Past Perfect Life Page 11

“So you’re going to see her?”

  “Yes,” I say without an ounce of excitement. Besides, I don’t have a choice. Not about this. Not about where I’m going to live.

  It’s such bullshit.

  Grandma Gleason starts to rub my back. “I can only imagine how excited she’ll be to see you. She’s been waiting all this time. Poor thing.”

  I grimace. Every parent who’s spoken to me—Grandma Gleason, Sheriff Gleason, and Marian’s parents—have this compassion for Paula I don’t share. They imagine losing one of their children. I get it. I do, but …

  I. Don’t. Know. Her. And I’m supposed to leave my entire life behind to live with her? AND I HAVE NO CHOICE? It’s hard enough dealing with the fact that Dad is gone and now everything I know, everybody I know has to go away, too?

  No. That can’t be happening. (How many times have I thought that in the past few days?)

  I won’t let it happen.

  My mind starts trying to come up with a plan to make this all go away. I’ve always been able to come up with a list of tasks to achieve a certain goal. But this feels impossible.

  “Will you go with me to meet Paula?” I ask. I can’t imagine facing her alone.

  “Of course.” Grandma Gleason kisses my forehead. “Of course I will. And how are you feeling about your father?”

  I lean back on the couch. Thinking about Dad is another topic I’ve been avoiding. God, is there anything in my life that I’m willing to face?

  “I’m confused,” I admit. “I don’t have any clue what I’m supposed to do and how I’m going to handle this. I’m so furious at him for what he did, but then I think about my life and I feel like I can’t get too mad because I was happy. I loved my life. I loved him. I love him. Then I wonder if I have Stockholm syndrome.”

  “Your father cares greatly for you.”

  “I know.” I do and that’s the problem. “He’s my dad, he’s supposed to protect me. He made this horrible mess, and I’m left to deal with the fallout on my own.” I gesture toward the TV, where reporters are discussing me. How could anyone ever be prepared for this?

  “You’re not on your own,” she reassures me.

  “But I feel like I am. People keep telling me that they understand how I feel, but how can they when I don’t even know how I feel?”

  It’s too much. It’s all too much for one person.

  “You are allowed to feel however you want. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that it’s not going to be difficult, because it is. But it’ll make it easier if you talk to us about it instead of bottling everything in.”

  I think back to being at the house and what happened when I decided to unleash all I was feeling. How I destroyed nearly a decade’s worth of memories. “I’m scared of what I’m feeling. I’m terrified about how much this is going to change everything. Not just my future, but what I think about my past.” I glare at the TV.

  “Maybe I should change the channel,” Grandma Gleason says as she puts on the local NBC station out of Green Bay. We both gasp. A reporter is outside my home. Not the home of Amanda Linsley, but of Allison Smith. Me. The real me.

  They know. Everybody knows now.

  “… it’s in this house that Amanda Linsley and her father lived under aliases for the past eight years.”

  The screen splits from the young male reporter standing outside my house to a female anchor sitting behind a desk. “And do we know what names Amanda and her father have been using?”

  The reporter nods for a minute. “Unfortunately, Andrea, nobody in this small, tight-knit community is talking at this time. But we do know that she goes to the local high school and is regarded as an excellent student. Her father worked in construction, and they are, allegedly, well liked. But no specifics have been given.”

  I let out a breath that my real name, well, not my real name, but the name that I know—Allison Smith—is secret for now. I once googled my name and couldn’t find me. There are way too many Ally Smiths to choose from.

  Oh. Right. Dad chose our last name —doesn’t get much more common than Smith. Huh. Well played, Dad.

  “Don’t you worry, nobody here will talk. If they do, the full weight of the Gleason family will descend upon them like hellfire,” Grandma Gleason states with a scowl.

  Grandma Gleason is the sweetest lady you’d ever meet. Unless you cross her family and then the claws come out.

  I give her a smile because I appreciate it.

