by Nan Rossiter
She fingered the ring Rudy had given her the day before. It was made from a silver wire that had been tied into a delicate knot. “It’s a friendship ring,” Rudy had said, smiling, “because we’ll always be friends.”
Harper had nodded as she’d slipped it on her finger, but now she felt as if she didn’t deserve Rudy’s friendship—not after she’d almost gotten her mom run over. She touched the chipped pink polish Rudy had painted on her nails.
“Nothing stays nice,” she muttered. “Nothing lasts forever.” She spun the ring around her finger and then slipped it off and put it in the console. Then she picked up the half-eaten bag of fries, and the change from McDonald’s. “Sorry, Cora,” she said softly. “I’m sorry to take your money, but I won’t be any trouble anymore.”
She gripped the handle of the door, considering, and then pulled it open. She ate a fry—now cold—and threw the rest into the sky, causing a cacophony from the flock of gulls, who swooped down in a flurry of flapping and raucous squawking.
“Mine! Mine! Mine!” she teased as they fought for the long greasy strips of potato. Finally, they flew off, still squabbling, and she looked over her shoulder at the door to the building. Then she stuffed Cora’s change in her pocket, hitched her backpack onto her shoulder, and hurried toward the park.
38
“I DON’T KNOW WHERE SHE IS!” CORA EXCLAIMED IN A PANICKED VOICE. “I walked into the building; ten minutes later I went out to see what was taking her so darn long and she wasn’t in the car. She just wasn’t there!”
The policeman nodded as he jotted down Cora’s explanation and a description. “Do you have a photo?”
“Yes,” Cora answered, “although it’s not recent—she’s probably only five in it.”
“How old is she now?”
“Ten,” Cora answered, and then corrected herself. “I mean nine.”
“Nine?” The officer looked up questioningly. “You don’t have something more recent?”
Cora shook her head again. “I don’t think so. I’d have to look.”
“So, she’s nine years old . . . and why did you leave her alone in the car?”
“I did not leave her alone in the car!” Cora cried, wringing her hands because she suddenly realized how bad that sounded. “I thought she was following me inside.”
“And how long was she alone in the car?” the officer pressed.
“Oh, Lordy,” Cora whispered, closing her eyes in dismay and trying to calculate how long Harper might’ve sat outside, but her brain was not cooperating—not only was Harper missing, but now, on top of that, she was probably going to lose her job because she’d left her alone. “Five—ten minutes, at most,” she answered fretfully. “That child really got my goat today an’ I . . .”
The officer looked up. “She ‘got your goat’? How do you mean?”
Cora swallowed, wishing she had kept her mouth shut. “Does it matter? We are wasting precious time! The longer we stand here talking about nothin’, the harder it’s goin’ to be to find her.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but the details of what happened—how she ‘got your goat,’ as you say, might actually help us find her.”
“I doubt that,” Cora mumbled.
“Nevertheless, please explain how she upset you.”
“We stopped at McDonald’s because she was hungry, and I spent my last twenty dollars to buy her lunch and she threw it out the window!”
The officer looked up. “Why did she do that?”
“Because the attendant gave her sweet-and-sour sauce instead of barbecue.”
The officer jotted this detail down in his notebook. “Is she always so short-tempered?”
“She can be.”
“And then what happened?”
“I told her we don’t litter and I pulled over to pick it up.”
The officer looked up. “And . . . ?”
“And that’s it. I picked up the food and we drove here.”
“Did you say anything else to her?”
“Not that I recall. Now, can you please help me look for her?!”
“Ma’am, we are going to look for her,” the officer replied in a calm voice.
“You don’t seem to be nearly as worried as I am!”
“What time did you discover she was missing?”
“Just after one o’clock.”
The officer looked at his watch. It was now one thirty. “Well, she can’t have gotten far . . . unless someone picked her up.” He looked up. “Is that a camera?” he asked, pointing.
