Chapter Text
While everyone else unanimously agrees that their manager seems to have a thirst for blood, Anthony disagrees ; clearly, the man just needs a friend. And he intends to be that friend for him.
Progress has been, for the lack of a better term, slow . But he’s learned all kinds of patience. Not to be overly confident, but when Anthony sets his mind to something, he can accomplish it in no time. His mother taught him how to wait his turn and to treat other people with kindness. Johanna taught him about how scared people can be and how he can rub their back or whisper comforting things to them. If he learns something new from his manager, then all the better! Think about how many more people he can help that way.
No matter how quickly he rearranges set-ups, his manager barely acknowledges it with a grunt. His window displays are done with the utmost precision and his manager shoves a broom at him. Not that it’s a bad thing. Anthony is here to work , after all. Sometimes he demands that he cleans the men’s facilities and he does! Even if it’s not his job.
The only reason Anthony needs to rearrange the books to Waterstone’s “Bestsellers in front with a few classics splashed in” policy is because he lets Johanna make her out little setups sometimes. She understands it when he has to put them back to as-before. On occasion, she’s helped him with it before sneaking off back to her flat, but it doesn’t make Anthony any less deflated when they have to put them away. Not that he would dare tell his manager, but Johanna treats book arrangement as an art and she creates masterpieces.
Tonight he’s already cleaned the men’s facilities. The books are in their proper places. His co-workers are grinning at him over the pack of Digestives he brought in. Maybe later, he’ll try asking them again about why their manager is always in such a foul mood when he works at a bookstore . Before working here, Johanna always talked about how lovely employees who work with books are. If he got to the bottom of it, Anthony might even figure out a way to help him love his job. Everyone deserves a job they love.
When the backdoor’s nob jiggles along with the sound of keys, Anthony preps himself into position: holding a book up to a shelf to place it there. The box at his feet is mostly empty. It’s nearly eight and he won’t say a thing about him not coming in all day when he was supposed to.
His manager wears a crusty frown as he enters. Anthony pushes the book’s spine into place before picking up another copy. When he senses that his manager is close, he glances over his shoulder.
“Mr. Tanner! I’m just about done–”
“There’s nobody in here,” Mr. Tanner interrupts. Anthony glances his shoulder. The shop does seem to be empty, but are they certain? He would hate to lock anyone inside– “We’re ten minutes to closing anyway,” Mr. Tanner continues and Anthony decides he must have looked when his back was turned. “ Just close up. I’m done here.”
Well, there’s always next time, Anthony tells himself. His co-workers seem happy at least, as they stuff loose objects into purses or backpacks. He reminds Gina in a whisper to keep her phone out of her back pocket when she’s out in the city. Soon, all of them are out the door, thanking him for locking up–which he hadn’t technically volunteered to do, but he was happy to anyway. Seven minutes to eight, he has the key in his hands.
Six minutes to eight, there’s a man pushing open the door. Anthony beams and gestures for him to pull.
The man frantically runs into the store. Anthony slides the key into his front jean pocket. Well, they don’t technically close for another five minutes. Who is he to deprive a book lover of the sequel they desperately need? If someone slammed the door closed on Johanna’s face before she could get the book she wanted, she would be devastated .
Anthony casually makes his way back to the checkout desk, reawakening the computer and stretching out his fingers. The man practically runs to the desk. Anthony smiles again.
“Where’s your legal section? Or the–family section?”
“Both will probably be on floor one,” Anthony says, “Behind fiction. You’ll find family first. They’re arranged alphabetically.”
Even before he applied, he’d memorized the layouts of about every Waterstone’s in the area. Bringing her to any bookstore made Johanna twirl her hair and go off on little rambles as she was unable to contain her excitement. He would cross the ocean just to see her smile. The least he could do was take her to see books. She showed him all of them. Young Adult and children’s in the basement. Bestsellers and hardcover fiction with a few classics sprinkled in when someone first enters the store. Fiction A-Z on the first story and some non-fiction–
The man darts away again without a word.
Though tempted to get out his phone, Anthony waits for him. Mr. Tanner wouldn’t like it much if he knew his employee was scrolling through missed texts when a customer could witness that. Instead, his gaze wanders out the window, beyond the display centered around Victor Hugo’s daughter, to the streets of London. He’d looked out for Johanna a few hours ago as she headed towards the library. It upsets him more than he’d care to admit when he can’t walk her back home. Even if she requested that he drop her off a few blocks away. He always watched to make sure she got in through the door alright. It’s not like he can call her either. Tomorrow, Anthony will greet her at school at their usual spot and he’ll ask her if she got home alright and how the library was.
He hopes the Fogg’s aren’t bad tonight.
He hopes she sleeps.
Five books slam down in front of him. Jerking his attention away from the window, Anthony begins scanning each title.
Seven Core Issues in Adoption and Permanency by Allison Maxon. The Primal Wound by Nancy Verrier. Three Little Words by Ashley Rhodes-Courter. Annulment and Adoption by Christine Fry. Understanding the English Courtroom by Rich Richmond.
Usually, Anthony is stationed in the front or near the fiction sections. His co-workers tell him that he’s the nicest out of all of them. The best for customers to be greeted by. He isn’t sure if he is–all of them are quite lovely people, too. But it isn’t difficult to catch onto the general theme of his selection.
No wonder this man is so frantic. He’s adopting .
Smile grows into a grin and Anthony has to stop himself from reaching around the desk and embracing the man. His beard looks like one of a father, yes, and he has grays. Has he and his partner been trying for a baby for so long but it hasn’t worked out so they’ve realized their real mission in life is to adopt? Or maybe, he never got around to settling down, but it doesn’t cease his ache for a child. Either way, it makes a beautiful story. Anthony can easily see this stranger holding an infant or teaching a toddler how to walk.
Anthony immediately likes him.
“Congratulations, sir!” he exclaims as he stacks them into a paper bag. He grins even wider as he passes it over to him. “And good luck! I’m sure it’ll go amazingly!”
The customer takes the bag with a crooked brow. Anthony nods, assuring him of his decision. It’s the right one to make, that he’s sure of.
As the man leaves and Anthony can finally lock up, he hopes that he’ll come back. He can lay out a few books on parenting for him and maybe if they become close enough, he’ll tell him about the kid he adopted.
Anthony stuffs his hands in his pockets and begins home, content with how giving and beautiful humanity is.
White-knuckle grip on the bag, he moves throughout the city like a thief. Nothing belongs to you , chants in his head over and over again when he’s on the tube. Not the clothes on his back. Not his bed. Not even a bar of soap.
As his station is announced, he feels stares on his back as he exits the train. He doesn’t check to see if they actually are looking. London is a dangerous city. Another, bigger prison. This city isn’t somewhere he and a group of men can ban together and riot until so-called superiors realize their mistakes. There are no bars to rattle. No fellow jumpsuits to nod at. No one on the outside is looking in as they tell their own stories.
His Majesty’s Prison Service was hell. London isn’t much better.
It isn’t until he’s inside his flat that he feels safe enough to look at the books. Benjamin made his choices quickly and without a second glance, as if afraid someone might rip them out of his hands. There weren’t many titles about annulling an adoption. Which, he realizes now, shouldn’t have been terribly surprising.
