I knew that dramatic weight loss and stress, especially very dramatic stress, could cause you not to have a period. Both reasons certainly applied to me now. I had been practically anorexic down here, which certainly had a big effect on my estrogen level.
One possible good result of all this was the diminishment of my chances of getting pregnant. Of course, that was the most important concern for me, but the idea of his forcing me to make love to him once, twice, even three times a night any day now turned my stomach. How could I not become disgusted with my own violated body? I would always feel a little dirty, I thought. The psychological damage would be greater than the physical damage.
Girls were losing their virginity all sorts of ways when they were my age or a few years older. They were date-raped or drugged at parties, and many were too ashamed to admit it or to report what had happened to them. Some could live with that self-denial and maybe even have somewhat normal romances and lives, but those who did reveal it didn’t fare much better. Yes, the rapist might be punished, but the stigma was there. What man could date you and not think about the fact that you had been raped? Surely he would wonder if you would be normal. Would you think about it every time your boyfriend and you made love willingly?
If I did escape, what boy would want to have any serious relationship with me, even a year or more later? I knew they would all look at me and wonder how badly I was mentally wounded. I would surely need serious therapy. I might even have to stay in a clinic for mentally disturbed people. Of course, I wondered what Mother was like now and how I would confront Haylee. I couldn’t imagine how she had gotten herself out of being totally blamed for this. On the other hand, maybe she was clever enough not to get blamed at all. Would I make sure she was? Could I care at all about her ever again? I could easily imagine her explaining everything I did or said afterward as being a result of my abduction and torture.
“You have to excuse her for being hysterical,” she would say, and somehow, knowing my sister, I believed she would get people to feel sorrier for her. She’d put on a good act for everyone. She always did when she had to, and she always got away with it.
I was fighting for so much more than my reputation or my future relationships with boys and even my girlfriends now. It was for my very life and soul. Over and over, I told myself, You can’t let this happen. You can’t become pregnant with his child. You might as well return to suicide.
My hands were trembling as I began to work on the tooth of the door lock. Mr. Moccasin sat directly behind me, watching me work, as eager as I was, I thought, to get out. I worked and worked on it, never quite getting it to back out of the notch fully before it slipped back again and again. My wrists began aching from the effort. I had to rest and try again. The butter knife I used eventually bent. I’d have to hide it, I thought. The moment he saw it, he would know what I had done with it.
I scoured the place for something better and realized that the pair of scissors he had left in the bathroom cabinet would be stronger than the butter knife. I hurried back to the door and tried again, coming very close the first time. I wasn’t doing very much damage to the doorframe, either. If I failed this time, he might not notice, I thought. Encouraged, I worked harder until I got the tooth of the lock out far enough for me to pull the door at the same time and open it.
I stood there, my heart thumping as I gazed up the short stairway, barely lit with the illumination spilling in from the partially blocked basement windows of the apartment. Cast in such dark shadow, it looked ominous. I estimated that it was early in the afternoon. He never told me what job he was on or how far away he had to go, but I was confident that I still had hours before he would be back. This time, I made sure to dress and put on a good pair of shoes. Mr. Moccasin didn’t wait. He was out the door and sitting on the top step by the second door, waiting patiently for me to open it.
“I promise to let you out of the house, Mr. Moccasin,” I said as I joined him.
Slowly, I turned the doorknob and pushed, but the door di
d not open. It was as I had feared. He had locked this one, too. The good thing was that it was the same type of door lock. I returned to the basement apartment, got the scissors, and hurried back up. This door was harder, probably because it wasn’t used as much, and because of the dim light, I couldn’t see it. The tooth of the lock hardly moved when I jimmied the scissor blade against it, but I worked on it with my shoulder against the door.
The longer it took me, the more panicked I became. At any point, I could retreat and lock the basement apartment door behind me again without him knowing what I had done. That might give me the opportunity to try the following day. But what if he didn’t go back to work? What if his job was finished and he was with me all the time up to when he believed we could begin to make our baby?
