I see the sign for Petaluma and now that I have my test results, I’m more excited to go home. Something horrific happened to me, but at least the only thing I need to work through are the memories and not something in my blood. I don’t know if I would have been able to get over that. The world would have lost me too, if I’m being honest.
When we pull into town, Officer Howard flips on his lights, and I shrink into the seat.
“Sorry, it’s protocol,” he says.
I throw my arm over my eyes and groan, then push the button of the seat and lean back. I don’t want anyone to see me. Not yet.
“Well, why don’t you look at that?” he says in awe, slowing down the car. “Heather, look.” He nudges my arm, and I bite back the annoyance, push the button again, and sit up.
I gasp when I see all the people lining the streets. They are holding signs that say ‘Welcome Home’ and ‘We love you.’ They are cheering for me. A few women stand together and hold a pink banner that says, ‘We are here for you. Survivor’s Unite’ in big bold font. I cover my mouth with my hand and become emotional, in a really good, sad, way. The people of the town are being so supportive, but I hate they feel like they have to be because of what happened. Person after person waves as they see me, and I take my hand away from my mouth, giving them the tiniest of waves.
Tears fall in rapid sessions down my face as the line keeps going on and on down the road. It’s never ending. “Oh my god, they are here for me?” I ask in astonishment.
“The entire town is here. They are glad to have one of their own home, right where she belongs.”
Signs range from ‘Thomas the Titan’ to a simple painted red heart on a poster board. I look in the rearview mirror and notice the crowd following the car. A massive wave of people marching down the street, holding up their signs.
When we pull up to the police station, they have metal gates blocking the crowds on the sidewalk so I can walk in the building without being interrupted. Officer Howard grabs the gear shifter and puts it in park. I stare at outside the window and feel overwhelmed. What if who I am now is a disappointment, not just to my parents, but to everyone else? Why do I feel obligated to show them I can heal and be the person I used to be? I only want to be obligated to myself. I’m the only one I need to focus on. No one else.
For some odd reason, I see Asher’s parents at the entrance of the police station with my mom and dad. They are right inside the doors and an officer is holding my mom back from getting to me. Typical her. She always has to bully her way to what she wants. It’s what I love about her.
Seeing Asher’s father makes me think of Asher. They look a lot alike, but they couldn’t be more different. I’m not sure what my dad sees in Mr. Haven, but it can’t be anything good, which makes me think my dad isn’t as good of a man as I think he is.
“Ready?” Officer Howard asks, grabbing the handle of his driver’s door.
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Okay, stay in the car. I’m going to come around.” He pops open the door and the muted cheers of the crowd become a deafening roar for a moment. He runs around the front of the car and I take one last deep breath and think of Asher’s blue eyes comforting me. He might hate me, but his kindness will always be remembered as what saved me.
Howard glances at me through the passenger side window and silently, by meeting my eyes, asks me if I’m ready.
No, I’m not, but I’m going to have to be.
I tilt my chin in a quick affirmation and the click of the door slices through the air. The cool, dry hair hits me in the face and Howard’s hand stretches out to help me out of the car. Right when I place my hand in his and my foot touches the ground, cameras flash and questions are being yelled at me from behind the gate.
“Heather, how does it feel to be home?”
“What happened, Heather? Did you runaway?”
“They say you were kidnapped, is that true? If so, what happened?”
Microphones are being shoved in my face and Officer Howard throws his jacket over my head, his arm around my shoulder, and pushes the microphones out of the way without saying a word. He bulldozes through them, and I keep my eyes focused on the ground, the gum stains on the concrete, and how my shoelace is untied— another gift from Quinn.
The doors to the police station open as a uniformed cop greets us. When we are safely inside, Officer Howard takes off his jacket and the door locks behind us, so we have privacy. I didn’t think this would be such a big deal. It’s just me…but I guess being the governor’s daughter now puts a target on my head.
“Heather?” my mom’s broken, tearful voice comes from a few feet away and when I look at her, I barely recognize the woman in front of me. Not because I’ve been away for too long but because she looks so disheveled. Her brown hair is in a bun and not in the elegant waves down her shoulders like it usually is. She isn’t wearing makeup and her eyes are red and puffy. She looks like she’s lost a little weight too. Her cheeks are a bit hollowed out and her lips are chapped. My dad isn’t in his regular suit and tie, but faded jeans and a shirt that has a food stain on it, where he always drops his dinner because he constantly misses his mouth. “Heather, is that you?” My mom takes a step forward, unsure if she’s able to run up and hug me.
Is she in disbelief too?
“Mom?” when I see them, the uncertainty of not wanting to be with them fades, and I run to them, slamming myself into the frail frame of my mom. Dad engulfs us in his arms, and I’m buried between them for a few minutes while we all cry, relieved that we are finally together again.
“You’re home. Oh god, my baby, you’re really here. You’re here,” mom states, cupping the back of my head with her long, slender fingers.
“My little girl.” My dad never chokes up. He is a very stoic man, but right now, he is crying like a baby. “Let me see you?” he takes a step back and his smile fades when he sees the bruises on my face, my arms, and the cuts that decorate my flesh. They are all over. His bottom lip wobbles and he rubs a hand over his mouth, the stubble of his whiskers make sandpaper noises against his palm. “No,” he buries his face in his hand when he comes to the conclusion of what happened to me himself. “No, please,” he grabs me again, this time, wrapping me up in his arms and burying my head in his chest. I hold him tight too. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m so sorry.” He sniffles.
“What? What happened to you? Why are you all bruised up?” my mom sounds hysterical.
“Whitney,” dad tries to stop her from asking, but she can’t be stopped.