Hero (7 page)

I’m my seven-year-old self again, hidden under a new bed in a new home. Fear manifested as silent sobbing while my small hands clung to a bedpost, hoping, impossibly, my dead parents could still come for me.

“Come out from there, Cataline,” says a man’s voice. He waits, unmoving, until I go to him. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m afraid.”

“You’re braver than that, aren’t you?”

“I miss them.”

I’m lifted by my armpits and put under the covers. The last thing I hear before I fall asleep is, “You’ll be happy here. I promise.”

Despite the obscure country night, despite the crystal-sparkle of my tears, I’d known it wasn’t my foster father. When a new, valiant hero surfaced in New Rhone years later, my scalp tingled remembering my first night at the Andersons’.

As the steps draw nearer, my mind spins a silent prayer, my ears heat with a sudden rush of blood. I cease breathing, blinking, and all other basic functions as I attempt invisibility.

“Oh, dear. Cataline?”

My relief is a loud exhale, but my throat protests as words shred from my mouth. “I’m over here.”

Norman comes around the bed and heaves a sigh. “Thank goodness. For a moment, I thought you were gone, but, of course, where would you go? Did you sleep there?”

I ease my stiff back from the floor to sit up. “I slept. That’s all that matters.”

The wrinkles that stripe his forehead deepen. “I wasn’t aware you weren’t sleeping well. I’ll bring you calming tea in the evenings going forward,” he decides. “Perhaps that will help.”

“Help? If you want to help, open the front door. That’s it.” I get to my hands and knees and crawl to Norman’s feet. “I won’t go to the police,” I say, looking up at him. “You don’t even have to tell me where I am or how to get home.” My voice cracks as I whisper, “Just open the door.”

He stares down, impervious to my groveling. “Why, Cataline? Look at all you have here. You have nothing like this at home, not even a family.” His harsh words are delivered gently, and instead of enraging me, they weigh down my already-heavy grief.

“I do,” I say emphatically, and my hands go to his legs, fisting the fine fabric of his pants. “I have a family who loves me, and I love them. They’ll miss me so much, Norman. I’m sure they’ve reported me missing. My mother will be devastated without me.”

I’m forced to release his trousers when he drops into a squat. He rubs my shoulder with papery fingers. “None of that is true.”

“Yes, it is,” I say. I continue to list the members of an imaginary family as he peers at me, his head angled while he listens. I don’t know where the lie comes from, but I tell him the names and locations of siblings, cousins, grandparents. He’s bluffing. He doesn’t know the truth about me or where I come from; he couldn’t possibly.

His response comes moments after my plea finally ends, and it sends a chill down my spine. “You have a foster family in Fenndale and a roommate called Frida. Isn’t that true?”

I blink, too dumbfounded to form an answer.

He looks at the floor. “Come. It’s time for breakfast.”

“How do you know about Frida?”

“You must be hungry.”

My back teeth grind together from his bullshit. Though I want to rail against him, I can’t seem to raise my voice above a whisper when I say, “Do you know what he did to me last night?”

The coward refuses to look at me, but at least he doesn’t pretend not to hear me. He glances at the door and subtly at the nearest corner of the room. “My advice is not to rile him. He only came to your room to stop your tantrum, not to torment you. If you behave and stay out of his way, I’ll do my best to ensure he stays out of yours.”

“If I cooperate, I won’t have to see him again?”

He furrows his brow at the floor as though the question requires deep thought. “Only he knows the answer to that. But I believe it’s your best option.”

Learning that Norman knows more about me than I thought causes me to miss his invitation downstairs. When I’m allowed out of the room, my chest seems to expand more easily with each breath. I insist on helping clear the table after breakfast. Chef Michael’s cheerfulness is contagious as we wash dishes, even if our conversation is stunted.

