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You have to be careful, Casey. You just have to play the game for a little while, at least till the heat is off. Please, Casey, Stokely had said to him in that last stolen phone call, but it must have been too late, even then, she realized later.
They’re up to something, Stokely, he’d said. Stokely, I’m scared shitless.
News still travels fast in small towns, and when Casey Connor was carted off, Stokely knew about it the next day. Casey, you moron, she thought, over and over. You stupid, stubborn idiot, what have you done?
He would probably be all right, she thought. Stan was doing OK, in his rehab program every day after school and every weekend. He was probably almost done. Delilah was probably the new Homecoming Queen at boarding school. It’s not like Casey had ended up in jail, like Zeke. He’d wise up, things would work out in the end. They’d all come out all right.
That’s what Stokely told herself, every day, day after day.
_____
On impulse one Sunday at the Rosados, feeling well-fed and looked after and more awkward than she ever had before in her life, Stokely wrote Casey a long, rambling letter about her parents kicking her out and Miss Burke’s memorial service and Mr. Furlong’s mother being interviewed on television, crying and begging for someone, anyone, to tell her what had happened to her son and everything else that had happened since they’d last spoke.
It was 22 handwritten pages long, front and back.
Stokely shredded it after signing her name, and then took the trash out, just to make sure. Then she went back to Stan’s room (no, her room now, she reminded herself, her room) and wrote Casey a second letter, a more acceptable three-page, front-only, letter. She’d been having a difficult time with her parents and was staying with the Rosados now. Stan was doing well and playing basketball. Mr. Tate was up to two flasks and three packs a day.
I miss you, Casey, was in every word. I don’t have anyone to talk to and Stan and I live here in this house and circle around one another and never ever talk about the things between us. I’m worried about you, Casey, and I don’t know how to find out if you’re all right.
She found a stamp and walked it down the block to the drop box before she could change her mind. She put Casey’s old address on it: Casey Connor, c/o Mr. and Mrs. Frank Connor, and hoped they would take it to him.
All being still silent on the Casey front the next week, Stokely wrote a similar letter to Zeke, and addressed it: Zeke Tyler, c/o Marion County Jail.
Even after Stan started talking to her, after she learned to breathe naturally and relax her spine in the Rosado house, she kept writing.
_____
Stokes, the postcard said, prison is great. Wish you were here. Will get you a T-shirt. Love to Stan. Z.
The return address at the Chillicothe prison and the inmate number were circled and had an arrow pointing to them.
“How’d he know you were here?” Stan asked quietly as he handed her the postcard.
“I’ve been writing to him,” she answered, already rereading the short message.
“Don’t let Mom and Dad find out, OK?” Stan said. “If Cathy had picked up the mail today, she’d be speed-dialing them so fast right now.”
“I didn’t know he was even getting my letters,” Stokely said. She flipped the postcard over -- there was a ridiculous picture of a teddy bear with a big red heart pulsing out of his chest. She grinned down at the postcard, and didn’t notice when Stan left the room.
_____
The return address was one of those Easter Seal labels, reading Mr. and Mrs. Frank Connor. Mrs. Rosado put it in Stokely’s hand without comment.
He’s dead, Stokely thought suddenly, looking at the pale pink envelope. His parents are writing me to tell me he’s dead. She didn’t know where the thought came from, but it was March, and this was the first acknowledgment she’d had of the many letters she sent to Casey, in his parents’ care.
Dear Miss Mitchell, the parchment monogramed with a large “C” read, I wanted to thank you for the kind letters you have sent to Casey. He is doing well and working hard to get better. His doctor says that positive contact with his peers is a crucial part of his recovery. She also said she appreciates the appropriateness of your letters to Casey. I know that Casey enjoys finding out what is happening at school while he is away.
Thank you again for your kindness, it ended, and was signed, Elise Connor.
The paper shook in Stokely’s hand, and she knew, beyond doubt, that Casey had never seen one of her letters.
That’s crazy, another voice in her head whispered. This is good -- this means you’ll probably be able to see him when he gets home. What do you think, they just keep your letters to read themselves?
