Chapter Twenty-Two
Turned out Harry, her latest cabbie, was a roadie too, and Mac was distracted enough not to keep checking the time. Two and a half hours later, Harry and Mackenzie had talked about cycling until they had covered every ride they’d taken, every bike they’d owned, the Tour de France, and the latest doping scandals. He distracted her rising panic when they hit pockets of holiday traffic as they passed through New York, Connecticut, Rhode Island and finally, into Massachusetts.
Her whole life, whenever they drove out to the Cape, Mackenzie searched for the familiar markers signaling the finish line to the seemingly endless ride. It was always a relief knowing she was about to be released from the prison that was her father’s car.
Now, as they passed the billboard for the Massachusetts Maritime Academy, four miles before the Bourne Bridge, it felt more like a danger sign. She still had no idea what she was going to do when she got to the house.
They swirled around the traffic circle that leads to Route 6, and Harry saw the same Dunkin’ Donuts where her father always stopped for a bathroom break.
“I know you’re in a rush, but I gotta make a pit stop.” Harry asked. “I’ll get us some Munchkins, too. My treat!”
He pulled off the roundabout and parked. As she waited for him to pay for the donuts, Mac’s mind wandered to Charlie, when they were still on the bus, and recalled how excited he got about going to the Dunkin’ Donuts Center in Providence. It seemed so long ago. So much of what she felt and thought had changed since then. She didn’t even consider Charlie an asshole anymore, she realized. And if he did act like a jerk sometimes, who wouldn’t, getting beaten every day? It occurred to her that if she believed him, maybe someone would believe her, too. But who could she tell? What if Barb wasn’t there? What if she had to face her father alone? What if he were with Lily?
They filled up on coffee and donut holes as they drove, whizzing past the scrubby pines toward the Sagamore Bridge and Mid-Cape Highway. When she saw the big green exit sign for Brewster/Chatham, she knew they were getting closer and Mackenzie felt the donuts in her stomach weld together.
She still had no plan, and though it wasn’t dark yet, Mac knew she had to figure this out sooner than later.
Finally, they got to her exit. By the time they pulled up to the house the sun was almost gone. Golden beach time, her dad called it, when he and Barb would be breaking out the plastic cups and wine.
If they were here.
If Barb were here.
“Could you wait and just make sure I get in okay, Harry?”
“Not a problem. It’s not like I’m dying to get back on the road on the Fourth of July. Take your time,” he said.
Once again, Mackenzie stood in front of her house, this time smelling the sea breeze coming from down the sandy lane. “The Douglas Family” sign hung on the fence right in the middle, advertising a normal, happy home. The whimsy and scrolling vines proved it; the flowers punctuated their joy.
She opened the latch on the fence, and headed up the walk. The grass was lush, and the garden around the front had been weeded. She squinted against the bright white of the house. The front door had gotten a fresh coat of red, and it coordinated perfectly with the roses growing up the porch posts. It looked so pristine.
She reached for the knob, knowing it wouldn’t be locked, and opened it, peering into the cool dimness. “Hello?” she said. Clearing her throat, she raised her voice and called out, “Hello? Anyone home?”
No answer.
She kept her pack on. She wasn’t ready to part with it just yet. It gave her stability, like ballast on a boat. She walked toward the kitchen, but stopped mid-stride at the door to the basement. She looked at it, her head cocked, trying to remember something. Her shoulders shook, and goose bumps rolled from the back of her neck down her arms.
It was the dream from the cab in Vermont. It came back to her now, materializing in front of her eyes, as though she were watching a movie. Mac just stood there staring into space, actually seeing the past in her mind’s eye.
She was trying to wash the dress. Definitely dream logic, right? Because … little kids don’t wash clothes. They’re not coordinated enough. They don’t even know there’s a special soap to use. Plus, they should be playing and having fun. Not … trying to get blood stains out of a dress.
