes me certain he’s comparing me to her. Sometimes I want to yell in his face that I’m not his first wife and never will be, but what good would that accomplish?
Maybe we rushed into things too fast. Maybe Russel needed more time to grieve Sarah’s death. More time to get himself ready for a new relationship. Looking back at how quickly our courtship progressed, I can’t even speculate if he or I was the one who came across as the most desperate.
“You all right?” he asks me. I’m certain he’s heard me being short with his son. Certain he’s wondering why I can’t be more soft-spoken, more tender-hearted, more maternal.
Why I can’t be more like her.
I force a smile. “I’m good,” I announce with such conviction the whole plane must believe me. “It’s just a little loud in here. Makes it hard to read. My voice doesn’t carry …” I let the words die on my lips. I’m staring again. Not at my husband. Not at this instant family I’ve somehow managed to make for myself.
But at her. This girl. She can’t be more than fourteen or fifteen. Still a baby, really. Trusting of others because she hasn’t learned yet how terrible life can be, how cruel the world can turn.
Happy because she doesn’t know about Henry’s basement. She hasn’t been there yet. He hasn’t taken her.
But he will.
My throat seizes shut. For a second, I picture myself jumping out of my seat and demanding to be let off this plane. Running off, getting lost in the crowded airport. I’ll write Russel an apology in a few weeks, once I’ve decided where I’m going to go, what I’m going to do. I’ll apologize to the kids too. Tell them I’m so sorry, but I just can’t be the kind of mommy they need.
But I don’t. Instead, I sit here trembling in my seat. I’m buckled in, my family surrounding me. I have their snacks in my backpack, Betsy’s pajamas thrown in too. There’s nowhere for me to go. Nothing I can do except remember.
Remember the nightmare, the trauma, the terror. Remember everything I’ve tried so hard to run away from.
I’ve done a good job forgetting. At least, I thought I had. Thought I moved on.
When I didn’t tell Russel about those two years in Henry’s basement, it wasn’t because I wanted to lie or mislead him. It was because in my foolishness, I actually believed I’d gotten over it. That my love for Russel and my newfound faith were enough to counteract my past, erase the trauma.
I felt so happy with Russel. So alive. I thought that meant I was finally healed …
That I could finally forget.
Except now, I remember. I sit here, trapped in this seat, my hands gripping the arm rests, the flight attendants still bustling back and forth to get everything ready for takeoff, and I remember everything.