Finding You Page 2

  But there are other voices around me, crying or muttering to themselves. Someone sings under her breath, a hoarse, raspy song in a language I don’t know. Eventually the sound ceases. What happens when the movement stops? I don’t want to think about it, and nothing changes for what feels like a lifetime.

  I start to wish I were braver, like the strange girl beside me. I don’t know what it is that allows her to keep cool, but it’s foreign to me, and I wish I weren’t weak and small. The realization that Tam has always been my courage is like a smack. Without him I have nothing to protect me, none of my own strength, no store of bravery to pull from. My helplessness frustrates me.

  A year must pass in the darkness. When we stop, it’s sudden, and I’m thrown forward. Pain sears my wrists, and my elbows slam against the hard floor for the second time. I suck on the inside of my cheeks, trying to stop crying, trying not to think about what might be waiting. I press my eyes shut, wishing this were a dream that I could wake from.

  Movement throws us again as the container rocks back and forth, is picked up, and then set down, adjusted and then adjusted some more. I take a slow breath in, and then out. With each breath, my chest shudders.

  The moment that Tam kissed me replays behind my eyes when I close them. His eyes, nervous when he leaned in, my lips more nervous still … It was so right. What if I never see him again? What if that was the last time? At least I have the locket, tangible proof that he feels … something. That he cares. Gingerly, my hands bleeding and my wrists burning, I twist the chain about and unclasp it, holding on to it as if for my life.

  * * *

  The stillness is worse than the movement was. We wait and wait. It might be hours or days. It might only be minutes. My stomach is hollow; the air becomes even closer, and toxic smells—sweat, urine—overwhelm me. I want to hold my breath, but the heat is oppressive; as the walls gradually get warmer, it feels as if we’re being baked alive. My dress clings to me like a cobweb.

  Time drags on, hot and damp and heavy.

  I think back to the day Tam’s father let us ride the elevator box in the tower he had been contracted to build. When the grating locked in place and the doors slid closed and we began to climb up, up, up, I was sure I would be trapped inside forever. But Tam wrapped one arm around me and he whispered in his excited way a hundred things we’d do when we got out, and he made the operator take us back to the bottom level. I knew how excited he had been to ride it all the way to the top.

  That box was nothing compared with this one.

  This is the end of me.

  The thought comes out of nowhere, heavy enough to crush me. Pa will have no way of knowing what’s happened to me. I’m weak and helpless. I’m done for.

  But Tam … maybe he saw me, saw what happened. He might have broken away, come after me to help. For all I know, he’s finding a way to save me right now. Hope, no more than a spark, is kindled inside me. Every novel I’ve ever read tells me it’s possible, that the girl is always rescued from danger at the last minute.

  I close my eyes and think of Tam. His kiss, his voice tight with emotion, his fingers running through my hair. His eyes when he talks about the sea, the way he nervously drums his fingers when he’s supposed to be staying still. There’s no one I’m more certain of. He’ll come for me. Of course he will.

  There is a creaking sound, old metal being wrenched open, and then a loud crack from the far side of the container. I shrink back against the hot wall, and the girls around me do the same.

  There’s an explosion of blinding white light. I cover my eyes, my head splitting. There are grunts and sounds of movement from outside, followed by banging against the walls. A fraction at a time, I open my eyes. Figures, like shadows against the bright light, pull girls from the crate, dragging them by their hair and their clothes and their limbs. Most of the girls scream and wail. I want to curl in on myself and pretend that none of this is real.

  I can’t press myself back any farther than I already am.

  I can’t disappear.

  The figures climb into the crate and haul more girls out into the light. My heart races; I can feel it thudding in my throat, choking me. This is it. Tam’s locket is still in my hand, my fingers clasped around it so tightly that it hurts. Somehow, I know they’ll take it if they see it. One of the dark silhouettes crawls through the opening and toward me. I suck in a breath and shove the necklace into my mouth, inside my cheek, and clamp my mouth shut. The figure reaches forward and grabs my wrists in his hands, then drags me along the crate’s rough floor.