The air squeezed her, like it had weight. She reached for the handle to the basement door, and even though it was hot outside, the knob felt cool in her hand as she turned it. It was muggy though, and the door stuck as she tried to open it. She yanked, and the rack attached to the other side clattered with all the spray cans and cleaning supplies stored there. She switched on the light at the top of the stairs. She hadn’t ever been down there before. Had she? She couldn’t remember. The darkness was lit to a yellow dinginess, yet she felt like it was where she needed to be. It was right. Not scary.
Mackenzie grabbed hold of the banister and went down the wooden stairs, her feet making a hollow clopping sound as she descended, like the pendulum of an old grandfather clock. But with every step, Mac was going back in time, remembering there had been another visit. Her first visit to the basement.
By the time she’d gone down five steps, the temperature dropped by ten degrees and the musty basement smell reached her nostrils. It reminded her of pennies. Or the coppery smell of blood.
At the bottom, she pivoted, her left hand still gripping the banister, and turned to face the back wall. In the dimness, Mac could see the washer and dryer. Side by side, now chipped and rusted, reminding her of two old loyal sentinels, guarding her past.
In slow motion, Mackenzie walked toward them. This was what she’d been trying to ignore. To get away from and forget. But it was part of her. It was like trying to run away from your arms or your legs.
If you can fly away, fly away,
Little princess
Dream a dream with any scene,
My little princess
You can go anywhere you want to go
Above the rain, beyond the snow
Below the sea, just come with me
And we can be our own royalty
My little princess.
She couldn’t fly away, ignore what happened, ride fast enough, or pedal hard enough. And now, she didn’t want to. Staring at the washer, she remembered. Mackenzie knew why this felt so familiar. She knew why she needed to be here. She knew what she had to do.
That night. The dress. She had wanted to fix it. If she could fix it, to make it clean again, the way it was when her mother gave it to her, maybe she could make everything the way it had been. It could go back to being the way it was.
She always saw the housekeeper coming up from the basement with a basket of clothes that looked brand new, all folded and clean, so neatly stacked they could’ve been merchandise in a clothing store. Mackenzie would make everything brand new again like the perfectly folded clean clothes. If she made it like new maybe even her mama could come back like when she gave her the dress—the last thing she had ever given her.
So after awhile, she got out of her bed, put on her footie PJs, and came down to the basement. She hadn’t been scared. What could scare her in a basement? She had already seen the monster.
But the night of the father daughter dance, after his visit, when she got there she found two machines, not just one. She stood in front of them, trying to figure out which made everything new and clean and perfect. She didn’t know! She couldn’t see on top and there was nothing to climb on. She had stood there for a long time. But she was so little and couldn’t figure out what to do.
Now, Mackenzie stood in the same spot, knowing exactly what she had to do. Sliding her pack off her shoulders, she let it drop to the tile floor. Bracing herself for what she was about to face, she leaned both hands on the machine, hung her head, and took a deep breath. You can do this. You’ve been through worse. You’re a kickass survivor.
A pump or battery or something turned itself on, making a loud grinding noise, and Mackenzie jumped. She stood still until her breath was even and steady again, then she crouched down, her right hand on the front of the first machine, for balance. It was dark, she couldn’t see anything, and didn’t know what she would find. Would there be anything there to find? Would it help her at all? And if it did help, what would happen?
She wiped her left hand on her shirt and reached behind the machine, but yanked it back when her entire arm got caught in a tickly, creepy net of old spider webs.
She shuddered and peeled them off. Mac grabbed the machine for balance again. Once more, she stretched way back, groping the pipes and drain and other lines that lead in and out, sluicing the water away. This time, she felt something else. It was wedged between two pipes. A small, bunched up piece of cloth. She shimmied it free, pulled it out, and looked at it. Mackenzie no longer felt like she was in a parallel universe. Carefully, she tucked it into the front pocket of her pack, ran upstairs, and out of the house, slamming the big red door behind her.
She climbed back into the taxi. “Harry, could you please take me one more place?”
“Sure kid, where to?”
“The police station.”