Hold Me Close Read online

  Effie had a third margarita, because that was the problem with margaritas. They went down so smooth that before you knew it you were dancing on a tabletop wearing a lamp shade...or worse, exchanging Crock-Pot recipes as if you knew what the fuck you were talking about with a woman wearing a sweatshirt with a pair of Christmas kittens on it. Effie didn’t even own a Crock-Pot, though the way Cissy was evangelizing about it made her want to go out right now and buy three of them, just so she could make all the things. All of them.

  “I fucking love tequila.” Effie lifted her glass to tap it against Cissy’s.

  Cissy blinked. “Oh. Um...”

  Shit. She shouldn’t have let the f-bomb drop. This crowd probably said goshdarnit or shucks. This crowd, Effie thought with a look around the room, probably didn’t like blow jobs. And that was just too fucking sad.

  Effie drained her glass and wisely looked for a sink to put it in. She wanted another, of course. You always wanted another one. But she wasn’t going to have one. Nope. She was going to restrain herself from making that mistake. At least that was the plan before Dee brought over the pitcher again, swirling the dregs of melted margarita in the bottom.

  “Top you off?” she said to Effie. “I’m not sure I should make another pitcher. It might go to waste.”

  “No more for me,” Cissy said.

  Effie held out her glass. “Sure. I’ll take the last bit.”

  Cissy eased away and Dee set the now-empty pitcher on the kitchen island. She pulled the decimated platter of veggies and dip toward her and plucked out a carrot stick. She dipped it directly into the bowl of dip, an action that made Effie shudder. She hadn’t eaten anything here, not even the dip she’d made herself. The drinking had gotten in the way, and by the time she thought to put something other than booze in her stomach, the chili dip had already been besmirched by chip crumbs and double dippers. Sober Effie would have forced herself to eat some, but she’d passed sober two hours ago.

  “I’m really glad you came.” Dee scrunched another carrot and held out the platter to Effie.

  “No, thanks.” Effie sipped her drink. “Yeah, it’s fun, thanks for inviting me.”

  Dee looked past Effie into the den. A lot of the women had left half an hour or so ago, and when Effie glanced back to see what Dee was looking at, she saw a couple more putting on their coats. She laughed.

  “Shit, I’m going to close this party down.” She drained the last of the drink, waiting for the brain freeze, but it had melted enough that she escaped that torture.

  “Where’s Polly?”

  “She’s with Heath.” Effie paused, trying to gauge Dee’s reaction. “Who is not my brother. Or her father.”

  Dee laughed, but uncomfortably, with another glance over Effie’s shoulder. “I know that. I told them all that, too.”

  “It’s okay.” Effie shrugged. She’d been drunker than this, but not for a long time. She put a hand on the kitchen island to make sure she wasn’t weaving. The floor beneath her felt a little tilted. Was she slurring?

  From behind her, a waft of perfume announced Becky’s presence. The other woman reached past Dee to also grab a couple carrot sticks, slathering them with dip. Effie kept her lip from curling, but barely.

  “I feel like I can pretend I’m eating healthy,” Becky explained with a longing look at the plate of cookies next to the vegetable tray. “But let’s face it, I’m about to murder those cookies. Wish I had your willpower, Effie.”

  Effie laughed. “Trust me, there are plenty of things I can’t manage to resist.”

  Several of the other women came through the kitchen, saying their goodbyes, and Dee moved off with them to walk them to the front door. Becky took a piece of celery and crunched it with a sigh. Effie tried to think of something clever to say, but all she could manage was a smile.

  Dee came back. “That’s almost everyone. Beck, is Gene coming to get you?”

  “Yeah. I called him. He’s on the way.”

  That was Effie’s cue to leave. “I’ll get going, too.”

  “You didn’t drive, did you?” Becky asked.

  Effie laughed. “No, no. I walked. It’s only a couple blocks.”

  “We can give you a ride home, if you want.”

  “No, that’s okay. I like to walk.” Effie looked around, trying to remember where she left her coat. Dee had taken it from her when she came in, she remembered that much.