He opens the first book. With half a thought that Lucy would have been disappointed in him for cracking the spine, he begins reading.
(Lucy would’ve spoken to the lawyer for him. Lucy came once. Lucy tried to reach for his hand. They yelled. Lucy promised to fix this. Lucy was going to kiss him as soon as she could.)
His lips are dry.
He flips to the chapter on legalities. Surely, annulling an adoption is just like adopting his child back.
Benjamin scowls at the thought. It’s been haunting him ever since he learned what happened to Johanna. Adopting her back. His daughter is exactly that: his daughter .
That ugly festering couldn’t stay locked up in his chest for long. There’s a bitter taste in his mouth from the judicial system, but he could sacrifice having a few conversations if it means getting his daughter back.
Mostly, Benjamin sat upright in his chair, as if he was being served dinner in the cafeteria and the other prisoners were sneaking glances at him and his plate. Slightly bent, ready to fight.
He wondered why the pictures his lawyer has on his desk are turned towards him.
They were facing the lawyer the first time he was there. Today, he could see the smiling faces of kids and a dog.
“Well,” Brian Hammond said. His chair squeaked as he turned to face Benjamin. “We’ve gotten you this far. These kinds of cases don’t pop up all that often, but we might as well try, agreed?”
Benjamin’s teeth gritted together, like a bear preparing to lunge at a deer. “I’m getting her back.”
Mr. Hammond’s eyes peered at the corner of his computer screen. “Like I said, we’ll try.” He went on to type something. Look at something. Benjamin hoped it was relevant to the case and he wasn’t looking at something that would destroy his family and marriage. Those pictures weren’t facing him anymore . “You seem to be the perfect contender for this sort of case. There was a serious error of law with her adoption, the adoption procedures weren’t followed correctly, birth parent’s consent–”
Benjamin stood. Even sitting, he was taller than Mr. Hammond, but standing turns him more into the predator: I’m in control . He was not the prey. None of his fellow inmates sat during the riot. Despite the pact that none of them got hurt, they never forget who they were surrounded by. They never forget all the mocking from the guards. They had the upper-hand. They weren’t afraid to sneer and show it.
“ Contender? My daughter was taken away from me fifteen years ago and you’re just calling me a contender? This isn’t one of your lawsuits, Hammond, this is my daughter and–”
“--Birth parents consent not given, illegal-slash-unlawful adoption, adoptive parent failed a welfare need, the list goes on.” Mr. Hammond looked up, as if just then realizing his client’s new position. “I’m telling you that you’ve got a good case on your hands. You're welcome.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me that? ” Benjamin snapped, “Instead you called me a contender and went through–”
“Look, my youngest is around the same age. I would feel the same way if I was in the same boat. Sit down, Mr. Barker. Let’s behave like gentlemen.”
He didn’t sit. He could see a crumpled art project in Hammond’s bin. There was the figure of what he assumed to be Hammond and another of a girl next to him. She could be his daughter’s age.
When Hammond looked back from his screen, he glanced Benjamin over twice and shrugged. “We’ll need to proceed with the social worker assigned to your case. Obviously. You’ve met Mrs. Wilson?”
“We made an appointment for me to see my daughter.”
“Over the phone?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Hammond tapped at his down key several times. Benjamin made a fist to stop himself from ripping that monitor away from him. “I’ll give her a call, too, to get this thing all sorted. Do you know where your daughter is now?”
Innocent or not, a convict still wore orange for the majority of fifteen years. He still threw a few punches. He still spat blood into a small sink. His survival depended on it. Innocent or not, no one tells him anything.
“I’m seeing her on the thirteenth.”
Mr. Hammond narrowed his eyes. “Mrs. Wilson?”
“My daughter.”
“I see.” Hammond sat back and clasped his hands over his round belly. “Is that all you know? You don’t know where they’re keeping her?”
“No one’s told me anything.”
“Hmm.”
They sat in silence.
“Hmm,” the lawyer mumbled again, breaking the silence, “She was removed from Phillip Turpin’s care and placed under the custody of a group home. Her foster parents are… Jonas and Ann Fogg.”
Jonas and Ann Fogg.
Benjamin hated them.
Why shouldn’t he? He got out of prison. The judge was arrested. His daughter should be his instead. Not staying with complete strangers. There shouldn’t be this entire process. She should have been waiting for him when he was released. He should have gotten to greet her with an embrace and close his eyes, knowing that he had his girl in his arms again. The way it always should have been.
“Where do they live?”
Mr. Hammond looked at him from over his glasses. The same way the judge looked at him before locking him away for a decade and a half on a false charge. (Is he about to do it again? Sentence him to life without his daughter?) “I’m not authorized to give you that information.”
Why did Benjamin have the feeling that he made that up?
Was he jealous of the efforts he was going through to get his own daughter back? While Hammond threw his daughter’s art work away and dedicated himself to–what? porn? online gambling? Is he envious of his devotion as a father?
Benjamin finally sat back down. Fine. The first and last names of these so-called parents could be enough to get by anyway.
“In the meantime, we are done here.” Hammond glanced at his screen once more before turning it off. “Good day, Mr. Barker.”
“We’re done here? We haven’t even gotten started!”
“Lunch break.” Hammond grabbed his jacket from its place draped over the seat. “This was just a consultation meeting, so I could figure out if I should waste my time or not. You can schedule our next appointment with my secretary.”
The lawyer wasn’t any help. And now, the books in front of him aren’t proving to be any either. He’s tempted to throw the one in his hands. Why is there a whole chapter about consoling the “birth parent” when there isn’t one about the so-called “birth parent” ( real parent, he tells himself) getting their kid back?
An image of the judge reading one of these as his daughter wobbled on unsteady knees in the other room pops into his mind.
He settles for slamming the book on his kitchen table, making the legs of it wobble.
Benjamin grabs another from the pile. It’s getting late, but instead of taking it to bed, he wanders.
The flat isn’t much, but slowly, it’s become home. Nowhere will ever be their flat on Fleet Street. He can’t go back if he’s not greeted by Lucy’s laughter, like he was when he got home from class. A mindless, yet alright-enough salary job as a carpenter has gotten him this far. There’s a sofa that’s been broken-in a few meters away. A coffee table that he plans on keeping fresh flowers on once he finds out what his daughter’s favorite is. A practical kitchen. The two bedrooms: one with nothing but a bed and dresser for him and then, there’s her room.
His daughter will be able to change anything she wants, of course. This is just a starting point. A pink bedspread that reminds him of her Easter outfit that Lucy made for her. A small bookshelf with room for her to stack her favorites onto. Baby pictures with delicate frames on the walls. And his favorite item from the second-hand store: a graceful white vanity against the window. A little old-fashioned, perhaps compared to the other ones he saw, but Benjamin fell in love at first glance. His daughter would sit there, brushing her hair and talking on the cell with a friend. Just like he remembers Lucy doing at her vanity.
He has his eyes on rosebud wallpaper for when they get a landlord that will allow them to put it up. The white walls remind him of a cell. There aren’t bars and a key for his daughter; just the first taste of freedom.
