Lost Boy (3 page)

She looks at me like I am insane, but nods slowly.

I hold up a second finger, “My millions I am donating will benefit her. I want her to have slightly-nicer clothes, nothing obvious, but come on. Those clothes are disturbing. She looks like she’s Amish. She should look like a teenager, not a Sister Wife. I want driving lessons, healthy food, and vitamins. I want it for them all.”

She nods, “That is generous of you.”

I shake my head and hold up my third finger, “It’s not. It’s common decency. Thirdly, she continues to see a therapist weekly. This is kept quiet. I will have the appointments all set up; Dr. Bradley will continue to treat her.”

I hold up a fourth finger, “She gets more freedom. This place is dank, cold, and boring as hell. The kids here look like they belong on the set of Flowers in the Attic. I almost want to ask to see what you’re putting in the cookies, but I won't because I highly doubt they get cookies. I can tell that from watching her through that window. She is being suffocated. More freedom to explore town and make friends. From now on the grade ten through twelve students will go to the public school. They will have normal clothes and go there.”

She looks like she wants to talk, but I wave my first finger at her, “Completely comfortable with prison time.”

She sighs, “You’re being a tyrant and treating us like we’re a sub par facility.”

I nod, “You are, and if you don’t cooperate with me, I will have officials from the federal government investigating you. The things that fly in a rinky-dink, little, backwoods town in New Mexico don’t fly so easily when your facility is in the New York Times for the world to see.” I stand to leave, “My secretary will be in touch tomorrow. She will organize it all for you and wire the money. The contract you will sign will contain all of the elements we have just discussed. You honestly don’t need to change a single thing. I will have staff provided for the orphanage. They will work as cleaners and maintenance and help with the children. Each will be cleared through the FBI and they will report back to me. Good day.”

I leave, not going up the stairs, kicking in the door, sweeping her up into my arms, and running like a wild man.

I leave and I force myself to believe it all has a purpose.

“You sure you want this? It’s kinda girlie.”

I look up at the tattoo girl and frown, “Yes and maybe less talking from you.”

She gives me a look, “Don’t be pissy before I put the tatt on, dude. Pissy before means I might slip.”

I fight the sneer on my face and lose the battle, “I pay for the quality I see.”

She shrugs and looks between my legs, blatantly obvious about it too, “Okay. You can be girlie if you want to, baby. I suspect you can afford some girlie.” She winks.

I give Stuart a look. He chuckles, “Yeah, baby.” He winks like her, but she’s still staring at my groin.

I roll my eyes, “It’s Shakespeare.”

She shrugs as I lie on my stomach on the table. The needle is bliss. The small stabs and drags against my ribs are beautiful agony. “What does it mean?”

I close my eyes and let the slight pain wash over me, “It’s a speech about tolerance from The Merchant of Venice, by Shakespeare. It means that even though you see me differently, I have the same reactions to things as you. I am human, just different than you but no less worthy of love, respect, and justice. I bleed, laugh, and die the same as you, regardless of the differences inside of me. Or outside.”

She sighs, “Wow. You’re like one of those super-deep guys, aren’t you?”

I chuckle, “Not so much. I just like the scene. I like that it blatantly points out that differences don't change the fact we are all human.” I glance at Stuart.

He looks bored, “You shoulda got the one with the sword. I like that one better.”

I shake my head, “No. This is for her.”

Stuart shakes his head, “Shoulda got a heart or something, bro.”

I glance at him, “No.”

He knows not to push it.

“Your girlfriend?” she asks.

I shake my head, “Just my girl.” I don’t elaborate and she doesn’t ask. She finishes and holds up the mirror for me to see it.

'If you prick us, do we not bleed?

If you tickle us, do we not laugh?

If you poison us, do we not die?

And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?'

I nod, “Perfect.”

She beams as she puts the bandage over it, “You have nice skin. You want another one?”

I shake my head, “Not today.” I slap down the cash and walk out, pulling my shirt on.

“The heat here is crazy, for winter. Normally I hate Boston's winters, but this is weird. It feels wrong to not be cold.” Stuart complains as we walk to the truck, "Maybe no snowbirds for us."

