A Girl Named Anna, page 18
He grabs hold of my hand. I try to unpick my thoughts. “What about Jonah?”
“Anna, you’re not listening to me.” He tugs harder. “We have to go—now. Tell him anything. Tell him you’re sick, that a friend’s giving you a lift home. But do it now.”
I take in the wildness in his eyes, the urgent way his fingers press into my wrist. Slowly I nod, leave William in the hallway as I make my way back into the gymnasium, which now seems twenty degrees hotter, reeking of hair spray and sweat and stale perfume, their cacophony as loud as the noise level in the room.
I spy Jonah at the punch table, talking to a couple of boys I recognize vaguely from the football team. I approach them, catching Jonah’s eye as he takes a swig from his glass. “Hi,” I say. He sways slightly. The punch must definitely be spiked.
“Hey, I was starting to get worried about you. Anna, this is Jacob and Sam,” he slurs as he points to each one in turn. “Guys, this is Anna. My date.” In an unprecedented move, he reaches a hand around my waist and tugs me into him so our hip bones smash together. I politely disentangle myself, and exchange the briefest possible pleasantries before turning toward him.
“Jonah, I’m so sorry, but I have to leave.”
“Leave?” He screws up his eyes, as if trying to process what I’m saying. “But we only just got here.”
“I know, but I’m...not feeling well. I think it was something I ate. I have to go home. Now.”
“But how will you get home?”
“A friend is going to take me. But I don’t want you to worry about it. Please, stay here and have a good time. I’m sorry, Jonah. I haven’t been a very good date.” Rather than allowing myself to linger, I lean over and give him a fleeting kiss on the cheek. And then, before he can say anything else, I extricate myself from the group and go out to meet William.
He starts the car, and I know without him saying a word exactly where he’s taking me.
Watermelon Pond is a short drive from the high school. It’s not really a pond anymore, it’s almost completely dried up, but it’s a pleasant place to hike, full of blackberry bushes and Florida rosemary and draping yellow jasmine. I know William likes to come here to think. It was one of the first places we went to, when we started dating.
We park. The sand is deep and soft underfoot, and I am suddenly alert to the fact that I’m still in my formal wear. “Will?” I look down at my satin sandals, already speckled with grains of sand.
He ducks into the trunk of his car and appears seconds later with my hiking boots clenched in his hands. I forgot I left them there—before all this began. With the boots on, and his sweater draped over my shoulders, I pick my way with him past the entrance and into the park. It feels illicit doing this now, skirting our way past the birdhouse that faces the kiosk.
In the silence, only broken by the occasional birdcall, we find a patch of land by a tall loblolly pine. It’s already dark, but the moon is high in the sky, illuminating us with a bright silver glow.
Only now does William speak. “I’ve found some things out about Father Paul. Some worrying things.”
“Will, I don’t care,” I say. “I’ve already decided—”
“No, listen to me, Anna. I’ve done some research. He’s the leader of a church—The Lilies, that’s what that means. I asked a pastor about it. Don’t freak out—” he holds his hands up, seeing the panic seize my face “—someone from our old church in Texas. He was really concerned when he heard the name. He said they were some extremist group—that they shouldn’t have the right to even associate themselves with Christianity, that the very idea of it was blasphemy. A lot of them, they sounded just like your mom—the puritanism, the cleanliness, the order.” He presses his palms together, holds them to his chin. “Anna, I think your mom might have been mixed up with them. For all we know, she still might be. It could be the reason that she...for what happened to you. He said he’d heard things—rumors, mainly, about strange goings-on there, aggressive behavior, severe punishment. I don’t know why this Father Paul is seeking you out now, but you have to get away.”
“Where?” The hollowness of this thought punches me in my core. All I have is Mamma. Without her, I am Alice, falling down the rabbit hole.
“Marry me,” William says.
A brutal laugh escapes me, ripping through the silent night in a ragged gasp. “Now you’re the crazy one.”
