Over the Fence

By Debbie Schrack

Kidnapped from her front yard in Oklahoma eleven years ago, seventeen-year old Eve Anderson lives a wretched existence in Bell Meade, Minnesota with her abductor, “Papa,” his common-law wife “Mama,” and Honey, Eve’s four-year-old daughter with Papa. Papa keeps the family hidden behind locked doors, boarded-up windows, and an eight-foot tall fence that surrounds their backyard.

Emma Love, also seventeen, recently moved to Bell Meade with her Aunt Vi to take care of her big sister Noelle, who’s in a vegetative state after being savagely beaten by her boyfriend, Jack Armstrong. He is charged with grievous bodily harm, but Emma worries that the popularity and influence of the Armstrong family will keep Noelle from getting the justice she deserves.

When Eve and Emma start talking through the fence that adjoins their backyards, they soon form a connection. Emma finds it comforting to talk to Eve about Noelle, and Eve sees parallels between Noelle’s situation and her own. She acts as Emma’s confidant, but does not reveal her own secrets, for fear of Papa’s wrath if he finds out.

But when Papa decides to marry Eve and move the family to an isolated farmhouse, Eve must risk everything to save herself and Honey. Will she have the courage to escape from Papa before it’s too late? And will Emma have the strength to help her new friend, even as she struggles to save her own sister?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melange Books, LLC
• Release date: May 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886531305

Debbie Schrack

BIODebbie Schrack has spent her professional life working with children and young adults. She has a B.S in Special Education from the University of Virginia, and an M.Ed. from George Mason University. Although the character Sophie in her debut novel SAVING SOPHIE is fictional, she is a composite of many of the struggling learners Debbie has taught over the years.Debbie lives with her family in Fairfax, Virginia, a suburb of Washington, D.C. Debbie finds personal fulfillment in creating new things, whether it be a novel, a painting, or a batch of croissants. She loves animals, and horses are her special passion. When she’s not writing or horseback riding, Debbie is a sucker for musicals, enjoys visiting art galleries, and desperately wants to travel more. She also loves hanging out with her three children, who she will always consider her most amazing creations.

Book preview

Chapter One

Eve

Honey’s gone. The little sneak. Why won’t that girl mind? I told her to stay in the closet.

I scramble out of bed at the sight of the gaping closet door, throwing one of Papa’s ratty T-shirts over my head. There’s no time for my pajama bottoms, but it doesn’t matter. They’re too loose, anyway. I creep to the half-open door and listen. It’s silent as a cornfield at midnight, but that doesn’t mean Papa’s not standing in the hall right now, waiting to punish me.

I bite my lip, opening an old scar. My eyes tear with pain, but it’s the only way to squash the fear. Honey doesn’t understand fear. She’s only four years old, full of light and hope. She’s never noticed the way Papa’s eyes follow her across the room. She doesn’t know what happens after I shut her in the closet at night.

Honey’s never been in The Hole.

I take a breath and force myself to step into the hall. No one’s there. The little window at the end of the hall glows pink and orange. It’s way too early for Mama and Papa to be up yet. They never get out of bed before nine, Papa, sometimes even ten or eleven if he’s up late the night before.

Still, even in his deepest sleep, Papa has the ears of a cat.

I take one step forward and then another, avoiding the creaky floorboards. At their bedroom door, I stop. There’s a rumbling sound coming from their room, reminding me of the tornado that came through here last summer. I still remember the way the wind shook the house like it was going to lift us right up and take us to Oz. Where I was born, tornadoes were more commonplace. Every year, when the first one came flying in, people would say Oh, well, it’s just spring, and descend into their shelters. But here we don’t have a shelter. When the tornado sirens started blaring that night, Papa hurried us to the basement, and we sat in the dark for hours after it was gone. He told us later that the tornado skipped right over us and demolished a mobile home park west of town.

I never want to live in a mobile home park.

The sound coming from their bedroom isn’t a tornado, though. It’s Papa snoring. Relief unsticks my feet. I race past their door and down the stairs, stepping over the third one from the bottom with the poking-up nail. I stop at the bottom of the stairs and listen. Nothing.

Papa keeps the front door padlocked and deadbolted. The back door, too. Only he has the keys. I don’t bother looking for Honey in the living room, dining room, or kitchen. We’re not allowed in any of those places unless we’re invited. As I pass the kitchen, the clock on the wall ticks off the seconds, urging me forward. Tick tock goes the clock. I bite my lip again, tasting blood. I have an idea where Honey went and the only way to get there is through the basement.

