The Finding Emma Collection (Books 1-5)

by Steena Holmes

  As he waited for the kettle to boil, Jack tackled the dishes. Afterward, he made sure to wring the cloth dry, a lesson Dottie had taught him after finding too many smelly dishcloths in her sink. He cut a slice of store-bought apple pie, topping it with a piece of cheese and knew, even before he took a bite, that it wouldn’t taste anything close to what Dottie used to make.

  He missed her more than he thought possible. This house was never meant to be so empty, so void of laughter, of childish giggles, or even of companionable silence. He often thought that he would die with Dottie, together in their bed, when they were both much older. But not yet. Not now. He had never envisioned what life would be like alone.

  God sure had a way of playing jokes on him. He’d promised Dottie the day he returned from the war that he’d never leave her alone again.

  He guessed he had kept his promise.

  Four

  Megan shut off the vacuum. She popped her head up and scanned the family room. When she’d started cleaning, Emma was sitting in the big corner chair playing with her dolls. Now only Megan was in the room. She listened for Daisy’s bark or the other girls playing, but heard nothing.

  “Girls?” Her voice slightly squeaked. When there was no answer, she dropped the vacuum handle.

  She checked to make sure the front door was locked and the alarm still set; then she ran into the kitchen and looked out the patio doors. Hannah and Alexis sat on the deck, their legs stretched out, soaking in the sun.

  Megan scanned the yard. Where was Emma? Why couldn’t she see her? Megan wrenched open the sliding doors.

  “What’s up?” Alexis sat up and raised her sunglasses.

  “Where’s your sister?”

  “Right here.” Alexis nudged Hannah’s shoulder.

  Hannah frowned. “Not me, you moron. Emma.” She turned back. “I thought she was with you?” Hannah pushed herself up from her elbows, a panicked look on her face.

  “She was, until I started vacuuming.” Megan’s heart raced, yet she struggled to keep her voice calm.

  “She might be up in her room with the dog,” Alexis volunteered before lying back down. “And don’t call me a moron.”

  Hannah stood up, but not before giving her sister a disgusted look. “I’ll take a look.”

  Megan shook her head. “No, it’s okay. I’ve got it. Sit back and don’t fight. I’ll make you guys some lemonade in a few minutes.” She closed the sliding door and pivoted on her heel.

  “Emma?” she called out, unable to keep the frantic tone out of her voice. Where was she?

  Megan ran to the stairs and flew up several steps when a rhythmic thumping against the carpet stopped her.

  Emma must be in her room with Daisy.

  She climbed the remaining stairs quietly and heard her daughter hum a familiar song. It worried her that Emma’s first place to run to was her room, alone and away from her sisters. She should be blooming, like the roses in their backyard, instead of wilting now that she was back with her family.

  Megan clenched her fists as she thought about the damage they had inflicted upon her daughter. She should be a loud, vibrant child full of energy and sass, not a quiet child who rarely spoke and found solace with her dog instead of her family.

  Emma’s door was slightly ajar, and she sat on the floor, her back against her bed and her feet propped up against the far wall. Daisy’s tail was in view, thumping wildly on the floor. She couldn’t completely see what they were doing, but Megan had a feeling Daisy’s head lay on Emma’s lap while she stroked her fur.

  Nothing in Emma’s room was out of place. Her bed was made, her stuffed bears lined up in a row against her pillows, the floor clear of any toys, and the lid of her laundry basket down. Peter had put together a little bookcase where she kept her toys, baskets, and books. Even those were organized.

  Emma was the only neat freak in the house—a trait she must have picked up from living with those other people. Her sisters’ rooms were a mess, and it was all Megan could do to get them to keep the floor clean. It wasn’t normal for a five-year-old to be so tidy.

  “I miss Papa, Daisy. Don’t you? I bet you miss running around in the backyard the most.”

  Megan gripped the doorframe. Emma’s soft voice walloped her heart into tiny pieces.

  “I miss the fairy lights too. They were so pretty.”

  Fairy lights? This was the first time Emma had mentioned anything like that.

