Page 3 of The Lost Girls of Willowbrook

“Were you listening in on our conversation?” Alan said to Sage in a new voice, one she knew all too well. It was the voice of authority, of lectures, of pretending to impose rules.

“No,” she said.

“Don’t lie to me. Admit it. You were eavesdropping.”

“No, I was—”

“Sneaking out again?”

She shook her head.

“Then why the hell are you wearing your coat?”

Heat flushed her cheeks. She’d forgotten she was wearing her coat, forgotten all about leaving to meet her friends. “Tell me what you said about Rosemary,” she said.

“I didn’t say anything about her,” Alan said. “Maybe you need to get your hearing checked.” He let out a humorless chuckle and looked at Larry, hoping for a reaction. Larry ignored him and picked up his beer.

Anger flared beneath her rib cage. He was lying, like he always did—about paying the rent, about going to parent-teacher conferences, about where he was on the nights he didn’t come home. “Yes, youdid,” she said. “I heard you. You said someone from Willowbrook called to tell you she was missing. And that they had to call you because you’re her legal guardian.”

An ugly sound came from Alan’s throat, like the grunt of a burrowing animal. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Well, you heard wrong,” he snarled. “Now get out of my hair. Go out drinking or whoring, or whatever you do with your slutty little friends. I don’t care what it is, just leave me alone.”

“No,” Sage said. “Rosemary is my sister. I have a right to know what’s going on.”

He gave her a blistering look. “You have a right?”

“Yes, you have to tell me.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll tell your boss you drink at work. I know what you put in your Thermos every morning.”

He moved closer, his face twisted in rage, his hands in fists. The rank odor of beer and sweat came with him, wafting over her like a pungent cloud. “Are you threatening me, little girl?”

“Tell me the truth or I’ll—”

Before the next word left her mouth, he slapped her hard across the face. Her head whipped to one side and her teeth rattled together. She put a hand to her cheek and glared at him, fighting back tears of shock and anger. It had been months since he’d hit her. The last time had been when he found her asleep on the couch with her jeans unzipped, reeking of beer. She’d come home, gone to the bathroom, and forgotten to zip them up again before laying down to watch TV. But he thought she’d been out doing something else, so he slapped her and called her a slut, then followed her down the hall and shoved her across her bedroom onto her bed. She’d been too shocked and drunk to do anything about it then, but she decided then and there that if he struck her again, she’d call the cops.

Larry put down his beer and stood. “I better get going,” he said.

“No,” Alan said, his voice hard. “I want you to witness this. That way she can’t say I lied about anything.” Larry sat back down, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else. Alan went over to the recliner, picked up his T-shirt, and yanked it over his head. “I understood why your mother didn’t want you to know the truth back then, but you’re old enough now to keep your mouth shut.”

Locking tear-filled eyes on him, she held her breath, anxious to hear the words he was about to say, scared of them at the same time. “Keep my mouth shut about what?” she said. Her legs started to tremble.

“Rosemary’s been in Willowbrook State School for the past six years,” he said. “The doctors said it was the best place for her.”

The room started to spin around her. She wanted to sit more than anything, but she refused to give Alan the upper hand. “But you and Mom said she had pneumonia. You . . . you said shedied.”

“I told your mother that lie would come back to bite her in the ass someday, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“I don’t understand. Why did you send her there? And why would Mom lie to me about that?” She shook her head, unable to stop the tears no matter how hard she tried. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh, come on,” Alan said. “Your sister’s a retard. Don’t act like you didn’t know it.”

Sage could hardly breathe. She could still see her sister, her best friend: pale, pretty, and thin as a willow. They were a matched pair, two halves of a whole as only twins could be. They’d loved each other, loved all the same things; building fairy houses out of twigs and bark, playing jump rope and Hula-Hoop, watching Saturday morning cartoons. Yes, Rosemary had been different, but mostly in the best ways. The world had come alive in her eyes, and she’d shared it with everyone, pointing out monarchs and dandelions, how the sun sparkled like diamonds on the snow and water, the glow of birthday candles on the ceiling when the lights were turned out.

But there had also been doctors—too many to count—and mysterious overnight hospital visits. It seemed like she was always sick. And yes, Sage had to admit there’d been times when her sister frightened her; like when she got upset and flapped her arms, screaming and hitting anyone in striking distance. Or when she stood beside Sage’s bed in the middle of the night, silent and staring. Sometimes she moved the bedroom furniture around, pushing the desk and chairs and toys to the corners of their room while Sage slept, then in the morning saying she didn’t do it, that it had been that way when she woke up. Other times she talked in her sleep and had conversations with people who weren’t there, or chattered in gibberish, her words all tangled together like knotted yarn.

On her good days, she told Sage she heard voices that said terrible things, and she always apologized for scaring her. While they watchedThe Beverly Hillbilliesand counted their mother’s green stamps, she made Sage promise to remember the stories she told her, and Sage promised to protect her if she could. Their mother said Rosemary was confused and Sage should come to her whenever she did anything odd, but Sage never wanted to tattle. Sometimes Sage felt like her sister’s problems wereherfault, as if she’d done something to harm her before they were born—taken too much nourishment, taken too much blood, taken too much room inside their mother’s womb. After all, Sage had weighed two full pounds more than Rosemary at birth and had fought her way into the world thirty-five minutes sooner. Sometimes it felt like their mother blamed Sage too, making her promise to be extra nice to Rosemary, extra understanding, until they could figure out what was wrong.

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