Norman instructs me on how to use the cinema, though I’m certain it would’ve taken me less time to figure it out on my own. There’s an entire library of movies to select from, but I end up watching animated children’s classics all afternoon to dull the memory of last night. A tuna sandwich and Coke are delivered to me between features, followed by popcorn at my request.

It’s early evening when the third movie ends, and my mind feels restless. I’m learning the best cure for that is the library. I eject the film and replace it where I found it. Upon studying the shelf, I notice it doesn’t matter where I put it; the movies are in no particular order. I decide that one day I’ll devote time to organizing them. I leave the cinema pondering if I should arrange them according to title or genre when Norman stops me.

“We have an assignment from the Master of the House.”

I bite my thumbnail absentmindedly. “Okay.”

“He requires that you call your family and Frida to assure them you’re okay.”

At the mention of her name, my hand touches my heart. “No. Frida has nothing to do with this.”

“I’m sorry. There’s no getting out of it.”

“It’s been too long. She’ll have called the cops by now.”

“Indeed she has. Please, follow me.” He turns his back and walks to a closed door on the ground floor. My heartbeat skips as he unlocks it, my mind conjuring up the possibilities of what’s hidden in this mansion. When I step inside, I’m disappointed by the blandness of a simple study that’s almost identical to the one I broke into. He walks to a desk that holds a large, clunky, black phone and gestures for me to follow. I nearly salivate when he hands me the receiver.

“Go on, dear,” he says when I hesitate.

“I’m not calling my family.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll call Frida. She can call them for me.”

“We’ll see.”

“What do I say?”

“You’re instructed only to tell them that you are alive and well. Also—and this is important—that you’re happy. Nothing more.”

“She won’t believe that.”

“Make her believe it, and hang up. It’s part of doing what you’re told.”

There are times when Norman is short with me, but somehow I know it’s his way of helping. I stare down and dial the numbers. In the early evening Frida is most likely at the apartment, stretched out on our couch. Part of me hopes she’s out with friends, but the part of me that wants to escape—a very large part—hopes otherwise.

Her voice is immediately familiar. “Hello?”

“Frida?”

“Cat—oh, shit. Where are you?”

“I’m safe,” I say, nearly choking on the word. “I’m only calling to let you know that.”

“Where?”

I glance up at Norman. He shakes his head but smiles and points to his mouth, indicating that I should do the same. No matter how hard I try, my smile is not convincing. “I can’t say, but—”

“What do you mean you can’t say? I’m calling the cops, just tell me where you are.”

My swallow echoes in my ears. “Frida, I–I don’t know where I am, please call them, I’m in a m—”

The phone is snatched from me like lightning.

“No, please,” I say, attempting to wrestle it back and finding that Norman is surprisingly strong.

“I trusted you, Cataline. I’ll have to tell the Master of the House about this, and he won’t be pleased.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” I say and storm away.

I know my mind; it can’t be distracted with reading now. I return to the cinema, dropping movies from the shelves onto the floor until I can’t take the silence another second. I sit cross-legged on the floor directly underneath the enormous screen as the credits for Hitchcock’s
The Birds
begin. Squawking fills the dark room as the screen flashes black and white. That might as well be all this is: broken flickers and flashes of a disintegrating existence. I can’t follow the story anyway as I bawl myself deaf and blind.

The look of betrayal on Norman’s face was the same one he had when I threw the log at him. He’s been kind to me, as has Rosa, my motherly maid, and Chef Michael. Norman’s disappointment feels real and palpable. I vehemently tell myself I don’t care what he thinks. But what exactly do they want with me? And how can they be so equally accommodating and cruel?

It takes time, but I eventually realize that Norman was right. I haven’t seen Guy since the night of my tantrum. I’m granted a second and final chance to call Frida, during which I understand she needs to hear I’m okay as much as I need to tell her I’m not. The threat of being locked in my room again is all I need. I give her the Andersons’ phone number while Norman nods but hope she won’t use it. I’m just convincing enough, and I’m rewarded with a camera. I recognize the Leica M6 as high-end and far more expensive than anything I could ever afford. I smile when I open the gift and thank Norman. He promptly reminds me it isn’t from him but that he will pass on my gratitude to “the Master of the House.”

