Pretty Girl Thirteen

“Oh my God.” Mom erupted from her seat, hands twisting. “Manual labor? White slavery, do you think?”

How lame, Angie thought. But Brogan seemed to take the question seriously. “No, Margie. Not likely. She’s been relatively local.”

“Local? All this time?” Dad’s voice trembled oddly. “What makes you say that?”

“Her clothes smell of pine sap and wood smoke.”

Angie sniffed her sleeve. He was right. Well, of course, that made sense. Didn’t she make s’mores around the campfire only last night? Smells don’t linger for three years.

“Of course,” she said simply. “I was camping.”

“You remember nothing else?” Brogan asked.

This was getting exasperating. “Look,” she said. “I told you. All of you. I don’t remember anything else. I was camping. Then I was here. I don’t remember being driven home or dropped off or walking. Nothing. I was just here.”

“Angela, how tall are you?” The detective held his palms to her parents to keep them from jumping in.

“Five-one,” she answered without hesitation. In her side vision, Mom’s head shook slightly.

“And how much do you weigh?”

“That’s kind of personal, isn’t it?” she asked.

Brogan gave a full-faced smile for the first time. “Sorry. Yes. And I’m terrible at guessing. A hundred and ten?”

“Wow. You are terrible.”

“Told you.” He was honest, anyway, and his grin was contagious. “Sorry. More?”

Angie laughed, for the first time. “Ninety-five, last time I checked.” Her laugh sounded creaky, hoarse, unused.

“And how old are you?”

“Thirteen,” she said.

Mom started to open her mouth. A hissed “Si—” escaped before Brogan cut her off.

Dad missed the gesture. “She’s sixteen,” he insisted. “You’re sixteen now, Angela. Don’t you understand what we’ve been telling you?”

Angie’s head buzzed. What was wrong with everybody? Dad was so stiff and angry—he only ever called her Angela when she was in trouble. She was supposed to be his little Angel. But she hadn’t done anything wrong, except maybe get lost. And that wasn’t her fault. And besides … she was home now.

Anger bubbled up from nowhere. “Will you stop this stupid game? I’m thirteen.” Her voice caught in her throat. “I’m thirteen.”

Tears blurred her view of the detective’s face, but she spoke straight to him in tight, furious words. “I’m Angela Gracie Chapman. In three weeks, I’m starting eighth grade at La Cañada High School. I’m thirteen years old. And I think I’ve been lost. But I don’t know for sure. I want to take a shower and eat and go to bed.” She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, trying to ignore the soft bumps that weren’t supposed to be there.

Mom stood. She placed an arm around Angie’s shoulder, like a magic cloak of protection. “Detective. She’s right. We all need a little adjustment time here. Can’t this be finished later?”

Angie felt such a rush of relief. Mom would get rid of everyone and tuck her into bed, and when she woke up, everything would be normal again.

“I’m sorry, Margie. I wish we could.” Brogan focused on Angie. “As far as the question of your memory, Angela, I think we’re dealing with some retrograde amnesia and post-traumatic stress here. You know what that is?”

“I can’t remember anything because I’m too freaked out,” she snapped.

“Something like that. I’d like you to meet with our best forensic psychologist as soon as possible. Mitch, Margie, I’ll set up the appointment and call you.”

“So are we done?” Angie asked, just about on her last blip of energy.

“Right after the medical exam,” Brogan said. “I’ll call ahead and expedite it.”

Dad turned his attention to something beyond the window. His expression was absolutely flat, like a stone statue. His shoulders hunched up to his ears.

“Oh, come on, Phil,” Mom protested. “Is that necessary? Now? She’s exhausted. Look at her.”

Brogan caught the desperate, pathetic look Angie threw him. His mouth turned down, and he switched back into the guy with a hole in his knee. “Yeah. I know. But we have to. I’m so, so sorry.”

Why did he keep apologizing? It didn’t change anything.

Brogan lowered his voice, even though there was no one else to overhear. He spoke to Dad’s back, not to her. “Angela has obviously been living with someone. She hasn’t been on the street. She hasn’t been starved. She’s been taken care of. There may be important DNA evidence. We don’t want to let any more time elapse before collecting it.”

“From her clothes?” Mom asked. “We can just give them to you.”

