Ashes and Dust

by Janet Hartwell

I struggle to breathe in the frozen, gray air. Sandy is holding my hand, gently encouraging me to continue. We run and then walk for a long time before we stop and rest. I am so cold, tired, and weak, I want to sleep, but Sandy will not allow me.

Sandy tells me to try not to think about the horrors of the past two weeks, the man grabbing me off my bicycle, tossing me into his van. Sandy tells me to think about my mom and my cat. Sandy knows I will see them again. I need to keep going.

Sometimes, Sandy carries me and tells me stories. Her stories are about little children overcoming great adversity, becoming people who feel safe, simply because they are who they are.

We are looking for a road. I want to stop and rest again, but Sandy says no, he will come after us as soon as he realizes we are gone.

Sandy helps me climb up a steep, slippery embankment and then lifts me over a snowbank plowed against the guardrail. She tells me that when a vehicle comes up the road, we must jump up and down and wave our arms to get attention, to get help.

When headlights finally approach, we hop around, shout, and wave. The car stops. Sandy drapes her necklace around my neck, holds my cheeks in her hands, and kisses my forehead.

An older man approaches with an alarmed look on his face. Sandy steps away.

The abduction was two decades ago, when I was ten. I went to the convenience store to get candy, and I ended up over a thousand miles away. The police never caught the man who grabbed me. They never found Sandy, or any evidence of her. They say the man who abducted me gave me the necklace, or I found it along the way.

I have discussed Sandy with therapists. I tell them she was seventeen, had blonde hair, and was from California. They tell me my mind created Sandy to help me cope with extreme danger, calling it Third Man syndrome, or bicameralism. I show them the necklace, and they try to identify the material.

My Grandma believes Sandy was an angel. My mom says she was the best imaginary friend ever. A psychic told me that Sandy was the spirit of another victim. The woman who babysat me after school said Sandy sounded like the teenager I wanted to become.

I can still see her smile and hear her gentle voice saying, "You're such a good girl!" I think about her every day, and I always wear her necklace.

It appears I live a normal life. I've had boyfriends, hung out with girlfriends, and joined bowling teams. My relationships seldom last long. They intensify my longing for something I cannot identify.

I wake up one day, and I cannot find the necklace. I panic and rip the house apart, looking for it. I cry when I finally locate it. I walk past a mirror, and I glimpse Sandy looking out at me.

I make up my mind to go back to that forest. I request vacation time, and I leave.

A couple of days later, I drive along the road where the elderly couple found me and locate the point where they believed they picked me up. I know this is not the correct spot.

I drive further until I feel a wave of relaxed knowing, then I park the car and walk into the woods. I hear a stream and walk toward it, then I see a group of boulders, and I know which way to head.

I am aware of someone else being in the forest, near me, shadowing me, but I feel safe, not because I am who I am, but because I have a Glock 19.

I walk for hours before I come to his cabin. I crouch behind some blackberry bushes and study the thin smoke escaping the stovepipe. I hear the door open, and I watch him step out. I remember the hair and sneering facial expression.

I stand, and I empty the Glock into his chest and his crotch as I walk closer to him. He sinks to the ground and rolls on his back. I look down at his death face, and I feel complete as Sandy steps inside me, and my lips move when Sandy says, "You're such a good girl."

I pull the necklace from my neck and watch it turn back into ashes, dust, and tears in my hand.