I’m at the window in my room when a hand touches my shoulder. I jump, my entire body alerting.

“I apologize,” Norman says. “I called your name several times. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I shudder, brushing my hands over my sleeves. “It’s okay.”

“Shall I close your window? It’s getting colder as we head into winter.”

“No.”

“What do you look at when you sit here day after day?”

“I’ve been wondering. Does the exterior of the house have gargoyles?”

He laughs cautiously. “Gargoyles?”

“Those carved, stone, nightmarish things.”

“No,” he says quietly.

“Seems like it should.” He doesn’t respond but looks out the window, so I do too. “I wish I could touch those roses.”

“They have nasty thorns, you know.” I glance up at him, and he gestures to the nightstand. “I can bring flowers for your room.”

“It isn’t the same thing.”

“I see. Why don’t you photograph them with your new camera?”

“Sometimes I do,” I say. “My favorite—” I pause.

“Go on,” he says with a small smile. “Which is your favorite?”

“It was taken on a wet day.” Raindrops pounded the window, forming liquid sheets that distorted the red roses just beyond the glass.

He clears his throat when I don’t continue. My palm smooths over the hardcover book in my lap.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“The book?”

“No. The bookmarker.”

I slide out the torn paper, uncaring that I’ll lose my spot. Yesterday’s date screams at me. Eight weeks here feels impossible. “I’m sorry,” I say, peeking furtively at the desk drawer where I’ve stashed the calendar. “I took it from the library.”

He makes a thoughtful noise. “It’s been some time since you visited the cinema. Perhaps a movie will lift your spirits?”

“My spirits are fine,” I say and return my attention out the window. “Anyway, when I’m not forced to be in here, I like it.” I don’t mention that I do more than look from my window; I wait. When Hero hears about this and finally comes for me, I’ll be here, at the open window, ready for him.

 “Very well. The Master of the House has requested your presence at dinner this evening.”

My head whips back to him, and he chuckles lightly. When the reverberation of his words dies, I’m left with two warring feelings: instinctual fear and a visceral need for answers.

“Please don’t argue or ask to decline,” Norman says.

“I won’t.” I’ve given up my quest for answers with the staff, but I can’t help feeling a new door has finally opened. I’ve been tempted to ask about Guy, but keeping my secret feels like the only thing in my control.

“You’ll need to dress appropriately,” Norman is saying through my thoughts. “Please choose something semi-formal. I’ll send Rosa in to help you.”

When he closes the door behind him, I leave my windowsill to go to the closet. I examine each piece with new appreciation. Money was tight for me growing up, but sewing was a hobby of my mother’s. I never took to it, but I’d often keep her company as she worked. I touch chiffon to my cheek and smile.

In the shower, I overload a sponge with soap and scrub with purpose. I wash my hair twice and condition. Afterward, I take time painting my face, trying not to think of what it means that I want to look nice.

Rosa is in a good mood when she shuffles into my room. I close my eyes and relax as she gently drags a comb through my wet hair, tugging lightly to free any tangles. Her sturdy fingers pull hair off my face, grazing my temples. It’s not often that anyone touches me anymore. My head falls forward, hair creating a dark veil as she brushes. I haven’t even touched myself. My mind makes up for it with occasional wet dreams, sometimes about a shadowed man abusing my mouth. I am guiltiest when I catch myself replaying them during the day.

The floor-length, tea rose pink dress I choose resembles a nightgown. In a way, it’s a small step up from what I’ve been wearing around the house. I’m oddly excited when I slide into heels, even if it’s just to wear them downstairs. I ask Rosa twice in halting Spanish if she’s sure I should wear them at all, and she confirms with a nod.