Stolen (15 page)

“Okay, honey,” she says softly. “Okay.

“Well, you look stunning and I’m happy I was able to
help you. I’m glad we started when we did; it’s almost 9:30. You better get
downstairs.”

I know she’s right, but now that it’s so close, I’m a
ball of nerves. I feel like I’m going to throw up. “Mom, can you just give me a
minute? I’ll be right down,” I say, forcing a smile, hoping to hide the fear I
feel swelling up in my throat.

Her eyes look cautious and worried, but she relents,
closing the door behind her as she tells me to relax and not to overthink
tonight.

Once she’s gone, I step closer to the mirror, placing
a hand on either side of the frame. I’m looking at myself, my eyes more
precisely, trying to find the old me in there; I must be in there somewhere.

Please! Please, just be normal tonight! Please don’t
panic, pass out, or have any other of my now “normal” things happen tonight. I
just want to be like I was three years ago, fun, happy, someone people liked
being around. I want to be able to talk to people, to have people want to talk
to me, and even though I know I deserve it, I don’t want Rachel to punch me in
the face. If we could just postpone that, that would be great.

A voice, a faint whisper really, from somewhere in my
brain I think, reassures me that I’m fine and that I’ll be fine tonight. My
subconscious? The beginning of some mental disease that involves multiple
personalities? Am I finally losing it?

“Stop overthinking. Just be you.”

“Rogan?” Tears threaten to spill as I speak his name
aloud, as if he’s here in this room with me, but he can’t be. He can’t be!
“You’re dead! You’re dead! I miss you so much! Why are you doing this to me?
Are you really here? I miss you! Are you really here?

“You’re dead!” I just keep shouting. I don’t know if
it’s to remind me that I
am
losing it, that I’m making it up in my head
that he’s really here, or if it’s just a mantra I’m using to keep me
from
losing it, but I hear him. I know I hear him!

“Jess, you have to let go. You have to. This isn’t how
it’s supposed to be, you know that.”

“I don’t know that!” I scream to an empty room. “I
know that we were supposed to always be together. We were supposed to die
together. I don’t want to, no, I can’t do this anymore without you. Please! Are
you here? Can you come back to me? It’s been so long since I’ve heard your
voice, I can’t hear it anymore, even when I sleep. It’s just silence. I need
you! Oh, please, I need you!”

The room looks like a watercolor painting, blurring
before my eyes, as tears pour down my face. Slinking down the face of the
mirror and onto the floor, I scream, I cry, I beg, for Rogan to take me, to
come back for me. “Please, baby, please! I love you. Don’t you know that? I
love you and I miss you. I don’t want to be without you anymore.

“Please,” I whisper one last time as I lose myself in
the silence that surrounds me now. He’s gone. Don’t believe me. I wouldn’t
expect you to, but Rogan was here, he was. He was. I know he was!

Present
day . . .

What is that incessant sound?

I know I didn’t say those words aloud, but the
pounding in my head would make me think otherwise. It sounds like a quartet is
playing a full piece and using my brain as the audience, and that beeping? Will
someone please shut off that beeping?

My eyes feel painfully heavy when I try to open them
to find the source of that noise to shut it off or break it—whatever I have to
do to silence it. I start flailing my arms around hoping to hit my target;
instead, I hit something hard and warm.

I push through the pain in my head and eyes, feeling
defensive, suddenly aware that I don’t know what’s happening, what I just
touched, what that sound is, where I even am. Hurling myself into an upright
position I fight the sensation of wanting to vomit, my equilibrium spinning me
around like one of those rides from a carnival, my eyes squeeze shut even
tighter as I fall back, falling onto something soft and warm.

“Jess, Jess, just calm down, okay?” a voice softly
coos.

“Wher—” I try to speak, to find out where I am, but a
burning in my throat stops me mid word. 

“Shh . . . Let me get you some water.” That same voice
speaks.

I feel a straw come in contact with my lips, and when
I do, I suck greedily, relishing the relief the cool water is providing. After
the last slurp, the cup is taken away. I try once more to open my eyes—I don’t
attempt to sit up again—finally succeeding, only to wish I hadn’t.

