Girl Sent Away Read online

  GIRL SENT AWAY

  By Lynne Griffin

  Copyright © 2015 by Lynne Griffin

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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  SixOneSeven Books

  21 Wormwood Street

  Ste. 325

  Boston, MA 02210

  www.sixonesevenbooks.com

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to quote from copyrighted material:

  Chandos Music for permission to reprint an excerpt from “Diamonds and Rust,” music and lyrics by Joan Baez, (c) 1975; and to Houghton Mifflin Harcourt for permission to reprint an excerpt from “Myth,” from Native Guard, by Natasha Trethewey, (c) 2006.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover design by Whitney Scharer. Cover photo by istock.com/patronestaff. Author photo by Elena Seibert. Interior by Eliyanna Kaiser.

  Boston / Lynne Griffin — Kindle Edition

  ISBN 978-0-9848245-2-6

  To Caitlin and Stephen—for the music

  Mount Hope Wilderness Camp, New York

  Workbook Entry #12

  Some day in May

  Memory hasn’t always been my enemy. For eight years, there’s been a wall of water between me and what happened to my mother and sister in the little village of Phuket, Thailand on December 26, 2004. The worst day of my life started out all clear blue sky and palm trees. My mind holds a pretty picture of Mom and Poppy standing motionless on the sugar white sand of Patong Beach. That much I remember. As hard as I try not to untangle the rest of it, still my thoughts loop and circle back to before the punishing water, and then to after, when my father dumped me into the arms of a stranger, an Asian man with a camera I can still feel digging into my skin. It’s the middle—the minutes that connect the perfect life I had to the one I’m stuck with now—that’s what the wave erased.

  I don’t know how much longer I can keep them there, walled off in that faraway place. Mixed up images steal my sleep and crowd my days. I hate everyone and everything, and I don’t even love my music anymore. Part of me thinks I might be saved if I dare to remember. If only I could bring myself to talk about them. To tell my dad what’s happening to me. But when I think of him harassing me for drinking too much or hanging out with freaks, or sending me here—every time a counselor tells me I’m a liar and a loser—I think none of them deserves to know what’s going on inside me. How my brain is shorting out. How split off from myself I’m becoming.

  The last time police brought me home, my father asked me straight out if I needed help. He actually accused me of starting to remember. I told him, no. I lied right to his face. And he believed me.

  Now I’m telling the truth and nobody does.

  I thought things were bad back then, the night I blacked out standing on those train tracks. But that was before my father had me kidnapped.

  PART ONE

  THE RIFT

  ONE

  One Month Earlier

  When silent fights were all that filled the rift between Toby Sedgwick and his daughter, he stood in front of her bedroom door trying to muster the courage to provoke her. Any emotion would be better than none, he reasoned. You can do this. You have nothing to lose—no, you have everything to lose. Toby opened the door.

  Ava sat on the couch by the window, staring into a cup of black coffee, her knees tucked under her in an impossible move only a teenager can finagle.

  “I made an appointment with a counselor,” Toby said. “For today at noon.”

  Ava lifted her head, brushing stray hair the color of autumn from her face. His daughter had fiery looks, a handful of bold freckles on light skin and green-blue eyes that questioned everything. Yet she looked at Toby now without passion, as if only just noticing him standing there.

  “I’ll drive you to school if you hurry,” he said. “I’m meeting with Mr. Graham first thing about your grades. Then I’ll go to work for a bit and come back for you.”

  Toby expected to see a flash of anger on Ava’s face, the way her brow would tense, the disgust she could level at him with the slight narrowing of her eyes. Right on cue, there it was. And then just as quickly gone.

  “You can’t make me go. I don’t want you talking to teachers about me either. School’s my business, not yours.” Ava’s protestations were juvenile. Like everything about her lately, they lacked her usual conviction.

  At least now she was up, storming toward her adjoining bathroom, making more noise than seemed possible given the soft soles of her Keds. Toby followed her, in an odd way heartened by her reaction.

  “You are my business,” he said. “And school called me, which means they’re worried about you too.”

  Up close, Toby could tell Ava hadn’t showered. Caught up in a ponytail, her hair was noticeably greasy, not recently combed. Alcohol breath hung in the air between them. He was tempted to accuse her of being hungover again, but what good would that do? She would deny it. It would only add to the likelihood that he’d set off their particular kind of shouting match. Ava would tell him to get out of her room. To leave her alone. He would remind her that she was only sixteen, and that under his roof, the rules were the rules. Back and forth it would go, each of them reciting his or her worn out lines. He needed to get her to that appointment so he let it go.

  In a shocking turn of events, Ava said none of these things. Still she expressed herself. When she threw her half-filled mug into the sink, the sound of glass shattering went right through her. Both hands flew to her temples. After running a shaky hand across her forehead, she brushed past Toby. With her backpack slung over her shoulder, she turned to him. “Well, are you coming?”

  Was he coming? Toby had all but admitted he was out of his league dealing with her, about to bring a professional stranger into the mix, and Ava barely made a show of resisting him.

  “It’s Tuesday. Don’t forget your guitar,” he said.