I had to get this lock open. I had to.
I pressed and pressed, until the palm of my hand burned. My chest ached from the effort. A few times, I cried out in frustration, but finally, the stubborn tooth of the lock moved enough for me to slip the blade of the scissors between it and the notch. I pushed and turned the handle. The door swung open.
And facing me, her thin, pale, blotched face as wrinkled as a sock, was an elderly woman whose hair had thinned to the point where she was almost bald. Her scalp was peppered with black and brown round, raised moles. She was sitting in a wheelchair. Her twisted, almost colorless lips separated to reveal a mouth with missing teeth. The teeth that were there were yellowed and blackened, and her tongue looked like a sliver of raw fish. Her eyes seemed like two bubbles with gray heads about to pop.
I screamed at the sight of her and, panicking, stepped back a little too far. As I fell, I reached for the thin railing and caught myself, but the momentum twisted me around awkwardly, and my legs fell downward. Mr. Moccasin leaped out of the way as my lower back slammed against the edge of the step, knocking the breath out of me.
I heard the door above me slam shut.
For a moment, I lay there waiting to see what parts of my body would telegraph the pain. My wrist had twisted when I seized the railing. The pain in my back was sharp, but I somehow hadn’t broken a bone. For a few moments, I gasped, and then I slowly pulled myself up. The pain in my back shot down through my legs, but I was able to walk. Mr. Moccasin stood just inside the basement apartment doorway and watched me, frightened. I stumbled forward, descending, and went directly to the bed to sprawl out and catch my breath. I hadn’t closed the door. What would be the point of trying to hide what I had done? She would tell him.
The shock began slowly to wear off. Had I imagined it? Was that Anthony’s mother, still alive? She looked half-dead if she was. Why hadn’t I seen her the last time?
I struggled to sit up. My back felt like I had a bad scrape. I was sure I’d turn black and blue, but at least I hadn’t damaged my spine badly. I sat, catching my breath, and rubbing the base of my back.
The bedroom with the coffin must not have been hers, I thought. She was probably in another room, and when I was up there, she was asleep. How old was she? Surely she had known I was brought here. Who was crazier, Anthony or her? Why had he kept her being alive a secret? Now that I had seen her, would he be so enraged that he would kill me immediately? Should I go back up the stairs and try again? I could easily get past a woman in a wheelchair, especially one who looked as decrepit and old as she did.
It was getting later. I had to decide quickly. Gathering my strength and courage, I returned to the still-open basement apartment door and located the scissors where they had fallen on the steps. Mr. Moccasin, more cautious this time, did not follow me up. He stayed at the bottom and watched me go up the stairway. I was in pain, but I was determined. I began to work at the tooth of the lock again.
Perhaps because of the pain throbbing up my back and the sharp stinging in my wrist, which had twisted when I grasped the railing, it was taking me much longer. Twice I felt myself grow dizzy and had to stop to steady myself on the stairway. The effort and the tension were overwhelming me, but I had to keep going, trying.
I thought I had it when the door swung open.
But it wasn’t my doing.
Anthony stood there glaring at me. I cowered against the wall. His scream was the scream of a wounded animal. I raised my hand to stab him with the scissors, but he simply scooped me up, shoving his right arm around my waist, and then twisted me around, slamming my hand against the wall and sending the scissors bouncing down the steps. Mr. Moccasin fled into the apartment.
Anthony closed the door behind me and carried me ahead of him as he descended. I struggled, but his arm was too tight, and his grip too strong. He had me back in the basement apartment and closed that door behind us, too. Then he walked with me to the bed and threw me facedown. I was sure I was screaming, but I didn’t hear the sound.
Moments later, I felt him seize my right wrist and wrap some masking tape around it and then around the head of the bed frame. He did the same with my left wrist and stepped away. I couldn’t see him, but a second later, he was tearing off my skirt and panties. I felt him grab the sanitary napkin.
“You liar,” he said.