The room is bare, but for a small window; a chair,
vacated at the moment, but by the indentation in the seat, only recently, a
hideous painting of a girl next to a horse, the gold paint chipping off the
frame, and the source of the irritating beeping—a heart rate monitor.

 I’m in a hospital.

Panic floods every part of me. Why am I here? What’s
happening? I try to sit up, only to be held down by strong hands. “Let me go,”
I scream, thrashing about.

“Jess, please, it’s me, it’s Bruce. Just calm down,
let me explain what’s happened, okay? Can you calm down for me?”

It’s Bruce? For him I’ll try. He’ll tell me the truth
about why I’m here. I don’t acknowledge his question except to lie down and
shut up.

“You’re in a hospital. I think you’ve figured that out
already, yes?”

I nod.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

I stare blankly at him.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t. It would seem you had a
bit of a breakdown,” he says sympathetically.

I feel the pain when my brows furrow, rippling behind
my eyes and into my throbbing head. A breakdown? I don’t speak. I have nothing
to say. He must be messing with me, a sick joke to get back at him for making
him worry about me when I didn’t come home. Yeah, that’s what this is, a sick
joke. Just then, the door opens and mom walks in, worry, exhaustion, and grief
a heavy mask on her face. Where’s my real mom? Whose mom is this? This mom’s
face looks like my mom, but her expression looks so hopeless I don’t want her
to be my mom. Why is she so sad looking? What’s happened?

“Jess? Jess, look at me,” Bruce’s voice coaxes me
back, away from the woman I think is my mom.

She says nothing.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” he questions.

I think, but I can’t remember anything. Why can’t I
remember? What’s happening? Fear replaces any coherent thoughts I may have had.
I know who I am, I know Bruce, I know my mom, and I know Cass. Where is Cass?

Think. Think. Think. There must be something else I
can remember.  

“Where’s Cass?” I ask, purposefully ignoring his
question since my lack of an answer is too terrifying to confront.

“She’s at home right now,” says the familiar sound of
my mom’s voice, so it is my mom, I’m not sure I’m happy about that. She doesn’t
say anything more.

“So, I’m guessing you don’t remember much, so I’ll
just tell you everything we know. There was a party you were going to be going
to. You were finished getting ready, but asked to be alone for a minute before
you left.” He takes a breath, obviously giving me a moment to process this
information—I wish I could say I was—before continuing. “Kyle? Your date?” he
says slowly, again giving me time to catch up to reality. I do remember Kyle. I
do remember the party. Oh my God, the party!

“Good, you remember Kyle and the party,” Bruce
confirms, based solely on the nonverbal confirmation that must have washed
across my face. “Well, when Kyle arrived, your mom called for you, but you
didn’t answer. She was going to call for you again, until she heard you crying
out, screaming really. She ran into your room, found you passed out in front of
your mirror. She tried to wake you, and thought she had, but you wouldn’t
respond to her or anything she said. You just kept saying . . . Well, you were
saying . . . Saying,” he keeps stumbling on his words, making the tension
overwhelming.

“Bruce,” I whisper, begging him to spit it out
already. What could I have said that was so bad it’s making
Bruce
stutter over words?

“Rogan!” he shouts. “You kept calling for Rogan,” he
repeats in a softer tone.

I close my eyes, tears wetting my cheeks as they fall,
soaking the pillow I lay on. Rogan. I remember now. Oh, I remember. My heart is
aching. I feel like I’m dying. I wish I were. Oh, Rogan.

“You remember now, don’t you?” Bruce asks.

I nod, eyes still shut, tears still flowing with no
intentions of stopping. I roll on my side, my back to Bruce and mom, curling my
legs into my chest with my chin resting on my knees, and weep.

My heart is being torn in two. No, that’s too neat;
it’s being shredded like paper through a paper shredder. I’ll never survive. I
don’t want to survive. This is worse than when Rogan died. This is so much
worse because no one is going to believe that he was really there. I know he
was there, I heard him, felt him. Everyone thinks I’m crazy, though. I guess I
must be. He can’t be alive.

