Then I see him, the man who touched Callie when she was younger. He’s older now, bushy mustache, pale blue sweater. He’s standing with a woman who looks like Callie . . . her mother. I suck in a gasp of air. Her stepfather abused her. But her mother doesn’t know. She never told her.
Olivia, close to the age she is now, comes running through the picture to get picked up by the man. He and her grandmother laugh and dote on her. She looks happy. But . . . where’s Callie? Why would she let her daughter go with the man who—
My vision changes and I see Callie on her couch in this apartment just last week, wearing only a dirty tank top and underwear. She’s reading a paper, a court order. She’s lost custody. To them.
The images speed up, a montage of a week of drug-binging on heroin. Callie is afraid to tell her mother about her step-father, afraid it was her fault, afraid no one will believe her. And now . . . now her daughter might suffer the same thing. But she’s denied it for so long, she’s not even sure if it really happened anymore.
But it did. It definitely did. I stifle a cry because I still feel like it happened to me. I feel violated.
I shudder and then the images stop. Instead my vision returns and Callie’s in front of me on the floor, her light flickering. She’s overdosed on her latest batch of heroin. I want to save her—take away the pain. I kneel down, and reach out to brush back her filthy hair; it’s dry and stiff. When I touch the crook of her arm where the needle went in, she gasps and opens her eyes. They go out of focus, staring past me.
I lean close and whisper. “Callie.” My voice is calm. Comforting. “It wasn’t your fault. What he did wasn’t your fault. But you need to get well. You need to protect your daughter.”
“Olivia,” she murmurs.
“Yes.” I squeeze her arm and the drugs run from her vein. Something is causing it, something beyond me. “You need help,” I say. “And you need to tell the police. You need to tell your mother.”
She starts to cry, shaking her head. “I can’t. She’ll hate me.”
I know what I have to say, and it hurts. The thought fills me, compelling me to talk. “She already does.” And it’s unbelievable the lies that her mother has told herself over the years. How she’s always resented Callie for demanding attention, for being on drugs. How even if she was told, her mother would still hate her, call her a liar. Stand by her husband.
My eyes well up as I imagine Callie’s pain, her heart aching for freedom. Olivia is the only thing in her life she’s ever cared about. Olivia is her only piece of love, and she might lose her forever.
“Callie,” I say again, feeling my skin heat up, feeling it burn into hers. “You have to do this. You have to save Olivia.”
Her body jerks away, whether from the burning or from my words, I’m not sure. But in a swaying, barely conscious movement, she holds the wall and tries to sit. She’s sobering up. “Baby?” she calls out.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Olivia streak across the room to her mother, falling into her arms. But the Need doesn’t go away. I feel that even if Callie fights, she’ll lose. She’ll lose her daughter no matter what.
But the Need’s message is changing, coiling up and vibrating through me. When I know what the Need wants me to say, I try to refuse. It’s not right. There has to be justice. I feel like I was the one abused and I want that bastard to pay, to spend his life in prison. But I have to tell Callie to do something different, something illegal. I grit my teeth, holding the message in, but it’s like my stomach is twisting around itself, squeezing me until I groan.
“Run.” The more I try to resist talking, the more constricted I feel. I double over in pain. “You need to run,” I say finally.
There’s immediate relief, but I’m still weak. I can’t believe what I’ve told her to do. I can’t believe that it’s right.
Callie manages to stand up, Olivia in her arms. She leans against the wall briefly before rushing over to the bedrooms. She’s packing. The Need fades until it’s gone.
What have I done?
I try to move, but I’m too weak, too sore. I have to crawl toward the door. I just want my bed. I’m nearly there, when I hear the pattering of feet. I look over my shoulder at Olivia. She’s wearing sneakers and a coat; no longer in her pajamas. Her hair’s been brushed and pulled into a ponytail. I try to summon a vision of their future, but can’t see where they’re running to. My connection to them is gone.
“Thank you,” she says with a little smile. “My mom’s taking me on a vacation.”
I nod, conflicted. Everything in society tells me this is wrong, but I think I’m beginning to see something. That legal justice isn’t always possible. It’s a dismal thought and I swallow it down, trying to stand.
Olivia helps me, holding my elbow. I smile at her, run my hand over her hair. She’ll be safe. In the end, isn’t that all that matters? Aren’t she and Callie saved?
I limp out the front door, using the green wall to support me as I walk down the hallway. Olivia waves to me as I slowly back away. I smile, knowing how completely the Need has changed the course of her life, and how I was a part of it. But what does that make me? An angel? Or something else entirely . . . ?
The apartment door opens wider and Callie is there, holding a small suitcase, a backpack over her shoulder. “Let’s go,” she says. She looks clean. Sober.
She glances at me. Her eyebrows knit together in concern. “You okay?” she asks cautiously, as if she’s seeing me for the first time. I nod, and she puts her hand protectively on Olivia’s shoulder.
She watches me another second, like maybe I remind her of someone, and then she closes her door but doesn’t bother locking it. She won’t be coming back.
“Come on,” she whispers to Olivia and takes her daughter’s hand. As they rush past me the little girl calls out, “Bye!” Her mother pulls her closer.
“Don’t talk to strangers,” she whispers harshly. The little girl seems confused but obeys and turns around.
It’s then that it occurs to me and I can’t believe I’ve never thought of it before. Whenever I help people, they don’t seem to remember me. I used to think they were in shock, or they didn’t want to admit what they’d been through. But thinking about the Needs, dating all the way back to Max Rothsburg, they didn’t remember me. They forgot me.