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“So, your name is Lydia Farrowman. This is a photo of you they used for your missing posters.” Maddy waits until Screwy hands me a towel, and I’ve joined them at the table before she explains. She hands me the sheet of paper in her hand, and I shake as I take it from her.
The girl in the picture is familiar, with brown hair sitting neatly on her shoulders and her blue eyes focused on the camera. She has a formal smile on her face, and I run my fingers over the image, hoping that it might bring me more memories.
“Do I have a family?” I ask, my feet feeling like they might give out. Alex must sense it because she pulls out a chair for me.
“Sit, this is a lot for you to take in.”
I do as she says and look across the room to where Screwy rests against the kitchen counter, with his arms crossed. He’s staring at his brother coldly, and his finger traces over his lips when he turns that stare onto me. He’s not happy because he thinks this will change us. But that could never happen.
“I have an address that’s registered in your father’s name,” Maddy explains. She’s picked up on Screwy’s mood now, too, and isn’t smiling anymore. “You were eighteen when you were taken.”
“We thought maybe it was because you looked so much younger. According to the police report, you were snatched while walking home from school,” Alex adds.
I squint my eyes shut, trying to recall something. Surely an event that traumatic would be embedded into your memory.
“I don’t remember,” I admit, my voice sounding so tiny and distant.
“It’s fine. When you're ready, you can talk to Grace. At least now we have something to work with. She can do so much more to help you,” Maddy says, taking my hand and comforting me.
“Where am I from? Where do my family live?” I note how Alex and Maddy exchange a glance before Maddy answers.
“Vail. It’s a three-hour drive from here.” She smiles, and it gives me a little hope. Hope that I won’t have to choose.
Not there would ever be a choice. How could I choose people who I can’t remember over a man I’m in love with? Screwy’s my life now, and the only one I want.
These people, this club, they're my family. I belong here with them.
“There’s the address and a contact number.” Maddy places a post-it on the table with the address written neatly. “I can do a background search to get a clearer picture before you make contact. The more you know, the more you might remember,” she suggests.
“I’d appreciate that.” I pick up the paper and stare at the address. How do not recognize it? It was my home.
“They’ve moved since you lived with them, so I doubt you’d recall the address. Maybe I should have done the research before… but we just got so excited.” Maddy suddenly seems awkward.
“You did the right thing, this is great.” I pull on a smile for her. “I’d like to know more if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, I don’t mind. You're one of us now, and we help each other.” Maddy smiles warmly.
“We should get back to the office,” Alex prompts Maddy by placing a hand on her shoulder.
“Thanks for everything.” I manage to sound grateful as they all leave.
Squealer throws an apologetic look at his brother when he’s the last out the door. It closing behind them brings a heavy silence. Screwy says nothing, and when he pushes himself off the counter he’s resting on, I pray that it’s to come to me. I need him. I need his assurance that this isn’t going to change anything. But instead of taking me in his arms, he paces.
He paces the same strip of the kitchen over and over until the sound of his wet jeans sloshing and his bare feet patting the wood makes me want to scream.
“Say something,” I speak first, my eyes staring at the picture and address that now lay on the table. Screwy says nothing, just continues to sweep the floor.
“Screwy, say something,” I yell at him desperately.
“What do you want me to say, Lydia?” he snaps, his feet grinding to a stop. “Do you want me to tell you that I’m happy for you, or do you want me to tell you the truth?”
“The truth, always the truth,” I tell him like I can handle it when in reality, I don’t think I can.
“I never wanted them to find out who you were before…” he pauses himself mid-sentence.
“Before what? Before I was kidnapped, before I was abused, and fucking beaten. Just fucking say it, Screwy. Shit happened to me, and shit happened to you, too. It’s a fact we have to face up to sometimes.” Screwy’s eyes grow in size like he doesn’t recognize me. In all honesty, I barely recognize myself. His shock descends into sadness as he closes the space between us.
“I meant, before me,” he corrects me in a soft whisper that makes my heart splinter.