For both of them.
Benjamin finds himself settling down on the bed with another one of the books in his hands. If he squints, he can pretend that life is going the way it was supposed to go and he’s reading a bedtime story to her.
London isn’t known for tropical, bright days. Early Januarys cause one to feel brisk just by looking out a window at the city. Her now hour-long commute between the house and school don’t help her feel any more comfortable.
However, the end truly is the worst part of the journey. Johanna holds her breath as she passes the sofa with the sprawled-out body of Mrs. Fogg on it. If she wakes the women, she’ll be in as much trouble as most parents punish their children for failing a class.
She won’t have to step lightly up the stairs in a little while. Johanna places her backpack next to her bed.
In a few days, she’ll be meeting her father.
Father.
The word rings in her ears as she creeps towards the facilities. That’s what her guardian told her to call him once. Father . While she never did or ever even consider him to be anything more informal than “sir” or “guardian,” she imagines him when she hears that word.
Not whatever stranger is waiting for her.
She bends to become level with the bath’s faucet (which isn’t terribly difficult for a girl her height), but before she can turn it, she hears,
“Another? You’ll use up all the hot water.”
Heart stops in her chest. It’s not Mrs. Fogg. Just one of the other foster girls.
“It’s cold.” Johanna turns her head. “My fingers are half-frozen.”
Naomi doesn’t seem to believe her fibs anyway. Too much time in the system, she had told her once. It was late at night. Johanna doesn’t think Naomi remembers admitting to that. It’s a quiet shame. She was too afraid to ask further questions.
Johanna used to be a good liar. The housekeeper was convinced that she spent every afternoon after school at the library–which wasn’t a complete lie–but she met Anthony there. Whether they stayed or not, Mrs. Eastman didn’t have a clue of the places she actually went. Her guardian was completely none the wiser. He still doesn’t know about Anthony.
Either she is still a good liar and Naomi could be a detective or she’s crumbled in her skill.
Naomi looks her over with a look that screams “it’s your funeral.” She leaves with a mumble about not waking “Ms. Nurse.” Perhaps, the nickname will make her chuckle one day. For now, it makes her flinch.
Things hadn’t been as bad until Mrs. Fogg got fired. With no one to blame it on, she selected her target: the foster children. Of course, she was slacking in her job! She has so many children that she’d taken in from the grace of her own heart. Before, Johanna was just trying to avoid her husband when he got home from his practice. Now, it’s a competition between the two of them: who can leave more bruises on their foster children’s skin?
Johanna doesn’t know any of them very well. It was the day after Christmas when her guardian (not her guardian anymore) was arrested. Her suitcase was already packed. The welfare worker introduced the Fogg’s to her and they showed her their empty room. Johanna always imagined unpacking that bag in Paris with Anthony going over their itinerary on the bed. Instead of checking into a hotel, each of the foster children snuck a glance into the room. Not to get a good look at her; they were looking at the suitcase. Later Johanna realized most of them only had a black trash bag.
Naomi’s trash bag is already packed, prepared for when she turns eighteen in three weeks. The sky and her bare wallet are her limits. Instead of football or chess club, her extracurricular was looking for roommates and checking newspapers for available flats.
The other two girls are younger than them. Sheree, whose face is covered in acne scars and hair worn in long braids and Mary Jane, who is in her same year at school, but Johanna suspects they rarely talk outside of sharing a room.
Toby is the only boy. She gets the impression neither of the Foggs are very happy with this arrangement. At fourteen-years-old, he holds an internship and a job. Johanna isn’t sure if either of them are legal. When she tried to point that out to him, he began fidgeting and dismissed it. The next second, he was busily chatting as he adjusted his sock from slipping.
If she was curious about it, Johanna could ask her biological father if they were planning on having any more children. (And… part of her is . But it isn’t a very polite question, is it? Is it? ) Between the questions she asks about the pie stand Toby works at and conversations about whatever Wikipedia article he read at school, she thinks she’s gotten a taste of being an older sister. She’s glad she’s an only child. That there wasn’t a mysterious brother or sister too. If they weren’t a mystery, she doesn’t know if she could have protected them from her guardian. She couldn’t even protect herself, how could she live unable to protect them?
She shuts off the faucet. The bath isn’t more than five centimeters filled, but she could hear a door closing with the gentleness one would use when feeding a bird. It’s more than one pair of feet. Sheree and Mary Jane. Still holding her breath, she turns the faucet back. There’s other facilities for them to use if need be or they can wait. No one else hardly uses this one anymore.
Johanna dreamed again last night. Dream is too pretty a word. She imagines those are the types of fantasies people as good as Anthony see when they rest their heads.
Sometimes Johanna sees memories. The same feeling of a fist squeezing her heart and the same nausea grip at her. Sometimes, the nightmares bring visions of things she’s ever experienced, but claw at her lungs nonetheless.
There are tear stains on the pillowcase. She never wakes up screaming like she’s heard Mary Jane do. Just a red face when she dares to glance in the mirror and lines under her eyes after not going back to sleep.
And the feeling of hands. The feeling of dirt.
Last night, she was fourteen years old again and wearing a nightgown. She saw the blood. The way her hands quivered. She blames it on having seen Anthony so little yesterday. Between him having to make up a test during lunch and work, there were only a few minutes for them in between. Anthony is her constant. Always there to steady her, especially now. Without him, she was falling.
At 3:46 AM, she started a shower. Six minutes later, she heard Mr. Fogg getting up. Through blind panic, she switched it off and sat completely naked on a towel until she heard footsteps in the master bedroom. There wasn’t time to comb out her hair, yet a few curls escaped her. The drain isn’t too clogged though, she’s sure.
Right?
Hand pauses over the knob lock.
All she can hear is her guardian’s key slipping into it and closing the door on her.
Not today. She can try the lock again tomorrow. No one is going to walk in on someone when they’re clearly in the bath .
Her guardian did.
Sometimes Mr. Fogg does, too.
He isn’t home now, Johanna , she tells herself as she slips off her jumper and folds it on the floor. No one is coming-
The door opens.
She turns the faucet off.
How didn’t she hear the footsteps?
Mrs. Fogg sighs. Johanna grabs her sweater.
“Do you think we have a million pounds laying around for our water bill?” Another sigh. Mrs. Fogg comes up behind her, grabbing her by the hair. Johanna doesn’t dare to turn around, but keeps her jumper in the corner of her sight. “Drain it. Jonas said you already showered today. You’re clean enough.”
She isn’t. Can’t Mrs. Fogg see the dirt in the cracks of her skin?
An airiness fills her head as Johanna reaches into the water and tugs at the drain. The water begins to disappear, but slower than normal.
It had been too dark earlier to tell if she’d gotten all the hair out. She thought she had, she thought –
Hopefully Mrs. Fogg won’t notice?
Without letting go of her hair, she dives a hand in the water before shrieking and pulling it out. She curses. “That’s hot! Was the plan to burn your skin off?”
Johanna hadn’t noticed it was that hot. It felt fine to her.
Mrs. Fogg found her bravery soon enough again and went back in. When her hand comes back, her fingers clutch onto several strands of hair, the same shade as the curls in her other grip. Johanna’s heart sinks to her stomach. She thought –
She’d thought wrong.