“Is that from Casey Connor’s mother?” Mrs. Rosado asked as she continued to put away groceries.
“Yes,” Stokely said, and quickly refolded, then unfolded the letter. “I’ve been writing to Casey,” she blurted. “I’ve been writing to Casey ever since I came here.”
Mrs. Rosado hesitated, milk in hand, and Stokely held the letter out for her to see. She put the milk in the fridge, then took it and scanned it. When she was done, she smiled at Stokely, and while she looked worried, she also looked compassionate.
“You’re not in trouble,” Mrs. Rosado said. “It’s kind of you to write to Casey.”
“I just thought,” Stokely made a useless gesture with her hand. “After everything, I thought people probably didn’t want us talking to each other.” You didn’t want me here, she thought, not at first. You were afraid.
“I think the letters are fine,” Mrs. Rosado said. “Mrs. Connor sounds grateful. I’m sure Casey misses school. Just don’t -- go sneaking off to visit him, all right?”
“I don’t even know where he is,” Stokely whispered, and as often still happened with the Rosados, her throat closed and tears pricked at her eyes.
“Oh, well,” Mrs. Rosado said uncertainly, and then did what she always did when she wasn’t sure what to do next, which was to stroke Stokely’s hair off her face and then hug her.
Stokely was slowly learning to hug back when this happened.
“I’ve been writing to Zeke Tyler, too,” she said as they embraced, overpowered by the need to confess all. “In prison.”
Mrs. Rosado sighed. “I’m sure he’s lonely too,” she said, and she sounded resigned. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
“No,” Stokely said, and she choked a little. “No, that’s all.”
“All right,” Mrs. Rosado said, and gave Stokely’s back a last pat before pulling away. “Come help me with the groceries then.”
Later that week, Stokely walked by Mr. and Mrs. Rosado’s bedroom and paused when she heard low, worried voices.
“. . . not in any trouble,” Mrs. Rosado said. “I just worry. For all these kids. Do we really know the right things to do for them?”
“That Connor boy is sick, Alice,” Mr. Rosado answered. “I can’t imagine what his parents are going through, but I’m sure they’re getting him the best care.”
There was a rattle of hangers and dresser drawers, and then Mrs. Rosado said, “No one knows where he is. The Connor boy. There isn’t a soul in town who can tell you what facility he’s been sent to.”
“Hmm, that is odd,” Mr. Rosado said, and then his footsteps approached the door, so Stokely bounded down the stairs without hearing anything more.
_____
In July, Stokely heard from the small town grapevine that Casey was finally, finally back home. When she called Mrs. Connor, the woman was surprisingly warm, thanking Stokely several times for all the letters. “You’re the only one of his friends who tried to keep in touch,” she said. She sounded flustered and on the verge of tears.
No, Casey didn’t really talk on the phone, Mrs. Connor said, but Stokely could come by the house if she’d like. Yes, Stan could come too. Just a brief visit, because Casey wasn’t really used to anything social yet. But he’d be glad to see them. She just knew he would.
_____
Neither of them spoke on the half-mile return trip, and when Stan shut off the engine, Stokely opened the door, leaned out and vomited.
She dimly heard Stan’s anxious voice, felt his hand on her back, but he was so far away and it was so hard to breathe and she was so cold, even though it was July and scorching hot. Stan’s voice kept getting higher and more annoying, like a mosquito buzzing, and there was no way she could answer him, couldn’t he see that she had all she could do to keep her racing heart from exploding?
Then there were cool hands on her face and a straw being carefully offered to her, and a soft, kind voice saying calmly, “There now, it’s all right. Drink a little for me, sweetie. That’s it, it’s all right now. We’ll get you upstairs and you can lie down for a bit and then you’ll feel better.”
“You don’t understand, Mom,” Stan said nearby, and he wasn’t buzzing anymore, he just sounded like Stan, only he was sniffling. “He didn’t even know us.”