“I’m being serious. You must have known I always intended it, eventually. We’ll go to my dad, right now. He won’t ask questions. He trusts me. He’ll do it right away.” He clutches me to him, and I can feel the desperation build in him. “You’re eighteen. You’re free to marry who you please. Your mother has no hold on you. Marry me, and we’ll face her together. We could find a way, maybe, of protecting her from Father Paul. And then we’ll go away, just you and me.” I say nothing, but he pulls himself into me harder, burying himself into my neck and murmuring, over and over, “Please, Anna, please. I can’t let anything happen to you.”
It’s too much, too overwhelming, everything within me conflicting and vying for attention. And in that moment I want to hate Mamma. Hate her for doing this to me; for making me choose, and giving me no choice at all.
Before I realize it my mouth is on William’s, hungry for the comfort I have so desperately been missing. We sink to the ground, and the rough sear of sand rubs against my back. My skirt has risen up my thighs, and I recklessly nudge my bare skin into him. It feels wrong, so terribly wrong, to be doing this, but at the same time I am overcome with desire; for William, yes, but to punish Mamma too, the way she has punished me, and transgress the bounds she holds so dear.
Besides, what does it matter now? What does anything matter?
“Anna, are we doing this? Are you sure?” William murmurs, even as I feel his warm hands against my flesh, moving along the length of my body. I can feel the strength of him on top of me, powered by an animalistic urge that, now unleashed, doesn’t seem to want to stop.
We dive into each other, all hands, and lips, and limbs. We are fumbling and awkward, neither quite knowing whether to lead or be led, but we somehow stumble our way into a rhythm that eventually makes us both cry out. Afterward, when we are still and quiet, our bodies cooling in the moonlight and William’s arms wrapped around me as I lie against his torso, I am the first to break the silence. “You’re right, Will. I have to let Mamma go. But not tonight. Please. Let me go home to her. Let me pretend everything is all right. I just need a little time.” I stare into the distance at the oaks and trails surrounding us.
“Okay.” He pulls me closer. “I will.”
In the car home, I don’t need to tell him: he stops at the top of the road. I kiss him deeply on the mouth, part of me not wanting to let go.
“I need you to swear to me you won’t do anything until I tell you.” I hold his face up to me, boring the promise into him. “If we’re going to do this, I have to know I can trust you.”
He rests his left hand over mine, traces the lines of my fingers in the dark. “You can trust me.”
From the top of our long driveway, the house looks quiet. It’s a quarter to eleven. Mamma will be in bed, listening for the door. She’ll be worried about falling asleep and missing me, so I picture her propping herself up, her ears pricked up for the sound of my footsteps on the stairs. Once she knows I’m back, I imagine her settling into her pillows, and falling into a comforted sleep.
I open the front door into total blackness, edge out of my shoes and then creep up the stairs so I don’t wake Mamma unduly. I open my bedroom door with a creak, and turn to switch on the overhead light.
When I turn around, I seize in shock. Mamma is sitting on my bed. Wide-awake. Waiting for me.
“Mamma!” I clasp my hand to my chest, nearly jumping with fright.
And then I look properly at the bed, and at the objects beside her. A cell phone. A ticket. A bracelet. The pendant. The card.
A magpie’s trove, unearthed.
“It was the strangest thing,” she begins as my eyes slowly turn to meet hers. “I heard this incessant buzzing sound, coming from your room. And I thought to myself, there must be a bee, trapped in there somewhere. I was scared, in case it stung you in the night. So I looked all around, and there it was again. Buzz, buzz, buzz. Coming from your chest of drawers. And I thought, aha, the bee must be trapped in there. So, I opened it up, and guess what?” I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes. “Well, there was no bee, was there, Anna? No bee at all.”
“Mamma, I can explain.” I come toward her, thinking frantically what I can say or do to rectify the situation.