I’m so confused. 

I feel a breath of air blow across my back, followed
by some shuffling of feet and a door softly closing. Everyone must have left;
left me alone, too afraid to be near me. It’s no surprise. This had to happen
eventually. I mean, really, how long did I expect to go about living life
mostly unscathed? I’ve been living on borrowed time and have been too dense to
realize it.

I thought I was protecting myself by isolating myself,
not letting anyone in or any part of me out. That was the only way I knew how
to deal with things, but all I did was deprive myself of three years of living,
because life as I know it is gone. A new nightmare awaits me.

Three
years ago . . .

“Rogan, please, just listen to me,” I beg.

“No! You haven’t been answering my texts, my calls,
you run from me in the halls, you avoid me at all costs, and I want to know
why! And no lies this time. I know you better than anyone ever will, and I know
when something is wrong, and I know when you’re lying, so no more bullshit,
just tell me!”

His eyes are clouded in darkness, his face red and
splotchy, like he’s been crying. His clothes are hanging on him; they look two
sizes too big. He’s lost so much weight and he didn’t have much to lose. He
looks so sad and so hopeless, and all I want to do is take his pain away, to
hold him and never let go, but I can’t lose my resolve. I’m doing this to
protect him, and because Bruce told me I had to. He’s not safe around me right
now, but soon this will all be over and we’ll be able to put this behind us and
move on—if he hasn’t already moved on by then. No, this won’t last forever. I
just have to stay away a little longer; just a little longer. I continue to
repeat the words I’ve been silently speaking for two months now.

“Rogan,” my voice comes out like a choke. Clearing my
throat, I try again. “Rogan, this just isn’t working for me right now. I’ve
tried telling you this already. I just need some time. I’m sorry.” I turn to
walk away, not making it two steps before I’m spun around, familiar arms
wrapping tight around me, holding me in place with nowhere to go, not that
there’s anywhere I would rather be.

 I breathe in the scent that is my Rogan. He’s
not wearing the cologne he normally wears, but beyond that, he’s just as I
remember him. I can’t stop the tears as they begin to soak through his white
t-shirt; this is where I’ve wanted to be, this is who I’ve wanted to be with.
All the restless nights, tossing and turning, wondering if I’m being watched,
if someone will kill me in my sleep, or mom or Cass, my thoughts always come
back to Rogan.

“I know you miss me. I know you do, otherwise you
wouldn’t be here, like this, with me. Just tell me the truth. I love you so
much. This is killing me. Is this because of our anniversary? I mean, what we
did that night? Did you not want to go that far? If that’s it, I’m so sorry. I
never meant to hurt you. We didn’t have to go that far; I just thought you
wanted to,” he says as his voice trails off, dripping with sincerity and
unmistakable pain. I could let him think that, this could be a way out for both
of us, but that would kill him. I just can’t do that to him.

“Absolutely not, bab—Rogan.” I catch myself before
calling him baby like I always did. I hear the catch in his throat as he
processes what I just did, that I just avoided calling him baby, instead saying
his name. I never called him by his name.

I force myself to keep going. I have to get this out
and get away from him. It’s just too hard being this close. “This has nothing
to do with that night. That night was beyond perfect, you were beyond perfect,
and I wouldn’t change a thing about it. There’s just some stuff going on at
home and I need to focus on that for a while. This is better for both of us,
trust me.”

Neither of us moves. Neither says anything. What is
there to say? I don’t know if he’ll let me go; I just know he has to. I also
know it’s going to kill me when he does. I know I’m a terrible person, but the
fact that our separation has been so hard on him has made it a little easier on
me. I know. I know. It’s a terrible thing to say; it’s just nice to know that
he cares for me as much as I care for him. It was more than words he spoke. He
had given me all of him, and I’m throwing it all back into his face, at least
that’s how he’s going to see it.

