The Secret Friend

79

Hannah sat on her bed, a statue of the Virgin Mary clutched between her hands.

Mom was the believer, the one who had pushed the family into Mass every Sunday and sacrificing during the season of Lent. Dad didn't have much use for church. He confided in her once, when it was just the two of them: 'You want good things to happen in your life, you're not going to find it sitting on a pew. You've got to use that thing sitting between your ears.'

Still, Dad went along for the ride, paying the usual lip service – bow and stand, kneel, stand and bow, give thanks for all the wonderful things in your life, now go off and be good and don't you dare question the Good Lord's motivations. Hannah always felt caught in the middle – wanting to believe in some higher purpose or calling but not really buying into the whole invisible man in the sky thing watching everything you did, good and bad, and marking it in the appropriate columns.

The last time she prayed was the summer before college. Her cousin Cindy had a baby boy born with a heart defect. Little Billy lived in an incubator for six months and had undergone every type of procedure imaginable, including the installation of a pacemaker. A company made one specially to fit inside Billy's tiny chest. Donations were raised, churches prayed for Billy's recovery, and in the end God said no, sorry, Billy's got to go. All part of God's divine plan, the priest said.

Bullshit.

What part could an infant play in God's mysterious divine plan? Why let Billy be born in the first place? Why would a loving God make an infant go through all that pain and suffering? And why would a caring God turn a deaf ear to the thousands of starving Jews in the concentration camps? To the Jews who were marched into the ovens and shot in the head as they stood over a mass grave? How did that fit into the Almighty's divine plan?

Hannah didn't know the answers, but she couldn't deny that holding the statue brought some measure of comfort. The Blessed Mother of Jesus Christ kept the tears at bay and provided a sliver of hope.

Maybe there was a purpose to suffering, but if she was going to survive, Hannah knew she was going to have to use that thing between her ears.

The locks to her room clicked back and the door opened.

Hannah jumped off the bed and saw Walter holding the clothes she had worn the night she was kidnapped. The jeans and sweatshirt were neatly folded in his hands. A plastic shopping bag holding her boots was wrapped around his wrist.

Walter tossed the bag and clothes onto the floor. 'Get dressed.'

Something was wrong. The makeup Walter used to hide his scars was smeared in several places. She saw thick, rubbery patches of crimson and brown coloured skin. His eyes were wet. Had he been crying?

'Get dressed,' Walter said again. His hair was dishevelled, sticking up at odd angles as though he had just climbed out of bed. He was wearing his coat.

'Where are we going?'

'I'm taking you home.'

Hannah was about to ask the question, stopped. Don't say anything. Just do what he says.

She had to ask. She needed to know. 'Why are you letting me go?'

'Mary said it's the right thing to do.'

Hannah picked up her clothes. They smelled of fabric softener. Walter had cleaned them.

Walter didn't leave the room. Hannah took the clothes behind the curtain hiding the toilet and changed quickly.

When she came out, Walter was holding a pair of handcuffs.

This time he didn't ask her to turn around. He yanked her hands behind her back and handcuffed her. She didn't fight him. When he wrapped a black blindfold over her eyes, she didn't fight him. Walter grabbed her by the arm and quickly dragged her down the hallway as though the house was on fire.

Walter helped her up the stairs. Hannah took the steps one at a time, heart pumping with fear, the handcuffs biting into her wrist. Why was he rushing? Something was wrong. Hannah couldn't see, couldn't make out any shapes. She was trapped in the dark.

The stairs ended. Hannah stepped into the kitchen. Walter held onto her arm and led her down what felt like a narrow hallway. She kept bumping into walls.

Walter told her to stop. She did. He grabbed her by the shoulders and then moved her to the left and told her to take three steps forward. She did.

Walter was breathing hard. 'I'm going to take off your handcuffs and then help you put on your jacket,' he said. 'After your jacket is on, I'm going to cuff you again.'

Coat on and zippered, the handcuffs back in place, Walter put his hands on her shoulders and moved her to the right. Something hard bumped up against the tips of her boots.

He slipped something inside her jacket pocket.

There was a long moment of silence. She heard him sniffle and clear his throat several times.

Was he crying?

'You're so beautiful, Hannah.'

He was crying.

'You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met,' Walter said. 'I love you so much.'

In some strange, bizarre way, she wanted to thank him for his kindness – to tell him he was doing the right thing. She wanted to say she wouldn't tell anyone about him or what had happened, cross her heart and hope to die, swear on a stack of bibles, whatever he wanted. But she didn't want to risk breaking whatever spell he was under by saying something that might cause him to change his mind. 'Stay still,' Walter said. 'Don't move.'