Something hard and heavy flies through the air from Mamma’s hands, and lands square on the side of my head. The last thing I see, before my world becomes blackness, are the strangled stems of wildflowers, and the flash of a vase beside them.
ROSIE
It’s not like I’ve spent much time considering what MikeD’s house might look like, but as soon as we enter, something about it rings true. It’s very clean with lemon-fresh polished wooden floors and stark white walls hung with framed posters from art exhibitions and theater productions. Off the hallway there’s a living room, with one of those leather corner sofas and a bookshelf that lines the entire length of a wall, crammed with books.
“We’re both big readers,” Michael says, seeing me staring. I give him an awkward half smile, happy to have his small talk as the backdrop to my gently calming mood.
“Tea?” he asks when we’re seated in the country-style kitchen. The wall is covered with a child’s drawings stuck on with Blu Tack. I hear the flick of the kettle switch. He opens and closes cupboard doors, taking out mugs and spoons and tea boxes. “I don’t think we have anything more imaginative than regular breakfast or Earl Grey, but I think there may be some peppermint somewhere if you like?”
“Breakfast is good for us.”
“Right, then.” He doesn’t look back, keeps moving around the kitchen. Stalling, maybe?
“Sorry it’s not much.” He brings over three mugs and some biscuits, sits, says nothing. I glance at the clock on the far wall. It’s edging on four o’clock. If we want to be back in time for dinner, we have to get a train at five. I take a loud sip of tea, as if the act will urge him into speaking. He sucks his top lip, looks down at his mug. “I’m afraid I don’t really know where to start, Rosie. What do you want to know?”
I press my tea-warmed hands to the sides of my face. “Whatever it is you can tell me. Who is the woman in the navy dress? How did you find out about her? Why do you think she’s connected to Emily? We’ve traveled three hours to get here, Michael. Please, just tell me anything that could help me find my sister?”
He bows his head. “Okay. I’m sorry. I know you’re frustrated.” He loops his hands tighter around his mug. “I’ll tell you everything I know, but you have to understand that the reason I’ve kept this to myself is because it’s not safe—”
“I get it, Mike,” I interject before he gets a chance to talk himself out of it. “But I have to know.”
He nods, understanding. “I guess it all began when I met my wife.” He glances away from us, and his mouth curls into a guilty frown. “My first wife, Angela.” He takes a long sip of tea, letting the sentence hang in the air. “When I first started out—gosh, more than twenty years ago now—I was an investigative journalist. Lengthy, painstakingly researched pieces about human life—an exposé on what it’s like to be a prison guard, MPs’ expenses, a profile piece about a celebrity chef I’d heard was terrorizing his staff. I was doing pretty well.” He shrugs. “I wrote for lots of the nationals. I wrote a couple of pieces for the New York Times. I even won an award for a piece I wrote about a drug cartel in Jalisco. I was spending a lot of time in the States, and that’s where I met my Angela.”
I start to build a picture of him, before whatever made him slink away into the shadows happened. He’s clearly sharp—it’s in his manner, the way he holds himself. Could it be that this man has unearthed the key to what happened to Emily, when so many others have failed?
“Angela was American. Her parents lived in Georgia. About six months after we got married, her father got sick, and she wanted to move back home to be near him. They lived in a little place right at the border of Georgia and North Carolina. It’s very quiet there, proper small-town life—one bar, a diner, a mayor who knew most people by name. I was quite content, starting to cobble together ideas for a book. I began to find that so-called ‘Southern charm’ quite irresistible.”
“How does this relate to my sister?” I urge him on, but he raises an eyebrow.
“I said I’d tell you everything. This is everything.” He continues, “Around the time Angela’s father got sick, her mother became involved with a new church. She started going quite regularly. Sundays at first, and then twice a week, later more. I think she found it comforting, with her husband sick like that.” Michael gives a heavy sigh, and I can see him placing himself back in that time.