Just as I thought, the basement door is wide open. The smell of dust and cobwebs drifts up the stairs. With one hand on the wall, I feel my way down, counting the steps. I slip on an oily spot on the fourth step and right myself. At the bottom, I take a step forward and stub my toe on one of Papa’s metal cases. I clap my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.

Shadows lurk everywhere. Besides the cases, there’s broken down furniture and dusty tools piled next to Papa’s workbench. The Hole is in the far-right corner of the basement. I turn away from it and head for the basement door. It’s padlocked, too, but at the bottom is a small, square opening with a plastic flap over it. I wish I’d never told Honey about it that time she had a nightmare and crawled into bed with me. I wish I hadn’t told her how I saw it one day when I was sweeping the basement and how it reminded me of my old dog Sassy, and how she used a doggie door just like this one. Honey is braver than I am. I should have known she’d go looking for it.

I push up the flap and wriggle through the door. It’s a tight squeeze for me, but it must have been easy for Honey. I’m not sure why Papa left the door like this. He hardly ever makes a mistake.

Four crumbling concrete steps take me up to the backyard. The sun’s just coming over the trees. Honey’s all the way across the backyard by the fence. It’s a cool morning, even for summer. Honey will catch her death out here. I wish she’d mind…

She has on an old nightgown with Elsa from Frozen on the front. It has holes in it, but it’s her favorite. Her fair hair is sticking out everywhere from all the sweating she does in the closet. She doesn’t move when I say her name. She’s intent on the fence, so still she resembles one of those statues I saw in a museum years ago. The statue was of a boy, and he didn’t have any arms, but he was frozen in time just like Honey is now.

Part of me wants to run to her, hug her and kiss her and make her promise to never, ever scare me like this again. The other part wants to shake her. Scream at her. Because if she keeps breaking the rules, I don’t know how much longer I can keep her safe.

She turns then and sees me watching. There’s no guilt on her face, no fear. Instead, she smiles and points at the fence.

Honey, I say as I stride across the dewy grass, what do you…

She puts her finger to her lips. Listen.

I stop, confused. And then I hear it. Music. Coming from the other side of the fence.

It’s unlike any music I’ve ever heard before. It’s not the twangy stuff that Mama listens to or the screamy stuff that Papa plays loud when he’s down in the basement. It’s just a girl singing with a guitar. The melody is soft and haunting.

"How can I ever say goodbye to you

when I’m afraid that you’re already gone?"

For a second, I escape to a place and time where I had other feelings besides fear. The tears come before I can stop them.

Why are you crying? Honey tugs at my hand.

Never you mind, I say, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. You know we’re not supposed to go outside without permission. Let’s get back in our room before Papa wakes up.

No. She pulls away from me. I want to stay and listen to the music.

I grab her arm. We’ll get in trouble.

She looks up at me, her eyes sadder than the music floating over the fence. You don’t have to be afraid, Eve. You’re seventeen now, remember? Mama says you’re almost all growed up.

Before I can answer, a growl rumbles behind us. It’s Papa. He’s awake.

And he’s angry.

Chapter Two

Emma

The fence could have been designed by a film crew for a prison movie. It’s wooden, at least eight feet high, the slats so tight there’s no way to see through to the other side. The top, instead of being flat, is a splinter nightmare. Ever since I saw it looming in our rented backyard, I’ve been dying of curiosity. What’s behind it? A meth lab? A dragon?

I’m on the back stoop, watching the sun rise and playing Already Gone—the song I’m writing for Noelle. As I strum my guitar, a twang in the D-string makes my jaw clench. I stop to tune it and the strangest thing happens. Are those voices? They’re very faint at first, barely more than whispers, and then there’s a louder one, deeper, not quite yelling, but almost. I’m sure the voices are coming from behind that fence.

I know there’s a house there, an aging colonial, similar in style to ours, because I’ve driven by it several times. It’s on a parallel street and we have adjoining backyards. The house has a deserted air. The windows are boarded up, and the yard is overgrown with weeds. The only signs of habitation are a blue van that is sometimes parked in the driveway and a rusted satellite dish on the roof. There’s a handwritten placard nailed to a tree in the front yard that says Beware of Dog. Which is funny. Not ha-ha funny, but weird funny. Because I’ve never heard a single bark from that backyard.