“Was this your plan, too? Were you going to clog it up and waste all of our money on a plummer and–”
The side of the tub nears and before she can cry out, her forehead hits it.
Her head is dragged on the edge of the tub.
“--Little rich girl–”
And her head is below water.
Mouth opens as if to scream, but bitter soap-suds and water fills her throat.
Mrs. Fogg is just upset, she doesn’t know–
She’ll pull her up–
There’s still no air.
Hands protest against the porcelain, but her fingers are as heavy as a golden cage. Mrs. Fogg shoves her shoulders in after her.
Arms flail against the porcelain. Help! Help! Help!
Finally, cold air bites at her cheeks. Eyes stinging, chest burning, she attempts to breathe it in.
But Mrs. Fogg doesn’t look any happier.
“You know what?” Her voice rises to a shrill. Despite the water trapped in her ear, it makes her grimace. “Just take the stupid bath. You win .”
Her guardian did the same thing. Be lazy and read the book instead. Hurt his feelings and stay home from the party. Fine, don’t meet him at the courthouse .
( Trap! Trap! Trap!)
Mrs. Fogg reaches around her, unclasping her bra. Johanna wraps her arms around her body, trying to keep it in place.
Mrs. Fogg scowls, moving closer to her ear. “Jonas will like that. He tells me your breasts are better than mine. Let’s see if that’s–”
As she is thrust back into the tub, she is weaponless. Arms preoccupied with keeping her one layer of dignity. Hair tumbling around her. Instead of feeling like her little sense of freedom, her curls become prison bars around her.
Vision dims. Isn’t there supposed to be a light before someone dies?
Or is that only for those going to Heaven?
Her chin hits the side of the tub. She can feel air. As much as she wants to draw in a deep breath, her mouth feels as if she swallowed a bird and they clawed at her throat to try to escape and her mouth is still drowning.
Hands are limp before she remembers how scantily clothed she is. It doesn’t take much to encourage Mr. Fogg. Weakly, she spreads her fingers over her chest.
She cannot see Mrs. Fogg, but feels her push her body onto the ground and knows its her shoe rolling her onto her stomach. She attempts to open her eyes, body strained by two tasks that she can usually do naturally. She coughs. Eyelids flutter. Finally, they open.
It is Mrs. Fogg’s heel that slams into her back.
It is her spine filling her body with a sharp pain.
She feels the heel again.
Then nothing.
“ What? ”
It is the roar of a lion. He is more animal than man now, dedicated to protecting his family to clawing a predator’s throat out. At the moment, the welfare worker feels like a predator.
A prolonged sigh. “ Mis-ter Bar-ker ,” she draws out and he knows that she’s pinching her nose like his mother used to do when he came home past curfew, “I don’t know what to tell you. That’s what her foster mother told me. Your daughter is sick. She’ll miss the appointment. What else do you want?”
“Why can’t we just–?”
“Why can’t we just what ? What could you possibly have in mind? She’s sick. You want to make her worse by dragging her out in the middle of winter and force her to hang out with you? Sounds like the last thing a teenage girl would want. Sick, cold and spending quality time with her father.”
Benjamin’s teeth grit. They won’t be like that. They’ll be just as close as they once were.
He doesn’t think about the fact that the last time he saw her, his daughter was only an infant.
“When–” Benjamin takes a sharp breath “-when does she want to reschedule for?”
“I don’t know yet. I don’t know about you, but I rather we wait until she isn’t contagious anymore.”
Benjamin would risk any illness if it means spending a second with her.
“How serious is it? I could go to the Fogg’s instead and–”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr. Barker.” Mrs. Wilson snaps her gum. “In this case, it’ll be better for all of us if we’re in a more public setting. Just in case…well…”
“Just in case what? ”
Mrs. Wilson sighs as if her accusations were anything but vague. “In case you try to steal her or something. Who knows what you might’ve picked up on when you were in prison. You could’ve been cellmates with a child kidnapper.”
And he has to force himself not to throw the phone.
(Deep breaths, deep breaths. Just imagine Lucy is helping him through it. Just imagine he’s talking to his counselor about changing a class instead of talking to a social worker to get his daughter back. That scenario doesn’t exactly help. One is too high-stakes. Just imagine Lucy .)
“Can I call her?” His voice is no longer one of a predator. It is weak . “Or have you call her? So I can talk to her?”
“She sounded bad, Mr. Barker. I don’t know if she’ll even want to talk.”
He’s not sure if Mrs. Wilson even spoke to her. And if she had… why didn’t he get to speak to his own daughter? Even for a single word, he would drop everything for her.
“Tell me the moment they decide to let me see her. The moment . I don’t care if you hang up on them.”
He can hear an eye-roll in her tone. “Fine. Good–”
He hangs up.
Her chest burns, but it is the feeling of a knife in her back that overwhelms. Nausea bubbles in her stomach, yet she can’t focus on the sensation. Is her spine broken? It can’t be . Wouldn’t that mean she’s dead? Oh, is she dead?
When her eyelids flicker open, she is alone. The room she was assigned to slowly becomes less fuzzy. The broken door of the small closet, the musty duvet and mustier cover, her backpack against the wall. This is her room. This is the Fogg’s house. When she moves her hand, (trying not to cry), her hair is dry.
It usually takes about two hours for her hair to dry. That means it’s probably the next morning? She glances at the mirror. Looking at the reflection of the sun, it must be. But it’s the sun . Johanna begins to get ready for school hours before its start time. Between styling her hair and the commute, she takes advantage of every second. It must be about eleven AM now.
And she’s missed school.
Once she finds a clock, she can figure out how late she is. For now, her focus is being ready for it.
Her hand slides down the covers and wraps around the sheets as she attempts to sit up.
One, two, three.
She can’t.
It’s probably the blanket. Her body suddenly recognizes it as an obstacle. That is, right? She probably hit her head, too, (she can worry about that later).
Johanna pushes the sheets away with arms that feel like weights.
She looks down. She’s wearing the same thing that she was wearing when Mrs. Fogg confronted her. Bra straps barely clinging to her body and all. Her skirt is dry, pushed up to her thighs. Socks are about to slip off her toes.
Something squirms inside her chest. As much as she tries to tell herself that it’s a relief no one tried to change her, something about this feels wrong. Mr. Fogg hadn’t…Not when she was like that …He wouldn’t …
That doesn’t matter now, Johanna reminds herself. She needs to get up.
It proves to be a mistake.
As she tries to pull herself up, the pain flies throughout her limbs, cascading to her fingertips, ending at her toes. Johanna bends over and can’t bring herself to lay back. Curls fall around her face, tickling her back and cheeks. She’s going to be sick.
Pain eventually subsides. Or, at least transfers itself to around her waist and hips and spine. It never leaves her spine. She can practically hear a clock ticking, even if there isn’t one in this entire house that isn’t digital. It’s fine. She’s already late to school. Someone will be able to call in to explain her absence during her morning classes for her. The first name that comes to mind is Mrs. Fogg. If she wasn’t afraid of it rattling her bones, she would laugh at the prospect.
