What is the Perfect Family? My name is Roxanna Baez. I’m sixteen years old, and when my teacher first posed this question, said this is what we had to write about, I nearly laughed. There is no such thing, I thought. Why not just have a bunch of high schoolers write about the tooth fairy or Santa Claus?
But lately, I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. I think a perfect family doesn’t just happen. A perfect family has to be made. Mistakes. Regret. Repair. You have to work at it.
This is my family’s story. Please read on.
Chapter 7
I DIDN’T WASTE ANY TIME. After seeing the Amber Alert for Roxanna Baez, I immediately called Sarah and arranged to meet at her apartment. She started pacing the minute she let me in, a wild animal barely in control.
I closed the door behind me. Paused to lock all three locks. Then brought my peace offering to the tiny kitchen table, not saying a word.
Sarah had been the sole survivor of a murder spree nearly two years ago: Drunken roommate brought home a psychopath from the local bar. Psychopath went after all four girls with a hunting knife. Sarah had made it; the other three had not.
The case had garnered nationwide headlines and plenty of attention—including my own. Every snapshot on TV of her pale, shell-shocked face. Every reporter shouting some completely ridiculous, too-personal question while she continued to stare blindly into the camera, a woman still not sure where she was or how she’d made it out alive.
I watched her for a bit, skulking from the shadows. Recon for the wounded. Then . . . I don’t know. She reminded me of me. Of where I’d been, in the beginning. So I’d knocked on her door. Middle of the night. And she’d answered, just as I knew she would, looking like some kind of rabid creature, about to burst out of her own skin.
We talked. I made her promises I had no idea if I or anyone else could keep. Then she cried, though she kept telling me how much she hated tears. And so it began. My project. Identifying other broken souls, trying to teach all of us how to live again. A support group for those who’d been to hell and back, and were still trying to sort out the change in scenery.
Which had just brought me here.
Sarah’s studio apartment looked better. At my suggestion (make your home a place you can feel safe!) she’d painted the walls peach and hung an oversized graphic poster in bright shades of blue, green, and red. The artwork was too busy for my taste, but she claimed it gave her something to focus on in the middle of the night.
Which was the point of our little group, after all: exchanging tricks for chasing the demons away.
“How well did you know her?” I asked now.
I removed two cups of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee from the carrying tray, heavy on the cream and sugar for both, then opened a box of Munchkins. Another tip: There’s no problem a lot of caffeine and too much sugar can’t handle. Though some of the group members preferred hot chocolate to coffee. Whatever.
“I didn’t really know her. Not yet. That’s the whole point!”
Sarah turned. I tossed a jelly Munchkin at her head, applauded silently when she caught it. Her reflexes had improved remarkably in the past few months.
“Start at the beginning,” I advised. Another sip of coffee. Another donut hole.
“She was standing outside the studio. Where I’d started kickboxing, as you’d suggested.”
I nodded. “What did you notice? What about her caught your attention? Had you seen her before?”
Sarah frowned. She stopped pacing long enough to pop the donut bite in her mouth. Another one of the homework assignments I’d given her: Observe. Work on the transition from hypervigilance to due diligence.
“I don’t think I’d seen her before. But she was . . . nervous. Skittish. Like she was worried about someone seeing her.”
I studied Sarah over the battered table.
“She reminded you of you,” I said.
“Yeah. She looked . . . She looked like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. And she was staring through the glass, at the kickboxers, like she wished she could be as tough as that.”
“What did you say to her?”
“I asked her if she wanted to come in. She backed away immediately. Seemed spooked that I’d noticed her. She started to walk away and I . . .” Sarah looked at me. “You said I should trust my instincts. You said instincts are there for our own protection.”
I nodded.
“She needed help. That was my first instinct.”
I didn’t say anything.
“So, uh, I said I was just leaving. Heading to the corner for a cup of coffee. Maybe she’d like to join me.” Sarah shrugged. “I didn’t think she’d go for it at first. She had on this ratty blue backpack, was clutching the shoulder straps as if her life depended on it. Then all of a sudden, she relaxed, said okay. We walked together to the coffee shop.”
“Where she told you about her friend.”
“Yes. She had a friend. She was worried about her. Wondered if kickboxing might help make her feel stronger.” Sarah shrugged a bony shoulder. “I did what you suggested: I didn’t try to tell her what she should do, I just talked about me. I told her I’d survived something awful once. So bad, I didn’t think I’d ever feel safe again. But now I did things like kickboxing and it made me feel good. Stronger. And once you feel stronger, act stronger—a lot of your problems go away. Bad people don’t want to deal with the powerful. They prey on the weak.”
“What did she say?”
“Mostly, she stared at the table. We hadn’t gotten around to ordering the coffee yet, and she kept the backpack on. I figured she’d bolt at any moment. I asked her if she was sleeping at night. She shook her head. I asked her if someone was hurting her now. I mean, a teenage girl . . .” Sarah shrugged. “You have to wonder.”
I nodded.
“She got nervous. Accused me of being a cop. I assured her I wasn’t. Just someone who’s been there. But I had to back off—she was so skittish. I told her she should come back to the studio. The following week there was a beginner’s class. Maybe she could check it out.”
“And you told her about our group.” I didn’t mean to sound accusatory, but maybe I did.
“I didn’t think she’d go to the class. I figured she’d walk out of the coffee shop and that would be that. And I . . .” Sarah floundered, waved her hands. “Look, I’m new to this. But you said trust your instincts. And this girl . . . I felt for her. She seemed terrified. She looked . . . She looked like I did, not that long ago.”
I nodded. I wasn’t really mad at Sarah. And not just because I was the one who had told her to trust her instincts, but because I was also new to this survivor-mentoring gig. I just put on a better front.
“She logged on to the group forum that night,” I filled in the rest. Newbies could only access the boards using an established member’s password. At which point Roxanna Baez had requested permission to join herself—meaning basically I followed back up with the sponsoring member, Sarah, who’d personally vouched for her. The system was hardly rigorous or foolproof. I’d debated it several times—increasing the demands for basic info in the interest of better security versus the risk of scaring off people who were just figuring out how to speak up. In the end, I’d kept it simple, meaning Roxy Baez had joined our group based strictly on Sarah’s say-so.
“I pulled the transcripts from the past few weeks,” I continued now. Before I deleted the entire forum went without saying. “She didn’t post much. Just lurked.”
Which also isn’t uncommon. Most survivors are naturally distrustful. They have to get the lay of the land before they proceed. I learned early on that there are a lot of survivors out there. But only some of us will or can connect. Just the way it is in real life, I guess. Not everyone is meant to understand you. And not just anyone can help you.
I glanced at the sheaf of papers. “She doesn’t talk about her home life. Certainly no mention of a mom, stepdad, two younger siblings, or dogs. She just mentions this friend. She needs help for a friend.”
“There was no way I could’ve seen this coming,” Sarah said.
“No one’s blaming you. Especially not me.”