  “Hey, Emma?” Megan whispered into the room.

  “I miss Grandma’s muffins and her bread and the way she smelled. I think it’s ’cause she baked so much. I hope she’s happy in heaven now and gets to bake bread all day long. Maybe Papa is going to go see her soon. Then I’ll be sad, ’cause I’ll be all alone.” Emma’s head disappeared from view.

  Megan’s heart hurt. How could she think she’d be alone?

  “Emma?” Megan whispered again. She tried to make her voice louder but couldn’t. Her daughter didn’t hear her anyway. She seemed lost in her own little world.

  Megan took a step into the room. She could have been a ghost, silent and unseen. Daisy didn’t even notice her presence. On top of Emma’s bed was a notebook, one of many Megan had bought for her to draw pictures in. It lay open, and there was an image of a small yellow dog and a girl sitting outside with round red circles floating above them.

  As hard as she tried, Megan couldn’t get Emma to admit she remembered much of the day when she was taken. But deep down, that memory had to be there. She just knew it. Otherwise, she wouldn’t remember the red balloons they watched floating in the sky that day. They’d planned to take the girls to their town fair to celebrate Emma’s birthday, and instead spent the day searching for their lost daughter.

  Megan took in a deep breath. She was going to do something she’d thought of for a while now. She wasn’t sure whether she was ready for the reaction, though.

  “Hey, Emmie?” Megan kept her voice at the same low level as the previous times she’d called for her daughter. This time, Emma’s head lifted in response.

  As much as it hurt, Megan placed a smile on her face as her daughter smiled back at her.

  “It’s beautiful outside. Do you want to help me make some lemonade?”

  Megan stepped into the room as Daisy lifted her head from Emma’s lap. When Emma smoothed out her dress and wiped at the tears in her eyes, Megan knew that she couldn’t pretend Emma’s responding to her other name didn’t happen. Even though she wanted to. So she sat down on Emma’s bed, pushed the book out of the way, and held out her arms. When Emma crawled up into her lap, Megan rested her cheek against the top of her daughter’s head and struggled to find words.

  “What are fairy lights?”

  Emma’s body stiffened for a moment before she relaxed. “Grandpa put pretty lights in my room. They went from one corner to the next”—Emma pointed upward—“so I wouldn’t feel lonely.”

  Megan wrapped a strand of Emma’s hair around her fingers. She was talking about Christmas lights. “That was nice of him.”

  Emma nodded her head and sniffed. Daisy lay down across Megan’s toes and whined for attention.

  “You miss him, don’t you?”

  Emma nodded again.

  Megan lifted her daughter’s face so that she could look into her eyes. Teardrops hung from her long eyelashes.

  “Would you like some fairy lights in your room? I think we have some extra ones in the basement. Maybe you could help me hang them up?”

  Emma’s eyes widened before a smile stretched across her face. Megan cherished the moment Emma wrapped her arms around her. Every gesture, every smile, every hug would never be taken for granted. Never again.

  “It must be hard to have two names, isn’t it?” Megan kept the tone of her voice light.

  Emma’s lips tightened and her brows knotted together for a brief moment before she shook her head.

  “No? Are you sure?”

  A frantic look crept into her little girl’s face. Her eyes
widened, her nose flared, and a tiny tremor swept through her body. “My name is Emma.”

  Daisy stood up and barked. Emma’s panic was palpable, and Megan hated herself for doing this to her little girl.

  “It’s okay, honey. Your name is Emma. But sometimes it can be Emmie too.” She paused for a few seconds. “Right?”

  Emma’s arms unwound themselves from around Megan’s body. Her shoulders tensed under Megan’s touch.

  “Only to Papa,” Emma whispered.

  Megan swallowed. Papa. Of course. He had a piece of Emma’s heart, and there was nothing Megan could do about it. No matter how hard she tried.

  “Did you know, when you were just a baby, I used to call you Emmie?”

  “You did?”