“Almost overnight, something changed. As I understand it, they were never a particularly religious family. But suddenly it was ‘the Lord’ this and ‘the Lord’ that. Soon, she was fascinated with this idea of ‘good’ and ‘evil,’ and ‘purity’ versus ‘sin.’ It went way beyond any sort of religion I’d ever seen practiced. She became obsessed with dirt. She fretted over Bill. They gave her the crazy notion that his illness was the result of some imperfection, some sin within him that was working its way out. The man had stage three cancer,” he spits, “and they were telling him to confess his sins.” I see his knuckles tighten around the handle of his mug. “It was about that time that Angela got pregnant.
“Ruth began to ask Angela to come to church with her. It started out just as light nagging, but she wouldn’t let it rest. Eventually, Angela couldn’t take it anymore, didn’t want to be the cause of arguments when her father was so unwell, and so finally she agreed to go. As soon as she saw it for herself, she felt that there was something off about it. She told me she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was just something wrong about the place.”
“What?” Keira asks; she’s trying to urge him along too. She’s hooked her finger on the handle of her empty mug and is drawing it round and round in a circle. The mug makes a dull scraping sound against the tabletop, and I give her a nudge with my knee.
“She found it hard to describe at first,” Michael answers. “It just gave her the creeps. The church was about a fifteen-minute drive from us, set back from the road in a clearing next to a river.” He pauses, looks up. “They called themselves The Lilies.” From his place at the kitchen table, he lets his words hang in the air, searching our faces for any sign of recognition. We stare blankly back at him. “‘As a lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters,’” he quotes, tickling a faint recognition in my brain.
“Oh,” I say. “That’s from the Bible, isn’t it?”
He nods. “The lily is a symbol of purity in Christianity. Angela said they started off every meeting with this weird ritual. They’d dress in these long white robes, and wade into the river to ‘wash’ themselves of their sins while one of the leaders would quote Scripture at them. Angela said it was the most bizarre thing, these grown men and women standing about in nightdresses like some sort of adult baptism. There were other things too—a sort of ‘confession’ session, where they’d take turns admitting something they were guilty about, and then everyone would chant, ‘Unclean! Unclean! Unclean!’ at them as they scrubbed their hands in a bucket of diluted bleach until a leader pronounced them cleansed. They wanted Angela to do some sort of special purification ritual for the baby, but on that she absolutely put her foot down. And then there was the money.”
Michael leans back in his chair, drags his hands across his face and gives his head a slight shake from side to side, mentally readjusting himself. And then he continues. “Cancer treatment is expensive, especially in the US—the insurance, the lack of a nationalized health service. Bill and Ruth didn’t have much to cover the bills, and Angela and I were hardly in a position to help out. Bill’s doctor was suggesting a new drug trial...and that was how we found out that Ruth was giving money to the church. Small bits, in the beginning, at least. But it was her talk of the church leader, Father Paul, that made me really uneasy. Ruth’s eyes would get all kind of twinkly when she’d talk about him. Soon it was ‘Father Paul says this’ and ‘Father Paul says that.’ It was like, to her, he was God incarnate. And then she wanted Bill to stop having treatment. ‘Father Paul says he doesn’t need treatment,’ she’d quote in this pious tone. ‘He just has to believe.’”
Michael sucks in his cheeks, breathing the air into himself before he next speaks. “And then Angela lost the baby.”
I’m not quite sure where to look. “I—I’m so sorry.” Next to me, Keira murmurs the same. I awkwardly reach out a hand to him. Surprisingly he acquiesces, and pats mine gently in response.
“It was a very sad time. She was about five months along. There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary about the pregnancy. But with the stress of her mum, and Bill...it was just all too much. That was when things started to get really bleak. Bill was so weak. Ruth was becoming more obsessed by the day. When Angela lost the baby, Ruth told her Father Paul said it was because she was ‘impure,’ and the Lord had seen fit to take it from her. He wanted to do some sort of cleansing ritual on her, to cast the evil out of her.”