  Becky snagged another carrot stick but didn’t eat it. “You’re not...scared?”

  The circle of Effie’s vision narrowed, like the closing of a camera aperture. Becky’s face swam for a second. “Why would I be scared?”

  “After what happened,” Becky said. “I think I’d be afraid to walk by myself anywhere.”

  Effie let go of the kitchen island, no longer afraid of weaving. Her back felt as stiff and straight as if someone had replaced her spine with an iron rod. “It was a long time ago. If I was still too afraid to go by myself anywhere, I’d have a helluva time, wouldn’t I?”

  “At night,” Becky amended. “In the dark, I guess.”

  “He took me at three o’clock in the afternoon,” Effie said.

  Dee coughed uncomfortably. “Hey, Effie, let me get your coat.”

  “Sorry.” Becky looked embarrassed. “Liquor loosens the tongue. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “I’m not offended. Better to ask me to my face than whisper behind my back.” Effie ran her tongue along the inside of her teeth, hating that leftover booze flavor. “Can I get a drink of water before I go?”

  “Sure, of course.” Dee bustled to the cabinet to get her a glass, filling it from the fridge’s filtered water spout. She handed it to Effie with a glance at Becky, who’d stopped pretending to be healthy and was now eating a cookie.

  Effie drank the cool, sweet water, letting it fill in all the leftover space in her stomach. “If there’s something you want to know, Becky, you should ask me now. I’m fucked up on tequila.”

  Becky gave a small, uncertain laugh. “No, I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not any of my business.”

  “Here’s the thing.” Effie went to the fridge to help herself to another glass of water. “Nobody asks anymore. In the beginning, when I first came back, it was all anyone could seem to talk about. But it’s been fifteen years, you know that? Most people don’t even remember it happened.”

  “But you do,” Dee said quietly.

  “Me and a bunch of freaks who talk about me on some sicko forums,” Effie said flatly. “And women who go to moms’ groups.”

  The silence would’ve been way more awkward if she hadn’t had so much to drink, but all it did now was make her laugh. Becky bit her lower lip, looking away. Dee frowned.

  “I was thirteen. I was coming home from my art class. He grabbed me and took me into his van. He hit me on the head and jabbed me with a needle, and I woke up in a basement lit only by these weird fucking orange lights. I should’ve run away from him, you know? And I tried. But my mom had made me wear these new shoes—” Effie kicked out a foot to demonstrate “—and I had blisters. And he was fast. Nobody even saw him take me, at least that’s what the story was. I mean, I was missing for three years. He kept me in a house not twenty minutes away from my own. If someone had seen him take me, don’t you think they’d have said something?”

  Becky winced. “That’s horrible.”

  “Yeah.” Effie nodded and drank half the glass of water, then added ice. She looked at both women. “They did a documentary on it. Part of one, anyway. They interviewed a whole bunch of people about him. They interviewed his ex-wife. His kids. The neighbors who called the police, finally.”

  * * *

  “Oh, my God! Oh, my God, what the hell? Where’s Stan? Who are you? What the hell?”

  The woman’s words
echo in the basement, hurting Effie’s ears. It’s been days without food. A week since the last time Daddy came into the basement. They’re down to the last scant cups of water in the jug. They’ve been huddling together for warmth. Heath hasn’t spoken for hours, though the rasp of his breathing tells Effie that at least he’s still alive. The woman’s voice echoes around them again, and then there’s some muffled shouting. The thud of feet on the stairs.

  A cool breeze.

  Then there’s light, a faint square in the blackness. The door.

  The door is...open.

  * * *

  “But I didn’t talk to them about it,” Effie continued. “They offered me money, but I didn’t need money. I had my dad’s life insurance. I always wondered if my dad knew he was going to die young. If that’s why he paid for that policy for me. I never asked my mother how long he’d had it.”

  Becky stared, but Dee drew her own glass of water to gulp before saying, “They talked to my mom. She didn’t make it into the final cut of the film, but I remember them interviewing her in the kitchen.”