  Megan nodded. “Late at night, when I would hold you close to my heart and rock you to sleep, I would call you Emmie and kiss your forehead.” She held her breath as her daughter snuggled close to her again. “A special girl can have as many special names as she wants, just as long as she remembers one thing.”

  “What?” Emma whispered.

  “That you’ll always be mine.” She kissed the soft skin of Emma’s forehead, wishing for time to stand still.

  “Always,” Emma said.

  Megan tightened her hold. “Always.”

  Megan rinsed one last dish from dinner before placing it in the dishwasher. Peter sat at the kitchen table looking through the latest stack of grocery flyers, apparently oblivious to her at the moment.

  Nerves made Megan’s body feel like it was strung on a taut wire. Her chest was tight, and it hurt to take deep breaths. Since her talk with Emma, she’d been fighting against the doubts that kept creep- ing into her heart.

  “All right, spill.” Peter pushed his chair back, scraping the floor at the same time. Megan winced. She had meant to replace the little pads of fabric beneath the chair legs after washing them. They were probably still in the dryer from yesterday.

  “What do you mean?” She wiped her hands on the towel hanging from the oven handle.

  The look on Peter’s face told her he knew something was wrong.

  “You banged the dishwasher door shut, almost broke a glass earlier in the sink, and you’ve barely said two words since the kids went outside to play after dinner.”

  Megan turned her back, filled two mugs with coffee, and went to the table. She handed Peter his mug, reached for one of the grocery flyers, and prayed to God that Peter didn’t notice that her hand shook.

  “You’re wound up as tight as my old yo-yo. What’s going on?”

  “I didn’t think you’d be home so early tonight. Laurie had suggested going to the late show, but I told her you wouldn’t be home.” She wrapped her fingers around the mug.

  “Well, I’m home.”

  She caught the slight shrug of his shoulders and knew it really didn’t matter to him if she went out or not.

  “I told her we’d go out tomorrow night instead. Will you be home?”

  Peter tossed a flyer to the side and opened another one.

  “Peter?” She glanced at what he was looking at. Golf clubs. Go figure.

  “If you need me to be home early, all you have to do is ask. You know that.” He laid down the paper and took a sip of his coffee. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re on edge tonight.”

  Megan sighed. She bit her lip before standing up and glancing out the sliding doors. She drank in the sight of them, all together. She knew she was overreacting, that if she just took the time to really work her way through everything, she’d realize she was making a mountain out of a molehill.

  “Have you ever noticed Emma not responding when you call her name?” She closed her eyes, not wanting to look at his reflection in the glass, afraid of what she’d see.

  “No.”

  Maybe it was the tone of his voice or the way he cleared his throat, but when Megan opened her eyes and looked over her shoulder, she’d almost wished she hadn’t. His brows were knit together and there was a look in his eyes she’d seen too many times before.

  “I have,” she whispered. When Peter sighed, something sparked inside Megan. She needed him to listen to her, to understand. “It happens to me a lot, Peter.” She turned her back to the glass and leaned on it.

  Peter shrugged. “Why?”

  Why? He had to ask that? It didn’t take a psychiatrist to under- stand that if a child didn’t respond to her name when called, there might be an issue. There had to be some reason she didn’t respond. Unless . . . this was Emma’s way of holding on to a life no longer hers? Would she do that on purpose though? At five years of age? Megan wasn’t too sure.

  “Do you think something’s wrong with her hearing?”

  Megan ground her teeth before she shook her head. “No, Peter. I think her hearing is fine. I think that she doesn’t want to be Emma. I think that—”

  “She probably didn’t hear you,” Peter interrupted. His eyes were turned back down toward the flyers.

  Megan seethed inside. How could he discount so quickly what she’d just said?

  “She heard me when I called her Emmie.”

  The look on Peter’s face said it all: disbelief, anger, confusion. His gaze shot from one corner of the room to another before resting back on her. She caught the way his fingers turned white as he clutched the coffee mug. Good. Maybe now he understood. Maybe now he would listen to her.

  “You what?” His voice lowered about ten decibels, the anger she’d read on his face clear in his tone. No, he didn’t understand.