The detective gave Mom a pointed look and, finally, swiveled his attention to Angie. “Angela, without being able to rely on your memory, we need to see whether you’ve been sexually assaulted.”

Angie’s temper flared again. “Just say it, Detective. Don’t spare my feelings. Raped. You want to know if I’ve been raped. Don’t you think I’d know? Don’t you think I’d remember something like that?” Her chest heaved, as if she’d just finished a mile run.

“Do you remember, Angie?” he asked gently.

The image of narrow, dark eyes flashed through her mind and vanished in a spasm of pain. Then her mind was empty, clear—her anger evaporated as if the storm in her head had just died. She was calm. Blank. Relieved. Safe. “No. Nothing. I don’t remember anything.”

“My point exactly,” he said.

“Can I please shower after?”

“Absolutely. Margie, please bring her a change of clothes, since we’ll need to keep these.”

In the front hallway, he snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and picked up the grocery bag. “Do you know what’s in here, Angela?”

She shrugged. “Just some clothes, I think.”

“Recognize this?” He pulled out a checkered blouse.

She shook her head. A queasy feeling started up again in her stomach.

He probed lower and removed a yellow apron. Angie wrinkled her nose. “Nope.”

He reached in again and retrieved a tiny, black lace cami.

“Good God,” Dad said, turning pale. His hands combed roughly through his hair and locked behind his head.

Angie felt her own hands tremble. “Not … not my style,” she said lightly. A lump formed in her throat. Where had she gotten these things?

Brogan reached into the bag again. “Ah. No wonder it’s so heavy. Recognize this?”

She squinted at The Joy of Cooking in his hand. “Mom has that one. I don’t really cook.”

At the bottom of the bag was the strangest thing—a slim metal bar, pointed on one end, flat on the other. Brogan balanced it across his gloved palm. “Recognize it?” he asked, in a tone that was supposed to be casual but immediately put Angie on guard again.

“No. What is it?” Angie asked.

“Looks like a shiv. An improvised knife.”

“Why would that be in there?” Angie asked.

Brogan watched her with his orange-flecked panther eyes. “My guess is that you packed the things most precious to you. This might have been used for self-defense or—”

“I’ve never, ever seen that before,” Angie said quickly. The edge of the metal looked wicked sharp. Dangerous. “How much damage could you do with a little knife like that?” she asked.

“Oh, no doubt it could kill someone,” Brogan said calmly. “If you knew how to use it.” The way he lingered on “you” gave her shivers.

EXAMINATION

“ARE YOU OKAY WITH THIS, ANGIE?” MOM ASKED FOR THE third time in three minutes. Her cheeks were flushed red, like she was embarrassed by the flurry of activity their arrival had caused at the emergency room.

“I just want to get it over with,” Angie said. A dull throb sat between her ears. She was too tired to feel anything stronger. Mom was anxious enough for both of them anyway. “Not like I have any choice, do I?”

Detective Brogan turned at the sound of her voice. “Technically, you do. They’ll need your consent. But I can’t emphasize enough how important this is to the investigation.”

On soft, white-sneakered feet, a nurse approached with a clipboard. She glanced between her paperwork and Angie, a wave of pity crossing her face. “Let’s head back to an exam room and go over this.”

Dad looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he picked at his thumbnails. “I’ll just, uh, I’ll wait here with the detective.”

The room was shockingly white, except for the cloudscape painted on the pale blue ceiling. The exam table was much too short to stretch out on, and Angie wondered how she wouldn’t fall off. She listened with a numb, detached feeling while the nurse explained the rape kit procedure. This couldn’t be happening.

The nurse held out a pen. “Sweetie, here’s where you sign. Okay?”

Very slowly, in perfect handwriting, she wrote Angela Gracie Chapman, wishing she had a few more middle names to make it take even longer. The blank line next to it asked a question she couldn’t possibly answer. “Mom, what’s the date?”

“September eighteenth,” Mom answered.

Angie blinked hard and wrote it in. Then she handed the pen to Mom to sign as the “parent/guardian of minor.”

Without a word, Mom drew a single line through the year and corrected it.

Angie swallowed the acid in her throat. Three years. Gone with the slip of a ballpoint pen. How could things like that happen?

Mom’s hand still hovered over the page. “She’s never even had a pelvic.”