Cora followed his gaze to a small white camera mounted on the top of the low brick building. “It is, but it hasn’t worked in years.”
The officer shook his head and sighed. “Well, let’s assume Harper . . . what’s her last name?”
“Wheaton.”
“Let’s assume Harper left on foot of her own accord. Do you have any idea where she might go? Does she have any friends or relatives in the area?”
Cora swallowed, suddenly praying very hard that Harper had left of her own accord and had not been abducted. God help her, why had she left her alone?
“No,” she said. “I have no idea where she might go.”
“Do you have any idea why she might run away?”
Cora pressed her lips together pensively, trying to remember. “Well,” she began slowly, “when I was picking up the sweet-and-sour container off the road, a car came zipping by, and when I got back to my car she made a comment about it almost hitting me, an’ I told her it would’ve been her fault.”
The officer looked up, his brow furrowed. “Is that what you said?”
Cora nodded, suddenly realizing how hurtful that might’ve sounded to a child who counted on her, to a child who, although she acted tough, was really quite sensitive. “I’m sorry, baby,” she murmured to herself. “I shouldn’t a’ said such a horrible thing. I didn’t mean it.”
“What was that?” the officer asked, looking up again.
“Nothin’,” she said softly, tears welling up in her eyes. She brushed them away. “Can we start looking now? She has a weak heart and she’s on the transplant list.”
The officer looked up in alarm. “And she’s allowed to just be out . . .”
“She is allowed to be out,” Cora said, nodding. “Her doctor wanted her name on the list because, and I quote”—she paused to make air quotes—“‘although it’s not immediately urgent, it is inevitable, and already being on the list would be helpful if her condition deteriorated unexpectedly.’”
Just then, two more police cars pulled in, and the officer glanced over his shoulder. As he turned back to Cora, he noticed several people standing inside the front doors, watching the commotion. “Please wait here, Mrs. Grant,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
He walked over to talk to the officers, motioned to a nearby park, and then returned to Cora. “Can you get that picture of Harper for me?”
Cora nodded, and the officer followed her toward the building—where the crowd of curious onlookers was now spilling outside. One lady, who was standing near the door, pulled it open for them. “What’s happened, Cora? Is everything okay?”
“No, Lorraine, everything’s not okay. . . . Harper has gone missing!”
A collective murmur swept through the crowd and another woman whispered, “Oh, Lawdy, what next?! These damn kids!”
“Oh, Lawdy is right,” Cora murmured, brushing back anxious tears.
39
MACEY TOOK A SIP OF HER COFFEE—COLD AGAIN, PER USUAL—AND REVIEWED the information she’d entered on her laptop. Their newest patient, one-week-old Emmett James Ellison, weighing in at eight pounds, five ounces and measuring twenty-two inches, had just left with his parents. Little Emmett had arrived promptly on his due date, October twenty-third, and everything about him was perfect—from his wispy blond hair, dark blue eyes, and rosy cheeks to his chubby legs and ten tiny toes. The stub of his umbilical cord had already fallen off. His stool had normalized after pas
sing the meconium, and was now breast-milk-fed yellow. His mom, Cassie, had wearily, but happily, reported that he woke up every two hours, like clockwork, with a feisty cry and nursed hungrily. And his dad, Edward, had cradled his new little son in his arms with the confident ease of someone who had a lot of experience holding babies and reported that all was well in the Ellison household: Emmett, their fourth son, had been joyfully received by his brothers, two-year-old Evan, three-year-old Ethan, and five-year-old Ed junior. “We’re truly blessed!” he’d gushed, smiling proudly.
“You are indeed,” Macey had agreed, mustering a smile. “I’ve always loved the name Emmett,” she’d added. “It was my grandfather’s name.”
“It’s a great name,” Edward had said, nodding. “Old names are making a comeback. When we were trying to decide, Cassie liked Emmett, and I liked Elijah, and even though Emmett won out this time . . . next time,” he said, smiling at his wife, “it’s going to be Elijah.”