Emma?

I turn. Aunt Vi’s at the door, her feathery gray hair still wet from the shower.

You should eat something before we go. She squints into the morning light, shading her eyes with her hand.

I’ll be there in a minute, I say.

She nods and disappears. I set down my guitar and walk across the yard, shivering a little in my denim jacket. The climate here feels otherworldly after living in the Moroccan desert for three years. It’s as if we moved from the sun to the moon. When I reach the fence, I put my ear against it. There’s no sound from the other side, not even the chirp of a cricket. I guess the dragon went back into its lair.

As I turn to go in, I straighten my shoulders. This part of the day is never easy. But hope flares inside my chest. Maybe today’s the day.

On the way to the hospital, I tell Aunt Vi about the voices.

I had no idea anyone lived in that house. She puts on her signal to turn into the hospital visitor’s lot. It looks deserted.

Right? But I’ve seen a van parked in the driveway.

It could be squatters, she says. But as your grandmother used to say, it’s best to keep our noses out of other people’s messes.

Did Grandma Emma have a saying for every occasion?

She laughs. Pretty much, dear. She was like your sister in that respect. Her smile fades. Speaking of which, I heard from Barry last night. The trial date’s been set. August first.

I suck in my breath. Finally. But I still can’t believe that asshole is out on bail while Noelle— I can’t finish the sentence over the tight knot in my throat.

That’s the advantage of having rich parents. There’s a note of bitterness in Aunt Vi’s voice.

Well, he can’t hide behind Mommy and Daddy forever.

Aunt Vi pulls into a parking spot and we climb out of the Wrangler. I grab my guitar off the back seat. Aunt Vi has flowers, pink and yellow tea roses she picked this morning from our front garden. We walk through the hospital’s automatic doors, stop at the front desk to get visitor passes, then ascend the elevator in silence.

Noelle is on the fifth floor, in the Traumatic Brain Injury Unit. Before we enter her room, I close my eyes and say a little prayer. Please, God, bring Noelle back to me today… But it takes less than a second for the hope in my heart to sputter out like the air in a deflating balloon. Because today is no different than yesterday or the day before. Noelle’s lying on her back in bed, propped up by pillows, in exactly the same position she was in when we left last night. Her eyes are open and fixed on the ceiling.

Aunt Vi goes to her first, murmuring in her ear and fussing with the blankets on the bed. She picks up Noelle’s chart. Her eyes skim over the top page like maybe she’s an MD and not an archeologist.

I’ll just find a vase for these flowers, she says, setting down the chart and brushing past me, tears in her eyes.

I take a deep breath and approach the bed.

Hi, Sis, I say. I do my best to make my voice cheery and bright, but the bile in my throat adds a sharpness to it. I take Noelle’s hands and squeeze them, wishing with all my heart that she would squeeze back. But her hands, the ones that used to fly across piano keys like they were possessed by Mozart’s spirit, are lifeless.

I sit down in a chair close to the bed and start strumming my guitar. If anything can wake Noelle, it’s music. I watch her face as I play, searching for awakening in her eyes, a hint of something besides blankness. She’s still so beautiful. The bruises have faded away. On the outside, she’s herself again, just less alive, like someone put her in a copy machine. The blonde highlights in her hair are almost grown out now. Her sun-freckled skin has gone pale. She has the same brown eyes with the same thick lashes. I’ve always envied those lashes. Now I just wish those eyes would look at me again, that she would smile or laugh…

How can I ever say goodbye to you…

Aunt Vi comes back into the room, followed by Dr. Massey. I stop playing.

They did another MRI this morning, she says.

My eyes raise to Dr. Massey’s. He’s an older man with sharp but kind eyes, cropped white hair, and a beard that goes halfway down his chest. He reminds me of a skinny Santa Claus, except he brings devastating news instead of presents. He shakes his head. Disappointment punches me in the gut, but I ignore it. Noelle needs me to be strong for her. For us.

I stand up and face Dr. Massey, hands on hips. Okay, I say. What now?

Chapter Three

Eve

I’m in The Hole.

Something slimy slithers over my bare foot. I clamp my hand over my mouth and force down the terror that claws its way up my throat. If I make a noise, Papa will hear. The first time he put me in The Hole I couldn’t stop screaming. He came back and dumped a bucket of cold water over my head. Then he left me for hours and hours. I caught pneumonia and almost died. He had to take me outside. To a doctor. Papa’s been a lot more careful since then. But so have I.