If she turns a little, her feet will find the floor. She’ll twist her matted hair into a braid if it can handle that or she can tie it to the nape of her neck. Whatever clean sweater and skirt she finds first will do.
Mrs. Fogg is usually downstairs at this point on the weekend. Why would she be any different today?
On the count of three, Johanna swings one foot over the side of the bed. Her torso leans closer to the sheets. One arm reaches for the wall and she grits her teeth. The other is at the same position as the day before, circled around her breasts. Her guardian had a hole in the wall. She’s still trying to find the hole in the wall here. Or perhaps, Mr. Fogg was more fond of secret cameras. Either way, she gets dressed in the closet and has her hiding spots.
She grunts. The fingers tucked under her arm are shaking underneath. She attempts to move the other foot to no avail. Eyelids squeeze shut. Her teeth sink into her lower lip and she tastes blood.
The door opens. There’s a small whimper. Johanna knows it has to have been her.
Mrs. Fogg doesn’t say anything, just pushes her back on the bed. Johanna wonders if that finally cracked her spine.
When she opens her eyes, all she can see is her guardian.
Vulture eyes stare down at her as if she is a fresh corpse. His cologne sticks in her throat and his hands are perfectly smooth after throwing a gavel down all day. When he pins her down like this, she knows where his other hand is going. She doesn’t even have the strength to twist her legs together.
But her vision clears. It’s Mrs. Fogg over her. Not her guardian.
Then she remembers the bathtub.
Another whimper. She could feel it this time. A pathetic hum against her lips.
“You’re on bedrest for a while. Just lay down–” She shoves her hand against her shoulder again to make a point “--Don’t get up. It’s bad. Sleep or whatever. I don’t care. I got medication. Strong stuff. I stole it from the hospital.”
Mrs. Fogg opens her jaw for her, shoves a pill in and follows it with a slash of water that mostly gets on her face. Swallowing the pill raw distracts her briefly from her back. Another pill before she screws the cap back on and sets the glass of water on the farside of the bedside table. Out of reach.
“Oh, forgot one thing,” Mrs. Fogg says as she leans against the doorframe, “I canceled your whole meeting or whatever with your father. You’re sick. Got it? You’ll be sick for a long time. I’ve been calling you out of school.”
“Oh.” If she could, Johanna would wince at how hoarse her voice was. Barely a word and it made her throat sore. “How long will it be?”
“A long time.” She begins to close the door. “Make sure you heal up. Daddy’s waiting for ya.”
Mrs. Fogg closed the door.
Anthony is waiting for her at school. Had he panicked when she wasn’t at their spot? Is he asking around, trying to figure out what happened to her? (She doesn’t want him to worry… but knowing that he is worrying sends a delightful spark through her chest. He really does love her. )
She’ll find a way to call him. Somehow.
Though, if her back hurts this much just laying down , she doesn’t know how she’s going to manage sneaking around to use a mobile phone.
Her heart stops as she realizes that it took all of this pain to have a dreamless sleep. Has her reality become a nightmare enough for her mind to give her a break at night? Still, she closes her eyes.
Benjamin still doesn’t know what happened to most of their things. If they’re in a storage facility, all of it must have been auctioned off by now. Who would pay its rent? Everything of his wife’s is gone. Disappeared to second-hand stores. He doesn’t care much about his items from the past, but he wishes he had at least something of hers. Something for him to see and be able to pretend for a moment that she is still alive.
And he wishes he could lay one of his daughter’s baby blankets on her bed. His wife made all of them. He can still picture one or two, his favorites. One with lambs playing in a field surrounded by pink trim. The other painted a picture of turtledoves flapping their wings against their sky. The other side of the blanket was…yellow. Yes, the same shade as Lucy’s hair. The same color as their daughter’s, too. He’s sure of it. Benjamin used to hold it up to his face before work just to remember her milky newborn scent before trudging off to class.
As he strolls through a department store, a similar pattern catches his eye. He picks up a throw blanket. Obviously, not meant for infants, but it has the same exact shades as those old blankets. Yellow, pink, cream. There’s little doves, wings spread, flying over the blanket.
Already, he can see her wrapped up in it.
Benjamin buys it without a second thought. He feels like a victorious general as he carefully spreads it across the bed.
He doesn’t think twice about how he imagined his daughter as a baby in this blanket.
Laying on her back, she counts the footsteps on the stairs.
One, two, then a pause. It lasts four seconds before they begin again. Three, four, five. Another pause. Six. A pause before the rest.
That was Mary Jane. When she doesn’t have anyone to help her up the stairs, her limp prevents her from taking more than a few at a time. Something she gathered from observation. Johanna doesn’t ask questions.
The only reason she knows anything about Toby is because he approached her, rambling about something and wringing his hands with such enthusiasm, she began to fear he would dry his skin to the bone. All of the information about a specific kind of model truck came all at once. He would burst if he didn’t tell someone soon. Though she barely said a word back to him, he started bringing home pies for her from the stand he works at. Johanna hadn’t the heart to tell him that she doesn’t like steak or eel pie (or any kind of meat pie… or that she can’t eat if she wants to be thin). She gave them to Sheree who is always starving.
Toby’s biggest problem, Johanna thinks, is how ready his heart always is. It works with his brain to fall in love with niche topics and opens his mouth to tell someone he barely knows all about it. Excitement unable to be contained, his heart commands his hands to twist and turn and make his listener wonder if the bones will snap.
He’s only fourteen. A boy like him can’t survive the foster system. Even she can see that.
She can hear him now. His footsteps creak among the floorboards. His footsteps are always quick, something he claims he got from work. She wonders if it’s the pie stand or the internship. Or something from before. She can’t imagine anyone hiring a thirteen-year-old . However, he got the job and the internship at fourteen is beyond her.
The Foggs obviously don’t like him. There are slurs from their lips every time he passes them. Toby just smiles his wide-gaped grin and quickly walks away.
Once his footsteps have gotten him upstairs, she stops counting them. Her shoulders jolt when he swings the door open and pain ripples throughout. She didn’t need Mrs. Fogg to tell her not to make any sudden movements.
Johanna is able to lift herself up now. She does soon, covering herself with the sheets to her collarbone. A few days ago, she was able to get out of the now wrinkled skirt and put on the only night clothes she has: a white nightgown that she absolutely hates. A reminder of her guardian that she wears to bed. Sometimes when she glances at the hem, she sees it ripped like that one night all those years ago. She has to trace her fingers over it to remind herself that night is over.
“Feral parakeets are a’ introduced bird to Great Britain and they breed fast. They–”
“Parakeets?” her tone hardly ever sounds this hopeful. A smile spreads across her lips. “I love birds.”
Toby hums and begins to rub his hands together. “I know.” He nears her, closing the door behind him. She winces and wishes he turned the knob instead of just slamming it. “Some of the parakeets escaped from the set of The African Queen and flew through the city.”
“--Some escaped from a pet shop on Sunbury-on-Thames in 1970.”
She doesn’t mean to interrupt him, but her smile grows. She memorized every detail of the case of feral parakeets in London when she was eleven, laughing in the library at the bird’s antics and wondering why they would stay in London when they could go anywhere.
