Stolen (37 page)

But there is another way.

I could tell the courtroom a story about the time we met in a park, so long ago, when I was ten and you were almost nineteen. When I found you under a rhododendron bush, with its foliage wrapped tight around you and the pink buds just beginning above your head. I could tell them of how we became friends, how you talked to me and looked after me. I could tell them of the time you saved me from Josh Holmes.

Mr. Samuels will try to interrupt, of course. His face will be red, and his eyes bulging with surprise. He may tell the judge that my testimony is unreliable, saying that I’m still suffering from Stockholm syndrome. But I’ll be composed, calm, able to explain clearly how I’m not. I’ve done my research. I know exactly what it is I need to say in order for them to believe me.

So the judge will let me go on talking, just for a while. Then I’ll really surprise them. I will tell the courtroom how we fell in love. Not in the desert, course not, but winding through the streets and parks of London two years ago, when I was fourteen and looked so much like your mum.

The courtroom will rustle, murmur. Mum will probably cry out. It will be hard to look at her after the next bit, so I won’t; I’ll look at you. I’ll say I wanted to run away.

You’ll nod at me a little, your eyes alive again. And I’ll tell them of your plan.

You said you knew the perfect place to run to. A place that was empty of people, and buildings, and far, far away. A place covered in bloodred earth and sleeping life. A place longing to come alive again. It’s a place for disappearing, you’d said, a place for getting lost … and for getting found.

I’ll take you there, you’d said.

And I could say that I agreed.

My hands shake as I type this. The tears are rolling down my cheeks, and the screen is a blur before my eyes. My chest hurts, trying to stop the sobs. Because there is something that pulls at me, something that’s so hard to think about.

I can’t save you like that, Ty.

What you did to me wasn’t this brilliant thing, like you think it was. You took me away from everything—my parents, my friends, my life. You took me to the sand and the heat, the dirt and isolation. And you expected me to love you. And that’s the hardest part. Because I did, or at least, I loved something out there.

But I hated you, too. I can’t forget that.

Outside it’s so dark, with the tree branches tapping against the window … tapping like fingers. I’m tucking the sheet around me, even though I’m not cold, and I’m staring at the blackness behind the glass. You know, maybe if we’d met as ordinary people, one day, maybe … maybe things might have been different. Maybe I could have loved you. You were so different and wild. When the light made your bare skin glow on those early mornings, you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. To put you in a cell is like crushing a bird with an army tank.

But what else can I do, other than to plead with you like this? Other than to write down my story,
our
story, to show you what you’ve done … to make you realize that what you did wasn’t fair, wasn’t right.

When I get into court, I’m going to tell the truth.
My
truth. I will say that you kidnapped me, of course. You did. And I will tell them how you drugged me, and of your mood swings. I won’t shy away from the evil you can be.

But I’ll tell them of your other side, too. The side I saw sometimes when you spoke softly to the camel, and when you gently touched the leaves of the saltbush, only picking what you needed. And the times you rescued me. I will tell them how you chose prison rather than let me die. Because you did, didn’t you? You knew, right from when that snake bit me, it was all over. When I asked you to stay with me in the plane, you did it knowing you were turning yourself in. And I am grateful, Ty, believe me, I am. But I gave my life up for you, too, once … back in Bangkok airport. And I had no choice.

The judge will sentence you. I can’t stop that. But perhaps my testimony may influence where they send you … somewhere near your land, a room with a window this time. Maybe. And perhaps this letter may help you, too. I want you to see that the person I glimpsed running beside the camel, running to save my life, is the person you can choose to be. I can’t save you the way you want me to. But I can tell you what I feel. It’s not much. But it may give you a chance.

You told me once of the plants that lie dormant through the drought, that wait, half-dead, deep in the earth. The plants that wait for the rain. You said they’d wait for years, if they had to; that they’d almost kill themselves before they grew again. But as soon as those first drops of water fall, those plants begin to stretch and spread their roots. They travel up through the soil and sand to reach the surface. There’s a chance for them again.

One day they’ll let you out of that dry, empty cell. You’ll return to the Separates, and you’ll feel the rain once more. And you’ll grow straight, this time, toward this sunlight. I know you will.

It’s not long now until dawn. The smell of eucalyptus is thick in this room, seeping in through the open window and traveling into my lungs. In a moment, when I’m ready, I will turn off this computer and that will be it. This letter will be finished. A part of me doesn’t want to stop writing to you, but I need to. For both of us.

My eyelids are heavy as stone. But when I sleep, I’ll have that dream again. I haven’t wanted to tell you about it, until now.

I’ll be in the Separates, and I’ll be digging with my bare hands. When I’ve made a hole deep enough to plant a tree, I’ll place my fingers inside. I’ll slip off the ring you gave me. It will catch the light and glint a rainbow of colors over my skin, but I will take my hands away, leaving it there. I’ll start to sprinkle the earth back over it, and I will bury it. Back where it belongs.

I’ll rest against a tree’s rough trunk. The sun will be setting, its dazzling colors threading through the sky, making my cheeks warm.

Then I will wake up.

Good-bye, Ty,

Gemma