April Henry - The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die

Finally I see the signs for Bend. I get off the highway and drive up and down until I find a crowded shopping mall. I cruise around in the full middle rows until I see a van’s reverse lights come on, then I pull in the space they’ve just left.

All the stores seem familiar—Gap, Victoria’s Secret, REI. I know which one sells bras and which one sells backpacks. So why do I know the names of stores and what’s inside them but not my own name and what’s inside me? Am I crazy? Am I really a killer if I didn’t mean to be one? In the dim light, I look down at my shaking hands. How can I know how to drive a car or how to knock a man out and have no idea how to help myself?

The questions echo inside me. My brain feels as empty and painful as my stomach. But my stomach is one thing I might be able to take care of. There’s a McDonald’s here, and I think that they have a dollar menu. I check all my pockets, but all I have are the photo and Michael Brenner’s cell phone and keys. Brenner had plenty of money in his wallet, but I don’t have even a crumpled dollar bill, just two guns on the passenger seat.

I open the glovebox. It’s as neat as the car, which doesn’t have a single stray receipt or clump of mud marring a floor mat. It holds a tiny first-aid kit, a travel packet of tissues, the manual for the SUV, registration and insurance cards (both for Michael Brenner), sunglasses, a tire pressure gauge, wet wipes, and maps for Oregon, Washington, and Portland.

But no money.

I sit back, defeated. And then I realize the bump my hand is resting on is the console, tucked between the seats. I lift the lid. The console holds a selection of CDs, two pens, and a long row of quarters in a specially shaped plastic holder. I count eleven. Then I count again, hoping for twelve. But I still get eleven. Two items off the dollar menu it is, then.

I decide to hide one gun under the seat. Brenner’s, because it’s bigger. Dillow’s gun goes in my left-hand coat pocket. I slide the first-aid kit into my right-hand coat pocket, next to the photo. After I eat—because now I feel almost nauseated with hunger—I can rebandage my fingers in the bathroom and check out how bad they are. I also take one of the pens. I need to figure out what’s happening. Maybe if I write things down, it will help.

Before I get out of the SUV, I turn on the overhead light, angle down the rearview mirror, and look at myself. My face is all shadows and angles, and my eyes look tired and old. My eyes. I realize I’m starting to own this face, the one that scared me so bad in the cabin when I thought it belonged to someone else. I flick off the light, then look around the parking lot. I see a couple about my age holding hands, an old man with a walker, a mother pulling a dawdling toddler behind her. I wonder if it’s a weekend or a weekday. The lot’s not completely full, even though it’s not quite eight p.m., according to the clock set in the dash. So a weekday, I think.

I look one more time. No cops, nobody who looks like they’re searching, no men by themselves.

I take a deep breath and get out of the car.

When I walk into McDonald’s, a handful of people are seated in the bolted-down swivel chairs. I count one older couple, a guy dressed in a suit, and two parents with a young girl and a baby in a carrier. Even though the girl looks only about nine and the baby’s younger than the toddler in the photo, I wonder if that’s what my family looks like when we go out to eat. Do we go to McDonald’s? When the mom gets up to get more napkins, the girl dangles a tiny stuffed black-and-white zebra above the baby’s face. The baby laughs and the girl giggles. Is that the kind of thing I do? Did?

When the dad looks at me with narrowed eyes, I realize I’m staring and turn away. I lean against the counter where you get ketchup and straws and try to figure out what to eat. On the dollar menu, there are a couple of burger-like things—a McDouble and a McChicken. The McDouble looks bigger, so I’ll get that. Even though a side salad would probably be healthier, I decide to get a small order of fries with my last full dollar. I wonder what the real me would have gotten. Maybe I’m a vegetarian.

The only cashier has been standing behind the register the whole time, waiting for me. He looks about my age, with short black hair and long sideburns that end near his earlobes. When I walk up, his thick brows pull together, and his brown eyes narrow like he really sees me.

His name tag says TY, and under that is a little ad for a Filet-O-Fish. I’m so hungry that even the tiny photo of a fish sandwich with processed yellow cheese and what looks like mayonnaise glopping out the sides looks good.

“Can I have a McDouble and a small order of fries?” I look down at the quarters in my hand and then back up at him. “And is it possible to get a cup of water?”

When he notices me checking my money, Ty’s lips press together. He looks over his shoulder at the cook, a big guy wearing a too-small uniform who’s busy lowering some fries in the hot oil. “I’m supposed to charge you for the cup,” he says in a low voice, “but let’s pretend I forgot, okay?”

I nod. The tears, which weren’t very far away, threaten to come back. “Thanks. I appreciate it. I’ve had a bad day.” Which is such an unbelievable understatement that I snort and start to smile.

He gives me a weird look, like What’s wrong with this crazy chick? then comes back with my burger and fries and an empty cup. At the counter, I grab napkins and pump out four little plastic cups of ketchup and put them on my tray. Then I fill my glass halfway with rattling ice and then to the top with water. It comes out of the same dispenser as the lemonade and looks faintly yellow. Picking up my tray, I find a spot where my back is against the wall and I can watch the doors.

The food smells so good that when I open my mouth for the first bite, I have to suck back drool. And it is good. Hot and crunchy and greasy and, above all, salty. And most of it is soft enough that I don’t even need to worry about avoiding my loose tooth. I know I should probably eat slowly, but after about ninety seconds, it’s all gone and I’m chewing the last hard brown runt of a fry and licking the salt from my fingers. I even circle my index finger around each of the little plastic cups and suck down the last of the ketchup. When I look up, Ty is watching me, his face expressionless.

Well, maybe a few days ago I would have watched me, too. But so many terrible things have happened today that I’m not going to worry about what I look like to some cashier at McDonald’s. I rest my chin on my hand, careful not to touch my bandaged fingers, and half turn in my seat so that I won’t notice if he keeps watching.

Taking the pen from my pocket, I pull an unused napkin toward me and spread it out. In the middle, I write, “Who am I?” and draw a circle around it. I make another circle and write in the middle, “Is my name really Katie?” and then draw a line that connects it to the first circle. I make more circles that say, “Am I crazy?” “Was the cabin real?” “Where’s my family?” “Why do people want to kill me?” and “Who pulled out my fingernails?” Some of the circles connect to others, like the ones about my fingernails and the cabin being real.

I write more and more slowly. All I can think of are questions. I don’t have a single answer, and it makes me exhausted trying to think of how I’ll ever be able to find out. It’s warm inside the McDonald’s and my stomach is full of food. Even my headache is easing.

I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until Ty touches my arm. I jerk awake so hard that the back of my head slams into the wall. The echo of a sound hangs in the air. I’m pretty sure it came from me and that it was a scream. I’ve got my hands up in front of my face like I’m trying to stop someone from hitting me. I let them fall back onto my lap.