He says his name is Henry Harris. “But you can call me Dad. Or Daddy. Whichever you prefer.”
She tells him she wants to go home, and he lets out a soft chuckle. “This is your home, Jennifer.”
She’s already learned that she can’t correct him. Can’t tell him that her name is really Anastasia Reynolds, that she’s never heard of Jennifer before and has no idea what happened to this poor daughter of his.
How long has she been here? It’s hard to know because all the windows in this basement are boarded up. She’s slept on and off, but has she been gone for hours or days? Could it be weeks?
At one point he knocked her unconscious. Her head hasn’t felt quite right ever since. “You’re lucky,” he tells her after she wakes up. “It could have been a lot worse.” He bandages a cut on the back of her head and says, his voice full of regret, “You remember what happened last time, don’t you?”
She doesn’t remember a last time because there never was a last time. Except she’s smart enough not to tell Henry this. So instead she nods and lets him pet her blood-stained hair as he starts to cry and tell her how happy he is now that they’re together again.
“You forgive me, don’t you, Jennifer?” And she tells him that she does.
She learns to lie. As the basement grows colder and colder with the chill of winter, she begins to forget that there ever was a girl named Anastasia Reynolds. That there ever was a world outside of the cement prison, a world of snowflakes and ice skating and steaming hot chocolate fogging up her glasses while she takes dainty sips, careful not to burn her tongue.
She forgets that somewhere is a mother and a father desperate for her safe return, a mother and father who might even assume she’s dead by now.
As long as they don’t think she ran away …
The cold that seeps into her soul becomes intolerable. She finds herself thankful for the nights when Henry can’t sleep and brings down his blanket and joins her in the basement. Tells her stories about her childhood.
“Remember when Grandpa pitched you that softball and you broke the neighbor’s window? He told you to go and apologize to the owners because he knew they couldn’t be mad at a girl as cute and sweet as you. Remember that?”
And she tells him she does. Tells him so many times that every once in a while, she dreams about being that same little girl, standing on a doorstep she can recall in vivid detail, explaining to a tired-looking housewife that her grandpa was pitching and she accidentally broke their window.
Anastasia never played softball, but Jennifer did. Sometimes Henry even brings down the photo album and shows her pictures of her childhood. “That’s your best friend, Shawna,” he says. “She’s living in Chicago now, married to some big-time businessman. I saw her dad at the hardware store the other day. Says they’re expecting their third kid. Isn’t that great?”
And Anastasia feels somehow happy for Shawna, this best friend she never knew, this grown woman whose life has no resemblance to her own, this mother of three.
There are times when she wants to cry for Henry, when she looks at this pitiable old man, so alone, so lost in the past.
And there are times when she hates him. Hates what he’s done to her. She’s grown so skinny, she can feel her hips stabbing the cold cement floor at night when she tries to sleep. She hates the smell of his body odor but knows that she’s even more unkempt than he is.
Some days, she’s certain she could kill him.
Other days, she falls asleep crying, her heart aching for this lonely old man.
There’s murmuring on the plane. My breath returns to me in a rush. I haven’t had a flashback this vivid since … since … well, since long before I met Russel. That’s why I was so sure I was doing better. So sure it wouldn’t matter if I told him or not.
I stare at the middle-aged passenger ahead of me. He’s in the aisle fidgeting with an overhead bag, and when he raises his arms his hairy stomach pokes out from beneath his Hawaiian shirt. I wonder for a minute how I could have ever confused him with Henry.
Henry wasn’t that heavy for one thing. Not that hairy either. And this passenger is too young.
Besides, I remind myself, Henry is dead.
Henry is dead, so I have no reason to keep on thinking about him. No reason at all.
The children are getting restless. The flight attendant is shutting the last of the overhead compartments. That means we’ll be taking off soon. Once we’re in the air, I think I’ll finally be able to relax.
I’m flying to Detroit. I’m going to meet my in-laws, going to spend a nice, relaxing vacation with them. The kids can’t wait to see their grandma and grandpa, and Russel tells me that I’m going to get along just great with his sister. Life is good. I have everything I ever wanted, a husband who loves me, a strong and healthy family, the freedom to travel around and take time off to spend with relatives.
I’m safe. I’m healthy. And I can’t let these scars from my past bubble to the surface and threaten everything I’ve got going for me right now.