Chapter 6 Avalynne
AVALYNNE
As I sit in my room at the convent, staring up at the ashlar ceiling, I clutch my dead phone in my hand.
The plastic is smooth and lifeless, yet a desperate, illogical hope surges within me that my phone will ring, and my grandfather will call to whisk me away from this place. It never does, though.
My room is as boring as ever. The metal frame of the twin bed is a stark white against the plain walls, and the cotton sheets are worn from countless washings. A draft snakes under the door, and I shiver and wrap my itchy wool blanket tighter around my shoulders.
Perched on my bed, I trace the patterns in the old stone walls with my gaze, following each crack and crevice. I wonder what other troubled young women have been locked away in this room and what they did to end up here.
The air in the basement weighs heavy with dampness and neglect, and despite the blanket, I shiver.
I should be grateful. Apparently, I am to be tutored by the man with sable eyes and an impeccable scowl.
But if anything, I feel even more hopeless than ever because if Grandpapa has sent a tutor, that means he truly doesn't have any intention of letting me come home, not anytime soon, at least.
I can't reconcile it.
On one hand, there's the man who condemned me to this place, but on the other is my grandfather, who I thought loved me.
I remember the day I first met Grandpapa like it was yesterday.
Isabella and I were just six years old, playing in our upstairs bedroom when a knock came from the front door.
Our babysitter, a quiet teenager from down the street, called up the stairs to us that she would get the door, but Isabella and I were nosy.
Maybe she had ordered pizza.
Maybe it was one of our friends coming to play.
We peered down from the landing as the babysitter opened the front door, revealing a tall, thin policewoman. Their conversation was short but hushed, and I still remember the hard smoothness of the stairwell's spindle as my hand wrapped tighter around it.
We watched as the first tear slid down our babysitter's cheek, and the world as we knew it crumbled.
Isabella grabbed my hand, her small fingers interlacing with mine.
"Ava, Isa," the babysitter called from the front door, clearing her throat and wiping away her tears. "Come down here, please."
The passing time blurred as we were escorted to the police station by the officer and her partner.
The ride in the back of the police car was surreal, a haze of red-and-blue flashing lights and the howl of sirens.
Streets passed outside the backseat windows in a disorienting whirl of color.
Each turn of the vehicle sent my stomach lurching into my throat, but all the while, Isabella held my hand.
Once we arrived at the police station, the officers walked us up the pitted concrete steps at the front of the building.
Sunlight hit the pitch of the roof just right, sending a torch of light into my eyes and blinding me before the officers guided us through the front glass door and into the station.
I remember being so scared, my heart thumping in my chest.
Isabella squeezed my hand even tighter. Everything was too much. The shrill ringing of telephones cut through the dozens of voices speaking all at once. I clenched my free hand into the tulle skirt of my dress, letting the scratchy fabric bunch between my fingers.
The air smelled like dull notes of stale coffee and the sharp tang of antiseptic, and the building was cold, the air conditioning blasting from the vents.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like the angry bees from Mama's garden, casting an eerie glow across the station's drab walls.
Despite the noise, the place felt lifeless and cold, like it existed in a black-and-white world.
As we exited the entryway, another police officer stood up from her desk. She abandoned her steaming coffee cup and approached us. She was burly with salt-and-pepper hair drawn into a tight bun, but her stern expression softened as she looked down at my sister and me.
"You must be Avalynne and Isabella," she said, kneeling to envelop us in a big hug. Her hands came around each of our shoulders, and she squeezed my sister and me together.
"Where's Mama?" Isabella asked as the woman pulled away from our hug.
"Come with me, sweetie." She grabbed my sister's hand.
We followed her through the station in a line, my sister holding her hand and me holding my sister's, past rows of identical beige cubicles. More police officers looked up from their desks as we passed, but their pitying smiles made my skin prickle.
I knew then, even if I didn't want to admit it.
We walked deeper into the station, and I swallowed, trying to force down the lump that had formed in my throat.
The officer led us to a windowless room at the rear of the building.
The walls were gray like the rest of the station, but someone had hung up faded posters of cartoons I didn't recognize.
A worn desk dominated the space, and two metal fold-out chairs sat on either side.
The chairs scraped against the floor as the officer pulled them out for us.
"Please," the woman said to Isabella and me, "take a seat, girls."
We did what we were told, and another officer entered the room, giving us a small smile. I watched her as Isabella sniffled, wiping her nose with her forearm. I squeezed my sister's hand tighter.
The second officer drew closer, and she set two coloring books and a box of crayons on the table in front of us. I remember thinking they smelled like my mother's art room at home.
"Where's Mama?" Isabella asked again.
I couldn't help it. I began to cry.
"Let's get you something to drink," the first officer said. "Do you two want a soda? You can have any flavor."
Neither one of us answered, and Isabella began to cry, too. The woman offered us a weak smile and looked at the other officer.
"Get ‘em a couple of sodas, Lou," she said.
The other officer nodded and left the room, the door shutting behind her.
We spent what felt like hours in that room. All the while, the coloring book remained untouched on the desk in front of us.
We cried. We finished our sodas and a pile of snacks from the vending machine.
We held each other, and we waited. Eventually, a tall man entered the room, his long peacoat nearly hitting his ankles.
His hair was as dark as a raven's wing but streaked with silver, and his eyes were a piercing blue that matched mine.
He wore a neatly pressed pinstriped suit beneath his coat and carried the scent of cigars with him.
In each of his large hands, the man held a doll, their dresses a bubblegum pink.
He smiled at my sister and me. His teeth gleamed like polished ivory beneath the harsh overhead light.
"I wish I could've met you both sooner," he said, his rumbling voice deep and low.
He knelt in front of us, his eyes meeting mine first and then Isabella's.
"It's nice to finally meet you, Avalynne and Isabella," he said. "I'm Marcus, Marcus Immorier, your grandfather."
He handed me one of the dolls, and Isabella the other. I blinked at the grandfather I had never met.
Nothing would have kept Mama and Papa from coming for us, and we all knew it.
"You look so much like your mother," he said, his voice tinged with sadness before he drew us to him in a tight embrace.
It was like walking beneath sunshine on a cool day. He felt safe and warm. He reminded me of home.
"Where is Mama?" My face pressed against his shoulder, my voice muffled.
Grandpapa pulled away, giving us a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "They are gone, child, but don't worry. Your grandfather is here now."
His words punched me in the gut. Isabella cried even harder.
It was real.
They were gone.
As I held the doll in my hand, its plastic eyes staring at me, I tried to wish it all away.
"It's okay," he said. "I won't let anything happen to you. You will always be my good girls."
But I didn't feel like a good girl at that moment.
I didn't feel anything, except cold and dead, just like I do now.