“I understand, Stan,” Mrs. Rosado said firmly, and Stokely dared open her eyes to squint at her. “A little better?” she asked, and stroked Stokely’s hair back from her face. Stokely nodded dumbly at her. “All right, let’s get you inside,” Mrs. Rosado said, and then she and Stan were guiding her inside, and up the stairs, and Stokely leaned on Stan and let him propel her because her legs were rubbery and unreliable for some reason. She was still so cold, so she crawled into her bed, and under the covers, and Stan took off her shoes while his mom put a cool cloth over Stokely’s eyes.
“There you go,” Mrs. Rosado whispered, and stroked Stokely's hair. “Just rest now. You’re safe.”
That’s a strange choice of words, Stokely thought, but she was suddenly overcome with exhaustion and promptly fell asleep.
_____
When she woke up, no sunlight peeped around the drawn curtains, and the clock said 9:40. Stokely stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom, where she washed her face and gulped down water.
“Fuck,” she gasped, looking at herself in the mirror. She was dead white and ill-looking. “What was that?”
Shock, she answered herself, a little disgruntled that her emotions could put her in such a physical state. She brushed her teeth and went downstairs.
The house was dark and quiet, which was unusual for this time of night. The kitchen light was on, so Stokely went in there.
Mr. Rosado was at the table, working on the newspaper crossword. “Hey,” he said when she came in.
“Hi,” she answered, still feeling a little bleary and confused.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “We saved you dinner.”
At the mention of food, Stokely was suddenly ravenous, so she sat and let Mr. Rosado heat up casserole and a roll and some veggies and serve it all to her. She ate every bite on the plate without pausing for conversation, and when she finished, she looked up to find Mr. Rosado regarding her with fond amusement.
“Don’t eat the plate,” he said.
“Wow,” Stokely answered. “I guess I was really hungry.”
“You had a day,” he said neutrally, and cleared away her dishes, waving her back down when she started to help. He rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher, then sat beside her at the table and laid his hands on top of hers.
“Stokely, are you ready to tell me what really happened?” he asked, very quietly.
Her heart started pounding wildly again, but Stokely thought it was for different reasons than earlier in the day. Mr. Rosado was looking at her seriously, but not in a scary you’re-in-trouble way. The Rosados were never scary, even when they were strict. The Rosados had never been anything but loving to Stokely, even before they trusted her, even when they were a little afraid of having her in their house.
I could ask my dad. He’d know what to do, Stokely heard Stan say in her memory, and it was true, Mr. Rosado did always know what to do, and he fixed up cuts and bruises, broken appliances, convoluted math problems, and sibling squabbles all with calm nonchalance. Stokely thought about Mrs. Rosado, and her cool hands brushing back her hair, her soft, enveloping embrace.
The Rosados did not believe in aliens. They believed in God and country and family. They were not imaginative people. They believed in getting to the root of a matter, and then fixing it, all tidy and businesslike.
They did not believe that teen-agers were sent away to mental institutions completely sane and then came home zombies. They would never believe, as Stokely suddenly realized she believed, that this had been done to another human being on purpose. Sometimes, the Rosados’ good hearts stood in their way of seeing clearly.
But there was something new in Mr. Rosado’s look, something in his quiet, serious manner, something Stokely had never seen before, and she thought her heart just might be pounding wildly with hope.
He’ll believe me, he’ll believe me, he’ll believe me, she thought frantically. He’ll believe me, and we’ll help Casey and we’ll figure this out, that’s what he does, he figures things out and I don’t know why but right now, right this moment, he’s going to believe me, that’s how much they love me now, and the feeling was so strong that she opened her mouth and struggled to make sound come out around the lump in her throat.
The back door banged open, and Stokely jumped, and Matthew came running in, soccer ball under his arm. “Hey!” he said when he saw her at the table, and ran up to her and caught her in a sweaty embrace. “Are you better?” he asked, and put his head on her shoulder. “I’m sorry your friend is sick.”
“Thanks, Mattie,” Stokely said, and returned the hug. “I feel lots better.”
