Vanished

Vanished

A Novel

By

Callie Colors

Chapter One

Trin

              Whole people have dreams and broken ones have nightmares.

Elijah is belly laughing.  “Higher, Trin, higher,” he calls, his knuckles turning white as he holds on for dear life. 

              I give him another push and glance over at the monkey bars.  Isaac has finally made it to the top and he’s lying across the bars on his stomach, “Look at me, guys,” he calls.

              “Be careful,” I yell back, a sliver of fear courses through me as his knee slips thru a hole before he catches himself and grins over at us.

              “Higher…pleeeeaaasssee!” Elijah demands. 

              The wind picks up.  The sky which was bright blue and cloudless seconds ago is now dark and menacing.  Lightning flashes and there’s an explosion of thunder so strong it shakes the ground.

Elijah’s swing is going
way too high
, precariously high, as if at any moment it might swing around the top pole at any moment.  Simultaneously, the monkey bars shoot upward, rising to ten times they’re normal size. Isaac is hanging from the top bar, his feet kicking out but finding no purchase in the metal bars. 

              “Too high,” Elijah shrieks when he catapults back my way.

              Isaac is screaming, “Help, help, I’m going to fall.” 

              Lightning strikes again, more thunder…or is that my pounding heart?

  The air is thick, viscous, like I could grab a fistful in my hand and the smell of ozone burns my nostrils. 

I try to grab a hold of Elijah’s swing as it comes back my way again but it slips through my fingers. 

              One of Isaac’s hands slips and he hangs like that for a moment, looking right at me and in his eyes I see he’s realizing he
really is
going to fall. 

I              CANT                            MOVE

              Paralyzed I watch as his other hand slips and then he falls and falls and falls and when his little body hits the ground I hear a crunch. 

              Elijah’s swing comes loose and I hear him wailing as he’s flung through the air, away from me, and lands in a broken pile on the ground.

              Rolling thunder jars me from sleep and I sit straight up swallowing down the scream before it reaches my lips.  I’m covered in sweat, my heart is pounding, my head aches and I taste blood.

The twins! I shove my comforter off, jump out of bed and run across the hall to their bed-room. 

              The night-light provides just enough illumination for me to make out their little forms.  Isaac must have climbed into bed with Elijah at some point during the night. They’re safe and sleeping soundly. I step closer and watch them for a second. They have their backs to each-other, they’re wearing matching dinosaur pajamas and their curly brown hair falls in locks across their heads. Elijah has both of his tiny hands tucked under his cheek and Isaac is clutching his blue-dog, a faded old stuffed animal missing one eye and a nose, which never leaves his sight. 

              Taking a deep breath I tip-toe out of their room and go back to mine, glancing at the clock on my night-stand. Five thirty a.m.  No point in going back to sleep now.  It’s a school day and mom will be waking me up soon anyway. 

              I take a shower, dress in the ugly baggy slacks and button-up white shirt that comprise my school uniform, then stare at myself in the mirror.  The uniform does nothing to flatter my already boy-ish figure. I brush my long black hair into a tight bun and go through the usual ritual of counting the scars on my face and neck. 

              The smell of coffee and bacon cooking reaches my nose.  Mom is up. She’ll be checking soon to be sure I’ve said my morning prayers, so I kneel down by my bed and pretend to be praying.  Instead, I think about the dream and my helplessness.  Anxiety flutters through my belly.  I would never forgive myself if something happened to either of the twins on my watch.

              As I predicted, mom opens my door and makes an approving sound when she sees me kneeling next to the bed, my hands pressed together, and my forehead resting against them.  She doesn’t interrupt and the door shuts again. 

              I get up and start stuffing my back-pack with textbooks and homework lying on my desk.  Something falls out and hits the floor with a thud. It’s my sketchbook, lying open.  The book is open to a self-portrait.  The lines are hard and black and it’s difficult to tell that the drawing is of an actual person and not just scribbled lines.

              I stuff the sketch-book into my bag and amble out of my bedroom. When I open the door Elijah opens his at the same time and smiles up at me, “Isaac peed the bed again,” he says, wrinkling his nose and pushing his glasses up.  “It smells.”

                My parent’s door opens and my chest tightens as my step-father, Judge, saunters out.

“Daddy,” Elijah yells and runs over to him.  Judge scoops Elijah up into his large, hairy arms and gives me a suspicious look.

“Was Trin picking on you?” He asks the boy, giving him a little tickle.

I want to glare but I know what will happen if I do, so I keep my face blank and wait for Elijah’s response, my heart pounding in my chest.  It’s a scary thing when your fate lies in the hands of an imaginative five year old.  “No, but it stinks in my room.”

“He says Isaac peed the bed,” I tell Judge when he frowns down at the boy. 

Ignoring me, Judge goes into the boy’s room.  Taking a wary step back, I’m tempted to take off down the stairs and out the front door but I know I’ll pay for it, later, if I do.

Isaac is sitting up in Elijah’s bed, crying softly, squeezing his blue-dog.  When he sees me in the doorway, he calls for me but Judge puts Elijah down and picks Isaac up, carrying him out the door, past me and into the restroom.  “Are you just going to stand there like an idiot?” He turns to ask me, as he starts running bathwater for Isaac, “get the mess cleaned up.”

I drop my backpack in the hallway and strip Isaac’s bed piling the linens up in the laundry basket.  I take them downstairs to the laundry room, avoiding my mother in the kitchen, and fill a small bucket with warm soapy water.  I scrub the mattress over and over then crack the window so the room can air out.  When I’m finished I look at the clock. I’m about to miss the bus. 

