Pretty Girl Thirteen. Liz Coley

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      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. СКАЧАТЬ