by Webb, Debra
Finding those two seems far more doable than the other. Hopefully I’m not bringing up another subject that will make her even more stressed than she already is.
“Not yet. If we don’t find them soon, we may be looking at a recovery rather than a rescue.”
Damn. “Well, I won’t keep you.” I pull the gearshift back into Drive. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
Letty insists we must have a real girls’ night as soon as she has another break and I agree. We end the call.
I watch Mr. Yarbrough a while longer. Our families drifted apart after that day. It was like we couldn’t bear the mutual agony. Passing each other on the street was nearly too much. If Stacy hadn’t been with Natalie or the other way around, would that day have turned out differently? If Helen had been home instead of in Birmingham she would have realized the bus was late and started looking for us. But she had a doctor’s appointment in Birmingham that day. Mr. Yarbrough’s office was in Huntsville and Dad was working on a house in town. So no one noticed we were unaccounted for until hours after the crash.
It wasn’t anyone’s fault, it simply was.
As I drive away from the school I spot one of the big yellow buses in the rear parking lot. My heart skips a couple of beats. The seemingly innocuous details of that final ride rolls through my brain. Before I realize what I’m doing, I am driving toward Long Hollow Road…toward the place where my life was once normal and happy. At least as normal and happy as a four-eyed, chubby eight-year-old’s life could be.
I’m surprised to find two new residential subdivisions along the road that was once nothing but fields and the occasional pasture. The cookie cutter homes are a startling contrast to what my mind recalls. Bradford Pear trees and wooden fences border the brick and rock houses with their small square yards and sleek concrete driveways. They look uncomfortable and out of place against the backdrop of the mountains. A turning lane for the new subdivisions has been added to the two-lane road.
Another three miles and I see the place where the bus toppled onto its side. I pull over and get out, my heart racing, thudding painfully against my sternum. Weeds and thatch crunch under my feet as I descend the bank and cross the ditch to the memorial my parents erected a year or so after that day. The two white crosses remain as white as the day they were driven into the ground. Helen or one of her friends, maybe Mr. Yarbrough, probably keeps them painted. A photo of Natalie and one of Stacy hang on their respective crosses. Mother ordered special cases for the photos to protect them from the elements. In her photo Natalie’s long blond hair hangs in lush waves and her big blue eyes are filled with laugher. The smile on her face makes my chest tight. There were never—not even now—adequate words for how very much I miss her. She was my sworn enemy at times, so frustrating I told myself repeatedly that I hated her and yet she was my hero, the person I admired above all others.
She was my sister and I loved her—still love her—with every fiber of my being.
I touch the fresh green blades of the daylilies that Mother planted more than two decades ago. The mature clumps will produce a ring of yellow blooms all summer long. Anyone passing on the road will appreciate the beauty. Some might say memorials like this one are a distraction or foolish, but this was the only memorial we could give Natalie and Stacy. Mom and Dad refused to bury an empty coffin and call it done.
Plopping onto the grass, I sit for a long while and listen to the silence around me. There is no silence in Boston. Maybe the noise helped to push me over the edge. I’m accustomed to dig sites in the oddest and often the remotest of places, not typically in a metropolitan area.
I like my solitude; I need the quiet.
I stare at the photos. For years we played the what-if game. What if they came back? What if they escaped their captor and found help? What if they finally climbed out of the sinkhole that swallowed them—like the Jonah and the whale story in the Bible? Every time the phone rang, for the space of three or four rings the whole family would experience the excitement of what if it’s the call. What if it’s the good news we’ve been waiting for?
But news never came.
Of course it’s possible that Natalie and Stacy were sold off into slavery of some sort. Human trafficking is as old as time. But it’s more likely that they are dead. No matter how many times I tell myself this I still don’t completely believe it. I mean, there’s no evidence to prove that theory any more than there is to prove any other. They’re gone. Vanished. Missing.
Dad said a thousand times that the hardest part was the not knowing.
The parents of the girls who went missing this very week are no doubt already suffering the agony that goes with the little voice that just won’t shut up—the one that keeps telling you this is bad…so bad. No matter how desperately you want to cling to hope that relentless, heartless little voice warns you to give up…to admit defeat.
I stand, dust off my butt and slog back to the truck. A twist of the key in the ignition and the engine fires. I close my fingers around the steering wheel and instantly hear Dad’s voice telling me to put my foot on the brake and then pull the gearshift into Drive.
“God, I miss you, Daddy.”
I putter along the road until I arrive at the farmhouse where my life began. The place where we were happy…the place where our family was complete. Mother and Dad kept the farm. In part because it had been in his family for several generations and in part so that if Natalie ever found her way back she would not find a new family living in her home. Though the house is closed up, has been for twenty-four years, the necessary maintenance has been kept up-to-date. Other than the missing rockers on the front porch, it looks exactly the same.
I shut off the engine and climb out. My heart doesn’t do that fierce pounding now. It hangs low in my chest, overwhelmed with sadness for what was and can never again be. I climb the steps and peer through the front windows. Even the furniture is still there. Not everything. Mother brought the sentimental pieces to the new old house. But the sofa we gathered on to watch movies and the rug where Sam stretched out like a small horse are still there. Beyond the living room I can see into the kitchen to the window over the sink where Mother placed a bouquet of fresh flowers every week for as long as I can remember. Even after we moved away, once a week she added fresh flowers to the glass vase there. She never said but I knew she left them there just in case Natalie came home.
