Russel refuses to let me go anywhere without him. It’s sweet, actually. A little protective.
It takes a few minutes, but the airlines agents call in someone to keep an eye on the kids in the adjoining room and take my husband and me to another small office. Through the cracks in the door, I hear Andrew whining about how hungry he is.
“Mrs. Strickland, are you aware of what’s occurring aboard Flight 219?”
“I saw something on the news,” I answer, uncertain if this is what I’m supposed to say or not. “I don’t really understand …”
“Flight 219 has been hijacked,” the man interrupts. “And as part of the attack, the perpetrators have kidnapped the daughter of Detroit’s school district superintendent.”
I don’t understand what a school district has to do with hijacked planes or acts of terrorism. A small portion of my brain worries that I’ve misheard everything this man is telling me.
I’m thankful when Russel leans forward in his seat and takes the lead. “That’s the same girl my wife mentioned. The one she talked to the security officer about.” I don’t know how to describe what I hear in his voice. Is he angry they didn’t listen to me in the first place? Scared to think that his entire family was supposed to be aboard that plane? The only name I can give to his tone is intense.
The officer nods his head. “Yes. We took your wife’s concerns very seriously when she brought them to our attention, and in the end, it seems she was right to sound the alarm.”
“What’s happening to those people right now?” my husband asks.
“I assure you we have every available law enforcement agency and officer involved to ensure they don’t harm anyone else in their …”
“I mean the passengers,” Russel interrupts. “What’s happening to them? Are they all right?”
“News is just coming in,” the agent answers. “I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you right now.”
I’m trembling. I’m afraid I’m going to throw up my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and granola bar. So I wasn’t wrong. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t making things up.
Which means that girl really was stolen from her parents. That she really was as terrified as she appeared.
I should have done more. Asked her for her name, found a way to talk to her alone. What was I thinking? I just left her there, left her alone her with her abductor … And now the plane’s been hijacked.
She must be so scared.
I want to know everything about her. Her age. Her favorite color. What kind of music she listens to. The name of her crush. I want to know where she sleeps at night, in a bed safe and warm or in a freezing cold basement, her hands cuffed behind her back.
And the man with her, who is he? Has he just abducted her, or has she been trapped with him for weeks? Months? Has she gotten to the point where she’s forgotten her age? Where she’s certain at least one birthday has passed but all she can do is wonder what her parents did to commemorate the day …
An agent who’s been silently standing in the corner speaks up. His partner turns around, and they have a small huddle in hushed tones, using words and phrases that cascade over me.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Russel puts his arm around me. Draws me close.
“I’m so glad you got us off that plane,” he whispers. “That must have been God guiding you.”
There’s nothing but awe in Russel’s voice, except I can’t share his sense of grateful relief. Because that girl is still on that plane with her captor. And the other passengers … I can’t even imagine what’s happening to them.
“… demanding to speak to the superintendent,” one of the agents is saying, and they continue talking about some elementary playground. I can’t believe that an abduction and hijacking all revolve around school politics, but what do I know? After I escaped Henry’s basement, I never even returned to school. I got my degree from a correspondence program, which meant my mother didn’t need to let me out of her sight. Which meant I never had to leave the house.
If you were to ask Mom the details, I was in shock when I first returned home. Then came the miscarriage. The hemorrhaging. The surgery. A few months later, once my body healed and I realized I didn’t have to simply exist in survival mode anymore, I broke down and fell into an unbreakable depression.
The real depression was because I had discovered the truth. I’m the reason Henry died. I killed him. His heart gave out when I accused him of murdering his daughter. I was so sure of it at the time. But I’d been wrong. Dead wrong. The cop who came to our house that day told me that they reopened Jennifer’s case, that they found a DNA match.
Henry hadn’t killed Jennifer after all.
Which meant I broke Henry’s heart when I accused him. I’m the one who killed him.
Mom couldn’t understand. “Whether or not he murdered his daughter, he was a monster. He kept you trapped in a basement for two full years.” She stated the words so factually, as if she expected them to break through my despair and get me to see reason.
Henry hadn’t killed Jennifer. How many times had he begged me to tell him I believed him? That I knew he’d never lift a hand to hurt me?
And then one day I snapped. I yelled those terrible things at him, accused him of those monstrous acts.
I killed him with my words.
I’m a survivor. Some would say I did what I had to do. I escaped with my life, didn’t I? Do you know how rare it is to survive two years of captivity?
Going strictly by the numbers, I should have been dead within the first 48 hours.
I’m a statistical anomaly.
I survived. I got myself out of there.
Now I’m free.
Free from Henry’s basement. Free from his handcuffs. Free from his delusions. Free from his oppressive grief.
Free from everything. Everything except the overwhelming guilt I felt that I accused a weak, sad man of a crime he didn’t commit, then I ran away when he needed my help the most and left him to die, terrified and alone.