Punch Like a Girl (19 page)

Casey slides in front of her paper, her leg touching mine. She begins to draw her usual abstract lines with the purple crayon and the ruler.

At first I think she's just drawing lines at odd angles, like I've seen her do so many times. It looks like shattered glass. Then an image begins to emerge. There's a thick tubular shape in the center of the page and wings like stained glass on either side.

“Is that a purple Monty?” I ask. Her picture takes up the whole page.

“Yes,” Casey says solemnly.

“Nice,” I say. Then I notice Nancy pointing toward herself, like she wants in on the conversation. “Listen, Casey,” I add. “There's a police officer here who wants to ask you some questions. Do you think you can talk to her?”

Casey's crayon halts in midair. “Can you stay with me?”

I take my cue from Nancy, who nods. “I can stay,” I say. If Casey is so desperate to keep me here, I guess she's not blaming me.

“Okay.” Casey continues drawing.

Nancy gives me a subtle thumbs-up. She moves to a chair across from Casey and leans her elbows on her knees. “Casey, I'd like to talk about what happened with your father,” she begins. “I know it may be hard, but I need to know what he did when he was alone with you. Can you help me?”

Casey nods. We both keep drawing. I'm adding detail to Monty's wings, inwardly horrified at the thought of what Casey may say.

Nancy begins asking questions. Slowly, Casey explains how her father escaped through the forest with her to a shed in someone's backyard.

“He was mad that he couldn't get to his car,” Casey says.

“Why couldn't he get to his car?” Nancy asks.

“There were people in the way.”

“Did anyone see you? Maybe someone from the house?”

“No. The shed was far from the house, behind a big bush with purple flowers.”

“What did he do in the shed?”

Casey doesn't answer for a few moments. I keep my crayon moving across the page, but I'm hardly seeing what I'm drawing. Casey looks at her mother, and her eyes fill with tears. “He still wanted to get to his car, but he didn't know how. Then it got dark and I got hungry. He made me eat stale crackers and other bad stuff from the recycle bin in the shed. I didn't want to, but he pushed it all in my mouth until I threw up.” Her voice breaks.

My stomach clenches.

“Oh, baby.” Rita slides closer to Casey and strokes her arm. Then she says to Nancy, “It's something Stewart used to do—force us to eat, especially when we weren't hungry. It was one of his ways of controlling us, and it usually happened before he”—she sucks in her cheeks—“before he hit me.”

The orange crayon trembles in my hand. Stewart Foster is one messed-up man.

Nancy nods sympathetically. “Then what happened, Casey?”

Casey adds another line to her picture of Monty. “He said I had to eat bad food because I was a bad girl.” Her crayon snaps in two.

“Listen, Casey,” Andi interrupts. “You're a very good girl. Smart and brave too. Do you hear me?”

“Yes.” Casey's voice cracks. Her eyes are wet.

“I know this is hard, but you're doing an excellent job, Casey.” Nancy's voice is gentle. “Can you tell me what happened next?”

Casey picks up one piece of the purple crayon. “He said that soon we were going to a place where it never snows and the sun shines all the time. I asked if Mommy was coming. He said Mommy didn't want to. I started to cry. He got mad.” Casey pauses.

“What did he do next?”

Casey presses harder with the crayon. “He yelled and held my throat too tight.”

I gag, remembering Matt's arm pushed into my windpipe, silencing my screams. My back pressed against the cold washroom tiles.

“Then he pushed me in a corner and told me to go to sleep. He said he had to find a way to get to the sunny place called Cuba.”

“What did you do?” Nancy keeps her voice calm.

“I wanted to stay with Mommy. So I tried to be brave like Tori.” Her little hand finds mine, and I hold on tight. “When he got sleepy, I sneaked to the door so that he didn't notice.” Casey's voice gets louder. “Then I opened it, but he tried to pull me back inside. I screamed and screamed. He put a hand over my mouth, so I hit him on the nose with my hammerfist, just like Tori showed me. Then I ran until I found some people who called the police.”

Casey's body is shaking. Rita wraps her arms around Casey, who still clings to my hand, and they rock slowly.

“That was a very brave thing to do,” Nancy says.

Casey clutches her crayon. I nod, grateful that she learned the hammerfist so well, grateful that I taught it to her in the first place.

Nancy asks her a few more questions about when the police arrived. Then she says, “Thank you, Casey. You did a wonderful job of telling us what happened. Would you like to go home with your mother now?”

“Yes.” Casey untangles from me. She drops her crayon and picks up her picture of Monty, which is dark with heavy lines. “Are you coming to the shelter soon?” she asks me.

I nod. “I'll be there Monday. I promise.”

“Okay.” She takes her mother's hand.

“I'll walk you out,” Andi says, “and arrange a ride for you, if you want.”

Then Casey and her mother are gone.

“You certainly have a way with children.” Nancy shakes my hand. “Thank you. I know that wasn't easy.”

