Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
There are half a dozen more boxes under the bed—there wasn’t money for storage containers—and I slowly sift through the history of all the shoes I wore in my childhood, each box filled with more mementos. I throw away papers I was proud of, art I did in grade school. I can’t bring myself to throw away my favorite books, though, so I pile those up to go to Goodwill. Maybe some other little girl will find comfort in them. After the last of the bags is tied up and at the curb, I drag my twin mattress out. The only thing left is mom’s set, which I left, knowing it would be heavy and awkward to carry.
Her room is dark now, since the lamps were tossed days ago. I open curtains that have probably been closed for a decade and let a little sunshine in. The bed still has bedding on it. It’s old and ratty, so it’s all going to the curb with the last bag of trash. I strip the comforter and top sheet, then walk around to tug the fitted sheet from the corners. When I pull at the third corner, something pops partially out from between the mattress and box spring.
Something yellow, something familiar . . .
I crouch down for a better look, gripping its spiraled side to pull it out.
The butterfly on the front. My journal from back then.
But it can’t be. It’s probably just another yellow spiral-bound notebook with a butterfly on the front. One my mother wrote in—though I can’t really see her doing that. I flip it open, then go still, my whole body trembling in shock.
It is my notebook. The one I wrote every last secret in. Me, not my friend Jocelyn.
And my mother had it all this time, hidden between the layers of her bed.
I sit down, heart pounding at what I hold in my hand. I flip it open and skim the entries. It starts with simple things—I have a crush on Lucas. He’s so cute—and details about Ivy and me. I’ve even pasted in a photo of us, wearing what we thought were fancy gowns, going to some dance at the school. We couldn’t have been older than fifteen, before everything happened.
But I know what else is in this notebook.
I turn page after page, searching for what comes later.
It doesn’t take long to find. My writing changes, turns to scribbles as I hurry to get the details down. There are entries about Mr. Sawyer. Entries about kneeling. Entries about having sex for the first time. Entries about the beatings. Then . . . an entry about my pregnancy. I made the words bold, going over them repeatedly with my blue, ballpoint pen. I. AM. PREGNANT. I hadn’t known how to feel about it. Shocked. Frightened. As crazy as it sounds, happy. I detail how I plan to tell Mr. Sawyer. How I hope he’s not mad. How I hope it doesn’t mean I’ll be stuck in Minton Parish for the rest of my life like other girls who got pregnant too early. I speculate what might happen—will he leave his wife? Will we go away together? Am I special enough that he would do that for me? Tears form in my eyes, reading all the hope I had. I wanted him to save me from this place more than anything.
The next entry is about the miscarriage. About how he pushed me. The clinic. How I went back to the motel after I was strong enough, and we had a fight. The first and last time I ever fought back. Because I thought I’d killed him.
I don’t move for a long time, staring down at the scribbles, the one place I told the truth back then.
Then it hits me.
My mother knew all the details that are in the chapters . . .
I’d pretty much ruled her out after that pregnancy chapter came in. Because while I might’ve told her I’d been involved with Mr. Sawyer the night everything happened, might have told her the things he made me do, I never told her about the pregnancy. I’d never told anyone.
But she knew.
She had my journal.
I drop the notebook, get to my feet, race to the garage. The letter! The letter! It can’t have been in one of the bags I took out. Please, God, no. There were so many damn bags of trash, and only three of them made it to the curb before I was interrupted by Noah showing up on trash day—a dozen more still have to be put out. I yank the first one open, turn it upside down, and dump the contents before shuffling through. Nothing. I rip the next one wide and sift through garbage I cleaned out of her kitchen, her dining room. Nothing. My heart pounds. I’m afraid it’s too late. Afraid it was one of the three I dragged to the curb that day.