  Effie searched for some affront, some offense, but couldn’t find any. “Most of it they got wrong, anyway. The forums do, too, all the time, because of it. The guys who made the documentary thought they had all the facts, but they didn’t. So those freaks who post online about it, about my art, about everything...they think they understand the significance of it all, but really they’re going by that movie. My paintings,” she added when Becky looked confused. “They have hidden designs. People collect them because they’re part of this group that idealizes victims of crimes. Or I guess the criminals. I don’t know. I stopped looking at that forum a long time ago. It’s disgusting.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dee said.

  Becky coughed. “Yeah, shit, Effie. Me, too. I didn’t know.”

  “It’s like it’s a big secret.” Effie couldn’t stand the thought of drinking any more water, so she dumped it in the sink and set the glass carefully, carefully, on the counter. It would’ve been easy to shatter the glass with her tequila-infused fingers. She looked at both of them. “Only it’s not, really.”

  Becky opened her mouth as though to say more, and Effie waited for it. Fuck, she wanted it. She wanted to talk about this, finally, to get it all right out there so they could gossip about it if they wanted to, or maybe fucking forget it the way she wished she could. Because Mommies and Margaritas might be the lamest fucking name for a group of friends Effie had ever heard, but fuck all if she didn’t want to be invited back. She wanted friends. She wanted to giggle over movie stars and eat tortilla chips and she wanted, goddammit, to bitch about a husband who didn’t like it when she spent too much money on eyeliner.

  So she waited for Becky to ask a question, something, anything, so that Effie could tell her whatever it was she wanted to know. Instead, Becky’s phone buzzed from her pocket. With an apologetic look, she took it out.

  “Gene’s in the driveway,” Becky said. “Are you sure we can’t give you a ride? It’s late. And it’s cold.”

  Effie uncurled fingers she hadn’t noticed she was clenching. She nodded. Took a deep breath. Gave both Dee and Becky a smile that made her face ache but that must’ve passed as genuine because neither of them seemed to mind.

  “Thanks. I really don’t mind walking. It’s good for me. And it’s only a couple blocks. Fully lighted streets,” she added, then tacked on a small lie. “I have pepper spray.”

  Becky looked doubtful. “If you’re sure...”

  “I’m positive.” Effie took another deep breath. “I’m good.”

  With Becky gone, Dee made a halfhearted effort at putting some food away while Effie got her coat from the dining room table, where she remembered Dee had put it. Dee stopped, though, after putting away the platter of veggies in the fridge. She gave Effie a look.

  “I’m sorry about Becky.”

  “No. It’s fine. I told you, I’d rather have you ask me than talk about it behind my back. It’s not like I’m ashamed of anything,” Effie said. “It’s shit that happened to me, you know, when I couldn’t help it. We all have shit, Dee. Mine just made me famous in the papers for half a second fifteen years ago.”

  Dee gave her a tentative smile. “If you ever want to talk about it, I’ll listen. If you don’t, that’s fine, too. I’m really sorry about everything, that’s all.”

  “I’m glad I came tonight.” It would take hours for the drinks to fully wear off, and Effie was already regretting how she was going to feel in the morning, but she meant it.

  “Text me when you get home, okay?” Dee looked worried. “Are you sure I can’t have Jon give you a ride? He’ll be here in about an hour from work. I don’t mind hanging out with you until he gets here. I won’t be able to sleep until he does.”

  “Jon,” Effie said. “No way!”

  Dee looked pleased. “Yeah. It’s going really well. I kind of owe it to you, Effie. I sent him that message, and then the next thing you know, we were seeing each other every day. It’s like no time at all passed, yet everything’s different.”

  “You’re not kids anymore,” Effie said.

  “But he makes me feel sixteen,” Polly admitted in a whisper. “All lit up and tingly every time I see him.”

  “Happy for you.” Was a hug appropriate? Damned if Effie knew, but fuck it. She embraced Dee and squeezed her until they both laughed and Effie stepped back.

  “You sure he can’t give you a ride home? It’s really cold out.”