“Yeah!” Toby beams.
“How do you know I love birds?”
He takes something out of his pocket and places it on the nightstand. Not a pie. It’s an unfamiliar product from what she guesses is from his school’s vending machine. “Cause you look at ‘em. I saw you throwing seeds to pigeons once and no one likes them. You’d have to really like birds to feed the pigeons.”
“And you’re leaving soon. Aren’t’cha?”
Johanna blinks. How does he know that? “I haven’t even met… him yet. I don’t know when I’m leaving.”
“Your dad?” Toby rocks on his heels. “Mine left me.”
So did mine . But not really. She knows that now. It’s hard to remember that he wants to see her. Wants her to be his daughter.
She doesn’t know how to be a daughter. She doesn’t know how to have a father.
“I don’t know when I’m leaving,” she repeats.
“I’ll miss you when you’re with your dad. I’ll learn all about the birds.”
A weak smile. Toby is already quivering from the excitement of learning something new.
An ache hollows out her chest. She’s going to miss him.
“Thank you for sneaking me Mrs. Fogg’s phone,” she says. “That really… I don’t know how to repay you for it. You risked so much for me.” Her voice catches in her throat. She clears it. Oh, she really would rather not cry right now. “Thank you.”
Toby shrugs. “It wasn’t too bad. Not as bad as you’d expect and she didn’t wake up or nothin’!”
“I was able to call… someone very important to me because of how brave you were.”
Anthony had been a mix of relieved heart-throbbingly concerned when he answered. It had been three days without hearing anything from her. Not seeing her at school. No calls until now. Nothing. Was she alright? Had the Fogg’s done something? Was it the judge?
Johanna dodged his questions with Mrs. Fogg’s excuse that she was sick and had been called out of school for the week. That it was looking like she would miss another. There wasn’t much time, she said then, trying to avoid any concerns about her supposed illness (Anthony knows she doesn’t take the day off even if she happens to catch a cold). He told her he’d nearly gone to the police. She thanked him for not. She wished she could disappear into the phone and kiss him. It’s been terribly long since the last time she’s kissed Anthony.
“Mrs. Lovett’s expecting me,” Toby says. “That’s a good snack. Eat it. You’re too skinny.”
A winter wind brushes through her chest. Toby’s head gestures towards the bag he set next to her before leaving and closing the door behind him. Her fingers tap at her collarbone before rubbing against her arm. She isn’t skinny. Not yet. But she can tell that wasn’t a compliment from Toby. Is that the reason for all of the pies?
She sits, tapping at any place in her body that she can feel bone. It’s comforting to know that there isn’t a huge layer of fat there anymore; that she’s fixing herself up to be an Audrey Hepburn. But she glances at the bag. McVities Mini Cheddars . At least it isn’t a fatty pie.
Johanna rips the bag open, careful not to spill. She takes a single cracker out and places it on her tongue.
A tang of cheese. A bit of salt.
Fat. Sodium.
She chews, letting herself pay attention to the crumbling sensation. She swallows.
She puts the bag back.
No. She can’t.
It’s too dangerous to tread that territory.
What if she doesn’t have any clothes? Should he buy clothes? How is he supposed to shop for a teenage girl?
Benjamin shoves the closet door open, something he’s been meaning to fix before tomorrow, but tomorrow wasn’t exactly expected. Only a few items dot the shelves. The hanger space is only reserved for exactly that–hangers–for now. There’s another throw blanket that he picked up solely for the fact that it reminds him of another baby blanket. It was one he remembered at the sight of it: dots and doves scattered in nonsensical patterns. More birds. It’s the softest thing he’s ever held.
Another shelf is stacked with school supplies. He went school supply shopping . Stacks of pens and pencils and even a pack of mechanical pencils. Erasers, binders, tabs, post-it notes, notebooks–he’ll buy her textbooks if she needs them, too. His chest roars with pride. He’s certain she’s the top of her class.
There’s only one thing on the third shelf: a picture frame. His wife holds their child as she looks into the camera, dazed, exhausted and glowing as if an angel came from Heaven to have tea with her. He leans awkwardly into frame, barely present, but his grin is ever-present. It’s the only picture he could find of them. It’s the only picture he could find of them. He won’t mention that it was that picture that he held onto in prison. No one can notice the creases and how the bottom left corner has fallen off in this frame.
The tenets a few doors down were moving and they’d sold him a little night stand for fifteen pounds in cash. His daughter already had one, but this one he could jam into the closet to give her a bit more storage space. He still has no idea what she has.
Exactly. He has no idea. If his daughter comes with the clothes on her back and nothing more, they’ll hit the store. She can pick everything out herself. Not the mother-daughter back to school shopping trip that his wife used to dream up, but it’s the end of January and he can’t imagine they’ll get much closer at the moment.
His phone rings from another room. Technology had changed more in the past decade and a half than he expected it to. Every day, Benjamin learns something new. Most of it, he finds stupid or flat-out hates.
It’s a race between himself and his shadow to pick it up. When he glances at the number, his face falls. He sends it to voicemail. It’s not another phone call like the one yesterday after all.
That phone call came while he was at work. His crew was either warming their hands with cups of coffee or handing wooden beams to the next guy in line. Hands in his pockets, he supervised the process. The man he’d asked to stick around him in case he needed something translated held a cup to him.
Benjamin was about to reach for it when his phone vibrated in his back pocket. With a grumbled excuse, he dug it out of his jeans, but mumbling and groaning stopped as soon as he saw the number (but he can’t deny there was a twinge of dread). Without taking his eyes off the construction crew, he answered.
“Mr. Barker?”
He really hated that social worker’s voice.
He took the coffee and set it down.
“Yup.” He wished she would get to the point already.
Someone turned on a drill near him. Benjamin makes sure the man sees his scowl before taking a few steps away. It’s difficult enough to listen to a phone call with everyone shouting around him and wool beneath his yellow hard hat.
“I just got off the phone with–”
His chest tightened. Good news? Bad?
Before Mrs. Wilson could specify what kind of news she had in store, one of the wood beams fell, hitting two men hard enough in the head to knock them down.
Benjamin pressed his phone between his ear and his shoulder like his wife used to do while washing the dishes and ran towards the scene. A quick assess of his workers. Both rubbed at the back of their necks. Other than a bruise here or there, they seem fine.
“Mr. Barker, are you listening?”
“What? Of course-of course. You called me during work.” He grabbed the beam and realized this is a two arms job. He adjusted it to rest between his shoulder blades with half a yard sticking out above his head.
“Well, you did specifically order me to tell you the moment I have news about when you can see her.”
Benjamin nearly dropped the board.
“What? What? I can see her? What did you hear?”
“I just got off the phone with her foster mother. She was back in school today. Seems to be doing better. Whatever the heck she had wiped her out for two weeks, woah. Glad I wasn’t anywhere near that. Anyway, we’re thinking tomorrow at four PM. A little after she gets home from school. Does that work for you or do you have–work?”
“That works.” It was little more than a whisper. “I’ll take the whole day off.”