Honey’s upstairs with him now. Without me. Damn that girl. No. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have stopped to listen to the music. It was just so…magical. Like an angel was singing. But it cost time. Time to get Honey back inside before Papa found us. Now, look what I’ve done.

A critter with poky legs crawls up my arm. I swipe it away. There’s an opening in the Hole cover so that I can breathe, but the basement lights are off. It’s so dark in here that I might as well be blind. I know that whatever just crawled on my arm was probably a beetle or a centipede, but in my imagination, it’s at least six feet long, with huge eyes and millions of legs. I ease my way down the wall and sit on the damp earth. The smell of worms and sweat clogs my nostrils. I hug my knees to my chest. Breathe, Eve, breathe. Don’t think about The Hole monsters. Because if you do they’ll eat you alive.

It’s been years since I’ve been in The Hole. The last time was right after Honey was born. A lady knocked on the door. Papa told Mama to talk to her through the screen and be quick about it. The lady told Mama that one of our neighbors had heard someone in our house screaming. I don’t know what Mama said to the lady because Papa grabbed me and Honey and put us in The Hole. He said if we made any noise, he would kill the lady, Mama, and Honey, in that order. I almost passed out from fright that day, listening to their footsteps upstairs, afraid if Honey woke up, I’d never be able to shush her if she started crying. But the lady went away, and Papa got us out of The Hole. Ever since then, Honey’s slept in my closet.

When we came in from the backyard this morning, Papa’s face was red with fury, but he was very quiet. He told me to take Honey up to Mama and then come back downstairs. When I came back, he said to show him how we got out of the house. I led him down to the basement and pointed to the doggie door. He started to laugh, and I froze in confusion.

That old thing? he said. We used to have a dog a long time ago. A beagle. Mama loved him, but he was a stupid piece of shit. Half the time he crapped in the basement before he even got out of the house.

I’m sorry, Papa, I said, shaking all over. His laughter was much worse than his yelling. It was all my idea…

He slapped me hard across the face, catching me by surprise. What were you doing out there? Did you think you could get away from me?

No, Papa…

He grabbed me then and dragged me to The Hole. I knew better than to fight it.

I rub my calf where I’m getting a cramp and stare up at the Hole cover. Still dark.

Where is Honey right now? What are they doing? They could be eating lunch. Or reading the Bible. Or…he could be hurting her.

Panic bursts in my chest.

Breathe, Eve. Breathe.

I have to talk sense into Honey. Make her promise not to leave our room without permission again. Before something even worse happens.

Time stops in The Hole. One minute I’m alone in the dark, soaking in my urine and tears, and the next Papa’s opening the cover and yanking me out by my arm. He shoves me toward the basement door and shows me the boards he hammered over the doggie door Honey and I crawled through.

No outside time for a week, he says. His face is flushed, his lips folded back in a sneer. Go take a bath. You smell like piss.

Even though I’m stiff from sitting for so long, I force myself up the basement steps before he changes his mind and decides to really punish me.

I glance at the kitchen clock as I walk to my bedroom. Nine p.m. That means I was in the hole for fifteen hours. Not the longest time I’ve ever been in there. But not the shortest, either. I open my bedroom door. My heart seizes. Honey’s on the bed, on top of the covers, asleep. Not safe in the closet.

I crawl onto the bed and put my arms around her.

Honey? I whisper.

She doesn’t wake. I breathe in her sweet smell and smooth the wisps of hair that curl around her ears. Then I pick her up in my arms and carry her to the closet. After I get her tucked away, I take a bath and pull on a thin cotton robe. My stomach’s growling, but the kitchen is closed. I don’t want to go back into The Hole for sneaking food. I lay down on my bed and wait.

The knock comes a few minutes later. I get up and slip out of my bedroom. Papa’s waiting for me. I follow him down the hall. He opens the door to his and Mama’s bedroom and I walk in ahead of him. There’s a single light burning on their nightstand.

Mama sits in a corner of the room in shadow. She was in a fire long ago, years before I came, and she’s covered with scars from her burns. She gets up when I come in and limps out without looking at me. I know she hates me, but I can’t summon up much feeling for her besides pity. She’s a prisoner in this house, just like I am.