  Ava stopped for a moment above the open case. Her cherished instrument was a dark-sounding acoustic with rosewood back and sides, a slim tapered neck. When his daughter played—and standing there waiting for the next thing to happen, Toby couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard her—it was a guarantee that anyone listening would get lost in the beauty of the guitar’s full-bodied sound and Ava’s expertise with dynamics and tone.

  “I don’t have a lesson today. Miss Kelly’s gonna be out. Let’s just go.”

  So father and daughter climbed back into their quiet corners, and Toby drove toward Wellesley High.

  Ava got out of the car at the main entrance. Without a word or a look, she moved toward the double doors, disappearing into the sea of other teenagers.

  The admin office was bustling too. It was strange to see so many kids Ava’s age with so much energy moving about this early in the morning. Except for school days, Ava didn’t get going till after noon, one o’clock. Toby looked at his watch, then grabbed the Journal. The other times he’d had occasion to be in this office—to learn about PSATs or summer music programs—he’d waited twenty plus minutes.

  “Mr. Sedgwick,” the secretary said. “Right this way.”

  It
wasn’t until he crossed the threshold to the conference room that Toby realized this was no ordinary checkin to talk about crummy test scores and overdue projects. All but one seat was occupied at the round table. Tim Graham motioned for him to take a seat next to Ava’s music teacher. Not one person, including Miss Kelly, made eye contact.

  “We’re glad you could come in,” Tim said, crossing his hands over a stack of paper-clipped pages. Tim was a sharp guy who dressed well and spoke with confidence. He’d worked his way up from middle school guidance counselor to high school vice-principal. Everyone knew he had his eye on superintendent.

  “You’re making me nervous,” Toby said. “I thought this was about Ava’s grades.”

  “It is. It is,” Tim said. “As you know, they’ve dropped precipitously of late. In every class including music. I’ve known Ava since sixth grade and I’ve got to say there’s been a real change in her. She isn’t coming to school available to learn. Ava’s uncharacteristically quiet, and she’s spending a lot of time on the fringes. Frankly, Dad, she looks unwell.”

  Toby shifted in his seat, strangely enough, feeling blindsided. Things sounded so much worse put together, all laid out on the table. Sitting there, he did his best to imitate a father who knew what he was doing, when in truth he had no idea. If Lorraine were here, she’d know what to say, what to do about their daughter. All Toby had to go on was an ever-increasing series of confrontations and a heavy dose of dread.

  “We’d like to hear from you,” Tim said. “Is there anything you can think of that might account for the change in Ava? Up until the last several weeks, she’s been a model student. Ava’s always been so solid, such an all-around great kid.”

  Ava’s still a great kid, Toby wanted to say. His girl had never been difficult, not when she was two or twelve. Not even after Lorraine and Poppy died. Cautious, yes. Sensitive, certainly, but never trouble—or troubled. His girl was even-tempered, kind. The way she used to keep an eye on her sister, holding Poppy’s hand wherever the two of them went. It was an image Toby would never forget. Yet one he couldn’t afford to linger on at the moment.

  Up until recently, Toby would’ve said he and Ava got along okay. She didn’t open up to him like she did when she was little, but how many fathers and teenage daughters really talked? Everything was per usual until a random day back before the holidays when Ava just seemed different. Like a stereotypical adolescent who suddenly found her father to be a constant source of irritation.

  There was that argument about her less than stellar report card, and the times he’d smelled alcohol on her breath. At first when he’d confronted her, she’d made up seemingly harmless excuses. I just wanted to try it. No one had been driving. Ava had been convincing, and she promised to get her act together. In the beginning, Toby had let it go, chalking things up to what was normal for a girl her age.

  “I’m taking her to a counselor. This afternoon,” Toby said.

  “Oh, excellent. Ava’s willing to go then?”

  Toby couldn’t come out and say his daughter had actually agreed. He’d sound like an idiot if he told Tim and the teachers that he was counting on her lack of opposition as consent. “You seemed surprised,” Toby said.

  “I’ve talked to her about getting help,” the music teacher said. “Sorry to say, Ava hasn’t been terribly receptive.”

  North of sixty, Miss Kelly was on the verge of retirement. Toby imagined the woman was the butt of the snarkier kids’ jokes for her sweaters bedecked with musical notes and clef symbols, but Ava talked about her talented teacher like she was a rock star. Or at least she had when Ava talked to Toby about such things.

  As the woman spoke, he remembered Ava’s guitar sitting lonely on his daughter’s bedroom floor. “You’re in school. Does she have a lesson today?” Toby asked.

  “Yes, right after dismissal. Why?”

  Toby’s mind was on overdrive. Maybe Ava hadn’t put up a fight about counseling because she’d already been considering it, thanks to Miss Kelly. But why then, had she lied about not needing her guitar?

  “No reason,” Toby said. “Is there anything else? I’m getting the distinct impression there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “It might be a good idea to get to know Ava’s friends,” Tim said. “Tell her straight out about your concerns—and ours.” He slid the stack he’d been resting his hands on toward Toby. “Look, you’re a man of some means, so I’d be remiss if I didn’t make you aware of the resources available to you. If counseling goes well, terrific. But if you suspect Ava might benefit from something…more intensive, you’ll know what else is out there.”