Mrs. Wilson snickered. “Does that not sound like overkill to you? But we’ll be in my office building. Her foster parents will bring her over. You come a little early for us to discuss what is going to happen. Fifteen before the hour will be fine. So you don’t freak out or whatever. You seem like you’d do that. Then we’ll meet the Fogg’s in a conference room. We’ll talk for a little bit all together. Then–” she took a breath and Benjamin wished she would choke on it for making him wait “--We’ll leave you two alone. Bond. I don’t really know what you do in this situation. You’ll have an hour.”
An hour . An entire hour with his daughter .
The first hour he spent with just him and his daughter was when they were still in the hospital. He looked at her little, white face and kissed every one of her ten fingers and knew that she would have yellow hair just like her mother. The wagers between him and his wife about what color her eyes would turn out to be would come later. The hair was one he would beat tens of thousands of pounds on. He was right and he knew it.
She was so small back then. A preemie with a blue tint to her skin, but she was full of life . Strength.
“Any questions?” Mrs. Wilson didn’t seem to be very interested in if he did have something to ask.
“You didn’t change your address on me.” Less of a clarifying question. More of a demand.
Mrs. Wilson sighed. “ No , we didn’t just change our address to throw a prank on you. That would be a waste of my time.”
She hung up before he could. He didn’t care.
Benjamin’s muscles remembered the weight of the beam before he did. It slipped down his back and he let it.
His daughter was coming home.
Now, Benjamin moves through the flat, opening cupboards and cabinets at random. Everything has to be perfect. He doesn’t possess the same homemaking talents as his wife, yet he can feel her here between the shelves, sitting on the counter, sipping coffee. Dancing.
Fridge opens. It’s still fully stocked with vegetables, fruits, healthy proteins, sandwich supplies for school lunches. Everything a young girl needs. He opens the freezer. More of the same, just with small, dissolvable pieces of ice decorating the boxes. A few cartons of ice cream hide in between. He wants his daughter to be healthy–yes, but a scoop here and there can’t do any harm. Besides, he’d missed fudge brownie.
Plenty of cereal in the pantry. Work starts early. He doesn’t know if he’ll be there when she eats breakfast and he doesn’t know if she can cook. He found them on the healthier side of the aisle. But if she tells him she likes the most sugar-packed brand, he’ll get it for her.
There’s a pack of bottled water at the bottom of the space in case she prefers it to tap.
Benjamin adjusts the pillows on the sofa. The throw pillows were all his wife. She used to tease him for using them to rest his head on and remind him that they’re for decoration, not for sleeping. He retorted that they were pillows .
He settles himself on the chair, tapping on its arms. For the first time in fifteen years, he’s almost calm.
Tomorrow, he gets his daughter back.
The Foggs sit on either side of her like guards making sure the prisoner they’re transferring doesn’t escape.
She feels like a prisoner. Her sentence is for life.
Her new jailer is waiting at the Department for Education. Even after all these long weeks, she still has no idea what he looks like. She knows she should put in the slightest bit of effort to imagine it. Other adopted children daydream their biological parents coming back. Johanna’s daydreams are of birds, of growing wings, of flying away from this city. She thinks about Anthony and before he kissed her, how much she wanted him to. She’s never once given a thought about what her father looks like.
Once, she tried to imagine her mother. The woman is condemned in her guardian’s flat. He told her once that she looks like her. He said her mother was beautiful.
It couldn’t be both.
Johanna imagined her as beautiful.Yellow hair and eyes the exact shade of blue she wishes she has instead of the green she’s stuck with. A pretty, freckled face. When she walked, it was with the grace of a swan. She wore blue jeans on her long legs–the kind of trousers other mothers wear–and she wore a fern green blouse with it. Polished, yet someone she could cry to.
Her father is a shadow. She never wanted a father. She still doesn’t.
The judge wanted her to call him by the title when she was younger. Something about always it felt off. She never did. He locked her door every night so she couldn’t escape, playing judge and jailer in the household. Those two words dissolved into one; jailer and father exist as the same role. She was less of a ward and more of a convict. She doesn’t know what her crime was.
The key to her cell has been handed around. Her guardian had them as soon as he signed the adoption papers. They came as an accessory. Those keys were ripped out of his hands the day after Christmas and Mr. Fogg twisted his boney fingers around them. He considered it permission to treat her almost the same way the judge had. Once again, they are forced out of his grip when they give the key to her biological father. Not today, but knowing what this meeting is about, it will be soon.
Johanna hadn’t known his name until the welfare worker sat her down in her office to tell her the stark truth. Benjamin Barker. She nodded at his name, but it was her mother’s that seized her heart and suffocated it. Lucy Barker . She always imagined it would be something beautiful. It was. She was right.
She still doesn’t know what she looked like.
She still doesn’t know exactly what happened to her.
Her father–Benjamin–was convicted of a false crime. Johanna had gotten used to anti-judicial remarks in the weeks leading up to the arrest. One day, she came home from school (Anthony only accompanying her until they got to the park, as they always did), to find an organized protest had taken over Kearney’s Lane. Weaving between the crowd, hunched over to try to disappear, she held her books close to her chest in case someone tried to grab one from her. The next day, there was a newspaper on the dining table. Her guardian was gone, but when she glanced at the front over, there was a large photograph of her trying to come into the building while a crowd swarmed her. As soon as her guardian got back from the courthouse, he moved them to a different flat.
It was the same day she released her birds from their cage. If she never got to be free, they at least deserved it.
Try as her guardian did to hide the rioting (over the good name of Turpin), Johanna saw it everywhere. There were articles. There were students stopping her in the hall. Johanna tried not to think about it. What was there to consider? Her guardian got away with whatever he wanted.
She saw the name Benjamin Barker for the first time in an article. She didn’t read the rest of it nor did she consider the surname and how it matched hers.
Christmas was the day he was released from prison. She still hadn’t paid attention.
The day after, there was the knock at the door.
She never expected to see her guardian in handcuffs.
“-- That’s six-one-O-one-six. See it, say it, sorted.”
Johanna glances at Mr. Fogg. He’s staring at her leg. She pushes her skirt further down.
There’s a bright pink sign about unwanted sexual touching from strangers in the corner of her eye.
Sometimes, she wishes there was a sign about unwanted touching from people you know .
Her knee begins bouncing. She holds her hand on it, if just to prevent anyone else from touching her there.
Mr. Fogg reminded her of her guardian from the beginning. He was younger, but only by fifteen years or so. His hair is graying and his teeth yellow. Perhaps he could be a younger and less-well-off version of her guardian. Two large moles sit centimeters away on the right side of his cheek. They make him look like a mean dog. Where wrinkles have developed on his face only make him look worse. His hands are clean, yet dry. The kind of touch anyone would flinch at.
His wife paints her nails to match her gray eyes. Scowl marks have been become permanent. Though, Johanna won’t dare to ask why she got fired, sometimes she wonders if it has to due with the fact that she looks like a witch rather than a comforting nurse. Instead of dressing somewhat professionally for a meeting with the welfare worker, she threw on a pair of dark jeans and shoved half of her shirt in it. She wonders if her freckles look sterner or if they just appear that way because of her nature.