  Even though I’m not a Gleason.

  I’m not even a Smith.

  I’m a Linsley. Whatever the hell that means.

  “But the press can be relentless. This is a juicy story, so they won’t really leave you alone until there’s a statement.”

  “From Sheriff Gleason?” I ask.

  She gives her head a little shake. “No, honey, they need to hear from you.”

  Chapter

  TWENTY-ONE

  Once again, I’m staring down my computer, willing the words to come.

  This time the stakes are higher. It’s not scholarship money I’m looking to earn. I’m trying to regain control. This is about my life. My family.

  There’s been nothing—no test, no class—that has prepared me for this.

  After Grandma Gleason left, I looked myself up online. Not “Ally Smith,” but “Amanda Linsley.” The search results were flooded with stories about my … kidnapping. It’s still such a foreign concept. I wasn’t held against my will. But there are those same two images—the one of me as a kid and the age-progressed one. There are statements from the FBI and the Florida sheriff. The only statement made by Sheriff Gleason was asking for my privacy.

  His plea has fallen on deaf ears. The media are stationed outside the police station, the high school, and my house.

  Those reporters aren’t interested in knowing me. They’re chasing a sensation, a way to garner clicks and ratings.

  I type in “Daniel Linsley,” and the same articles pop up. I refine my search to “Daniel Linsley family,” and the same thing. I try again, add “Florida” and filter out any stories from the past year.

  There are a few articles from when I was first reported missing, and I scroll through them all. I notice one link for an obituary for a Franklin Daniel Linsley. I click on it and read about a man who passed away from cancer. My heart plunges when I see “he is survived by his wife, Sandra; his daughter, Sharon; and his son, Daniel; as well as his granddaughter, Amanda.”

  My grandfather, who died. I scroll up to see the date: three years ago on March fourteenth. Something about that date rings familiar. Why?

  Oh my God. That was when Dad fell off the scaffolding.

  My father, who was always so careful, wasn’t paying attention and hurt himself.

  My father, who was dealing with the loss of his own father.

  My father, who was in mourning and couldn’t tell me about it.

  I remember how sad Dad was at the time, but I thought it was because he was hurt and we didn’t know how we were going to pay our bills. He had to hide a lot from me.

  I get up and pace the room. When I have to really think about Dad now, only fury bubbles up. I think there will always be a layer of disappointment and anger with what my father did and, what hurts the most, the lies he’s told.

  The last time I spoke with him—which might’ve been our last conversation for years—I turned my back on him as he begged for my forgiveness. He’s going to jail. He’s alone. And he’s in there because of me.

  This isn’t how I want to leave things between us. Before I can move on and make sense of everything, I have to forgive him. That doesn’t mean what he’s done will ever be okay, but it’s not helping me to hold this anger so close to my heart.

  Because of the no-contact order between us, I don’t have a lot of options. None, really. But I do have Sheriff Gleason, and maybe he can help.

  I take a small piece of paper and write down three things:

  I’m sorry.

  I love
you.

  I forgive you.

  I fold it into a tiny piece, hoping I can persuade Sheriff Gleason to give this to my dad. Or tell him these things.

  What if he can’t? Or refuses?

  I can’t have Dad sitting in jail thinking I hate him.

  The only thing I can control at this moment is my statement. If the media reports on it, maybe Dad will see it.

  Writing those essays had been like pulling teeth. Every word a struggle. But as I start to type, the words pour out.

  In the past few days, my world has been turned upside down.

  That disruption, in part, has been caused by the media. While I appreciate the concern that has been shown about my well-being, I wish to be left alone. I want to go on living the boring, normal, and wonderful life that I’ve been leading.

  It’s important for me to let everybody know that I love my father. He made a horrible decision that has impacted many, but whatever happens in court will not change my feelings for him.

  My focus will be to finish out school and get to know my mother and my family.

  I’m asking that the media respect my privacy—and that of my family and community—during this difficult time.