  “Nah. Really. I’m good.” At the front door, she paused. “Dee, I’m sorry I was a bitch to you about Meredith. And everything.”

  “I deserved it.” Dee smiled. “Anyway, that’s over and done with. We’ll get together again soon, okay?”

  Effie nodded. “Sure. That sounds great.”

  On the sidewalk, she looked back to Dee’s front door, but it was closed, and who could blame her? The night had turned frigid, so cold Effie’s breath stung her nostrils and she dug in her pockets for her mittens. For a second, she regretted not taking a ride, but then she thought about having to sit in a moving vehicle and gulp-swallowed a slight burn rise of bile in her throat.

  She should have turned right to head for home. Down two streets, then across one and over a block or so. She’d be home and in her bed in fifteen minutes, walking fast so she stayed warm.

  Instead, she turned left.

  Four blocks down. One block over. Another half a street because of the alley. And there it was. Daddy’s house. Unkempt yard, too-long grass glistening with frost. The driveway, cracked and never patched. And in the front window, something she’d never seen in all the years she’d driven past.

  A light.

  chapter thirty-seven

  “You lied.” Effie had shouted this several times already until Bill had clamped his hand over her mouth. She could still taste his palm. She had not bitten him, although she wanted to. Now she lowered her voice because he would not hesitate to put her on the ground if he thought she would wake the neighbors.

  “I didn’t lie to you, Effie. Jesus.” Bill wore only a pair of low-hanging pajama pants. His hair stuck up all over. He’d been asleep when she pounded on his door. Of course he had been, at eight in the morning when she’d sobered up enough to drive herself over there and wake him.

  Effie had not slept. She’d spent a couple wretched hours wishing she could make herself sick to get rid of the roiling in her guts, then another few hours sipping hot tea and nibbling on saltines. By the time the sun rose, she’d managed to fend off the worst of the hangover, though her head still throbbed and her eyes felt as if she’d ground glass with them.

  “You told me,” she said, “you would let me know if he got out. Fuck, Bill. He’s out. Someone’s in that house. It’s him. I know it is.”

  “I could make some
calls.” Bill yawned and scrubbed at his face, then padded to the counter to pour a mug of coffee before the pot had fully filled. Spatters hissed and bubbled on the hot plate before he put the carafe back without asking her if she wanted some. He looked at her over his shoulder. “Find out for sure. But, shit, Effie. Does it matter now?”

  “How can you ask me that?”

  Bill looked chastened. “All I mean is, he’s an old man now. He did his time...”

  “He didn’t. He didn’t do his time,” Effie said. “He wasn’t supposed to get out, ever, and there he is, back in that fucking house.”

  “Anyone could be in that house, Effie.” Bill reached for her, but she danced out of his grip. “C’mon. Don’t be like that.”

  “Any time a man doesn’t like the way a woman acts, that’s what he says. ‘Don’t be like that.’ Like I don’t have a right to feel this way? I don’t have the right to be upset? Fuck you, Bill.”

  “Effie,” he said warningly.

  But she knew him. Oh, how she did. Effie got right up in his face, pushing on her tiptoes to do it, their mouths bare inches apart when she spat the words.

  “Fuck. You.”

  Then his hand was in her hair, yanking her head back, and she cried out but didn’t struggle. She waited for him to kiss her, or maybe to turn her around and bend her over the table. Effie tensed, never looking away from him even as her eyes burned with tears of pain she refused to shed.

  Abruptly, Bill let her go. She stumbled back. His mouth twisted and he turned from her, wiping it with his hand. His shoulders slouched.

  “It’s too fucking early for this, Effie. Go home.”

  She straightened. She smoothed her hair over her shoulders. “Fine.”

  “Don’t be like... Shit. Effie.” Bill faced her. He put his hands on her shoulders, fingers digging in a little to keep her still when she moved to pull away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know, I promise you. This guy, he’s a blip, he’s a nothing. Yeah, those soccer moms with their sexual predator websites might’ve known about it, but trust me, on the greater scale, Stan Andrews is a nobody.”