I wish I could tell you! I so wish I could!
I silently shout, in the protective hold of his arms.
But I can’t! I can’t!
I am so sorry! I love you so much. I’m doing this because I love you. Because I
love you more than anything in this world and whatever is beyond that. Please
wait for me! Say you’ll wait for me! I can’t do this knowing you won’t be there
in the end.
I don’t say any of this, of course, but I do hope that some
part of him heard it, that maybe the Cosmos will help him hear all I can’t say,
but I won’t hold my breath where the Cosmos are concerned.

With both hands pressed flat to his chest, I push
away, feeling defeated, deflated, and damned to a miserable existence. “I love
you, Rogan, and I always will,” I tell him as I turn and run. I don’t look
back. I don’t need to look back. Neither of our hearts will ever be the same,
and all because of some nameless asshole! Whoever is doing this better hope
they don’t get left alone with me!

Days are all a blur now. It’s been six months since I
first found out about the stalker, six months since I was technically still
with Rogan, and six months since my life was normal. It’s been six months since
this stalker stole everything from me that meant anything to me.

I quit volleyball. It was too hard to pretend to be
fine around so many people, and it was especially difficult avoiding the
questions over why Rogan and I broke up. There were plenty of rumors, though;
from me having cheated on him, to him having cheated on me. I was pregnant with
Rogan’s baby. I was pregnant with someone else’s baby . . . Needless to say, my
life has been one long Jerry Springer show.

I don’t talk much to my friends anymore. Since they
were mostly all from the team, they aren’t home much, between practices, home
games, away games, socials. You get the idea. I’m okay with that anyway.
There’s only one person I want to be near and I can’t. I think it’s better for
everyone if I stay to myself; my life is too complicated to burden someone with
anyway.

I talk a lot to Bruce. He actually does text, and he
is up late, which has saved me from my rampant thoughts in the middle of the
night more times than I can count.

Mom and Cass have been . . . okay. I know they mean
well, but they want to act as if everything is fine, to ignore it all, but my
mind won’t let me. I can’t stop thinking about it, and if it weren’t for Bruce,
I would have no one to talk to. No one knows; not my friends, the school,
Rogan—no one!

I missed my prom. That was a hard pill to swallow.
Keeping tabs on Rogan was my self-inflicted torture during those weeks leading
up to it. I wanted him to go. He didn’t deserve to miss his own prom, but I was
also preparing for the pain I would feel when I found out who he asked and all
the questions that would go along with that, like “Are they dating?” “Does he
like her?” “Does she like him?” “What will happen after prom?” That was the
question I couldn’t stop asking and the question I never wanted answered.

He didn’t go. He never asked anyone, although I do
know of at least three girls who asked him. I had mixed emotions over it. On
one hand—make that one and a half hands; I’m not trying to be a bitch here—I
wanted him to go. I wanted him to have a good time, but then on that other half
a hand, I was relieved to know he was sitting home while I was sitting home,
and maybe, just maybe, he was thinking of me like I was thinking of him. It was
almost like we
were
on a date, a sick, pathetic, twisted date, but a
date nonetheless.

I made popcorn and watched one of his favorite
movies—a movie I absolutely hated, but always watched because he loved it so
much—and pretended we were doing it together. I snuggled up with my body pillow
so I could pretend I was lying on him. I didn’t eat much of the popcorn; he
would normally eat most of it before I even got a couple small handfuls. I
drank regular soda, even though I only ever drink diet. I ordered a pizza with
meat, and I hate meat. I didn’t eat any of it, but it reminded me of him so I
dealt with the horrible smell of pepperoni and sausage all night.

I was doing okay until two or so in the morning. I had
fallen asleep on the body pillow and, thinking it was him when I woke up, I was
crushed when I realized it wasn’t.

I texted Bruce after that.

I hadn’t received another note, which honestly was
starting to piss me off. It seemed I was going through all this pain for no
reason. I think the phrase “Be careful what you wish for” could sum up the
chain of events that followed. I suppose I should clarify, I didn’t actually
wish
for anything to happen; I had only stated that nothing
had
happened. The
phrase just seems applicable.

