Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
NOVA
This woman is full of sass and vinegar. I find myself intrigued by her and her defense of the woman nestling in the corner of the basement as if she’s making herself a nest. There are a few things I need them to answer, but the primary ones being who they are and how long they’ve been here.
But I have the feeling that pulling teeth would be easier than getting those answers out of them.
“What do you want to know?” the brave one asks.
I decide to start with a question that I think will be easier for them to digest and spill the beans about. “How long have y’all been here?”
“Here where?” she asks, sending me narrowed eyes.
“In this room. How long have you two been held here?” I continue, drawing in all the patience I can muster because I can tell by her personality that she’s going to be one of my biggest challenges to date.
“I’m not understanding what you want me to say. We’ve always been here,” she utters.
“You’ve always been here,” I repeat. “What does that mean? Can you be more specific?” I hate sounding like a broken record, but here I am being repetitive and going against my nature.
“Always,” she remarks, shrugging her shoulders as if what she’s saying isn’t going to have me reeling.
“Excuse me? Always,” I sputter.
“Yes, always,” she mimics, looking at me as if I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed. And to her, I may not be but she’s not making things clear for me.
Then a thought that has my stomach bottoming to the pit of my belly and turning hits me. The frightened one called him ‘Father’ earlier when I asked his whereabouts, and why it took until now to sink in is something I’ll contemplate later. “Are you telling me you were born here?”
“We both were,” she tells me, waving at the other girl.
“You have got to be shitting me,” I blast out, talking to myself as my heart leaps in my chest. I can’t imagine what their lives have been like. “You two are his daughters?”
“Yes,” she seethes, her jaw tight as she spews that out. “He’s our father.”
It’s then I take a few minutes to really digest my surroundings.
Lumps of blankets laid on top of a couple of lounge chair cushions.
A mini fridge, burner, and microwave clustered together on a small floating shelf.
Laundry neatly folded and placed into separate baskets surrounding the washer and dryer.
A line strung across one wall with clothes hanging from it.
A small, eighties-style television on a milk crate and books piled up neatly next to it.
“There’s no record of you whatsoever. No birth certificate, no school transcripts, no doctor appointments in the database… it’s as if you don’t exist,” I explain, trying to be tactful.
“We do all of that ourselves,” she informs me.
“Do all of what yourselves?” I probe.
“We learned on our own, and took care of each other when we were sick. We don’t need a teacher or doctor, we have everything we need right here,” she adamantly says.
“What’s your name?” I press.
“Girl,” she says.
“I’m sorry? Your name is what?” I question.
“We share a first name but have different middle ones,” the one from the corner, still wound tight in her blankets, proudly announces as if she didn’t just shatter my soul with her proclamation. “She’s Girl One and I’m Girl Two.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You’re both named Girl with numbers as your middle names? Is that the order of your birth?”
“Yes, I’m older,” the first woman says. “Which is why our father named me Girl One.” The duh way she says this and the nonchalance in her tone tells me that they don’t understand how insignificant he’s made them.
As if their life has no meaning.
I don’t know how much more I can take or hear before I start losing my ever-loving shit and decimate this room in a fit of unadulterated anger.
He’s not only a coward, kidnapper, and murderer, he’s the biggest piece of shit to ever inhabit this planet.
I’m not going to break the news to them yet about their names, I’m going to keep that to myself until I can figure out what to do with them—I’m an asshole, but I’m not an unfeeling one.
I’m going to abort that and concentrate on gaining information from them about their father and the women he’s taken against their will.
Knowing from dealing with other women suffering from Stockholm Syndrome that I have to approach them with tenderness before I tear apart their entire lives, I ask, “May I sit?”
“We have a guest!” the skittish one hollers, rushing out of her blanket burrito and running toward the cases of water underneath the wall-mounted shelf. “We have water but we’re running low on snacks.”
The way she’s ostentatiously shifted from a fickle kitten to a gracious hostess has me rapidly blinking.
Girl One sighs and goes over to the side of their makeshift closet and pulls out a raggedy folding chair that has seen better days.
I’m worried about its integrity, especially once I sit my ass in it.
The damn thing looks like it’s hours away from falling apart and needing to be flung into the dumpster.
Once I’ve gently sat in the chair, Girl One leans over and hisses, “I thought you were going to leave once I answered your questions. Why are you still here?”
Girl Two squeaks, “We still have pickles!”
I flinch at that and rear back in my seat because out of everything I thought I was going to be forced to swallow, besides my pride and temper, soured pickle juice wasn’t one of them—it’s my motherfucking kryptonite.
To me, it’s like swallowing a gallon of undiluted vinegar.
Girl One giggles in delight when she recognizes my face blanche. “Not a fan?”
“Nope,” I answer, deciding honesty is better than lying to her. It’s not a pattern I want to start with them. I’ll never gain their confidence if I do.
“Too bad. Don’t hurt her feelings, got it?” she sneers.
“Loud and clear,” I grind out.
“Here! Sorry we don’t have any paper towels to wrap it in, we ran out a couple of days ago and Father hasn’t gone to the store.” The apologetic look on her face has me sending her a sharp smile.
Fuck!
This girl is so pure and unassuming that I fear what I’m about to do to that innocence. I’m going to blow her entire world up.
“We need to talk,” I say as sedately as possible, grabbing both the pickle and bottle of water from her outstretched hands with a nod of thanks.
Girl Two shakily reaches out and grasps her sister’s hand. By the crestfallen look on her face, I gather that she knows what I have to say isn’t going to be anything good.
“About Father?” she asks, swallowing back tears.
“Yeah, about your father,” I confirm.