volume 4, issue 3
comforting. My apartment smells like it too, and my clothes. Everything about me smells like the café. As I stare at the wall the story of the escaped girl keeps crossing my mind, bringing with it unpleasant images of my parents. Thirteen, I’m crouching at the top of the stairs. The stairwell wall is lined with my school photographs and my mother’s paintings. I look through the slats in the railing. The living room is dim, the lights low. There are about ten people sitting in a ring, on the couch and chairs. Mom sits next to Dad, each on a dining room chair. Their voices are murmurs. I can’t hear them, but I know what they’re saying. They have these meetings every week; it was these memories I thought of when Mike started losing it. After the meeting is over, I am in the living room next to my mom. The chairs are empty. I am screaming at her. You shouldn’t be saying those things. It’s wrong. You’re going to get us in trouble. How can you let those people into the house? My father appears in the kitchen doorway, watching. I think he’s afraid of me. Seventeen, my dad kneels before me on the living room rug. He explains we need to move, as soon as possible. He’s trying to hand me a floppy suitcase. We have to leave for Canada, before it’s too late. My arms are crossed, and I turn away. How can you ask me that? In my lap, resting on my flowered skirt, are the graduation announcements I’ve been writing. Outside, spring rain falls through headlights. It’s hot and dark outside. June. The night I graduated. A false dawn is visible on the horizon toward the city. I turn my back 16 | page
on it, exhausted. I’m holding high heels, my feet bare on the concrete. My legs are white, skinny, young. I turn to wave at my friends. I am still sweaty from dancing at our Senior All Night party. Back then, you were allowed out past curfew for school events. My friends lean out the windows of the bus and cat call as it drives away. I trudge toward the house, tired, depressed. We leave for the Canadian border as soon as I change clothes. The burning taillights disappearing around the corner is the last sight I will ever have of my friends. I remember being angry, and so unaware of the danger. I had no idea what it meant when I asked if we could stay. The front door is ajar. It is dark inside, quiet. I push the door all the way open. Our cat, Mr. Tigger, runs between my legs, flying down the street. He yowls. I call in the dark. No response. Their suitcases sit packed and ready to go by the stairs, my purple bag is there too, my jeans and stuffed giraffe sticking out. I sat on the front porch and cried until the older couple next door came out to get me. There was no sign of a struggle, and that’s why people call it getting “disappeared.” The neighbors, of course, hadn’t heard anything except my wailing. The café clock reads two AM. I lie here with the sweet-‐spiced smell of my childhood home in my nose, feeling like the only person in the world. At nine, about three hours after I got off the couch and started making pastries, Victoria shows up. She peeks into the dining room. Our regular old couple sits in the corner. They eat here every day except Sunday. Georgia always wears a