Macey had reached for the doorknob. “Well, he looks great,” she’d said, maintaining her smile. “Congratulations, again. Dr. Hack will be right in.” She’d closed the door behind her and leaned against it.
“Why?” she’d muttered, clenching her jaw. “Why are some couples blessed with whole tribes and I can’t have even one?”
She took another sip of her coffee, closed Emmett’s computer file, and watched the screensaver playing on her laptop—it was the same one all the computers in the office had: a slideshow of their cute, young patients. Most of the photos had come from Christmas cards, so whenever Macey looked at them, it made her heart ache—would she ever get to create a card with her own child on it? As if on cue, a photo of the three Ellison brothers, sitting on a beach blanket with their yellow Lab, appeared, and Macey pressed her lips together in a sad smile—Cassie was probably already planning this year’s card, an image of little Emmett surrounded by his beautiful, beaming, towheaded brothers.
“Life’s not fair,” she muttered. The Ellisons had talked so casually about the name they’d picked for their next son, as if it was a given—which it probably was. Cassie got pregnant at the drop of a hat, had easy pregnancies, and popped out healthy, bouncing baby boys, one after another, with no complications whatsoever, while Macey tiptoed through her first month, barely breathing lest she jeopardize the fragile pregnancy . . . and even that didn’t work!
She tried to picture Ben holding a baby with the same confident ease Edward Ellison had, but she could only see him looking awkward and unsure, as if he was worried he might drop it, and then she chided herself for not being able to conjure up a more positive image. She’d been telling herself for months she needed to think more positively. She’d read several books on the topic, and they all said that the thoughts a person sends out into the universe—negative or positive—played a role in how things turned out.
“Oh, Grandy,” she whispered, looking up at the ceiling. “What am I doing wrong? Why can’t I get out of this rut?” She pictured her grandmother’s gentle smile.
Oh, honey, she could almost hear her grandmother say, you are thinking too much! You just need to get out there and do! Do what your heart is telling you! Your head certainly has some say in the matter, but when you feel your heart being nudged, you can be sure you need to perk up and pay attention.
“Hey, Mace,” Heather said, interrupting her thoughts as she looked around the doorway. “I’m making a coffee run . . . want anything?”
“I’d love a fresh cup,” Macey said, looking up. “I’ve nuked this one at least ten times.”
Heather smiled. “Black, right?”
Macey nodded, and Heather turned to go but then stopped. “I keep meaning to ask you if you’re still planning to dress up tomorrow?”
“Oh my gosh! Is tomorrow Halloween?” Macey asked as she glanced at the calendar next to her desk.
“It is, and remember, we’re all dressing like Peanuts characters.”
“That’s right. Do you happen to remember who I said I’d be?”
“You picked Charlie Brown because, and I quote, I know just how he feels.”
“Yep, that’s me! I’ll figure something out by tomorrow. Who are you going to be?”
Heather held her palm to the bottom of her hair and pushed it up stylishly. “I’m going to be Lucy,” she said with an air of drama.
“Perfect,” Macey teased. “Don’t forget your football!”
Just then, Marilyn came into the room to get a file. “Hey, did you guys hear there’s an amber alert out for that little girl with the heart condition—the one Cora brought in for a follow-up?”
Macey looked up in alarm. “Harper?”
“Yes,” Marilyn confirmed, nodding.
“Oh no!”
“Yeah, and they’re not only worried because she’s missing, but they also don’t know if she ran away or if someone took her.”
“Do we have Cora’s number?” said Macey, flipping open her laptop.
“Yes,” Heather said. “Just look under Harper’s name.” Macey typed in Wheaton, and immediately, Harper’s file popped up. She reached for the phone.
“Find it?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Okay, I’ll be right back.”
Macey nodded as she listened to the phone on the other end go right to Cora’s voice mail.