“Good!” he enthused, and let go as abruptly as he’d latched on. “You missed a super-awesome game! I know what coach I want for next year, Dad! You have to meet him, he’s the coolest, and I know he’s going to have the best team.”
Summer soccer tournament, Stokely remembered. Final night, and they were all supposed to go watch Matthew play.
“I’m sorry I missed it,” she said, and Matthew shrugged.
“Naw,” he said. “You were sick. Dad, this weekend, let’s go check on sign-ups, OK? I don’t want to wait and get a bad coach.”
“We can do that,” Mr. Rosado said. “Now go get cleaned up. It’s past bedtime.”
“There’s no school, Dad,” Matthew said with derision and tossed the soccer ball to his father. Mr. Rosado looked around quickly and tossed it back, making Matthew cackle. “I’m telling Mom you threw the ball in the house!” he crowed, and Mr. Rosado gave him a shove toward the door.
“Soap. Water. Now,” he said.
Stokely watched him, watching Matthew walk away, and when he turned back to her, it was gone. Whatever it was, whether it had been real or just a manifestation of Stokely’s overwhelming desire to have someone believe them, to have someone help them, it was gone. If she told him the truth, there would be no college in the fall. She and Stan wouldn’t be allowed to spend time alone together. There would be no more letters to Zeke. There would be no more visits to Casey.
He regarded her, and Stokely saw his expression shift once again. He knew she wasn’t going to tell him.
“I was just really upset to see Casey so sick,” she said, and that had the virtue of being true. “I didn’t understand what was happening to him.”
Mr. Rosado looked at her sadly. “No, it’s not something any of us can really understand,” he said gravely. “I know you’ve tried to be a friend to him.”
Stokely nodded. “Could I go see him again?” she asked.
He nodded. “So long as his parents say it’s all right,” he answered. “I hate to see you so upset, though.”
“It was just so shocking,” Stokely said. “I just wasn’t prepared for how sick he really is.” Then she leaned over and hugged Mr. Rosado. “Thanks for everything,” she said, and she meant it. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” he said, and patted her back. “I’m so glad that you’ve come through all this all right, you and Stan both.”
“I know,” she said, and smiled brightly at him when they pulled away.
_____
Later, just before she went to bed, Stokely got out her notepad. She was always careful what she wrote, because there was no way only his eyes read them. They were surely screened first, which meant she could never say exactly what she needed to.
Dear Zeke, she began, I thought you would want to know that Casey is home from the hospital.
_____
Months later, she would be sick out the car again, pulled over on the side of the interstate after Stan came to pick her up for winter break, after the FBI and the men in dark suits with shiny shoes had been to her dorm and had interviewed her, one after another.
“Are you sick?” Stan asked, worried. “You’re not pregnant, are you?” and she laughed bitterly at poor, worried Stan, who just didn’t get it.
“Don’t you know what we’ve done?” she demanded, wiping away the hot tears that vomiting had made run down her face. “Don’t you understand? He did what we were supposed to do, Stan, he did what we were too big of cowards to do, what we should have done the second we set eyes on Casey and saw what they’d done to him, he did it, and he didn’t even hesitate, while we abandoned him, we left him there to rot, Stan, how could we walk away from him like that?” and now she was truly crying, huge, gulping sobs.
“What, Zeke?” Stan asked, trying to hand her tissues and water and wet-wipes all at once. “Stokely, we couldn’t just kidnap Casey and disappear with him. You can’t do those kinds of things. What did you want us to do?”
“Anything,” Stokely sobbed. “We didn’t do anything,” and when Stan finally abandoned his efforts to hand her useful items and just wrapped his arms around her instead, she clung to him, the only thing keeping her afloat in the wreckage.
_____
She was clear-headed when she went back to school. She’d made plans, she had goals, she had things she could do. Someday, the phone would ring, and she was going to do anything they asked her to. Someday, she would see a second chance, and her throat wouldn’t close up on her next time. She wasn’t going to miss another opportunity. She would never walk away again.
They would come through all right in the end. She was going to make sure of it, no matter what she had to do.