I climb on the bed, slipping off my robe. I’m naked underneath. Papa’s naked, too. He stands over me, smiling. When I see the whip in his hand, I cringe. My time in The Hole wasn’t enough. He wants to hurt me more.

He walks around the bed, slapping the whip against his palm.

You’re a sinner, he says. Just like your namesake. You can’t be trusted.

I tremble. Yes, Papa.

What happens to sinners like you?

They—get punished.

Should you be punished?

Yes, I whisper.

He cracks the whip and I jump. Say it, Eve. Like you mean it.

Punish me, Papa. I’ve said these words so many times they sound dead to my ears like they’re coming out of a corpse.

I can’t hear you, he bellows.

Punish me, Papa!

Stand up, my darling.

My face burns. Even Papa’s sweet-talk comes out as an insult. I stand up slowly and turn around.

The first blow hits me across the middle of my back. Then again. And again. I bite my lip hard, trying not to cry out. Papa likes it when I struggle. When my back burns like a forest fire, he pushes me down on the bed and lays down next to me. His breath smells like whiskey. I turn my head away and he grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. His eyes burn into mine. In the lamplight, they’re like a shark’s eyes, dark and soulless.

You’ll never get away from me, he says.

I don’t answer him. Why bother? We both know it’s true.

He squeezes my chin harder and I gasp.

Tell me you belong to me, Eve.

I—belong to you, Papa.

He smiles. It’s not a smile of warmth or humor, but of domination. Conquest. I close my eyes.

In my mind, I’m in the backyard listening to the music. It floats over my head and I reach my arms up and try to grab it. My arms turn into wings. They’re translucent, with thin filaments of silver and gold that make them shimmer in the sunlight. I flap them and fly high, over the fence, over the houses, until I am far away from everywhere. I head into the sun and then I am gone.

Chapter Four

Emma

The next day, I go out to the back stoop after lunch and play for Noelle. I don’t play Already Gone this time. This time I bang out something angrier and louder, a death metal song called Nightmare by Avenged Sevenfold . Because I’m in one and I can’t get out.

I thought Dr. Massey would have a plan, but he didn’t. He said that Noelle is in a persistent vegetative state. He wants to move her to a nursing home where they can keep her comfortable. Meaning what? This is bullshit. It’s only been two months. Two months and Dr. Massey has already given up on Noelle. But I won’t. Ever.

I close my eyes and conjure a memory of the way she used to be. Sparkling. Effervescent. Like she wasn’t made of skin and bones, but electricity. I loved the way she laughed—full-throated, head tilted back, showing off that little gap in her front teeth. I loved the way her face scrunched in concentration when she played the piano, the way her fingers moved so fluidly over the keys that I could barely see them. There’s no one else who played the way she did. Like it was her purpose in life to flood the world with beauty. There has to be music in her still. Please, God, there has to be.

Sighing, I pick up my guitar and walk into the house. Aunt Vi sits at the kitchen table in front of her open MacBook. There’s a stack of photographs on the table next to her. I know they’re from her latest dig, the find of a century, a whole family of early Homo Sapiens in a cave in Morocco. Her publisher has been calling every day. She looks up when I come in and I gasp. Her eyes are red and swollen, and her face is flooded with tears.

Aunt Vi has been a rock ever since the moment we got the phone call about Noelle. She arranged our flights from Casablanca to Minneapolis, booked a rental car at the airport, and drove us to Bell Meade. While I stayed in the hospital day after day with Noelle, Aunt Vi found us a three-bedroom three-bath rental near the hospital. She had all of our belongings moved from Morocco, and had Noelle’s things sent over from her dorm room at Armstrong Music Academy. In the last month, she bought the Wrangler, stocked our fridge with food we barely eat and opened checking accounts for us at Bell Meade Second National.

But even the strongest rocks can crack under pressure.

Oh, Aunt Vi. I set down my guitar and go to her, wrapping my arms around her shoulders. I rest my cheek on top of her head. Please don’t cry. Noelle is going to be okay.

How I wish I knew that for sure. Maybe if I just keep saying it over and over…

I couldn’t protect her, she says numbly. It was my job and I failed her.

That’s not true. You could never fail us. If anything, it was my fault. Noelle and I were always so close. I should have known...

You’re not clairvoyant, Emma. No one had any idea what he was capable of.

Maybe Noelle did, I say. Somewhere deep in her heart. But every time we talked, she painted such a happy picture. If only...

If only I could