Melissa Foster - Chasing Amanda

Tracey began to point to the sky, then quickly brought her hand back to her side. Airplanes meant people, and somehow Tracey knew that if Mummy had known there were people nearby, she would take Tracey back to that awful place. She walked around the small clearing, watching Mummy out of the corner of her eye. It was no bigger than the cave where Tracey and Mummy slept. Tracey remembered her father telling her that she was as tall as her arms were long. Mummy was sitting on the ground, fiddling with sticks and looking the other way. Tracey stretched her arms out as wide as she was able, but was not big enough to reach both sides. I bet me and Emma and Mommy all hooked together, holding hands, could reach both sides. Tracey decided to see how many of her it would take to reach each side. She spread her arms, then moved to where she thought her fingertips had been. She was sure she was mistaken in where she stood and went back to the side of the bramble and started over—stretching her fingers, then hurrying to where her extended fingers had been. She was startled when Mummy laughed. In spite of her initial habitual flinch, Tracey laughed, too. It was fun being outside. Mummy got up and stood next to Tracey.

“Reach, Tracey,” she said, kindly.

Tracey smiled and reached her arms out, the sound of the airplanes faded away in the distance, but Tracey was concentrating so hard on figuring out how many Traceys it would take to cross the bramble that she had forgotten all about the airplanes. Her fingertips neared Mummy’s. “Put your fingertips on mine, Tracey,” she said. “We’ll see if we are long enough to reach the sides.” Tracey stretched her fingers further, until they were touching Mummy’s. Mummy smiled, and Tracey did, too. “Nope, not quite!” Mummy said. “This is like a mansion for us, huh? Our place isn’t this big, is it?”

As Mummy spoke, Tracey’s heart sank. The reality of her situation came tumbling back. Her mind ran through the images of the rank mattress where she had slept for the last few nights, the horrid odor of the bad spot, and the worst realization of all—that she wasn’t going home. She’s talking about our place, Tracey thought. Her limbs began to tremble, her lower lip quivered, and she frantically scanned the enclosed area. I don’t want her place to be my place . I want to go home! Tracey dropped her arms and looked up, searching the empty sky for the planes. She listened, silently pleading that she would hear them—find some connection to the outside world. Gentle scamperings across the forest floor and her captor’s breathing were the only sounds she heard. Her shoulders slumped and her head dropped heavily forward. She stared at her sneakers which used to be white but were now soiled with mud, and grime, and red dirt, upon which she now stood. She stared at the ground as a glimmer of hope crawled through her body. Red dirt! The ground looked like the dirt that was in the backyard of her friend Cindy’s house. Cindy lived by the church in Boyds, and her mother always got mad when she and Cindy dragged that ugly red dirt into the house on their bare feet. Tracey spun around and again searched beyond the trees. Cindy’s house was nowhere to be seen. Tracey backed up until her back brushed against the prickly brambles. “Ouch,” slipped from her lips, and her captor turned to face her. Tracey closed her mouth tight and tried to keep from crying. She sank down, wrapped her arms around her knees and began to rock.

Mummy walked toward her, stopping just inches in front of Tracey’s feet. Tracey stopped rocking. She did not look up. She kept her eyes trained on the ground, feeling Mummy’s presence looming. Mummy sat down beside Tracey, and Tracey began to cry, fearfully.

“There’s no need to cry, Tracey,” Mummy said in an even, flat voice. “I have saved you.”

They sat in silence for what felt to Tracey like hours, until the sun dropped behind the middle of the trees—until her captor told her it was time to go home .

I can’t go back in that place, I just can’t! Tracey remained, huddled and silent, on the cold dirt.

“Tracey,” Mummy insisted, “we have to go. Now!”

Tracey remained still, paralyzed with fear. Her captor reached down and yanked her to her feet.

“Move it, Tracey,” she ordered. She pushed Tracey from behind toward the opening in the ground. Tracey leaned her body backward, pushing into the ground with her heels as hard as she could. She blindly grabbed behind her, taking purchase of her captor’s jeans.

“No!” Tracey shouted. “No! I can’t!” She kicked and scratched at her captor, hitting her with all of her might.

Her captor grabbed hold of Tracey’s shirt, catching it on a bramble, and tearing it apart as she dragged Tracey into the dark hole.

“Get off!” Tracey screamed. She swung at her, slamming her hand into her ribs. Her captor doubled over, keeping her tight grip on Tracey’s arm.

“You little brat!” she screamed at Tracey, her eyes as vicious as a cold-blooded animal’s.

Tracey’s fear turned to rage—the anger of being taken from her parents fueled her with renewed energy and strength. She fought with all the might of her sixty-three pounds, screaming, “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” She broke loose and tried to wriggle back up the hole toward the last of the fading light, but was pulled back down by a quick yank of her ankle. Tracey shrieked, “No! I want to go home!” She clawed at the dirt, kicking fiercely at her captor’s face, “I’m not going back in there!” Tracey felt her arm being pulled and twisted behind her back.

Her terrified screams were absorbed by the dirt walls of the tunnel.

Eleven

Molly pulled on a gray cotton sweater and her favorite blue jeans—the ones with several patches of mismatched fabric on the knees. She was excited about the upcoming evening, and as she heard Cole’s footsteps on the stairs, she was glad that he had made it home at a reasonable hour.

“Hi, honey,” she cheerily called out. “I’m getting ready for tonight.”

“Tonight?” he asked, as he entered the room. “What’s tonight? I’m so tired.” He fell backward on the bed, his arms and legs spread wide. His feet hung off the bottom of the bed, and his arms were just shy of the edges of the king-sized mattress. His rumpled scrubs top inched up and revealed an enticing swathe of his toned stomach, speckled with dark hair.

Molly walked over and sat down on the bed next to him, running her fingers over the rough pattern on his cheeks, up around his forehead, and down the soft skin next to his eyes. She smiled, thinking that his face held the innocence of a child and yet the sexiness of a man.

“Mmm,” he moaned. “That feels good. Can’t we just stay like this all night?” he asked.

“Mm-hmm,” Molly responded. She stood up, sighed, and said, “No, no, we can’t.” She turned away to glance in the mirror, fluffed her thick hair, and scrunched her face in disapproval.

“Why not?”

“We have to go. Newton Carr is speaking about the history of Boyds at the Boyds Negro School tonight. Remember?” She put her hands on her hips, “Don’t you remember? We talked about this.” Molly was used to Cole’s mind, which, though she knew was like a sponge at work, she believed suddenly turned into a sieve when he left the hospital each afternoon.

He made a face, groaned, and said, “Do we really have to?” He stood and walked toward Molly, reaching his arms around her, and looking at her with his big, dark eyes. “I’ll buy you Japanese and rub your feet if you let me stay home,” he coaxed. “Honey!” she smiled. “I want to go. We loved his other discussions, remember? Besides, you always like it once you’re there.” He made another do-I-really-have-to face. “C’mon. I’ll buy you Japanese and rub your feet if you come with me,” Molly urged. Cole smiled and relented. As he walked toward the shower, he said, “You owe me.” Molly snickered, “Yeah, yeah, I know.”