a lot of time with her mom while the details of her captivity remained unspoken between them. Arden would be torn between answering all her mom’s questions and needing to protect her from the truth.
“I’ll go for your walk with you after we eat to give her a break.” She managed a smile. “And you.”
Plus despite his weakened state, Arden thought she might feel less anxious about leaving the house if her dad was beside her. Not to mention she could use the exercise to build up her own strength.
“That sounds like a good idea, dear,” her mom said as she entered the kitchen. “Fresh air will be good for you both.”
Arden wasn’t sure if her mom believed that or if it was just something people said when they were at a loss for anything else.
Her mom crossed the kitchen to where Arden was flipping pancakes onto plates. “I’ll finish up here, honey. You go sit with your father. You should have gotten me up if you were hungry.”
Arden refused to budge. “No, I’ve got it.” What she didn’t say was that after weeks of being cramped in a cage only about half as tall as she was, it felt good to stand to her full height, to be able to move freely. Even being buckled in her seat on the flights bringing her out of Uganda and eventually to the States had made her fidget and have to force herself to stay calm.
She noticed a look passing between her parents, one that revealed the deep concern they’d been trying to hide from her.
“I’m okay, really,” she said.
They probably didn’t believe her, but maybe if she said it enough they’d begin to. Even if she didn’t. In actuality, she felt about as far from okay as she could imagine. It was as if she’d been shaken so violently that all the pieces that made her who she was had been broken apart and resettled in the wrong configuration, making her someone entirely different.
Breakfast passed much as dinner had the night before, conversation flowing about things like who’d gotten married, who’d had kids, how there was a new pie flavor at the Primrose Café—caramel apple—that people were raving about. During one of the uncomfortable lapses in conversation, Arden’s mom placed her fork on her plate along with her half-eaten pancakes.
“That was delicious, but I don’t think I can eat another bite.”
Arden suspected it had less to do with her mom’s hunger being satiated and was more about her need to know what had happened to her daughter so that she could try to fix it, to make Arden better. But this wasn’t a bee sting or a scraped elbow that felt better with a little TLC from Mom. Some damage was so deep and so twisted that you just had to face it alone because no one who hadn’t been through it could possibly understand.
Her mom stood and started clearing the table. “Why don’t you two go outside and enjoy the spring air? I’ll clean up.”
“You feel up to a meander to the pond?” her dad asked.
Arden looked across the table, thought maybe her dad had a little more color in his cheeks today. Maybe seeing her alive and well, at least on the outside, had given him the same kind of bone-deep relief that she’d experienced when she’d seen him on the porch yesterday.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
They took their time since there was no need to hurry. Plus, she didn’t want him to overtax himself. And despite several days of regular food, water and a bed to sleep in, she still felt shaky and weak. If it wasn’t for the nightmares, she wished she could sleep for about a month.
Arden wrapped her arm around her dad’s as they walked.
“This is nice,” her dad said.
“It is.” Even so, she hated the awkwardness between them. She’d always been close with her dad, but now it felt as if even that had been ripped away from her. Protecting him from the truth was more important than being able to unburden herself.
They didn’t say anything else until they reached the bench next to the duck pond. A few mallards floated along the surface of the pond while others sat with their feet tucked beneath them and their beaks stuffed into their feathers. They were so used to Arden and her dad that they didn’t pay them any mind.
“This is still one of my favorite places,” she said as they sank onto the bench.
“Me, too. And it’s better when I have my favorite daughter with me.”
She smiled. “It’s easy to be the favorite when I’m the only.”
Her dad took her hand in his and simply held it as they watched the ducks dip below the water then resurface and shake their feathers.
“I know you think you’re protecting me,” he said, “but you don’t have to. I’m tougher than you think.”
She’d always thought him exactly that, tough but in a kindhearted way. But that was before he’d had a heart attack.
“Talking about what happened won’t change anything.”
“I think you’re wrong about that.”
Her history of being able to talk through her problems with him tempted her to trust him, but there was just too much at stake.
“But I won’t push you,” he said. “Just know that I’m here when you’re ready. Nothing you say will make me have another heart attack.”
She wasn’t willing to take that risk. Plus, some part of her hoped, perhaps in vain, that if she refused to talk about her captivity, the memories would fade and the nightmares would go away.
Arden squeezed her dad’s hand. “I’m fine, just glad to be home.”
Home with no job and no idea what she would do next. Because there was no way she was going back to international reporting and the possibility that she might be placed in danger again. That next time her father’s heart might not recover.
The sound of an approaching vehicle drew her attention to the road. J. J. Carter, who’d been the mail carrier on her parents’ route for as long as she could remember, stopped to deposit mail in their box. He threw up a wave as he motored on to the Carmichaels’ box a half mile down the road.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” she said as she stood.
As she walked down the driveway, she found herself scanning the surrounding landscape. She knew it was irrational, but she couldn’t prevent the concern that someone might appear as if out of nowhere to grab her. After all, it had happened before.
“Damn it,” she said under her breath, so that the words wouldn’t carry to her father’s ears. Then she refocused on the mailbox, telling herself that she had nothing to worry about. No human traffickers were hiding behind her mother’s rosebushes or in the ditch next to the road. She was in Blue Falls, where she was much more likely to be bored to death. Not that there was anything wrong with her hometown. She’d just always craved more than it could offer. She’d burned with the need to travel the world, to see places her neighbors had never even heard of, to root out injustices hidden in dark corners and expose them to the light through her writing. Well, no more.
So what if nothing of great import