Tax purposes is the only reason she can imagine why they got married. Neither of them seem to like each other much. She can’t imagine them falling for each other. Mr. Fogg is more interested in his younger clients. Mrs. Fogg is a slob. Even after she got fired, she didn’t bother to clean up the house. Before, she said that her job was too demanding to take care of the housekeeping. She continued to play countess and the foster children were her help.
She left Johanna alone when she showered this morning. During the two weeks of bedrest, the nightmares had gotten worse. She couldn’t run away in real life either. Dreams of being paralyzed dissolved just for her to remember that was her reality too.
She adjusts her hair over a shoulder, catching a whiff of her shampoo as she does. Congratulations, Benjamin Barker, she went through the grueling process of washing her hair for today . The scent of lavender relaxes her muscles somewhat. The tension in her back makes her shoulders hurt. Before the police showed up, the first thing she packed were her hair products. They’re as essential as food or air for her.
In a few weeks, Johanna will probably be packing them up again to move in with him.
Another sniff and she runs a hand over it, trying to hide any noticeable halo.
“Stop shaking your leg,” Mrs. Fogg snaps, “It’s driving me mad.”
She stops.
Years of criticism and remarks from her guardian has formed her into a suppressed people-pleaser. Wanting everyone to like her, yet being too spiteful. Perhaps, a psychologist like Mr. Fogg would say that contributed to the fact that she doesn’t eat. It bothers her how much she does want Benjamin Barker to be at least a little impressed. Or if not impressed, not disappointed in her.
Her guardian taught her that everyone else’s opinions of her matters more than her own, especially when it comes to herself. If he wasn’t pleased, then she shouldn’t be either.
Johanna tried to make herself look as pretty as possible before they left for the tube. The outfit that makes her feel the prettiest (that hides her insecurities the best) is combined with letting most of her hair fall down her back with some of it twisted into a small bun on her head. She wishes she could be a pretty girl, but this fuels her fantasy a little.
The train announces their station. Mr. Fogg pushes her out of her seat and she catches herself against a pole before running to catch up with them. She’s lucky she didn’t hit her head.
The walk to the office is in complete silence. She wonders if Mr. Fogg is already mourning the loss of her body. She wonders if Mrs. Fogg is thinking about falling asleep on the sofa.
The carpet can’t have been replaced since the nineties in the conference room. The maroon wallpaper somehow contrasts it and a small window invites in the sun from a too-bright January afternoon. The kind of sunlight that gives London’s citizens hope that spring is coming only for it to snow an hour or two later.
Hands are folded in front of her. Words are spoken. She hears none of it. Is that buzzing coming from the heating system? Or does she have chronic tinnitus? But as much as she tries to get herself to panic about that–to focus on something else –she feels like a ghost in this room. She doesn’t belong. What does she say?
The door opens. Should she stand? Should she sit?
Johanna stands.
Shards of panic rip through her, yet she thinks about the door.
She turns.
There he is.
There she is.
He quakes like a man in the presence of God and all he can do is look at her.
She does have yellow hair.
And it falls past her waist in tight curls. Lucy won their bet: she has her mother’s bright green eyes. She stands with an expression he doesn’t know how to read. (He tries to ignore the horror in her gaze.) Pink lips are parted the same way she did when she was a baby. One model-like hand rests on the back of a chair, the other tugs on a curl. There are small birds embroidered in her blue cardigan and Her blush-pink skirt falls at mid-calf, revealing white leggings and Mary Janes. For a second, she reminds him of a doll. Her skin is even porcelain. She’s short, which he never would have imagined. He stood tall over his wife who was average height. Their daughter seems to be barely a meter and a half. Her skin is porcelain, like a doll.
His wife’s hair couldn’t hold a curl no matter what iron she tried. The curls on his daughter’s head are from him.
She looks just like her mother.
She’s perfect.
Benjamin isn’t a dreamer. He hasn’t been for many years. When he was younger, he and his wife used to dream of a small house in the countryside and a garden. A place to raise their family. Shortly after his arrest, he imagined a guard opening his cell door and nodding. He would run through the halls. His girls would be waiting at the end. He would kiss their heads and squeeze their fingertips. He stopped fantasizing after he realized they were never coming. He would never escape.
If he shifts, it looks like it’s a halo around his daughter’s head.
What does he say to an angel?
“Have a seat, Mr. Barker.”
He takes a step towards his daughter. Her shoulders jerk away. He stops.
He steps to the side. She still doesn’t relax. Benjamin frowns. Why do her eyes keep darting between him and the door?
Her hand leaves the chair.
Mrs. Wilson follows him inside and Benjamin is forced to step further into the room to let in her. She’s blabbering about something he doesn’t care about. His daughter is right in front of him.
She glances back at him.
And then she runs.
“Johanna!”
The door slams behind her and she doesn’t think twice as she runs down the hall. There was a small space between him, the welfare worker and the door and she tucked her arms against her chest to make her way through. The elevator dinges as it arrives. She pulls at the door to the stairs instead. They’ll expect her to take the elevator.
Lungs burn. Back pain roars back to life. Johanna keeps running.
At the second flight, she slips. The woman climbing the stairs with a laptop and stack of manilla envelopes quirks her brow. Johanna throws her hair back over her shoulder, taking the stairs two at a time. Greater risk she’ll trip again, but it’s the risk of getting caught is worse.
She always wanted to be free. Always daydreamed she would stretch out her wings and take to the sky. This is her chance .
The door to the lobby is thrown open. Her hands sting.
Her Oyster Card is in her pocket. Anthony’s flat is four stations away. She’ll pound on the door and he’ll come. He’ll come with her.
They always said they would run away once secondary school was over. They don’t have the luxury of waiting anymore (not that they ever really did, but especially now). They can figure something else out. Education hardly matters when it comes to a lock and a key.
A man in a suit steps in front of her. She ducks around him. He’s too tall to avoid.
“And what are you doing, love?”
She bites back a request not to call her love.
Again, Johanna steps around him. She reaches for the door. They won’t be able to find her once she’s on the street. The sidewalks are too crowded. The nearest station is just around the corner. Get on the central line, disappear into the crowd, four stops until Anthony.
Just as her hand hits the glass, someone grabs her wrist.
She protests against it, clawing at the door. Fingerprints leave a mark where she presses. Fingers form into a fist. She really has become a prisoner, trying to fight back.
When she turns, she’s staring back at Benjamin Barker’s eyes.
She doesn’t want to be trapped again.
There’s the welfare worker, the security officer and even both of the Foggs behind him. Her heart falls to the pit of her stomach. A glance back at the window, at the world, at this horrid city that’s kept her trapped her entire life.
The security guard approaches her, asking a question that she doesn’t understand. She yanks her arm away from him , cradling her wrist with her free hand. When she glances back again, Benjamin Barker is blocking her escape. Already acting like a father, like a warden.
Everything blurs as Johanna follows them back to the office, shoving away Mr. Fogg’s hand on her shoulder. The security guard reaches to her, but decides it’s a bad idea and drops his hand. The elevator door opens. They seat her with her back to the window, table separating her from the door. She glances over her shoulder. The door closes. Benjamin Barker sits across from her.
They’ve caught the bird in their net and threw her back in the cage.