“Do you want to be in the room with her?” the nurse asked.

Angie met her mom’s flustered look. She shook her head. “That would be too weird,” she said. “Mom should wait out there. With Dad.”

The nurse touched Mom’s shoulder. “Mrs. Chapman, I’ll be present for the entire procedure. I’m very experienced with this sort of case. Why don’t you give me her change of clothes?”

Mom’s face was stuck between guilt and relief. She signed the form and kissed Angie on the cheek. “I’ll be right nearby, hon. Just right by. Out here.”

As the door clicked closed, Angie felt much less than sixteen, less than thirteen, even. Maybe seven. She wanted to call Mom back to hold her hand, to tell her it would be okay soon. She wanted Mom to remind her to get a sticker on the way out or to ask her where she wanted to get a double scoop when they were done. That’s how she always got through checkups, the embarrassment of taking off her clothes, the chill of the room, the dreadful anticipation of the needle.

“Okay, Angela. Hang in there.” The nurse spread a tarp on the floor. “Please stand in the middle of the pad and place all your clothes on it, not touching the floor.”

“Why?” Angie asked as she unbuttoned the flowered top. She fumbled with clumsy, quivering fingers.

“There may be evidentiary hairs or fibers on your clothes. Shoes, too.”

“Oh.” Self-consciously, she unzipped the pants she was wearing. She couldn’t call them hers—she’d never seen them before. She slid them to the ground, pushing off her shoes. Her skin glowed white in the sterile light. It shrank against her muscles as she broke out in goosebumps. Next, she peeled off her socks.

“What are these scars from, sweetie?” the nurse asked, pointing to Angie’s feet.

She followed the nurse’s finger. Her stomach flipped over. Sour liquid burned a path up into her throat. Around each ankle ran a two-inch band, a thick, lumpy welt of scar tissue. She clamped a hand over her mouth to avoid throwing up. “I don’t know,” she whispered between her fingers. Tears collected at the corners of her eyes.

Oh my God. What had happened? Her legs were gross! Disgusting! She would never, ever wear sandals again.

She crossed her arms over her bare chest, hands tucked into her armpits, and trembled in her panties. They were small and faded, but familiar in all the strangeness. They were actually hers. Pale butterflies chased across her hips. She focused on them, trying to draw comfort from the only thing that made sense.

The nurse glanced up from her clipboard. “Everything off, sweetie, and hop up on the exam table. There’s a paper gown on it.” She touched the wall-mounted intercom to call for the doctor.

Angie dropped her butterflies and dove for the table. The stiff, disposable gown scratched, but at least she was covered again. Her knees were blue and knobby as her legs hung loosely over the edge. She watched all the clothes gathered into a plastic bag and tagged.

“Quick manicure now,” the nurse said. She scraped under Angie’s nails and saved the gunk in a small vial. “Excuse me.” She peeked under Angie’s paper gown. “Not enough hair to comb,” she commented mysteriously, and dropped the paper back over Angie’s lap. Angie crossed her ankles tighter together.

“Open, please.” Mechanically, Angie opened her mouth for a huge swab. Her gag reflex kicked in, and she breathed hard through her nose so she wouldn’t vomit. Her cheeks and tongue were thoroughly scrubbed and the swab dropped into a long glass vial.

The nurse picked up her pen and clipboard. “Date of your last period?”

Angie flushed. “I haven’t started yet. I’m sort of a late bloomer.”

A sharp knock, and the doctor entered. Angie’s breath caught. The doctor was a man. Oh God. She’d never been examined by a man.

Knees pressed together, Angie shivered and watched him closely. He looked old, with white hairs mixed into his beard and a wrinkled, friendly face. At least that was less humiliating than a cute, young doctor. She loosened her laced fingers and shook the hand he offered. Hers was sweaty, his warm and dry.

“Hi, Angela. I’m Dr. Cranleigh. Is there anything you’d like to ask me before the examination?”

She thought. “Will it hurt?”

“There may be about thirty seconds of discomfort or cramping. That’s all. Okay?”

Angela nodded. No false promises. She liked that. “Even though I’m a virgin?” she asked.

“Even if you’re a virgin,” he replied. “I understand that you may be suffering from traumatic amnesia, yes?”

She nodded again.

