I digested her words, absently massaging the dull ache in my head. It wasn’t the steady painful pounding from the day before, but a reminder of how difficult the truth was to process.
“Is that why Judy kept me locked away?” Her name still felt foreign on my tongue. I had called her Mother for ten years. It felt like a betrayal to call her anything else. “Was she afraid I would die like her Leah?”
“Perhaps, but understand there is more to her psychological state of mind than we will likely ever know. I’m sure in the beginning she didn’t want you to be found. The FBI and local authorities were combing the surrounding areas for you. Locking you in the basement meant that you wouldn’t be found. As for the rest of the time, I can’t tell you. According to some of the notes I have reviewed from her arrest, it would seem Judy truly believes that you are her Leah.”
I picked at the blanket covering my legs, feeling uneasy. Everyone wanted to paint Judy as the bad person, but they didn’t know everything. I had made it difficult at times while she cared for me. “I was her Leah,” I admitted, feeling embarrassed that I was still confused.
“Mia, you did nothing wrong. You were dragged into a terrible situation and you learned to adjust the only way you could. You had no choice but to become Leah. That’s something you have to understand. You were the victim in all of this. Do you understand?”
Victim? Somehow it just didn’t feel right.
“But I—” I had a thought in mind, but cut it off before any further words could escape.
Dr. Marshall watched me carefully, as if she already knew what I was hiding. I shifted uncomfortably on my mattress. “Nothing you tell me will change the fact that you were the victim. I’m here to help you understand that none of this is your fault. I know it’s going to be hard and at times more than you can handle, but I hope you will learn to trust me with all your secrets.”
I nodded though I couldn’t imagine confiding everything to her. There were things I had tried hard to bury. I shifted the conversation in a different but equally complicated direction. “Do I have to answer to Mia?” My voice shook slightly.
“Are you afraid to use that name?”
I shook my head. My fingers continued to pull at the strings on the knit blanket covering my lap. “It doesn’t feel right. That name belongs to someone else.”
“Yes, it does. It belongs to a part of you. You clung to that name, trying to maintain a part of your old life. Mia was your hope.”
If Mia was my hope, then what was Leah? Without looking up, I wound the string around my fin
ger, making the tip blood red.
“Would you like me to call you Leah?” she asked, watching me as I slowly unwound the string so that the blood flowed back into my index finger.
It sounded like another trick question. If I answered honestly, she would probably scribble on her notepad that I was too far gone, mentally unstable, and hopelessly incapable of accepting reality. I felt like I knew what Dr. Marshall and even my parents wanted to hear from me, but I couldn’t bring myself to give it to them. In the short amount of time I had been in the hospital, everything had been dropped on me at once—details about Judy, seeing my family again, the truth about Mia. Each new detail was like a bomb exploding in my face.
As I pondered Dr. Marshall’s question, I found myself aching for my room in the basement, the familiar surroundings. I had dreamed about getting outside that room for so long that I never contemplated what I would lose if I actually made it. How could I have known that Leah would be snuffed out the moment I opened that door? Grief like I had never felt before clawed its way up from my stomach.
Everyone believed it was a miracle that I was found, but would they feel the same in my shoes? In one instant Mia no longer existed and Leah was also gone. I was an empty shell.
My honest answer? I missed Leah. I missed my life. I missed Mother. I was nothing.
20
MY WRIST was free. I touched the discolored skin where the IV needle had been. It was tender. I poked it harder, causing a sting of pain to radiate up my wrist. It felt normal and oddly comforting.
Over and over again I rubbed, poked, and squeezed my wrist, reclaiming a small part of myself that had been taken the day I was found. It was insignificant, but at least something.
Eventually my wrist became numb from all my probing. I reluctantly released it and picked up the television remote. Over the past few days I had gotten into the habit of leaving the television on constantly. When I had visitors, which seemed to be all the time, I would reluctantly turn the volume down, but refused to turn the television off. One of the nurses tried shutting it off a few nights ago after I’d fallen asleep, but I woke up instantly. She smiled when I switched it back on.
I was growing tired of the sympathetic smiles from everyone. Like they were telling me they felt bad, but didn’t know what to say. Anyone that spoke to me wore sympathy like a badge. For years the one thing I craved most, other than sunshine, was human interaction, different people to talk to, opportunities to make friends, but I never imagined everyone would pity me. I hated it.
The television served as a distraction, so I could watch people who had no idea who I was. The characters on the screen didn’t care about me, as long as I kept the channels away from the news stations. They couldn’t seem to go five minutes without another mention of me. Every aspect of the last ten years of my life was under a microscope. Pictures of my basement room had been released to the news media. In the harsh lights of television it looked so much worse than I remembered. My empty bookshelves looked barren. They hadn’t always been that way. There was a time when I had a nice collection of books lining the shelves. Nowhere in the news story did they mention how books had helped me survive, provided an escape. It felt like a false representation of what my life had really been like. Those books had helped me keep Mia alive in my head.
I flipped the channels abruptly when they flashed the picture of my bed, stopping on a cartoon with bright images of characters singing cheerful songs every few minutes. I didn’t have much experience with cartoons, but I could see the appeal, especially if you were a kid. The songs were supposed to make you want to dance, to feel happy. I wanted them to make me happy. I could flutter around the room singing with the forest animals. Anything to avoid thinking about the images on the news channels. I could explain my empty bookshelves, but my bed with the soiled sheets and metal chain was a different story. It was shameful and everyone had seen it. From that point forward I avoided the news stations at all costs. Holding the remote was a small luxury that made me feel powerful. Unlike my time with Judy, I could watch what I wanted, when I wanted.
I’d been too busy pinching and squeezing my wrist to fully digest what the absence of the IV in my arm meant. I could leave the bed and walk out of my room if I chose. No one said I had to stay. The point was pressed over and over again that I was no longer a captive. In the two weeks I had been at the hospital I was too weak to do much more than use the bathroom, eat, and sleep. The only time I ventured out of my room was when an orderly wheeled me to some test or procedure.
I had only recently graduated to sitting in a chair in my room. It was a vast improvement when Dr. Marshall came in for our sessions. I felt better sitting in the chair. Less vulnerable.
I slid my legs over the side of the bed, feeling a little shaky as I stood up. It only took a few seconds to feel sturdy enough to walk. My body was slowly growing stronger from the food that was constantly pushed on me. My weight was carefully monitored and according to the nurses, I was bulking up nicely.
Judy’s last punishment had withered me away to an all-time low. My ribs and collarbone stuck out to the point where I almost resembled a skeleton. I had overheard the doctor telling Mom and Dad that I wouldn’t be released until my weight showed vast improvements. Mom took his words to heart and started bringing me food from the outside that I had never eaten before. Last night we all sat around my bed eating my very first pizza that I could remember. It only took one gooey bite with the melted cheese and sauce running down my chin for me to declare it my favorite food.