  “I wanted to see. I called her name a few times and didn’t get a response. So I called her Emmie.” Megan toyed with her coffee cup, turning it in circles. “That’s all it took, for her to hear her old name. It scared me.”

  Peter’s brows shot up. “Scared you? What do you think you did to her? How do you think she must have felt to realize you called her by that other name?” Peter stood, his chair scraping along the floor again as he pushed it back.

  “What is wrong with you? What will it take for you to be happy?”

  Five

  August 5

  I burned the bread again today. I never do that. It’s the second time this week. Such a waste.

  I laid Emmie down for her nap and fell asleep with her again. She doesn’t like to take many naps; sometimes I have to read her more stories than I prefer before she’ll settle down. Today I had to threaten to turn off her fairy lights if she didn’t fall asleep.

  Jack brought her home some balloons today. I made him use the tire pump we used to use for Mary’s bike. I swear, that man is so stubborn sometimes. What does it matter if he blows up the balloons with his lips or with a pump? She has this fascination with red balloons—says they look better in the sky. For a girl who prefers pink, yellow, and white, I would never have thought she’d want only red balloons. Good thing the bag had plenty of red ones; otherwise, knowing him, he’d have gone back into town to buy more.

  Jack commented that I’ve been more tired lately, so he made an appointment with Dr. Stewart. Meddlesome old fool, but he won’t listen to me. I’ve always been healthier than I should be for my age. Perhaps raising a child is catching up to me. There are times I don’t understand how Mary could do this to me—have a child and never tell me, her mother. Emmie is a sweet girl, so I know Mary did something right despite her addiction, but that child of mine never thought of the con- sequences. She never did. It was her one big fault.

  I blame myself. Mary always blamed me too.

  Peter leaned against the doorway into the living room. He could never get enough of the image before him: their family complete again after so much time. He choked up and softly cleared his throat, not wishing to disturb the scene.

  A movie played while Hannah sat on a beanbag chair, her back against the couch and her long legs stretched out in front of her. She was going to be tall; he could see it. Alexis was sprawled on the couch, her back against the corner of the sectional with her legs crossed and a l
arge bowl of popcorn in her lap. Emma sat in Peter’s favorite chair, the drawing pad he’d bought her last week against her bent knees. Her tongue was stuck out, a sure sign of concentration. Every so often, she’d reach down with her free hand and grab a piece of popcorn from a bowl beside her. Not once did he catch her watching the movie.

  That didn’t surprise him, though. From what he understood, she didn’t watch a lot of television at the farm. They sheltered her, and a part of him was thankful for that. She remained a sweet little girl, full of innocence and love.

  She must have noticed him watching her. She lifted her gaze, her soulful eyes measuring him—something he’d noticed her doing lately. It was unnerving. What did his five-year-old see in him? Did he measure up? Somehow, he didn’t think so.

  “Come sit beside me, Dad.” Alexis moved her legs to make room. Peter smiled at Emma, who watched as he crossed the room.

  Hannah stuck her hand out for a high five. He went to smack her hand, but she quickly lowered it in a fit of giggles.

  “Hey, no fair,” he teased her before pretending to sit on Alex. They had a mini tickle fight without spilling the popcorn before Peter repositioned her legs over his. He nudged Hannah with his foot until a slight smile appeared.

  “So what are we watching?”

  Alexis sighed before pointing to the screen. “A movie about a dragon, duh.” The sarcasm in her voice was overwhelming. Typical Alexis.

  “Haven’t we already seen this?”

  “Only like a thousand times. But there’s nothing else on,” Hannah muttered.

  Peter reached into the popcorn bowl and flicked a piece at Hannah’s head. She ducked, but it was Emma’s quiet laughter that caught his attention. He flicked one at her, but before she could duck, Daisy jumped up and caught it in her mouth.

  “No way.” Peter laughed. “Who’s been teaching Daisy tricks?”

  A light sparkled in Emma’s eyes. She leaned over the arm of the chair and scratched Daisy’s head. “Hannah’s a good teacher,” she said.