My sister had been gone for years before Mother finally stopped.
Back down the front steps I wander to the big Dogwood tree. White blooms make it look like a cloud and draw me to its gentle shade. I drop to my knees at another memorial that is near and dear to my aching heart, Sam’s grave. As Labradors go, he lived a long life. I missed him so much after we moved into town but he absolutely would not stay there. I sweep my fingers over the white pebbles that line his grave. He held on for years after Natalie died before he gave up and went to sleep for the last time.
I think Sam is the real reason I could never have another dog. What animal could possibly live up to my memory of him? He was loving and brave and completely loyal. I remain convinced that his body heat saved my life that cold night twenty-five years ago. He was my hero.
Not being able to find Natalie broke his heart, too.
I get up and take one last look around. How I wish things had been different.
Feeling defeated, I wander back to the truck. My stomach rumbles and I realize that it’s well past noon and I’m starving. The idea that the last thing my lips touched was my sponsor’s mouth makes me groan. What an idiot I am. What the hell was I thinking? Calling him again would be a mistake. I know myself far too well to take that self-destructive detour.
You have enough trouble right now, Emma.
I climb back into the truck and head toward town. The air that flows through the windows is cooler today than yesterday. But the long sleeves of the hoodie keep me warm. I glance down at the gray fabric and shake my head. Idiot.
Bef
ore making the final turn into town, I decide to press on and turn instead onto Stackhouse Road. Already flowers and stuffed animals are piling up at the site where the Baldwin and Shepherd girls’ bicycles were found. Flashbacks from that same scene on Long Hollow Road makes me tremble, desolation fills me. The fear, the hope, the total exhaustion…it was all so overwhelming. I don’t have to imagine what these families are going through.
I know it well.
At the next road I turn around and head home. The sooner I get there, the sooner I can start replacing the fascia. Helen will stand right under me watching. Maybe Howard will drop by and take her out to dinner or to a movie. Anything to get her out of the house and off my back.
Thankfully the street and driveway are clear of reporters. I pull the truck all the way around behind the house near the shed. I would like to think the reporter wouldn’t knock on the front door or walk into the yard, but she might. She damn sure followed me around the Home Depot.
Mother meets me at the backdoor, glass of iced tea in hand. “I thought you’d gotten lost.”
I set the two gallons of paint on the porch. “I rode out to the farm.” Dodged a crazy reporter. Kissed my AA sponsor. I feel my face heat just thinking about the latter. I really do need to get back into therapy. I am broken in so many ways. Like Humpty Dumpty, a whole slew of king’s horses and king’s men would never be able to put me back together again.
Mother’s eyebrows rear up. “Really? You should have stopped by and picked me up. I would have gone with you.”
“There’s a rally at the school,” I say to change the subject as I untie the boards and lay them flat on the porch.
“Delbert Yarbrough,” she says. “Ginny told me he was planning to hold one. He’s been pushing Letty and the rest for weeks now. I don’t know what else he expects them to do.”
She follows me into the house. I hang Dad’s cap on the hall tree. “He expects them to do the undoable. You know.”
“I do.” She moves through the mudroom into the kitchen. “I made your favorite chicken salad.”
My stomach rumbles again. “Great. I am starving.” I collapse into a chair, perfectly content to allow my post heart attack convalescing mother to wait on me. I’m really not a good daughter. “You didn’t tell me that Ginny is the postmistress now.”
Virginia Cotton, like her daughter Letty, is one of the hardest working people I know. No one deserves a great opportunity more than her. She and Helen have been friends forever, just like Letty and me.
“I’m sure I did. You probably weren’t listening.”
Though I would never admit it out loud, my mother is likely correct.
Helen measures her famous chicken salad onto a plate with an ice cream scoop. Grapes, pickles, pecans and mayo, combined with freshly cooked chicken and then chilled. My taste buds have my mouth watering. The piece de resistance is the sweet, buttery croissant. To. Die. For.
“Tea?”
“Sure.” The only time I drink iced tea is when I’m at home. How can I be in Alabama and not drink iced tea? Sweet iced tea.
Tea poured and plates prepared, Mother joins me at the table. “I was thinking.”
Oh, God. The potential for trouble in that statement is utterly limitless. “Really?”
I sink my teeth into the salad and moan. I haven’t had anything that tastes this good in ages.
Beaming, she goes on. “Yes. I was thinking about your wardrobe.”
I freeze, not daring to breathe. This means one thing: she has rifled through my duffel. Jeans, tees, socks, underwear and not much else. Thank God I didn’t have a stash of vodka or tequila in there.
“What about my wardrobe?”
She takes a bite of soft, fluffy croissant stuffed with delicious salad and chews for a moment. A sip of tea follows. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. What are you going to wear to Mass?”
I knew that little white lie would come back to haunt me. Foolishly I had hoped she would forget.