  The light is blinding. Coarse hands thrust me across a dirty floor, into a group of at least twenty other girls huddled on the ground. I can see the dried blood on my wrists and elbows, the dirt coating my skin and clothes.

  I try to take in my surroundings. The room is giant and looks like a warehouse, square with a row of small windows lining a very high ceiling. There is little furniture: Stacks of boxes and crates sit here and there, a chimney and an enormous stove stand in one corner, and what looks like an automobile partially concealed by a tarp sits in another. The ground is covered in muddy tracks that might have come from a wagon; it reminds me of the storage yards where Tam’s father purchases building materials.

  Standing outside the shipping crate are at least a dozen people; I look from face to face, but instead of humanity, cruelty is splayed across each. The men are burly with scowling mouths and scarred hands, the women are hard and sharp, wearing breeches or tight skirts and fitted jackets. Their eyes are hollow.

  Movement draws my eyes. Tall doors on one wall slide open and several boys carrying water troughs between them enter, stumbling from the weight. They put the troughs on the ground and leave, casting smirks over their shoulders and elbowing each other in the ribs. Slowly, the men and women form a circle around us. Their dark eyes make my skin crawl as some move between us, untying or cutting the cords that bind our hands. I have no time to be glad of the release.

  Out of nowhere, another woman joins the group. She’s different from the rest. She looks down at us the way bargain hunters at the market survey tables of cheap jewelry and half-rotten fruit. She is tall, with broad shoulders and a wide, red mouth, and her clothes are fine, elegant, and serious. A shudder runs through me.

  She catches my eye, somehow.

  Please, I mouth, as if it will do any good. Please seems like the only thing I have.

  She just looks at me, her head cocked a little to the side, curiosity creeping into her expression. A long time passes, and I sit looking up at her, trembling. And then she blinks, and suddenly she smiles, a hateful and cruel smile.

  “Start with that one,” she says, pointing at me.

  I try to squirm away as two of the younger men come forward and take me by my arms. They drag me, kicking and wriggling, toward the water troughs. I can’t scream for fear of losing the locket in my cheek, and I’m sure screaming would do nothing anyway. A handful of women are gathered around the troughs and the men toss me onto the ground at their feet. My skin burns where I slide against the rough floor, and when I try to scramble back to get a look at the people around me, one of them grabs hold of me by the front of my dress and pulls me to my feet. With one jarring motion, she tears the fabric down the middle, sending buttons spraying in different directions. Then she yanks the dress off my shoulders, tugs it over my ribs, my hips, down my legs. Someone unhooks my boots and pulls them one by one from my feet, and then off come my petticoats.

  I bite down, grinding my teeth, my face hot with tears. Someone starts on my corset and when I balk, a hand slaps my cheek, leaving my ears ringing. Don’t look around, I tell myself. They’re probably watching. Don’t find out for certain. I tell myself that I can bear this, because Tam will come.

  But standing there, naked and alone, wishing my hair could cover me better, I feel finished.

  More hands pick me up and plunge me into a trough. The water is like ice, filling my ears and mouth and every crevice in my body.
I struggle, but the hands hold me under, until finally, finally, I break the surface and air fills my throat and my lungs. I’ve hardly sucked in a breath before I’m under again, and again. Every time I come up, I clamp down on the locket in my cheek. The metal chain bites into my gums, and I taste blood.

  One of the women begins to scrub me clean, the rough cloth tearing at my skin until it’s raw and blotchy, like I’ve been burned. Her face is worn and uncaring, and I watch her and try to hate her and to be angry and strong, but nothing helps. I feel violated, stunned. They’re pulling other girls over for the same treatment, I realize. Relief washes over me, that I’m not the only one any longer, but it’s followed by guilt.

  I’m yanked from the trough and another girl takes my place. Someone throws a blanket around my shoulders and I am hustled, along with half a dozen others, toward an empty corner of the building. I feel numb, standing still and staring at nothing, trembling even though it’s warm. More girls file in around me, huddled in blankets like me, eyes wide. A few crumple to the ground, sobbing.