Judge is shaving with the door cracked open while Isaac takes his bath.  I hear the boy laughing and playing with his toys. 

Elijah has been watching me.   “Why do you have to clean up Isaac’s pee, Trin?” He asks.

Judge can probably hear his son’s question now that the bathwater is turned off.  He’s probably listening for my response. “Because we’re a family and families help each other out.” It is the safest answer I can come up with on the spot.

I hear the bathroom door creak open and my palms begin to sweat, “Isaac wouldn’t pee the bed if
someone
didn’t tell him scary stories.”

By “someone” Judge means me. 

I want to argue that I have never told either of the twins a scary story.  I want to point out that Isaac’s bed-wetting is more likely a result of worrying he will do or say something to make daddy mad but, as usual, I force the angry words down deep inside.

  It just plain stupid to talk back in this house, I learned that a long time ago. You might spend a day locked in a dark, musty closet or scrubbing the kitchen floor with a q-tip until your fingers are raw and bleeding…or worse…much worse.  “I have to go. See ya after school, buddy” I say fluffing Elijah’s soft brown hair.

“You get back here right after school, young lady, no dawdling” Judge yells as I snatch my bag off the floor and rush down the stairs.

“Yes sir,” I yell over my shoulder, though calling him “sir” makes me want to gag. 

I find mom in the laundry room feeding Isaac’s linens into the washer, “The least you could have done was start them,” she says without looking up at me.

“Sorry.  I’m late, mom, I’ll see you later.” I turn to go.

“Stop. Right. There.” my mother says and I freeze mid-spin and twist back around to face her.

“Yes?” I ask.

“Were you telling your brothers scary stories last night?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I’m not as afraid of mom but I still have to be careful.

“I’ve never told them scary stories, mom. I swear.”

My mother has skin like mine, creamy white, but when she gets angry her face turns red.  Her deep green eyes with silver flecks, just like mine, are narrowed into slits, “Lying is a sin, Trin.”

There’s a honking sound out front, “Mom please, the bus.”

“Go,” she says, “but you will pray from the time you get home until dinner tonight for lying, young lady.”

“But…” the bus honks again and I know it will be the last warning.  “Yes ma’am,” I say and grind my teeth angrily to keep the stinging tears out of my eyes.  

“Good.” She says and waves me off dismissively.

The bus-driver, an old lady with half her teeth missing scowls at me as I climb on and take an empty seat near the front, sliding my back-pack onto my lap. 

The bus arrives uneventfully at St. Raphael Academy.  Most of the other students bull their way off before me and one boy nudges the kid behind him, points at what I’m wearing and they snicker as they pass by me.

I’m the only girl at St. Raphael’s who wears pants instead of the cute little plaited skirts we have the option to wear, but skirts would show the scars and bruises. The pants are hand-me-downs from our church and two sizes too big for me. 

My face fills with heat and I wait until everyone else is off before I climb down.  I barely make it to first hour before the bells rings.

The first half of the day goes by quickly and I find myself sitting at a lunch-table alone, moving slimy looking mashed potatoes around on my plate.  I look up and watch the other students.  I have no friends at St. Raphael’s though I’ve attended the school all my life.  No one wants to be seen associating with the weird religious freak.

I scoop some peas in my mouth and remember that isn’t entirely true.  Someone from St. Raphael’s was putting notes in my locker anonymously, someone who claimed to know about the little dark secret in my house, and said they wanted to help me.  There were eight notes in all, several pleas for me to tell an adult; a teacher, a counselor, or the police and after that more offering to tell them for me or to meet up with me somewhere and go with me to talk to someone.  It got to the point that I was approaching my locker with trepidation unsure of whether or not a note from YF was waiting for me inside. 

I guess when I never showed or told anyone YF finally gave up on me because there hadn’t been any new notes in a long time.

Glancing around, I try to guess who YF is.  How many people’s first names start with the letter y anyways?  Plus, the y could stand for anything. I don’t even know if YF is someone’s initials.  No one sticks out to me; no one is glancing my way or hovering nearby. All of the other seniors are too busy gushing about their plans for Spring Break. 

You’d think someone with my popularity rating would love a week away from school but, despite the taunting, having no friends and being totally shunned by students and teachers alike, I’d rather be here than home.

In fifth hour biology, I sit next to an empty chair waiting for my usual lab-partner, some kid who smells funny and has a stutter, when someone else takes his seat.  I glance over and my heart skips a beat.  Madison Delaney is sitting in my lab-partner’s chair and she’s looking at me, “Isn’t your name Trinity?” She asks and I feel a prickly sensation move up my spine.
Why is she talking to me? This isn’t even her class.

“It’s just Trin,” I say in a whisper, looking around and expecting to see Madison’s friends somewhere in the room watching us and snickering but it’s just my usual class-mates setting up their lab tables, talking quietly.  No one is watching us. “Why?” I ask, risking another glance her way.

Madison is perfect.  She is everything I am not.  Her hair is blond and straightened, she’s wearing make-up but it’s so skillfully done that it looks natural.  She has a woman’s curves and her breasts are definitely bigger than mine.  “Because,” she says, “I want to help you.”

Could Madison Delaney be YF? I swallow, “Help me?” I repeat, “With what?”

She raises her eyebrow and her gaze goes from my ugly hand-me-down white tennis shoes, to my baggy slacks, to the long-sleeved shirt buttoned to the collar, to my hair and finally my face, “with this,” she says gesturing, generally, at all of me.

My face fills with color. I know what she’s referring to. I’m a walking fashion disaster.
Does she think I dress like this by choice?