by Webb, Debra
The idea crossed my mind as I drove away from Huntsville. I even passed the Jackson Falls exit. Way down deep inside me, I understand that this, whatever it is, is something I cannot outrun so I turned around and came home.
Not to mention, I didn’t want to worry my mother and I knew staying gone too long would do exactly that.
Mother—Helen—is saying something else that I don’t quite catch but it ends with a dig at my lack of respect. My comeback is the same as always. “You should realize by now that I’m not going to change my position on the matter.”
To preserve my unreliable sanity I have decided to do repairs to the house. I continue my inspection of the fascia that bands the roofline of the wrap around porch. This particular portion is in need of replacement as, I suspect, are several other parts. The house should have been painted five or six years ago. I don’t say as much since that will only lead to the second most common argument my mother and I have: I don’t come home often enough.
“Why are you on that ladder anyway?” she demands from her position on the porch swing. “I haven’t seen you in years, we should be catching up.”
On the drive back from Huntsville in addition to the revelation that I could not simply run away I came to terms with two necessary steps. One, I need to steadfastly avoid my newly assigned sponsor or risk finding myself involved with him in ways that are not smart. Two, if I don’t find a way to busy myself I will lose my mind trying not to upset or stress or worry in any way my mother. I will not risk being the cause of another heart attack. Next time she might not be so lucky.
Besides, I can’t move forward, I can’t do anything until I’ve beaten this new demon that’s invaded my life since the incident in Iraq.
I am left with one feasible choice—focus on an innocuous project until my life is back under control.
“I’ll be here a while. We’ll have plenty of time to catch up, Mother.”
A triumphant smile on her lips, Helen queries yet again, “But why are you on that confounded ladder?”
“When was the last time the house was painted?”
Petulance clouds her expression. “Why when your father painted it, of course.” Her gaze narrows. “What are you suggesting?”
“There’s some peeling paint on the third floor and this fascia board needs to be replaced.” I understand that she likely cannot see these things from the ground. I barely saw them myself.
“You are not painting this house.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I helped Dad paint it when I was sixteen.” If I remember correctly, Dad painted the house right after I graduated college. He probably would have already painted it again before now except the cancer stole his ability to do much of anything before taking his life.
“That was before.”
The words are out of Helen’s mouth prior to her brain’s ability to fully evaluate what she is about to say. The rounding of her eyes and the tightly formed line of her lips tells the tale. She is keenly aware of having treaded into a sensitive area.
There are neighbors. Close neighbors. And her condition, of course. Rather than raise my voice to a sterner level, I descend the ladder and join her on the porch. She looks so Helen in her yellow ankle pants, matching cotton shell and three-quarter-sleeve cardigan. Her love of pink shimmers amid the other colors in the beaded necklace that completes her ensemble. My mother’s natural beauty has always been accentuated by her subtle elegance.
Two things I will never be accused of being—subtle or elegant.
“Now you’re angry,” she says meekly.
“No, I’m not angry,” I lie. “It’s been a year—“
“Since you survived a terrorist attack,” she cut in.
Deep breath. “Yes. But the attack was not aimed at me. My…Dennis and I were in the wrong place at the wrong time and we ended up in the middle of someone else’s war.”
Dennis Malloy died less than twenty-four hours after the attack. His injuries were far more serious than my own. Since there is always the possibility of becoming trapped or injured in a dig, we were trained to carry food and water and a few medical supplies. That training is why I was able to hold on until we were found. The setting wasn’t unique or even particularly dangerous; it was merely bad timing. The situation in that part of the country grew unstable very quickly. We thought we could finish up our work at one particular site and get out in time.
We were wrong. A nearby building was bombed and a collapsed wall trapped us in the dig for days.
Dennis paid the ultimate price. I did all I could for him but he didn’t make it. I suffered three fractured vertebrae. It was painful and required a back brace as well as a few months of physical therapy but I was lucky. Very lucky. I wonder if I’ve already used up my quota for this life.
Somehow I have survived two major tragedies.
But there are scars. Many scars, deep scars.
“I want you to go to Mass with me on Sunday.”
The announcement is uttered so softly and so unexpectedly that my mouth must have been hanging open so she repeats the words with a little more bravado.
“You know I don’t do church.” I haven’t been inside a church—any church—since my father’s funeral Mass. I don’t intend to start now. Church is not my thing.
“We have a new priest. He’s young and charming.”
Was that supposed to make a difference?
“So you’re trying to fix me up with your priest now?”
I almost laugh, can’t help myself. This is Alabama. Small town Alabama. Mothers over fifty remain convinced their daughters should be married and having children well before they reach the ripe old age of thirty. I am past my prime and there are no photos of grandchildren to show off. Natalie would have married and had children by now. Though Mother never says as much, I am certain the idea crosses her mind. All that aside, I’m confident she has no illusions of my rare beauty and incomparable sweetness luring her new priest from his vows.
“Would it do me a lick of good?” she tosses out.
