He points to a notation in my appointment book. “You’ve got ‘CI’ scheduled for tomorrow at eleven. Who’s CI?”
My cheeks heat up. “Does it matter? I’ll just cancel the appointment.”
But with a spurt of dread, I can see my sidestepping has intrigued him. “It’s easy enough to find out. Who’s CI?”
“It’s not a who, it’s a what.”
“So what is it?”
When I don’t answer, the woman snaps, “Do I get to try my way now? Just a little slap?”
“Give her a moment,” he says.
They both appear interested enough in my answer to keep silent as I flounder.
“It’s an appointment for colonic irrigation,” I say at last.
His eyes widen. “Is that where they shove a hosepipe up your—”
“I wouldn’t necessarily sayshove,” I interrupt.
The woman smirks. “You should try cleaning up your diet before cleaning out your colon.”
“All right, let’s not go down there,” he says, shaking his head. He turns a page. “Who’s Gavin?”
And so it continues. They question me about my gardening service, my luncheon appointments, and dinner dates. With the two of them watching me carefully, I’m forced to cancel everything I have scheduled for the next two weeks. Then they remove the battery from my phone, the woman muttering something about cell phones being like locator beacons.
The one person I’m not allowed to contact is my father.
“We’ll deal with him,” is the enigmatic answer they give me.
In return for my cooperation, I’m promised a change of clothes, conditioner, a hairbrush, and toothpaste. They won’t budge on the razor.
At one point, the woman says in disgust, “This isn’t a hotel. She should work for these privileges.”
The man’s eyes spark a warning. “Not now.”
“Yesnow. It’s about time she learned what hard work is all about.”
“Let it go.”
“What are we now, her personal shoppers? We’re running around after her, just like everybody else.”
Tired of being the invisible third person, I speak up. “My life is not really the way you describe it.”
She turns on me. “We’ve been watching you for weeks, princess. Your life is exactly like that.”
The air leaves my lungs.Weeks.
In a venomous tone, the woman says, “I bet you went to only the best private schools, probably had a few tutors thrown at you to polish you off. Now you’re living off Daddy’s trust fund. His precious little princess has it so easy.”
The words come at me like blades, nicking scars of old wounds.Easy.I remember watching my mother die. Slowly. Each day cutting away another chunk of her wasted body, the veins on her papery skin looking like ruined pipelines trying to contain the outflow of time’s poisons.
The mental death had come first, the giving up on the possibility of a future, her husband and fourteen-year-old daughter not enough to will her to live. The physical death... My mind shies away from that. Some memories are simply too huge to haul out.
An easy life. They don’t know me at all. And they can’t seem to grasp that there are prisons more confining than those made of brick and steel.
Some of my emotions must show on my face because my kidnapper brusquely orders the woman to cut it out.