  We’re all close in age, as far as I can tell, and most of them look like city girls: skinny and strong, some pretty, all with serious faces. Most cry or, at the very least, shake. One girl, smaller than most, joins the group and clutches at me, weeping. I jerk away in surprise, but she holds on, her fingers white around my arm. She can’t be older than fourteen, I think, my heart breaking for her, for all of us. Slowly, holding my blanket together with one hand, I wrap the other arm around her and pull her closer. I don’t want to comfort her. I don’t want to comfort anyone. I want to be comforted. I want Pa, and Tam.

  The girl’s sobs continue, and I recognize them from the journey here, in the train car. They grate on my nerves, loud and unharnessed, and I wish she would stop. My favorite memories of my mother are the way she smelled like bread even when we had none, and the times that she held me and traced spiderweb shapes on my back with her fingers when I needed comfort, telling me poems and stories to save up in my head for later. I close my eyes, wishing she were with me, and I trail my fingers along the girl’s back the way I remember my mother doing. She heaves a shuddering sigh and leans closer, growing quiet.

  When I look again, a beautiful girl with big, brown eyes and messy hair like wildfire smiles lopsidedly in my direction, as if thanking me. She doesn’t cry, but her eyes are wide, and scared. This is no worse for me than for anyone else, I tell myself, and I try to believe it. And then I smell smoke.

  A handful of men move toward us, and we shrink backward as one. The small girl who clings to my arm begins to weep more loudly than before, and her cries fill me with panic. I’m helpless. Whatever they intend to do to me, I can’t stop it. I clamp my mouth even more tightly around the necklace in my cheek, and I notice the woman in command conferring with one of the men. She says something I can’t hear and then nods toward me, her eyes glinting a little.

  The man smiles crookedly and strides toward me; my muscles tense and I nearly open my mouth to plead with him. No. No, I can’t lose the locket. I can’t lose what I have left of Tam.

  I’m shaking when he reaches me, but I don’t beg for mercy. My heart pounds as he takes hold of my wrists and pulls me forward, but I’m quiet. The younger girl grasps at me, sobbing, so I touch her cheek and try to smile, as if we’ll be all right. It’s not easy to believe.

  Her grip loosens as the man yanks me away from the group, and I stumble to keep up so I won’t be dragged. When he finally stops and draws me up beside him, we’re on the opposite side of the building, by the stove.

  Four men sit around a stone ring with a fire glowing hot and bright in the middle of it. There are metal rods resting around it, their ends among the embers. One of the men, wearing thick rawhide gloves, takes one of the rods from the fire and turns to me, his eyes full of something that looks like hunger. He wiggles the glowing end at me, grinning greasily. The iron makes the shape of the letter X, bright orange and twisted. Wake up, I tell myself. Wake up. This isn’t real.

  “Hold out your hand,” the man says.

  three

  I can’t. I seize up, pull back. The X is all I can see, glowing and bright and wicked like the smith’s eyes. The hot metal leers toward me.

  “No—” I cry, my voice slurred by the locket in my cheek. I try to run, but the men grab my arms, laughing at me and shoving me forward. I can’t see through my tears, except to make out the glowing iron X. My chest hurts, my throat, my head. I crumple to my knees, the hot brand inches from my face.

  I’m cattle to these people.

  That’s what this is.

  They’re marking me as their property.

  One of the men wrenches my left fist from my side. He’s stronger, bigger, more certain; his rough hands uncurl my fingers and splay them flat despite my struggling. He holds my hand with both of his, while the other man wrestles my body to stillness, his arms wrapped about me like a brace.

  The smith comes a little closer, his eyes glowing. “Can’t say it won’t hurt, love.” He grins, and I writhe with more feeble attempts to wrench myself free. I can’t breathe through my sobs.

  The brand touches my palm.

  I scream and scream, until I can’t hear myself any longer, until my throat hurts. I wish I were dead. I’m vaguely aware that they haul me out of the way, wailing and moaning, and leave me curled in a ball on the ground. I can’t even think. All I know is the fierce, burning pain that screeches through my whole body. My hand and the screaming, screaming pain.