“I’m very sorry about your ordeal.” He turned to the sink to wash his hands.

What was the correct response to that? “Um. Thanks.”

The nurse hovered in the background, now a silent observer. Angie wondered what she was thinking, how many other young girls or women she had seen through this. Maybe it was different if you actually had been raped, if you were filled with fury, if you were aching for vengeance.

But she wasn’t.

Dr. Cranleigh snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “So. A mystery. We’re looking for clues then, to explain anything about what has happened to you, where you have been. Think of us as a team. I promise to be as quick and gentle as possible. You promise to tell me if anything hurts. If we need to stop and take a break, we can do that. Also, very important, Angie, tell me if anything in the examination triggers a memory—a memory of any kind. Okay?”

Angie wasn’t so sure she wanted to trigger any memories. Something truly awful had happened to her feet. She couldn’t bear to look at them, dangling down from the edge of the examining table. And there were those dark ridges on her wrists as well. There must be a really good reason she couldn’t remember.

A bubble of resentment rose to the surface of her mind. She didn’t have to be here. She could have refused all this. Maybe she still could. Why was it so important to find everything out, anyway? Couldn’t everyone just be glad she was home and leave her alone? She was safe. She was alive. Let it go.

“Okay, now, Angela,” Dr. Cranleigh said. “I am going to check you for bruises and scars on the outside.” With impersonal and quick hands, he lifted the gown and examined every inch of her skin while Angie focused on the light above her, which flickered slightly. One fluorescent bulb was yellower than the one beside it, and she concentrated on the pattern of blinks.

Dr. Cranleigh spent a considerable time on her feet and wrists before he paused to jot a few notes and take photos. She watched the hands of the clock creep around and breathed in time with the ticks, trying to ignore the nauseating, dull, rubbery sensation when he touched her scars.

Angie forced herself to ask. “What do you think … I mean, what could have done that to me?”

The doctor met her question square on. “Healed wounds like these are typical of repeated chafing from restraints, most likely metal, not leather. The wrists suggest something more like rope or twine. The appearance is not consistent with self-injury. Any thoughts?”

“No,” she answered numbly. She’d been restrained? Shackled? She chased the word around in her mind, trying to find a wisp of memory. Her mind resisted, pressing back with dark blankness. “I just don’t know.”

“Thank you, Angela. Now lie down please, with your feet in these stirrups, knees up and apart, so we can look for any internal injuries.”

Angie’s chest suddenly squeezed too tight to breathe. Hide! a tiny voice screamed. A blinding pain shot through her skull, and she covered her eyes with her hands.

In the distance, she heard the doctor’s voice. “You may feel a slight pressure… .”

But she didn’t. The headache lifted as quickly as it had come, and her eyes fluttered open with surprise. The nurse extended a hand to help her sit. “All done, sweetie,” she said. “Thank you for being so cooperative. You can get dressed.”

All done? That was the exam? Where was the doctor? He couldn’t have snuck out in the two seconds her eyes were closed, could he?

Her heart skipped a beat. It was only two seconds, wasn’t it? She hadn’t blacked out, had she?

Angie’s eyes flicked from the nurse to the clock. Only a few minutes since she last looked, and they’d been talking for part of that. Relief eased the tightness in her chest. Guess the doctor was just quick on his feet.

Anyway, thank God it was all over. Time to go home and forget all of this. She smiled briefly at her unconscious choice of words. Could you forget about forgetting? Maybe so.

In spite of all the evidence, proof even, she didn’t feel like three years were missing. If she could just convince her parents to chill, she could get on with her life as usual—call her friends, go back to school, pick up where she left off. Why not? She pulled on the soft sweater Mom had brought and hugged her arms around herself. Trust Mom to remember her favorite oversized fuzzy blue sweater.

Angie slid her slender legs into the pair of tan cords, feeling almost normal again, until she stood straight and realized the pants were a couple of inches too short. And there it was. Proof again. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t just continue with her life as usual. Her life didn’t fit her anymore.

The nurse walked Angie down the corridor, to a room marked PRIVATE. “Doctor’s talking to your parents. Go on in, sweetie. Good luck with everything.”

Yeah. Good luck. How was she supposed to be a size-thirteen girl in a size-sixteen life?