I shake my head rather than remind her that I have no desire to tie myself down with a man and/or children. I have important work to do. I love my work. Maybe not my most recent position as a professor at BU but that is only temporary. I am ready to get back into the field. I don’t need the position at the university. I’m happier in the field…surrounded by the dead.
The dead don’t talk back or have particular expectations. The dead don’t care if you flip out and have visions of the past dancing in your head that suddenly feel too real.
The taunting from the other kids with whom I’d grown up—even my own sister at times—echoes in my ears. The words don’t bother me anymore, they roll off my back. I long ago embraced my weirdness.
“Of course I’m not trying to fix you up with my priest. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m only suggesting you might enjoy hearing his sermon.” Her expression is so hopeful as she stares up at me that I feel my resistance wavering.
I’m caught off guard by this odd reversal. My mother—the strong, relentless woman who never failed or surrendered—suddenly appears helpless and fragile, needy. Something deep inside me twists with worry and fear. She is literally all I have left in this world. Another heart attack could take her from me.
“I’ll think about it,” I lie some more. If it makes her happy to believe I’m considering the invitation, then why not? A little well-intentioned white lie never hurt anyone.
Helen smiles as if the weight of the world has lifted from her shoulders.
“Wait until I tell Mary Jo. She told everyone on the parish planning committee you would turn me down.”
I should have recognized the trap.
6
Missing persons flyers greet me at the Piggly Wiggly. The two girls could be sisters, their eyes watch me, their faces demand to know how this can happen again…demand to be found.
I can’t help you…I couldn’t help before.
I hurry through the entrance, l
ock both hands onto a cart. One of the wheels twists and skids across the tile floor rather than rolls. I grit my teeth and ignore the unbalanced jiggle, pushing onward toward the dairy section.
Milk. Eggs.
Pulling the cap I snagged from the hall tree a little lower on my forehead, I keep my eyes locked straight ahead. I haven’t lived here in fifteen years, haven’t visited in four—four years, one month and six days—and still I refuse to even glance at any of the faces I meet for fear someone will recognize me.
My last visit is pretty much a blur. We buried my dad on March first. I stayed with Helen for a few days afterward. He would have wanted me to make sure she was okay. And she was. His cancer had been diagnosed the year before. There had been time to prepare, to brace for the inevitable. Most think the advance knowledge makes it easier to let a loved one go. I’m not convinced that’s entirely true but I suppose it’s slightly more bearable than the sudden death that no one sees coming.
What if my mother had died when she had that heart attack?
I push away the thought and seize upon the list of ways I helped her after my dad died. I took care of the necessary paperwork. It’s amazing the red tape involved with dying. She complained about every step of the process. In her opinion the government had no business knowing all those personal facts. Together we tidied Dad’s study, then she closed the door and no one has set foot inside that space since.
For once, I was a good daughter.
I stop for a moment and look around the Piggly Wiggly. The dairy section isn’t in the far right back corner as it was the last time I visited. Annoyed that I didn’t ask or pay better attention, I maneuver my way back through the produce department. The sound of distant thunder rumbles as the gentle mist of water hydrates the mounds of leafy greens. I grab a bag of romaine and a container of spinach. After the burger and fries I scarfed down in Huntsville, a hearty salad is a necessary evil. I may not be the foodie my mother is, but I do try for some sort of balance.
“Em?”
I freeze, the blood in my veins turning instantly to ice. Only one person has ever, ever called me Em.
Turning from the mountain of shiny red tomatoes I come face to face with Bradley Turner. The Bradley Turner whose forefathers helped found this town along with the Jacksons and who staked claims on land all over the county. The Bradley Turner who shattered my heart in high school. I want the floor to crack open and swallow me up, he is the next to the last person on this planet I care to see. Ever.
“It is you!”
Before I can sputter a word he tosses the bag of apples in his hand back onto a nearby table and grabs me in a bear hug. “Jesus Christ, Em. It’s been…” With one last, calculated squeeze of my stiff body, he draws back. “It’s been forever.”
“Hey, Brad.” I prop my lips into a smile. It has been exactly four years, one month and six days. Brad came to Dad’s funeral Mass, as did almost everyone else who lived in Jackson Falls at the time. In the south funerals are sacred and as widely attended as celebrity social events. You might miss a wedding or a baby shower but nobody within a fifty-mile radius dares miss a funeral. The only thing worse is blasphemy and most folks actually consider the two equally unforgiveable.
Grinning, he stands back and looks me up and down. Of course this is the day I choose to forego mascara and lip gloss. I braided my hair and threw on a tee still wrinkled like an expired prune from being stuffed in my duffel. Not that I give one flying flip what this arrogant, lying cheat thinks of me but I know that wherever he is she will be. His lovely, backstabbing wife will no doubt appear any second.
“You look great.”
Somehow I keep my smile in place no matter that his words confirm that he is still a liar who hasn’t changed one bit. His blond hair is as thick and shiny as ever. And those eyes. A pale, sky blue that makes you want to stare at them forever. I rarely ate lunch at school. All I could do was sit and stare at him. The classic square jaw, and straight nose. I was so blind and pathetic.