About a week after prom, I heard something outside in
the back yard. I tried to see what was there from my window, but we have too
many trees to see much of anything from two stories above. Mom wasn’t home yet,
and Cass was out with friends, so I was alone. I debated about calling Bruce,
but talked myself out of it since it was probably just a stray cat or
something. I didn’t want to seem jumpy, or annoying, or stupid if I called
because of a strange noise. I think more important I didn’t want to seem like a
girl
.

I could be brave.

I padded quietly down the stairs, all James Bond like,
plastered to the wall along the hallway as I made my way to the back sliding
door, peeked through the curtains covering the doors, and when I didn’t see
anything I unlatched the lock as gently as possible, sticking my head out a
foot or so.

I didn’t say “Hello?” Or “Is anyone there?” like all
the morons do in movies right before they get abducted or murdered or boiled
alive or whatever other sick, twisted, storyline is out there now, and when I
felt the coast was clear, that it was probably just an animal, I stepped back
inside and started to slide the door closed. That’s when I saw something
resting on the railing near the steps leading into the yard. It probably counts
as a stupid move, but I did go to it and pick it up. I did it fast and ran and
locked the door even faster, but it still counts as a moronic move, I’m sure.
 

It was a large manila envelope with my name in black
Magic Marker written across the front. My body surprised me with how calm it
remained; my brain on the other hand more than made up for my seemingly serene
mentality. In hindsight, this would have been the time to call Bruce, but
curiosity is a bitch.

I opened it carefully, not knowing what I might or
might not find, terrified of both. A letter with a picture paper clipped to it
is what I pulled out. The picture was old school, one of those Polaroid cameras
I think they were called. I was intrigued by that fact, probably more than
necessary, but who uses those cameras anymore?

I did finally snap out of it, I wish I could say I
hadn’t. The picture was of me sleeping, clearly from prom night since I
recognized the movie that was playing, the soda cans on the floor, and the
clothes I was wearing mom had just given me. The worst of it was that the
picture was taken from inside. Whoever took it was only a few feet from the
foot of my bed.

I dropped the photo. Driven by morbid curiosity or
just plain insanity, I began reading the letter. Here’s what it said:

My dear, sweet, Jessica,

I would first like to apologize for my
tone before. I was angry and rude. That’s no excuse I know. Please apologize to
Cassie. I should never have included her in our relationship like that.

You cannot know how hard it has been to
stay away from you these past few months, but I wanted to give you your space.
I know you have been through a lot. It’s terrible what that boy did to you—I
would never hurt you like that. You’re better off without him.

I am so pleased that we will be together
soon, that there won’t be any further distractions between us. I hope you see
how much stronger you are now and how much stronger I will make you. The
challenges in life are what shape us. They mold us into the people we are meant
to become. When we finally meet, you are going to be the strongest person I
know, maybe even stronger than me!

Yours forever

I put the picture and the letter back into the
envelope, went to my room, and called Bruce. He was all but literally at my
house before I hung up the phone. Mom and Cass got home soon after he arrived.
I didn’t want them to worry, so I made him promise me he wouldn’t tell them
about the envelope until there was something to tell. He grudgingly agreed, and
when they walked in, the TV was on and it was just Bruce hanging out with me
watching television as if nothing had happened.

Mom always felt better when Bruce would hang out with
me when she wasn’t home. I don’t know if it was because she thought of him as
my bodyguard or a father figure. Either way, it kept her out of my hair with
her constant worrying, and it gave me someone to confide in about what was
going on in my life.

Mom and Cass went to bed soon after they got home, but
Bruce stayed with me for a couple more hours after that. I wasn’t afraid to be
alone, but it’s always nice when he stays around. I used to ask him how he was
able to be here so much when he must have other cases. He says he makes time
for them around me. I felt a little weird about that at first, him making me
more a priority than his other cases, but now I don’t think about it. He’s here
and I wouldn’t know what to do if he weren’t.

The night has been going okay, all things considered,
but now Bruce is fidgety, anxious, which is freaking me out. “Bruce. What the
hell. Why are you acting so weird now?” I prod him.