  Toby accepted the stack of brochures. Something about the tagline on the top one—promising to teach children to stand up and reclaim their lives—put him off, but he found the pictures of smiling teenagers sitting around a campfire and hiking, the backdrop of the Adirondacks framing each shot, reassuring.

  “I’ll let you know how the appointment goes,” Toby said. “And thanks. I appreciate all of you looking out for Ava.”

  Heading to his car, Toby couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more Tim wasn’t saying. Of all the teachers at the meeting, only Miss Kelly spoke up. What were the rest of them doing there if not to talk of Ava’s academic death spiral? Was Toby expected to figure the subtext out on his own?

  He replayed the conversation word for word, searching for darker undertones. Ava looks unwell. She’s spending time on the fringes. You might want to get to know her friends. There was no arguing his daughter was going through a rough patch, but was Tim suggesting Ava took drugs? No, Toby told himself, he would’ve come right out with that. Now that Toby had kicked things into gear with this afternoon’s appointment, he would keep his high hopes pinned on the counselor visit.

  Then hope scaled the back fence of the football field. Toby didn’t believe it was Ava running from school property until a shock of red hair flying behind her betrayed her attempt to flee him.

  What the hell was she doing?

  Toby flew into panic mode, pulling his car out of the visitors’ lot. Almost too late, he spied a boy sneaking a cigarette behind a truck. After beeping at the kid, he floored it, desperate to get to the street that ran parallel to the high school, to find Ava before he lost her.

  Had Toby pushed her too far, or not far enough soon enough?

  By the time he got to Seaver Street, Ava was nowhere to be seen. Down one road, up the next, Toby tried to track her. He circled the grassy green of Wellesley Town Hall, then drove by the Free Library. No Ava. Toby had jumped into the deep with no idea where he was going.

  He rang her cell but, no surprise, she didn’t pick up. He made a mental list of the kids he should call. But they’d all be in school. Except Tim Graham as much as said Ava had new friends. Ones Toby didn’t know. Sketchy ones—if he was reading Tim right.

  After searching all the places he could come up with, Toby went to the police. A female cop sat behind a desk wolfing down a sub. Shreds of lettuce hung from the corner of her mouth as she spoke. “Take a number.”

  Incredulously, Toby looked around for some kind of dispenser. The cop cracked a smile. “It means wait your turn,” she said.

  “But there’s no one else here and it’s urgent. I need to speak to someone about my daughter.”

  “She dead or bleeding?”

  “God no, Ava took off from school and I need help to find her. She’s sixteen, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt.” Jesus, he was describing half of Wellesley High. “Ava’s got red hair. Here, I have a picture.” He pulled out his phone and called up a months-old picture of his daughter. Looking at Ava, so impossibly young, worry hammered him like a fist to his chest.

  “I can save you the wait,” she said. “You can fill out a report if you want to, but we don’t do runaways. Now, if you can prove she’s been kidnapped, well, then we can help.”

  Was she kidding? Toby had just told a cop Ava took off, did she really expect him to change his story in
order to get her to put down her goddamned sub? Dismissing her, Toby ran from the station to get back behind the wheel.

  Fear flattened time as he drove around and around, through Wellesley into Needham, toward Newton. Without credible guesses for where his daughter might be, Toby drove blind.

  Hours into his search, he went home in hopes Ava had snuck back in while he’d been out looking for her. No such luck. Back out he went. Driving down side roads, up favorite streets. By cafés and gift shops, behind bookstores and bagel joints. Anywhere he could think that she might go.

  By the second nightfall, after he’d missed the appointment with the counselor and canceled dinner with his foundation’s wealthiest donor, Toby was wrecked, distraught over thoughts of Ava braving the cold, by now hungry and afraid. He couldn’t stop his mind from imagining her being someplace dangerous, doing something stupid.

  Fighting to keep his eyes on the road, Toby hunted the glove compartment for a stray roll of Tums. When he had two discs crushed to chalk in his mouth, he tried Ava’s cell for the umpteenth time. One ring and like all the other times, the call went to voicemail. “You know what to do,” Ava said, her lyrical voice betraying the trouble she was in.

  Toby told himself it had to work out. Ava would be okay. Try telling that to the peptic acid snaking its way up the back of his throat.

  Willing his daughter to pick up, he dialed her again. At this point Toby would’ve been happy to listen to his daughter complain about him breathing, or existing. With no clue where else to look, with no family to call, there was nothing to do but go home. Never had being a single father felt so solitary.

  When he opened the door to their rambling home, all lights still off, he called out anyway. “Ava? You here?”

  Room to room he went, turning on lamps, praying he’d find his daughter sprawled on the couch or upstairs, safe and sound in her bed.

  As Toby reached the bottom of the stairs that led to her room, blue light filled the foyer. Round and round it circled his head, dizzying him, frightening him. Toby watched a police cruiser pull into his driveway. Time stopped as he watched the cop step on to the pavement, and then reach inside the back seat to haul his daughter out.