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All the lights were to be turned off when the sun went down, so darkness came early. The little girl and her mother spent much of their time listening for her father’s footsteps above and huddled near the space heater to keep warm.
The girl’s father consistently brought them food now, even including treats like snack cakes and small plastic containers of pudding. Still, her mother didn’t trust him. She rationed their meals, always making sure they had enough cans of chicken noodle soup and ravioli, jars of peanut butter, and tins of tuna fish in case he decided to stay away for an extended time again.
Though her mother always gave her a larger portion at mealtime, there was always a gnawing in the girl’s stomach, an emptiness that was never quite filled.
Her mother was quiet and often lost in thought. The girl had to repeat things two or three times before she would answer. Her mother paced, often stopping at the bottom of the stairs to look up at the locked door. The girl was left to read and color and amuse herself on her own.
One day, her mother climbed a few of the steps but then quickly came back down. The next day, she went one step higher. This went on for days. Up four steps, up five steps, up six, until she finally reached the top. The girl held her breath. Would she open the door? Her father would be so angry. Her mother stood there for a long time but in the end, came back down.
One evening, her father came bursting through the door carrying a plastic bag. “I’m having a few people over tonight,” he said. No one ever came to the house, at least no one that the girl knew about. “Who?” the girl asked, but her father silenced her with a sharp look.
“You have to be quiet, I mean it. Not a sound,” he said. “They’ll be here in a little bit.” He reached into the plastic bag. The girl was hoping it was a carton of strawberries—they were her favorite. Instead, he pulled out a round silver roll of tape.
Next to the girl, her mother stiffened. “What’s that for?” she asked warily.
“It’s only for a little while,” her father explained as he tore a six-inch length of tape with his teeth.
“No,” her mother said, shaking her head. “You don’t need to do that. We’ll be quiet.”
“Can’t take any chances,” her father said regretfully. “Come here, peanut.”
“No,” her mother repeated. “She’s quiet. She’s always quiet.”
“Now you know that’s not true,” her father said, and the girl’s face burned with shame.
“Come here,” he ordered. The girl stepped toward him and he smoothed the duct tape over her lips. Immediately, her lungs tightened, the room seemed to close in around her.
“She was little,” her mother argued. “She couldn’t help it.”
The girl’s fingers moved to her mouth and began peeling away the tape. Her father slapped at her hands. “Stop,” he said. She dropped her fingers to her sides and struggled to breathe.
Then he turned to the girl’s mother. “Come here,” he ordered.
She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “Please, no. I’ll be good,” she cried. He yanked her toward him, ripped another piece of tape from the roll, and pressed it to her mouth.
Tears filled the girl’s eyes, and she watched as he dragged her mother over to the bed and handcuffed her to the headboard. Her mother didn’t resist. She knew if she fought back, things would be worse.
“Go sit down,” he told the girl and pointed to the metal pipe that rose up from the concrete floor and joined the circuit of cobwebbed pipes above them. The girl shook her head. She knew what was coming next. He snatched her into his arms and the girl bucked and writhed as he carried her over to the pipe. “Stay still,” he growled as he tossed her to the ground. Again, he tore a strip of tape from the roll and lashed her hands behind her back and her ankle to the pole.
Breathing heavily, her father took a look at his handiwork. Satisfied that they weren’t going anywhere and would make no noise, he went up the stairs. “Be good now,” he called down just before closing and locking the door.
The girl lay facedown on the cold concrete, mouth covered, arms tied behind her back, one ankle affixed to the pipe. She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t see her mother. Tears rolled down her face and her nose filled with mucous, making it even harder to breathe.
Above her, she heard her father’s heavy footsteps and several lighter ones. She heard the tinkle of laughter, the chatter of unfamiliar voices, the cheerful chords ofJingle Bells. She closed her eyes to sleep, but the tape bit deeply into her skin and her muscles ached.
She imagined what it would be like to be upstairs sitting in the big living room singing Christmas carols. She would be dressed in pretty clothes, eating cookies in the shape of bells and reindeer and elves. She would be counting her wrapped presents beneath the tree.
The girl opened her eyes. She looked to her window. Through the gap in the curtain, snow was falling. She imagined what it would be like to feel snow on her face, to taste it on her tongue.
33
August 2000
The sound of screams filled the barn and Matthew came running, his eyes darting in search of the source of Josie’s distress.
“Josie, what is it?” he shouted. All she could do was point to the feed bunk. Matthew’s eyes followed her finger and landed on Ethan’s body. He fell to his knees in front of the bunk. “Ethan,” he said in disbelief. The mournful bleats of the goats rose up around them.
“Is he dead?” Josie asked, though she already knew the answer.