Angie put a hand on the knob and began a slow twist. The doctor’s voice penetrated the door, and she paused to listen to what he was telling Mom and Dad. She caught, “Severe lacerations … unusual internal scarring … no doubt of repeated assault … ankles … not typical of self-mutilation … wrists … suicide … good health … not pregnant … psychiatric …”

Angie retreated to the hall bathroom, cranked the bolt, and sank against the locked door, weak at the knees. Repeated assaults. Internal scarring. The words whirled in her brain. Oh God. This wasn’t the kind of thing that happened to real people! This was TV stuff.

She’d left for camp as a normal kid, someone who belonged in a sitcom or family drama. Now she was the unwilling star of her own special crimes unit episode. Someone was rewriting the script of her life. Without her permission.

Angie didn’t realize she was crying until a tear rolled off her chin and splashed the cold tile floor. What was she doing here? What happened? According to Mom and Dad, more than a thousand days had been stolen from her. And no matter what the calendar in her head said, the flow of time and some cruel experience were written all over her. Right there. On her arms and legs and face.

Salty teardrops burned tracks down her cheeks. She smeared them off with the heels of her hands.

Angie stepped to the sink to splash cold water on her face, and there she was again. That stranger in the mirror. With the eyes that looked old and tired, full of knowledge they refused to share. Regretful, concerned.

Angie hurled a handful of water at the image. “I want my life back, you bitch,” she hissed at her reflection.

Oh, Angie, you were so angry at us. You didn’t know how we saved your life—how I worked with the girls and the gate to keep you pure and hidden and untouched, our Pretty Girl-Thirteen. That’s what we called you. We’re sorry there was nothing we could do about the scars.

“She can’t start school yet,” Dad said. “Not until we get a thorough psychological evaluation. We don’t even know which grade to put her into, after all.”

He and Mom were “discussing” her life in the front seat as if Angie weren’t there inches behind them and hadn’t just been strip-searched in the hospital. She felt sore and sticky, though she couldn’t remember any part of the short exam to account for it.

Dad hadn’t made eye contact with her the whole way through the hospital and out to the car. When Angie tried to slip her hand into his, he fake sneezed and moved his hand away to get a handkerchief. Was sixteen too old for public displays of affection? The rejection hurt, all the same.

“Eighth,” Angie said, leaning between their seats. “I’m supposed to be in eighth grade. And I’ve already missed almost three weeks of school. I have to get started.” Her double scoop of mint-chip ice cream sat melting and untasted in its cardboard cup on her lap. At least Mom had remembered.

Mom’s face ran through three tries before she found an expression she liked—polite disagreement. “It’s only three weeks. And the school will help us with tutoring to catch you up—I’ll insist on it. But hon, you need to be with your peers right now. You need their emotional support.”

“My peers are in eighth grade,” Angie insisted.

“Angie, your friends are all in eleventh grade now—Livvie, Kate, Greg.”

“Greg?”

Oh my God. She hadn’t thought of him in … well, whether it was three years ago or two days, the recollection of Greg was a ray of light that pierced this strange, dark day.

A whole bunch of them had gone to Soak City Water Park together at the end of July for the last great adventure of summer. It didn’t start out as a date for Angie and Greg, but then everyone else in the group ditched them at the lazy river. The joke was, they didn’t even notice.

They floated along on their stomachs like seals, sharing one raft. Their feet trailed out behind them in the swift, warm water, the sun blazing down on their backs. And pretty soon, their legs were sliding against each other, and Angie was really glad she’d just shaved. Around the river again, and their feet were twined together and when Greg put his hot, tanned arm across her back, it was the most natural thing in the world to turn her head and look into his shining eyes and meet his kiss halfway. Chlorine and cola flavored.

They crashed into a wall, bumped teeth, cracked themselves up, and kissed some more until the teenage lifeguard blew a whistle and screamed, “Watch where you’re going or I’ll kick you out!”

“Ooh, attitude,” Greg said. “Give them a whistle and they’re boss of the world.”

Angie giggled. “So do what he says and keep your eyes open this time!”

They floated around one more lap, lips and eyes locked on each other but blind to everyone else in the water, in a personal bubble the size of one raft and two people. By the end of the day, they were officially going out. But then they hadn’t actually gone out again before the campout.