Chapter Two October Fifth
Eagle Arch (unincorporated), Alaska
“You know, I’ve been reading for my classes. Even people who live in remote places have friends. The men on the oil rigs all have each other, and they have families on the mainland, too. The same with the men in the fishing boats.”
Sarah drops the cereal she’s holding.
I pick it up and hold it out. “Father gets our food from someplace, too. Why don’t I ever—”
“You couldn’t go with him,” Sarah says quickly. Too quickly. She’s afraid, and Father is gone.
“I won’t hurt you,” I whisper, hand held out.
Sarah never touches me. No one touches me.
She stays back, eyes squeezed tight shut. “I know you won’t. I know. You’re not like your father.”
“If Father is hurting you—”
“Not Barton. Your real father. Barton is your stepfather, Imogene, and he hated your father. And your mother, and you, for what you are. You must’ve realized it by now...”
But I don’t realize anything. I feel sick and scared and confused, and I want to talk to Lesha. My only friend is someone in a box, on a screen. They might not be a good person.
But I was raised to think Father was good, and now I think he’s not...
I rub my head.
Sarah points. “The horns! Like your father. And the devil’s tail...”
“What are you...”
Sarah looks around again, fear on her face. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I didn’t say anything. I... I have to go out.”
“What?” I freeze, the box of cereal still in my hand. I’ve never been left alone. Ever.
Because they were afraid you’d run. And you would have run if you were closer to other people.
“Where are you going?”
“To the store.”
“Can I come?”
“No! People would see you. What don’t you get about that?
You’re pink! People aren’t supposed to be pink, not like that.
People aren’t supposed to have horns and tails—even when he cut them off, there’s still a stump.
” Sarah’s shrill voice dies abruptly, softening.
“It’s not your fault, but there’s nothing you can do about it, Imogene.
That’s why I told your father there was no harm in letting you go to those classes. At least it’s something to do.”
“But... Where is my mother? Where is my real father?” I always believed my mother died. That’s what Father said, but now I don’t know if it’s true.
“Oh, she and your real father left you as a punishment for Barton.” Her lips thin. “Your father was a demon. A demon who put men to shame.”
“Demons? Are real?”
Sarah licks her lips, like she’s not sure if she believes that or not. Doesn’t matter. I don't think I believe it. But then again... fairy tales and myths have to come from somewhere, and the books I have are all children’s tales, with lots of things like fairies and goblins.
But that doesn’t matter. My mother and father left me with Fath— with Barton.
To me, that’s horrible. Didn’t they know Barton hated me? Or would probably hate me, since he hated them?
Sarah grabs her coat and hurries outside, unplugging the car from something—I think I’ve heard them call it a block heater.
I stand in the cold and watch her fearful, jerky movements, watch her careen away into an empty white landscape.
In the far distance, there are small spirals of smoke in the sky.
That means people. But how many miles is it between me and those little black signs of life?
Hm.
Sarah’s gone, running in fear from questions she can’t answer. Barton is gone, away for two weeks, then home for one, and on and on it goes.
It’s time for me to search the forbidden places for clues to the world around me and the life I should have had. I guess I have to start in my own house.
SARAH KEEPS THE HOUSE neat. I think she likes it when Father is away.
She listens to music and bakes pies, and there’s a peace around her.
A peace she doesn't let me share. I can watch her in the kitchen, but never help. I can listen to the music, as long as she doesn’t realize it or hear me sing along.
That is not what a mother is, I tell myself, and today, I hold the words tight.
I search in closets and boxes, even in the crawl space attic that’s freezing inside.
That’s where I find an old green metal trunk, sealed with a brass lock.
I hold the lock and think about all the times I cried for someone to hug me and no one came, and—the lock is in two pieces in my hands, and I don’t know how.
But it’s easy to tell that what’s inside the trunk isn’t Barton’s or Sarah’s.
The dresses are short and colorful, and they still smell faintly of perfume. There are soft things and things that shimmer—all women’s.
This is nothing like what Sarah wears. She wears pants and sweaters, heavy, bulky things in faded colors. I wear the same sort of things, too big in the shoulders and too short for my long legs, handed down from Sarah, and worn, shapeless slip-ons to hide my deformed feet.
Could these things be my mother’s?
I keep digging. Shoes. Chunky boots that aren’t meant for snow, sandals that would never fit my feet, silver and gold strappy things that would never survive an Alaskan winter.
Digging deeper.
White purse with painted gold clasp—the paint is old and rubbed off. I open it, my chest tight. I pause and listen for sounds of a returning car or sudden footsteps.
Hearing none, I lift out each item as if it’s precious.
A hair clip in rusted brown and blonde. A tube of lipstick, welded shut by time.
A tube of something called foundation in a pale beige color.
A faded photograph with bent corners and deep creases showing a beautiful blonde woman in one of the silky short dresses that I just unearthed.
She’s standing next to my father—Barton, I remind myself—but not the man I know. Not the gray-haired, scowling, stooping man. It’s still the same long, lean face and lanky body, but back then, his hair was light brown.
Back then... I peer at the picture and get a clue from the banner over the Christmas decor in the background. Happy New Year reads one banner, with glittery numbers hanging under it. 2003.
So this was before me.
Why is this still here, but my mother is gone?
Did she really die? Did she leave me?
Digging deeper, I find more things in the purse. An old wallet. Credit cards. A student ID from the University of Alaska, Anchorage.
She was pretty.
And she looked like me—just not pink. Same build. Same oval face. Maybe... Maybe someone would even say I was pretty like her, I think, hardly daring to breathe as I reverently stroke the woman’s picture.
We even wear our hair the same, I think, touching my scalp and letting my fingers ghost over the tiny growths that are as hard as bone, and flow into long, silky tresses.
Further searching doesn’t reveal anything useful—not to me. Of course, I don’t know what I’m looking for.
You’re looking for a way out. For things that will help you get away, and you need to do it soon.
But without those things that Lesha said, I think I’m stuck. Even if I could find one of those nanny sites, I bet they want some papers or proof of who I really am—and I don’t know who that is right now.
And even if everything was perfect, they didn’t ask any questions, you found the right job, and they paid for your tickets on a bus or a plane... How would you get there? You don’t know anything beyond the walls of this little house. How to get to the nearest city. Nothing that would save you.
But Sarah is out.
No one is here to stop me from tapping and typing, or poking and looking.
I hold the short, shimmering dress tight and pull other items from the trunk.
These clothes might actually fit. My mother’s ID.
.. in a hat, scarf, and coat... Could I pass for her with her student ID?
Would people look at the year it was issued and wonder why I’m still a student twenty-five years later?
Don’t know. Have to risk it, or I could be a prisoner here forever.
Or worse.
I make a plan in my head, whispering aloud to give it a nudge into reality.
“Step One: Find a way out. Step Two: Find a place to go. Step Three: Find a way to get there.
Step Four: Disguise myself, pack my things, and leave home.
” I stop and nod firmly, then sigh and slump.
I think as I gather up the clothing, shoes, and things that might work for my getaway, things that might help me disguise my freakishness.
“Great. I’m working backwards. But... At least I’m working. ”