  * * *

  My eyes flutter open, sticky with tears. I must have passed out. I lie still, looking at the world sideways with my head on the cool floor, wondering how much time has passed. My hand throbs and pulses, so I can’t forget it; it twinges with pain at every movement.

  I sit up, eventually. I pull my knees to my chest, rock back and forth as if that will help, clutch my blanket to me with my good hand. I can’t move the other one.

  Behind me, more girls are being branded. Their cries meld into one long wail, fraying my nerves. It’s exhausting to pity them. My own pain fills my mind instead; I search my memory for something beautiful to focus on, but everything is tainted. I’m tainted.

  And then I remember Tam.

  He could still come. He will still come. Somehow, before things get even worse. I close my eyes, pulling up his face in my thoughts. The way his chin is cleft just a little at the center, and the way his copper-and-gold hair refuses to stay put, and the way his eyes never end. I try to remember the feel of his mouth on mine, his hand on my back, his breath on my cheek. Already the memory feels a little faded, and I hate myself for letting it slip away.

  For the first time since the train car, I take the locket from my mouth with the hand that can still move. I flatten the branded palm against the cool stone floor and press down on it, trying not to whimper. The locket is slick with my saliva, and the chain is tangled, but holding it, looking at it, is a kind of sanctuary.

  I close my eyes again, holding the locket against my heart, forcing myself to breathe deeply, in and out. Tam is here with me, I tell myself. He’s with me the way he was in the elevator box. He’s with me the way he was when I found out my mum wouldn’t get better, and during the first thunderstorm after she died, when I thought the ceiling would come down and I didn’t have her arms to hide in. As long as I have the locket, he’s with me. And soon enough he’ll come, I add. And as long as I think it, I can bear anything.

  * * *

  I fall asleep lying on top of my burning hand, and I only wake when one of the men jostles my shoulder sharply. A handful of them weave among the girls, waking the ones who are still sleeping, wrapped in blankets like me and coated in sticky tears. Their pretty faces are drawn and ugly with pain, and my good hand trails automatically over my cheek, my eye, my forehead, wondering if I look the same.

  Tam used to tell me I was beautiful, in an offhanded way that I hated, because it made my heart race and yet he meant nothing by it. He told m
e a lot of things—that I was smarter than he was, that I should take bigger risks, that I shouldn’t read at twilight because squinting at the pages would ruin my eyesight. He said I’d have to wear spectacles, and that other kids would turn my name into a joke and spell it “Eye-la” forever. Aching, I get to my feet, my whole body wailing at me.

  As we’re herded toward a heap of baskets full of clothing, the small girl who clung to me earlier appears at my side with a shudder, seizing my arm. I want to shrug her off, but I don’t, trying to smile when she looks up at me. She’s as thin as a skeleton, with haunted blue eyes that I can’t look at for long.

  There are women standing around the baskets, pulling the blankets off the girls and appraising their naked figures. They hand them various articles of clothing and tell them to dress, the words sharp and unattractive on their tongues.

  When I reach them, one looks me over quickly. She rifles through the nearest basket and hands me different things. “Put them on,” she says without feeling, pointing away from us, to an open area.

  I take a breath and stay where I am, looking pointedly at the girl by my side and then back at the woman. She glares angrily at me. She’ll punish me for this, I think, but I hold my chin higher. My heartbeat pulses in my head and through the scorched skin on my hand. But the woman narrows her eyes a little, watching the way the younger girl clings to me. She gathers a few more things and thrusts them at us, pointing again. “Now go,” she says.

  I drop my blanket, hiding my locket underneath, and stand shivering and exposed as I dress. The underclothes and corset are ordinary, and as I struggle to pull them on with only one hand, I’m surprised that they fit so perfectly. Then I understand the exactness of this business. They know their work by heart.

  When I try to fumble with the hooks of the corset, the pain in my hand is blinding. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to push past it, but the swelling makes it impossible. My fingers fumble and shake and I can’t make sense of what I’m trying to do without seeing it.