I laugh, “Can you still see her on the feed?”

He sighs, “Dude, she’s in class. You gotta chill out. The security guard at the school is sitting outside her classroom.”

It happens too quickly. I can't shut it down. I grab his shirt in an act of violence, not okay with either of us, and seethe, “This isn’t going to get better until she is. It isn’t going to get easier. So if you need to walk, do it now. Otherwise, shut the hell up about it. I am not going to chill out, dude.”

He chuckles but eyeballs my hands on him, “You can't even say dude normally.” He shoves me off and straightens his shirt, “I was just saying. That’s all.” I feel my lip curl up but he points at me, “There’s an underground fight ring in the city here, you need to go?”

The idea of it perks up my spirits, but the thought of leaving her unobserved makes me sweaty in the palms. I shake my head, “No.”

He nudges me, “What do you need me to do? This sitting in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere is gonna give me a stroke. My ADHD can’t handle shit like this. I need a job. You cool if I find something to do when you're on watch?”

I restrain from choking him and slap his back, “Please, find something to do before I lose it. I don’t have anything, but I’m sure my father has something—or you know what, just go have fun. When are we ever going to be in New Mexico? Go see things and tourist about.”

He grins and runs his hands through his short, dark hair, “Alright, I need to go run some fights. I’m gonna hustle some cash outta these bumpkins. We cool?”

“Yes.”

He pounds his hand into mine. I hate it. I hate urban things, lazy speech, text talk, and stupidity. Technology is making us less and less likely to survive as a species. We are so reliant on it. It bothers me to no end, that I need all of it to watch her constantly.

He drops me off at the apartment. I have a fridge, microwave, and everything I need to watch her. I may die of scurvy, but I will be able to watch every second. I sit in front of the laptop as she leaves the class. I switch to the hall view, noticing the security guard nonchalantly walking behind her.

She smiles and waves at a girl, the girl she’s always with when she’s free. The Michelle girl that Stuart calls a smokin’-ass hottie.

My girl seems nervous; she holds things tight to her. I can see the panic on her face. She’s counting steps, that’s a bad sign. My heart starts to pick up in pace. I want to make her better, I owe her that. I wish I could be someone else. Someone new and fresh, who won't remind her of the bad things. I shudder when I think about it. I touch my phone in my pocket but I don’t dial. I can't call her. Jane—Doctor Bradley is no longer my doctor. I have to accept that. I have to move past it.

I just hold the phone and fight the urges I get when things are out of control. My skin longs for things I can't have anymore. I have to be different now, for her.

The marks on my back are gone, long gone, but the feel of the whip is there still. The feeling of deserving every mark, every lash, seems to remain even afterwards. I never seem to be free of the heavy guilt.

I’m barely able to catch the glimpse of her getting on the bus, but I can tell she’s uncomfortable.

She’s pushing herself.

The eleven minutes it takes for the bus is long. It’s longer than most things I’ve lived through.

My fingers tap, I pump out fifty pushups, I pace, I shoot the ball into the hoop Stuart demanded.

I hear the bus and drop the ball, rushing to the window to see her blonde hair through the glass. She looks bad.

I bite my lip, watching her window. I count the minutes it takes. That’s a bad sign.

Finally, she flings open the door to her room, dumping sanitizer on her hands. She smells it and rubs it up her arms. She opens the window and sticks her face out. She is taking gulping breaths. My gut aches.

I can see it.

I see her struggle.

It's my fault. I left her and she ended up here.

Shame replaces the anxiety as it passes. She pulls her head in the window and puts on another dose of the sanitizer, looking down the whole time, like a second-class citizen. I want to hold her. It's the wrong kind of thought because she is family. She's my girl in an innocent way.

The ache on my skin of my fresh tattoo is the only thing holding me together. If I can't just talk to her, I’ll have sleeves in no time. Or my back will be covered. Either way, I need to find a way to release it where I don’t have to stay in control.

I have given up my other ways for her. I want to be the person she needs, not the man I am.

Weeks pass, they don’t change much. We watch the same things and the same faces. We watch her make the same moves and live in the same bubble.

Stuart walks into the apartment and looks at my new tattoo bandage. He shakes his head while stuffing a sandwich in his mouth.