“Sure.” I look down at the picture I drew. At the top, Monty is flying with his torn wing. Casey and I are below him—me with my bald head and injured hand. Casey's mouth is open as if she's singing.

QUAKE
to tremble uncontrollably

Nancy walks me back to the lobby. She explains how I may be called as a witness in Stewart Foster's trial.

“I'll do what I can to help.” I concentrate on placing one shoe in front of the other on the polished industrial floor. Casey may think I'm brave, but inside I'm a quivering mess. How can men like Casey's father and Matt exist? Will I ever be rid of them?

In the lobby, my parents are chatting with Rita while Casey hides behind her mother's leg. I'm surprised to see Mom gripping Rita's hand sympathetically.

“I admire your strength,” my mother says as I approach. “Your daughter is lucky to have you.”

How would Mom know anything about Rita or what she's been through?

Then Mom and Dad notice me, and I'm swarmed.

“Are you okay?” Mom's lips brush my cheek.

“We hear you were a big help.” Dad wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me in tight.

“I tried.” I smile at Casey, who's small next to my father. My legs shake, my arm itches inside my cast, and I feel drained.

“Your daughter is incredible,” Rita says. “So generous and determined.”

“Yes, she is.” Mom gives me a worried look.

I wish this conversation would end.

Rita gestures at the scrum of reporters still waiting outside the main entrance. “Shall we do this?” she asks Andi.

“Sure.” Andi nods. “I'll escort you to the car.”

“Thanks, although there's something I'd like to say to them.” Rita lifts Casey, who buries her face in her mother's neck.

I know how she feels. I don't want to face the reporters either.

The three of them head out.

“Are you ready to go too?” Mom asks.

I nod, watching the reporters advance toward Rita and Casey like a pack of wolves. “Let's get out of here.”

Outside, the air is heavy and humid. The reporters have already surrounded Rita, howling their questions. “How is Casey-Lynn?” “Why did your ex-husband abduct her?” “Will charges be laid against him?” When they see us, the frenzy intensifies, and we can hardly move.

Casey is still hiding her face. Rita steps forward boldly, holding up a hand for silence. I'm amazed when the reporters obey.

“I'd like to publicly thank everyone who searched for my daughter,” Rita says. “Police officers, neighbors, friends and complete strangers—you all helped to bring Casey-Lynn home safe. In particular, I'd like to thank Tori Wyatt, whose quick thinking alerted the police to the situation immediately and who has continued to be a great support to Casey and me.” Rita clasps my good hand and pulls me into the uncomfortable scrum. “Thank you.” She smiles.

I blink into the camera lenses aimed at me, wishing I could disappear.

The reporters bombard me with questions. Do I consider myself a hero? What prompted me to stand up for Casey? Can I describe the events at Mill Pond Park?

I'm speechless. If I'm such a hero, why do I feel so scared inside?

“People are calling you a witness with a conscience.” Janice Reese's voice rises above them all. “Would you agree with that assessment?”

I push through the reporters, followed by my parents, and flee to Mom's
SUV
.

By the time we get home, the lack of sleep is catching up with me. I stagger to bed and stay there for the rest of the day, tossing between the sheets and drifting in and out of consciousness. When I finally emerge, Mom tries to force me to talk about my feelings, Dad repeatedly offers to make me an omelette, and Joel cracks stupid jokes to try and make me laugh. I retreat to my room as soon as I can.

Monday comes, and I have to face my unfinished homework and the last week of classes before exams. There are also messages waiting on my phone, which seems to have dried out, probably because my mother set it in a bowl of rice to draw out the moisture.

Alena sent a text on Friday night during the search: Why r u always taking off on me? Where r u?

I also have a missed call from Jamarlo, which could be good or bad, depending on his mood. And a few happy texts from people who heard that Casey was found or who saw me on
TV
with Rita.

Who says tv makes people look fat? Alena wrote. U looked great! Call me back already.

It's good to hear from Alena, but mostly I'm glad there's no message from Matt. I exhale slowly, hoping he'll leave me alone.

Then I see a new text from Melody. Skank. He never liked u. No one likes a whore.

Is she a fool? Doesn't she see what a creep he is?

I drop my phone on the floor and stomp on it until the screen cracks. Who needs a phone anyway? I have enough to handle without Melody reminding me of Matt.

I walk to school by myself. At my locker, I notice people watching me and whispering.

“That's her,” a girl in grade twelve says. “The one who saved that kid.”

“Cool.” Her friend examines me as if she's wondering how a puny thing like me could save anyone.

I wish they'd just leave me alone.

I'm jittery as I dump my bag in my locker. I'm missing Jamarlo and Alena—the way we always used to meet up before first class—when they both arrive from opposite directions.

I can't help smiling.

“There's the hero.” Jamarlo struts toward me, his brimmed hat low over his eyes and a half grin on his face. “Listen, the Avengers called. They want you to join their team.”