Most of it is a blur. I think my mind couldn’t cope with the sadness I felt, so I’ve blocked a good portion of it out.
Once Jen and the hospital staff believed I was well enough to leave, they released me to a family I don’t remember. The Parks.
Legally, I belong to them, and Ivan said Bridgette and Mason are better for me than him. They can give me stability, and they didn’t hesitate to welcome me back into their home. Ivan still calls me once a week, but he’s giving me space because he wants me to have some normalcy.
Preston wanted that for me, too.
Normal. Boring. Basic.
I live in a suburban world of block parties, North Face jackets, and Starbucks now. I even have a Facebook account, and I’m up to a hundred and thirty-four friends. Casey recently got an account, too, and I think she did it just so we have a place to chat.
I’ve gone to movie theaters. I’ve been to stores entirely dedicated to selling makeup. I’ve eaten fast food until I feel sick, and I’ve wandered the aisles of grocery stores without anyone telling me I can’t put chips and cookies in the cart.
For so long, that’s what I thought I wanted, but now that I’m in the world, I realize it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
Not without Preston.
I miss the cabin and the bubble we were in when it was just us. The squeaky mattress. The scratchy radio with shitty reception. The crackers and soup.
Most of all, I miss feeling whole. Preston and I fulfilled something in each other. Something we were both desperately craving.
A love lighthouse. That’s one of the last things he said to me. I didn’t understand it at the time, but now I know what he meant.
The way I loved him was so bright and obvious, he had no choice but to recognize it.
In his last few days, I gave him that.
And he told me I was strong. Brave. I hold onto that fact like it’s my lifeline. And maybe it is. When I need strength to keep going, I remember how good we were for each other, and how much faith he had in me.
Bringing my hand up to my chest, I absentmindedly toy with the lighthouse necklace I never take off. I’m also still wearing my wedding ring, which hasn’t gone unnoticed by pretty much everyone.
The media’s been a bit of a shitstorm.
Once word got out that Melody Parks had been rescued, alive and well, the news had a field day with it. When a child who’s been missing for fifteen years is found, it gives everyone hope. Hope that all the missing children out there aren’t gone—they’re simply misplaced.
Big white vans have been camping out on the streets in front of the Parks’ home as the reporters wait for a chance to ask me questions. About my time in captivity. About my escape. About Preston, the mysterious man who helped me.
Yeah, he’s a hero, and the world knows it. I haven’t said much, but I made sure to tell them that.
But the private details—like my short-lived drug addiction and my off-the-books marriage—are not public knowledge, and I don’t intend to make them so.
Even Harlee Verona reached out. She found me on Facebook, and she said she wants to set up an interview. If I were going to spill my life story to anyone, it would be her.
I’m just not ready yet.
This is the first time I’ve been out of the house in a week. I could blame it on the reporters, but really, their annoying presence is just an excuse to hole up and veg out.
Unfortunately, I can’t claim to have a headache forever, and there are certain appointments I have to go to. Mainly my therapy.
“Look at this.” Bridgette hands me a pamphlet to the local community college, which was conveniently sitting among the magazines on the side table in the waiting room. I wonder if she planted it there on purpose. “Once you get your GED, you could apply.”
Nodding, I give her a forced, noncommittal smile. “Maybe.”
Turns out, the “education” Loralee gave me wasn’t legit. The information I learned was correct, but none of it counted toward actual scholastic records. As far as the system is concerned, I have no high school diploma. No grades or transcripts to speak of.
I scored high during my assessment tests, though, and I’ve been working with a tutor to catch up.
“Or you can go to a state college,” Bridgette continues. “If you don’t want to attend class in person, you can take your courses online. You can do it from anywhere in the world.”
“Where would I go?” I ask numbly.
“Or you can stay at home for as long as you like.” There’s hope in her blue eyes as she says it, and I know she longs for the daughter she lost.
I’m not her.
I don’t know the Parks, and they don’t know me.
Granted, it doesn’t stop them from trying to be good parents. Man, they try. Bridgette gives me too many choices—so many choices—like she’s showering me with mass amounts of freedom. Mason just gives me space.
It’s probably difficult for them to take in someone as traumatized as I am. When they adopted me, they signed up for a cute toddler who they could raise the way they wanted. Instead, they got a grieving adult with more angst than a teen soap opera.
“You can study anything you want,” Bridgette suggests, continuing with her list of options. “Ivan has offered to pay for your tuition. Of course, we’ll chip in what we can. You know we kept your college fund going.”
She keeps talking about that college fund. I think she wants to drill it into me that they never gave up on getting me back.
I wonder if she realizes I don’t blame her for what happened. I should probably tell her that. Maybe I will today. After all, isn’t that the point of family counseling?
So far, Dr. Fairmont and I have met one-on-one three times a week, but I agreed to let Bridgette sit in today because I can sense her mounting frustration with my lack of motivation.
Despite acquiring more makeup, I haven’t worn any since before Preston died. I don’t paint anymore. I no longer listen to songs on repeat.
I eat when I’m told. I shower when I’m reminded. I put effort into my schoolwork.
Honestly, I’m doing the best I can, even if going through the motions is all I can manage.
As I look around the waiting room, I wonder what the doc will want to talk about today. Before each session, I always have a less sensitive subject locked and loaded, but I think Dr. Fairmont sees right through my strategy to avoid heavier topics.
Sometimes she brings up my childhood. Other times she asks about the more recent stuff.
I won’t talk about Preston. It’s the one conversation that’s off limits. She knows that, but she still pushes by asking about the future. Sure, that’s her job, but I have no interest in making plans without my husband.
My bucket list is something Preston and I were supposed to do together. That little piece of paper is still folded up inside my fanny pack. Even though I bring it with me everywhere I go, I haven’t opened it to look at the checklist. It’s just too painful.
The week after I got home from the hospital, I started my period. And I had a breakdown because I wasn’t pregnant. I’d been holding onto the hope that maybe I could take a piece of Preston with me through life. I could have his child.
Now there’s nothing left of him but memories and an urn full of ashes they gave me at his small memorial. As his wife—even if we never filed the paperwork—his remains rightfully belong to me. I’d been heavily medicated on Xanax through most of that afternoon, making the day seem like a bad dream, but it’s not hard to remember the faces in the crowd. Because there weren’t many. Jay came to pay his respects. Ivan showed up to support me.