Free One Thing Stolen by Beth Kephart

looking for the boy, Benedetto, who can draw my story on my hand, who will listen.
    On a Vespa. With a duffel. He is out there, looking for me.
    Lean. You’ll see.
    Reach.
    Hey, I hear a shout, feel a hand on my shoulder.
    Whoa, Nads. It’s Jack, behind me, Dad, too, Mom running from wherever she was, her black hair cinnamon in the sun. You were kinda tipping there.
    Sweetie, Dad says. Honey. Didn’t you see?
    I feel Katherine’s hand on mine, her cool fingers, her words. I hear her saying that it’s a gorge, that there are rocks beneath those flowers, that it’s steeper than I think; a woman died. Her one hand on my shoulder and her other hand on my hand, and she’s walking me backward, her voice calm, and Dad is telling Jack to give me some room. Mom slips her hand into Dad’s, holds it tight. White knuckles.
    I told her to stop, Jack says, to Dad, and Dad says, I know you did. She’s fine. She’s here.
    Katherine finds a bench and we sit, her beside me. I lean back, and she’s there, her arms strong inside their yellow sleeves. Countwith me, Nadia, Katherine says. Breathe. She starts and I let her count all the numbers backward. Ninety-seven, ninety-six, ninety-five. I let her start and finally I count, too, seventy-three, seventy-two, and Dad’s face comes in close like a missing-pieces puzzle, his eyebrows tangled up in his lashes. I close my eyes and I can hear Maggie.
    I’m right here
, she says.
    You’re okay
.

32

    The room is square and polished bright. There are red tiles on the floor and there is music above my head and painted stucco. Two open windows and a wall of glass jars on glass shelves. There’s a girl on a bed beneath a sheet, and she is me. There’s gauze on my left hand, like a glove, a little spot of blood in the white gauze, prick of ruby.
    Here you are.
    Her fingers on my wrist, counting the pulse. Her cashmere hair floating. Shhh, she says, and I sit up, startled. Nowhere to be, she says. We have time.
    There’s a lemon wedge in a glass of seltzer. She gives it to me and tells me to drink—all of it, slow, champagne bubbles in my nose. She asks me how long it’s been since I have slept, since I’ve had a proper meal, and I ask her who she is.
    My name is Katherine, she says, but I meant what am I doing here, where’s Mom, where’s Dad? Everybody’s in the room next door, she says. You’ve had a little spell.
    Where are—
    We’re home, she says. My home. Finish it, she tells me, about the drink. Or maybe the sentence.
    She cuffs my arm, pumps me up, looks down, makes notes. She pokes a thermometer into my ear, puts her two fingers on my wrist again and glances away, to count. She has a clipboard and a purple pen. The noise of the pen on the paper like a window being squeaked.
    All of it, she insists, gently. You’re dehydrated.
    I’m okay.
    All of it, she repeats. She takes the glass when I’m done, puts it on the shelf behind her, turns back to me, clink. Two big pots of ferns on the floor. A miniature
David
on the windowsill.
    Can we talk a little? she says.
    I’m really—
    Can you tell me why you’re so tired?
    I never—sleep.
    Hmmmm, she says. Never?
    Not really. Not—
    She writes something down. Raises her eyes. Writes again. She waits for me to say more, but that’s it:
Not really
. You came close out there, she says. Too close to the edge.
    I’m—sorry.
    She lets the pen dangle from its clipboard string. She takes a seat on a simple wooden stool that I didn’t see until now. In this room,she says, there are no apologies. Ever. You came close to the edge, and we worried. You’re tired, and we want to help you. You hurt your hand. No blame here. No anger. Tell me what you mean by never.
    Every word is clear. The room is peaceful, like the cloister was peaceful, like being with Benedetto was peaceful. Benedetto. I straighten, stare out the window, look for him.
    I can’t rem—ember.
    What can’t you remember?
    The last time I really—slept.
    Let’s