Her lips stretch into a broad smile at my startled silence. “Not to worry, I dropped by Monique’s this morning. You remember that shop? Monique carries only the trendiest fashions. It’s so chic. You should stop by while you’re here. It’s my favorite shopping spot.”
I grunt, too worried to form a reasonable reply.
“Anyway, I found the perfect dress for you. I even bought the shoes to match.”
I swallow the lump of croissant that has turned as hard as gravel. “You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”
She waves me off. “I have the perfect handbag, too. You’re going to be so gorgeous!”
God help me.
11
Sunday, May 13
I’m stumbling. My feet feel heavy as if I’ve walked a hundred miles. I am so, so tired. It’s too dark, I cannot see. I’m so afraid. My heart squeezes. I want my mommy and daddy. Please, please, I just want to go home.
My eyes fly open and my breath catches in my lungs.
“Dream…just a dream.” I dampen my dry lips, swallow against the parched feeling in my throat.
The whirring of the old fan reminds me of where I am. Home. I sit up, shove the sweat-dampened hair out of my face and take a deep breath.
I glance at the Backstreet Boys wall clock. As much as I want to, I can’t lie in this bed and feel sorry for myself. There’s just time for a shower—drying my hair takes forever—before Mass. It’s Sunday and my mother tricked me into promising her I would go. I stare at the pink A-line silk dress. Sleeveless, jewel neckline with a hem that hits a couple of inches above the knee. The matching shoes are classic high heel pumps in that same soft pink.
“Oh God,” I grumble.
An hour later, hair whipped into shape and the dress clinging to me like a second skin, I clop down the stairs in the three-inch heels. If I don’t break an ankle or my neck it will be a miracle. I don’t do heels and rarely do dresses. This is the feminine style my mother wishes I possessed.
Wrong daughter, Mom.
Natalie was the one who loved to dress up and to wear makeup. At fifteen she looked as glamorous and sophisticated as any senior in school. Maybe I was supposed to be a boy. Natalie pointed out that fact early on.
All you do is play in the dirt and trail after Daddy. You should’ve been a boy, Emma.
Maybe so. But I like being a woman. I’m just happier without make-up, in jeans and flip-flops. So shoot me.
Mother stands at the hall mirror painting on lipstick as I descend the stairs. My breath catches a little. No matter that she’s heading toward the back half of her sixties, my mother is a beautiful woman. Beautiful and strong. I can only hope to ever be as strong as she is. She would never lie to herself and to the people she cares about the way I have—except she didn’t tell me about her heart attack. She would justify this decision with the idea that she’s protecting me and since I’m keeping secrets from her I’m not about to call her on it. She has always bravely faced whatever obstacle fate tossed in front of her and driven on. People assume I’m strong like that, but I’m not.
Somehow I muddle through.
“There’s still time for you to have toast and coffee, dear,” Helen assures me before rubbing her lips together and checking the result in the mirror.
She wears a burgundy dress that fits well to her toned body. The hem settles at the knee. The colorful scarf nestled at her throat displays splashes of the pink that is her trademark color. She wears low-heeled pumps in the same burgundy color as the dress. Her hair is tucked into a flattering French twist with soft wisps curling around her face.
“Thanks.” Leaving the house without coffee would be putting every member of St. Mary’s at risk of encountering my worst.
I head for the kitchen hoping coffee will infuse my veins with enough caffeine to carry me through the next two hours. The Mass won’t last so long but it’s the social encumbrances before and after that I dread.
Oh well, it won’t kill me to be the good daughter for one morning.
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Like the Jackson Falls school, St. Mary’s is as old as the town, one of the oldest Catholic churches in north Alabama. Built of limestone in the Romanesque Revival style, it stands tall and proud on the west side of town, just off the square. Where else were all those original wealthy settlers going to attend Mass? Only the best would do. Two towers flank the façade, one houses the bell and the other has windows all around. During the civil war, soldiers used that tower for a lookout.
Before we go inside I vividly recall how the double door entrance leads into the vestibule. Rich Carrera marble floors flow from the front entrance all the way to the altar. Just inside the door, the coatroom and the church offices are to the right, the restrooms to the left. In the nave, mahogany pews are split by the red carpet that runs the length of the main aisle. The stained glass windows draw the eye up to the soaring ceiling and its hand hewn wooden beams. It is a lovely old church full of history and dignity for the most part. Over the nearly two centuries of its service to the community there has been the occasional scandal. Like when I was nine and the choir director announced that the child she carried was the priest’s. That was the last time St. Mary’s had a new priest—until now.
I sigh. All I have to do is survive the next hour or so. The horde of people milling about on the steps and swarming through that entrance remind me why I’ve only been to Mass once since I left for college. The gathering. Everyone wants to say hello and ask how you are and how long you’re staying and a dozen other questions I don’t want to answer. Or maybe I can’t answer those questions because I’m far too busy pretending I don’t notice how I am. It’s easier that way. Denial is such a comfortable friend of mine.
As we climb the steps I’m grateful that most folks appear to be focused on the subject of Delbert Yarbrough and the rally he’s holding over at the Methodist church this morning. Maybe I’ll get through this without too much discomfort.