The suit is a perfect reflection of the man as well. He wears one of those skinny fit suits that molds to every muscle, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that he has maintained the same athletic body he had back in his football days. I imagine him at the gym every day on his lunch break; Bluetooth in his ear keeping him connected to his work.
I stare for a moment at the wedding band on his left hand. “So, how’s Heather?”
Heather Beaumont Turner—the she in all my references to the very worst of the female species. Her mission in life from kindergarten through junior year was to make me miserable. But then the cutest, most popular boy in school decided I would be his girlfriend. Plain Jane Emma, chipped nails, nerdy t-shirts and all. Bradley Turner had wanted me, not Heather.
All the way until he didn’t on graduation night.
He hitches his thumb toward the other side of the store. “At the moment she’s giving the manager hell for failing to order her special brand of yogurt.” He laughs and shakes his head. “She hasn’t changed a bit.”
Of course she hasn’t.
“Well, it was nice to see you.” I back away a little with my cart in tow. “Mother needs milk and eggs.”
“I was sure glad to hear your mother is going to be all right. She gave us all a good scare.”
Before I can summon a suitable response, he nods toward the other side of the store. “Come with me.” He grabs the front of my cart and starts dragging it after him. “They remodeled this place a couple of years ago. It took me forever to find my way around again.”
I follow, my chest tight with mounting frustration. My plan had been to hole up in the house and order in anything I might need. Yet here I am in the middle of the damn Piggly Wiggly being led around by Bradley Turner as if it was junior year all over again.
“How long you in for?” He stops in front of the dairy case. “Letty probably has your calendar booked, but if—”
No.
He blinked, startled.
Shit. I said it out loud.
“I mean, yes.” I clear my throat. “You know Letty. She’s completely monopolized my calendar for the duration.”
A line of disappointment forms between his thick brows and his lips droop into a ground-dragging frown. I vividly remember that puppy dog look. “You gotta at least have coffee or a drink with me.”
Bradley Turner was my first kiss. My first…everything. I will not have coffee much less a drink with him.
I give a little shrug. “I’ll try my best.”
“Brad!”
The shrill sound plows through my brain like a bullet. Heather Beaumont Turner strolls up in her five-inch heels and a form fitting dress far too short to be worn by a mayor much less the mother of two children. She still looks eighteen. Not a single wrinkle resides on her flawless face. No doubt Botox is heavily involved. Shiny, pristine nails, impeccable hair. With each step she takes that long blond mane bounces around her slender shoulders as if there’s a perpetual fan blowing on the supermodel of Jackson Falls. It seems biologically impossible that her amazingly sculpted body ever expanded enough to host not one but two children.
I would be completely jealous except I know without doubt she got exactly what she deserved—Brad. I almost feel sorry for her.
“Look who I found wandering around the Pig.”
I’m not at all sure how much longer I can keep this fake smile in place. “Heather, nice to see you.”
Her gaze narrows with suspicion. “Did Letty call you about the missing girls?”
Not even a hello. Straight to the potential ulterior motive.
“She did.” The slight flare in the other woman’s pupils gives me great satisfaction. I shrug. “Who knows more about what happened last time than me?”
Lie, lie, lie. Good thing I don’t believe in hell.
“Really.” Heather made a disapproving sound. “She didn’t mention it in this morning’s task force meeting.”
Oh, damn. I’ll have to warn Letty. I reach f
or the eggs. “Any news on the search?”
My throat constricts to the point I can hardly draw in a breath in anticipation of her answer. The faces of those two young girls swim in front of my eyes, the images moving and evolving into the face of my sister and her friend—faces I know as well as my own.
“Are you all right, Emma?” Heather steps back as if she fears I might vomit on her Louboutin shoes. “You look a little pale.”
“Milk,” Brad says.
I give myself a mental shake and stare at him. “What?”
“You said your mother needed milk, too.”
“Right.” I suck in a breath. “I should get back to the house. Mother is still recovering, you know.”
Mayor Heather Beaumont Turner plunges immediately into politician mode, urging me to let her know if there is anything they can do to help. Of course the whole town already knows about Helen’s heart attack. Widow Elders would have started the phone tree the moment the ambulance showed up in Mother’s driveway.
People in small southern towns do that.
We exchange parting platitudes and I’m finally on my way out of the store. Thankfully no one else recognizes me as I hurry through the checkout line. I shove the bags into the back seat of my Prius and reach for the driver’s side door.
“Emma! Emma Graves!”
I don’t recognize the voice so I don’t look back. I open my car door and lift my foot to get inside.
“Just one question, Emma, please.” The young woman calling out to me bellies up to my door. She is, according to the logo emblazoned across the camera on the broad shoulder of the tall man behind her, a reporter for Huntsville’s WHNT News.
Her microphone is in my face before I can maneuver my body into the vehicle. All that stands between us is the slim door that at the same time traps me against the vehicle.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I’m not taking any questions.”
“Emma, we’re live and our viewers—many of whom grew up with you—want to know your thoughts on the abduction of these two children.”
