The reporter chuckles and starts toward the chair she’ll be sitting in across from me. “That is not a beard. That is a thirteen-year-old’s peach fuzz.”
Mom and Dr. Argent are laughing, but Mom’s trying to rein it in, I guess for Cameron’s sake. Or Cameron’s beard’s sake.
My feet are able to move, and even though every step becomes harder to take, I keep going.
Dad and Sam are standing off to the side, leaning against the back wall. They flash me a couple of thumbs-ups when I look over. Mom and Dr. Argent join them against the wall. This way, they’ll be right here, just in the corner of my eye.
Everyone’s here—even Patrick and Maisy are milling around somewhere, but now that she’s two, she has a tough time with the whole staying still thing.
I guess almost everyone’s here. One is missing. Today isn’t just my birthday—it’s a Sunday. Since it’s eight o’clock, he’s probably just about to start early mass. Torrin’s suspension ended ten months ago, and he’s gotten back to doing what he does best—being him. He’s helped people, he done the right thing, he’s spreading good like it’s going extinct, and he’s shone a light everywhere he’s gone.
I’ve managed to find a flicker of my own that burns on occasion, but he will always be my light.
The reporter waits for me to take my seat before she settles into hers. I cross my ankles and fold my hands into my lap. A couple of people approach, and while one dusts my nose with what I assume is powder, the other holds something by my face that looks like he’s measuring it or something. I don’t know. I just let them do what they need to while I focus on keeping calm.
My armpits are already damp, and I start to rethink my color choice for today. By the end of this, I’m going to have sweat stains running down to my belly button.
The same team moves over to the reporter. After they finish powdering and measuring and adjusting, they wander behind the lights and cameras.
It’s just the two of us now, and when a few more lights switch on, everyone around me fades. I can’t make out the forms of my family or Dr. Argent to my right. I can’t see my kitchen across the hall. I can’t see anything, and I feel the world start to shrink in around me again. It’s happened hundreds of time. It comes in around me from all directions, trying to fold me into something no bigger than a speck of dust.
The reporter crosses her legs and checks a clipboard with what I guess are the list of questions she’s prepared to fire at me, and now I’m really shrinking. The lights are blinding. I can even feel the heat coming from them like it’s scorching my skin.
I need an anchor. I need to find it. I need to remember I’m tied to it so no matter how far I feel like I’m falling or how small I feel I’m shrinking or how hollow I feel I’m being carved, I can remind myself I’m not alone. I’m tied to something. Connected. Grounded. Safe.
I close my eyes and search for it—it’s there on the tip of my brain, but the panic keeps shoving it out of my reach.
Opening my eyes, about to tell the reporter I can’t do this, I see the photo. It’s sitting on the end table still, in this inner circle with me. It’s the one of Torrin and me at Westport. It’s in the same shattered frame because after painstakingly gluing it back together, I realized that the view of the photo might have changed but the spirit of it had not.
Try again. Fail again. Fail better. Those words he quoted to me months ago have saved me from waving the surrender flag in life’s direction countless times since then. I’ve failed so many times I’ve lost count—but I’ve failed better and better each time.
Progress . . . one failure at a time.
I take a deep breath, let it spread, then I feel it. My anchor. What I’m tethered to. It’s him. It’s always been him. It always will be him.
“I’m ready,” I tell the reporter.
After giving me a moment to change my mind, she cues the cameras with a twirl of her finger. Cameron lowers behind the camera facing me, and even though I guess I’m now officially being taped, I don’t feel any different. I don’t feel nervous anymore. I feel ready.
Ready to tell my story.
“Jade Childs, thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me today and tell the story of your ten-year captivity with Earl Rae Jackson. The world is anxious to hear your account.”
The reporter’s voice fills my living room, and I notice my family seem to take a collective shift. Now that I’ve adjusted to the lighting, I can make them out again.
“Before we dive into the interview, I want to ask you one question. You’ve been at the epicenter of a media storm for one year and have kept quiet the entire time. You’re breaking your silence now.” The reporter leans forward. “What words do you want to break your silence with?”
I glance at my hands, considering her question. My answer rises from somewhere deep inside. From a place I thought had decayed and could never be brought back to life. I’ve been finding more and more of those pieces—bringing them back into being. I’ve been gluing myself back together, one shattered piece at a time.
When I look up, I stare right into the camera. I think I’m supposed to look at her when I answer, but I want to look into the world’s eyes when I say this. “When people look at me, most of them see a victim. But I’m a survivor.” My eyes drift to my anchor before they shift back to the camera. “I want everyone to know that a new life—a fresh start—is possible no matter who you are or what you’ve been through.”