  I sit back and examine what I’ve written. I put in the part about Paula because—while it’s mostly true—a plan has begun to form in my head. I need her on my side.

  As for the rest, especially about my father, I don’t think truer words have ever been written. At least by me.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-TWO

  It doesn’t work.

  Even though my statement has been read by countless reporters, more are now standing outside my home and school. A few have been camped out at the police station.

  So much for giving me my privacy.

  The past twenty-four hours could best be described as a media tsunami.

  And because I’ve turned into some kind of masochist, I can’t get enough of it.

  I refused Marian’s offer to stay home from school to keep me company, because I don’t want anybody to see how I live now. Despite Grandma Gleason’s request yesterday, I haven’t showered. I haven’t gotten out of my pajamas.

  Last night at dinner neither Marian nor her parents had the heart to tell me how disgusting I must be. I shoved food into my mouth without tasting. I woke up today to find pockets of acne had popped up on my chin and forehead.

  I look nothing like that age-progressed image of me that has been dominating the news cycle. Granted, I don’t really look much like myself from a week ago, either.

  And I keep googling. Oh, how I keep googling. Since this girl they talk about, this Amanda Linsley, doesn’t share anything with me—especially a name or face—it’s easier to believe it’s not me. It’s like watching a telenovela, with the absence of cleavage and hot men.

  Ugh. “Hot men” leads my mind to wander to Neil. I’ve been ignoring his e-mails and texts. I’ve made it very clear to Marian that I don’t want to see anybody. I do mean anybody. If Neil came over, I’d lock myself in my—well, Susan’s room.

  Yeah, the fact that I’m not an adult has been very apparent the past couple of days.

  Fox News was outside the school trying to get people to comment about me. Dana, of all people, approached the reporter with her hair done and full makeup.

  “What can you tell us about the student?” the reporter asked as he shoved the microphone in Dana’s face.

  She smiled at the camera like she was enjoying herself. “You know, there always was something off about her dad.”

  Discovering this scoop clearly excited the reporter. “How so?”

  “Well—” But Dana never got another word out. Neil showed up in the frame and pulled Dana off camera.

  “Hey!” the reporter called out.

  “Interview’s over,” Neil shouted at him. His hand obstructed the view of the school, and it appeared as if he tried to knock the camera down. The feed was quickly cut, and they’ve avoided going live ever since.

  The clip has gone viral, and I keep replaying it.

  The front door opens without a knock. I sit up, expecting to see one of Marian’s parents, but instead it’s Sheriff Gleason and Grandma Gleason.

  Their disappointment in my physical state is clear on both of their faces.

  Grandma Gleason clears her throat. “I didn’t realize that grunge is still in. Maybe you should shower and freshen up before we go.”

  They’re taking me to see Paula. I am going to meet Amanda Linsley’s mom. My mom.

  “Do you need help picking out what to wear?” she asks.

  God, what does one wear when meeting one’s mom for the first time in fifteen years?

  “I’m okay,” I reply as I stand up. “But before we go, I’ve been thinking and there’s something I need to ask you both.”

  Chapter

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Ready?”

  I duck down in the back seat of Grandma Gleason’s car as we exit the garage, not wanting to risk being seen by reporters.

  “It looks like the coast is clear,” Sheriff Gleason says. He changed out of his police uniform and instead has on jeans and a sweater so as not to draw suspicion. Grandma Gleason is in the seat next to him.

  The sedan slows as we get to the corner of Elm, where you’d take a right to get to where Dad and I live. Or is it “lived”? Had lived, before.

  “Oh my,” Grandma Gleason calls out under her breath.

  I take a peek at my block and duck back down. There are news vans lining the entire street. Bright camera lights are focused on my house.

  I can’t help but feel sorry for my neighbors. How they’re being hounded and questioned. Then I feel a twinge of gratitude that they aren’t talking.