40
HARPER STOOD IN FRONT OF THE SINGLE-LEVEL RANCH WITH HER HEART pounding. The little white house looked a lot smaller than she remembered, and it wasn’t nearly as well-kept. The grass was long and weeds were everywhere. In fact, she almost didn’t recognize it. She stood on the front step and paused to catch her breath before knocking. She had walked the whole way from DFCS, and even though she’d tried to take her time, the walk had left her exhausted and her chest aching. Still, she’d had to come—she just had to talk to Tom. She had no other choice. She just hoped the pain would ease after she’d had a chance to sit down, and maybe have something to eat or drink. She wished she hadn’t thrown all those McNuggets out the car window—she was so hungry right now, she’d have eaten them right off the ground!
She took a breath, raised her hand, and knocked tentatively, praying she’d hear Sundance’s familiar friendly bark, but the only sound she heard was the breeze whispering through the trees. She stood still, wishing her heart would stop racing, and knocked again, harder this time. She had her speech all set, but if Tom didn’t answer, she’d forget everything: how she wouldn’t be any trouble; how she’d cook and clean, and walk Sundance every day . . . Oh! And how sorry she was about Mary. She tried to see through the window, but the curtain was drawn tight, and there wasn’t even a sliver of light to give her hope. She frowned, wondering where they were.
She walked around to the backyard and was surprised to see the swing she’d swung on when she was little. Next to it was the wooden sandbox on which she’d hit her head after tripping on her wagon. She reached up and lightly touched the scar above her eyebrow, remembering the big fuss Mary had made, assuring her that foreheads always bleed a lot. Tom had scooped her up, carried her into the bathroom, and set her on the counter while Mary handed him a cold wash cloth to hold on it while she rummaged through the medicine cabinet.
“Hold still, now,” she’d said softly. “I’m just going to put a couple butterflies on it.” She’d gently cleaned the cut, but when Harper looked in the mirror, all she saw were funny looking Band-Aids.
“Where are the butterflies?” she’d asked, and Mary had chuckled and pulled her into a hug.
Harper looked around the yard at the long grass covered with leaves. Something wasn’t right. Tom always kept the lawn neat and free of leaves. Even the vegetable garden—from which they’d eaten sweet cherry tomatoes right off the vine—was full of weeds. She heard a soft tinkling and turned to see the silver chimes she and Tom had made from flattened silver teaspoons hanging on the back porch.
She climbed the steps, tried the doorknob, and when it wouldn’t turn, she slid to the porch with a groa
n. Her heart had filled with so much hope when she was walking. She was sure that when Tom saw her, he would remember her instantly and exclaim about how much she’d grown. She was also sure Sundance would be so happy he’d wiggle all around her and give her wet, slobbery kisses.
Of course, you can live with us, she imagined Tom saying as he gave her a long hug. Sundance and I would love your company! And then she’d pictured herself falling asleep in her old room with Sundance curled up on the end of her bed.
But now, she found herself fighting back tears. Where were they? She couldn’t even let herself think they might not live here anymore. After walking all this way, she couldn’t give up. What if they were on their way home right now? What if they turned onto this street this very minute? If she left, she might miss them—and then she’d miss everything she’d planned, everything that would make her life okay. She pulled her sweatshirt around her. She was cold, tired, hungry, and her chest felt tight. She fumbled around in her backpack, felt a Ziploc bag in the bottom, and remembered she hadn’t eaten all the cookies in her lunch from Friday. She pulled open the bag, took out a broken Oreo, and chewed hungrily. Then she pulled Bear out of her backpack, lightly touched the tattered heart on his chest, zipped up her sweatshirt, and wondered what to do. Finally, she determined she just had to give Tom a chance to get home; she didn’t walk all this way for nothing! She looked around the porch for a blanket or chair, but there was nothing. The furniture they’d always sat on to eat lunch was gone, so she sat on the frayed welcome mat and stared into the darkness until her eyelids grew heavy, and then pulled Bear against her chest and fell asleep to the sound of the spoon chimes tinkling in the wind.