“What?”

He nods, “What’s that one look like?” In the last three months I’ve gotten four of them.

I bite my lip and lift the bandage up.

He stays quiet when he sees it.

Neither one of us say anything. I don’t want to talk about it, but for whatever reason, I want him to see it.

I want someone to see it, because I can't show the person I need to show it to. She’s dead. She's dead because I failed her. I should have protected her. That has never changed. At least I have a second chance, with the other girl.

I put the bandage back and pull on a shirt, “I’m going out. Eyes on the camera.”

He gives a thumbs up and continues chewing.

I grab the sandwich he brought me and carry it out onto the street.

Stuart texts me, 'Yo, she's on the move.'

I pace until I see her leave the building, walking with a friend, the Michelle Monkton girl. They get into a car. I get into the truck and follow them to the other side of town where the houses are nicer and more family oriented.

They get out. The girl is nattering on about something. She doesn’t notice my girl is sad about something. She has the fake look on her face that she gets around other people. She doesn’t usually get it around Michelle.

My girl walks inside, fidgeting and looking unsure. I hate it.

I want to save her. I want her to know someone loves her; I just need to find them. I know she isn’t a Spicer. I think I always did.

The dead look in her eyes came from loss. The loss of her family, safety, and love.

I sit parked for a minute, as she goes inside and closes me out. Knowing I can't sit here and wait, I get out and walk around the block to the street behind Michelle’s house. The house behind them looks like no one is home. I walk around the side yard, like I am supposed to do it and enter through the backyard. I like trusting, small-town people who leave their back doors unlocked.

The house is dark and stinks of old cooking smells. I get up to the living room window and sit there, watching the backyard. There’s a pool, it’s not fancy. Nothing is fancy at Michelle’s but it looks homey. Like middle-income people who hug their children, because they had them out of an act of love.

My girl sits at the edge of the pool with her legs in the water. She’s holding something, her hand sanitizer. She’s on edge. I see her trying and I see them attempting to not notice. But no one is succeeding.

She watches one of the brothers. It bothers me. She’s young, too young. She’s fragile and needs me, and that makes her mine.

A slow frown crosses my brow. She isn’t mine like that; she can look at boys her age. I have to stop seeing her that way. I narrow my gaze, pulling my binoculars from my pocket and search for her face.

When I find her, she’s sad. I don’t know what to do about it.

I pull my phone out and dial. I hate that I have to do it but I do.

“Hello?” she answers quickly.

“Jane, this is a mistake. We need to talk to her. She needs to know about me as much as I need her.”

She sighs into the phone, “Eli, you have to stop this. This is bringing you backwards. You need to keep your distance. I’ve seen her every week for the last few months. I know what she needs. I’ve told you before, you shouldn’t be involved until we need you to. She has been safe for a lot of years on her own. She hasn’t needed you to interfere with her. You need to go back to work. This is putting you at risk and taking away from the healing work you’ve done on yourself.”

I speak into the phone but still watch through the binoculars, “She needs me as much as I need her.”

“You’re wrong. You need her far more. I’m excited you have found her. Her DNA matches the mystery DNA from the Spicer’s home. She is the girl. Her fingerprints were on the gun. We all believe you now. No one believes you shot your sister, not anymore. That is an amazing breakthrough for you. You need to let her go, until you can play a part in her healing, when she’s ready to meet you. I don’t even know how we’ll wake her up without putting her further back. I’ve never handled something like this before. Her DNA doesn’t match the Spicers. She wasn’t their child. That means she was abducted and that means we will have a whole other ball of wax to contend with. God knows what they did to her. Just trust me, right now we are on schedule.”

I sigh, “You better be right about this, Jane.”

I can hear her tapping her fingers on the phone, “You need to remember, she isn’t your sister, Eli. That, and we all believe you. Your uncle told me your parents are devastated that they never believed you.”

I press the phone off and focus on my girl again. I don’t give a shit about their feelings, and I don’t see her as my sister. If anyone in the world knows Em is dead, it's me. I killed her by not moving fast enough.

My girl needs me though. I see it on her face. That’s what I care about.