  God, all it will take is just one person, one person saying my name or giving them a picture. I’m so relieved for my Erin Rodgers alias and private online life.

  As we hit the highway that leaves town, I start to relax a little. I’ve never been so grateful to get away.

  We’re meeting Paula at her hotel in Green Bay. She’s staying there because, well, first of all, there isn’t a hotel in Valley Falls. And, most importantly, it will give us some privacy.

  The car is mostly silent on the drive to the hotel. I get comfortable enough to fully sit up in my seat. I watch the farmland pass by. Do they even have farms in Florida? Or is it all palm trees and beaches?

  I realize my hands are gripped in tight fists. All I can do at this point is pray my plan works out.

  Bile rises in my throat as we pull into the Hyatt Regency. Sheriff Gleason parks the car, and nobody moves. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Okay,” I reply without moving a muscle.

  The car is still as we wait for me to give a signal that I don’t plan on giving anytime soon. I look out at the hotel. Somewhere inside is my mother.

  A woman whose help I desperately need.

  The silence is shattered when Sheriff Gleason’s phone rings. “Hello?” He glances back at me. “Yes, we’re here. We … Yes, she needs a couple more minutes. Got it.”

  I look down at the car floor. I feel like such a bitch for not rushing in to greet my mother with open arms. It’s just … hard. How can I switch off a part of my brain that has always put my father first? How can I simply accept this new version of my life?

  Maybe I should treat this like ripping off a bandage. Get it over with. Once it’s off, it won’t be so painful.

  I open the car door and start walking toward the entrance of the hotel. Sheriff Gleason and Grandma Gleason follow behind me. I go straight to the elevator and press the up button.

  “What floor?” I ask, my voice robotic.

  “Fourth,” Sheriff Gleason responds. “Room 402.”

  I nod as I hit the button.

  “Hold the elevator,” a voice calls out.

  Sheriff Gleason reaches his hands out to stop the door from closing. A man gets in the elevator with us. I feel the blood rush out of my face wh
en I realize it’s that young male reporter from Fox News.

  “Thanks.” He gives us his big white-toothed smile. He’s scribbling in his notebook, and it takes everything I have not to look over his shoulder to see what he’s writing.

  If he only knew who he was standing next to.

  “A little cold out there,” Grandma Gleason says to the guy.

  “Yes. I’m not used to it.”

  Why is she talking to him?

  It’s then that I realize Sheriff Gleason has his head tilted away from him. He’s been ducking reporters as he goes in and out of the station all week.

  Grandma Gleason is simply trying to distract the reporter. “You’re not from around here, I take it.”

  “No, I’m in town for a story. Have you heard about the missing girl who was found?”

  I can only stare at the door.

  “I did. How wonderful!”

  Wonderful?

  She continues, “We’re up here from Milwaukee to look at schools, and of course see Lambeau Field. Are you a Packers fan?”

  “Not a big football fan,” the reporter replies as we finally reach the fourth floor.

  I don’t breathe until the three of us get off the elevator and the doors close, leaving the reporter behind.

  At least that nerve-racking encounter made me forget for thirty seconds why we were in the elevator to begin with.

  “Not a word,” Sheriff Gleason whispers as we walk to the room. “We don’t know who’s listening.”

  I nod as we approach the door. On the other side is Paula. His hand hovers to knock, but he looks to me for confirmation. I nod.

  His knocks echo the beating of my heart. The door flies open, and there she is.

  My own eyes are staring back at me.

  Her hand flies up to her mouth; tears begin to brim. “Oh my God.”

  Before I can say anything, she grabs me tightly.

  Sheriff Gleason guides us into the room and closes the door behind us.

  “Oh, my sweet girl,” Paula sobs as she puts my face in her hands. “I have missed you so much.” She pulls me in again. “I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to let go.”

  I can’t move a muscle. My arms remain limp by my side, but there’s a familiar smell to her. Maybe it’s the same perfume that Marian’s mom wears.