Even Now

by Karen Kingsbury

  Angela closed her eyes and drifted back to that day, the way it had played out hour after hour. By mid afternoon she was concerned about Lauren and where she might’ve gone. She called home, but there was no answer. Finally around six o’clock, Bill called her.

  “I’m coming down.” He hesitated. “How’s Lauren doing?”

  Alarm rang through her heart and mind. “Lauren’s at home.” She pressed the receiver to her ear so she could hear above the commotion in the waiting room.

  “No, she isn’t.” His voice held instant alarm. “I thought she was there.”

  “Have you checked her room?”

  “No, I just thought . . . give me a minute, I’ll check.” He wasn’t gone long. When he returned, his voice was more strained than before. “She’s not here. It looks like she slept in her bed, but she’s gone. Maybe she’s on her way there.”

  Back then, Angela was still furious with her husband, still barely able to talk to him without feeling hateful toward him for what he’d done by breaking up Shane and Lauren. Even if it had been done with love as the motive. When he suggested that Lauren might be on her way to the hospital, Angela didn’t push the issue; she only hurried the phone call and agreed that it would be wise for him to come. Maybe he was right, she’d told herself. Lauren was on her way back; that had to be it. She wouldn’t simply leave town — and Emily — without some sort of explanation, would she? Not when she hadn’t given them any warning. But after another thirty minutes, she had a certainty equaled only by the pain inside her.

  Lauren was gone.

  Again Angela called the police, and she was given the same answer: wait twenty-four hours and file a missing persons report. She was frantic at the thought of Lauren back on the road, setting out to find Shane, especially when she was so upset. After an hour Angela went to the nurse’s station and questioned everyone on staff, trying to figure out if Lauren had called. By all accounts, she hadn’t talked to any of them since she left the hospital that morning.

  Angela’s only clue came when she talked to the woman manning the desk in the pediatric unit.

  “Have you asked anyone in labor and delivery? Sometimes our calls get mixed up.”

  She thanked the woman and hurried to the other side of the floor where labor and delivery was housed. The woman at the desk was pleasant, but distracted.

  “Can I help you?” She had a novel in her hand, and she seemed anxious to get back to her reading.

  “Yes.” Angela gripped the edge of the counter. “My daughter is supposed to be here. I’m trying to figure out if she called.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Lauren Anderson. She would’ve called looking for her infant daughter, Emily.”

  A light dawned in the woman’s eyes, and Just as quickly a sheepishness. “You know, something that happened earlier this afternoon’s starting to make sense.” She nodded. “She might’ve called.”

  “What . . . what makes you think so?” Angela wanted to run around the counter and shake the woman. The information wasn’t coming nearly fast enough.

  “Well — ” the nurse closed her book and sat up straighter — “I took a call from a woman looking for an Emily Anderson.” She cringed. “I thought she must’ve been one of our new moms. See, we had a newborn named Emma Henderson who had gone home a few hours earlier.”

  The pieces swirled in Angela’s head. She pressed her fingers to her temples and stared at the woman. “I’m not seeing the connection.”

  “Sorry.” A nervous laugh sounded from her throat. “I think she asked about Emily, and I told her she was gone. That she’d been gone for a few hours.” The woman sifted through a pile of papers. “After she hung up, I realized we were maybe talking about different babies. Emily Anderson, Emma Henderson. You know, pretty close.”

  Angela wanted to scream. “That’s it? Did she say anything else?”

  “Actually . . . ” The nurse’s smile faded. “She sounded a little distracted. She never actually said good-bye, just sort of hung up on me.”

  Angela’s heart sank to her knees. “Great.”

  “The woman who called, she’s your daughter?” The nurse seemed sorry, but she was already picking up the novel again, positioning herself to dig into the next chapter.

  “Yes.” She took a few steps backward and shook her head. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Yeah, I mean it was an honest mistake.” She gave her a weak smile. “Sorry if it caused any confusion.”

  Any confusion? Angela could barely make her feet move as she left the labor and delivery area and returned to the pediatric wing. She found a seat in a quiet part of the waiting room and covered her face with her hands. The details were shaky, but they were easy to string together. If Lauren had called and asked about Emily, and if she’d been told that the baby was gone, that she’d been gone for a few hours, then Lauren might’ve figured —

  She could never quite finish the thought. Not then and not now.

  Her tea wasn’t steaming like before, so she picked it up and cradled her hands around the warm mug. In the days since then it was easier to believe that Lauren had run for other reasons. That she had convinced herself she needed to find Shane before she could be a mother, and that she wasn’t able to handle the responsibility at this time in her life.

  The alternative was terrifying.

  A soft little cry drifted down the stairs, and Angela looked at the clock. Almost eleven, right on schedule. Her days were nothing if not directed by a routine since Lauren had left. It was a good thing, really. The busyness of her day kept her sane, and gave her a reason to hang on.

  She set down her tea and headed upstairs. With each step the memory of that awful day returned. Bill had arrived at the hospital minutes after her conversation with the labor and delivery nurse, and after he realized that Lauren was gone again, he dropped to one of the waiting room chairs, and for the first time since she’d known him, he wept. The sobs that came from him that day told her that he was not the hard, dominating person she was beginning to think him. He was a father who had sought the best for his only child, his daughter. But everything he’d done in the past six months had backfired, and now he was as overcome by grief as she.

  They filed the missing person’s report the next day, but it did no good. The first police officer they’d talked to was right. No one on the force was going to spend man-hours searching for a seventeen-year-old runaway, a girl driving a nearly new sports car and headed for California.

  But something happened in the days that followed. Though Angela and Bill came no closer to finding Lauren, they did come closer to each other. They dropped to their knees near the side of Lauren’s bed and did something they’d never done together before. They prayed. Since then, though they carried the pain of Lauren’s loss with them, they had a strength and a hope that was unexplainable, unearthly.

  The cry from the upstairs room grew louder.

  “Coming, honey.” Angela hurried her pace. She rounded the corner into the room that should’ve belonged to Lauren. The baby had kicked off her light blanket, her arms and legs flailing as her cry turned lusty. “Emily, shh. It’s okay.”

  She swept the baby up in her arms and cuddled her close against her chest. Lauren was missing so much. Her baby was changing with every passing week, losing that newborn look and getting more of her own personality and facial expressions.

  “Shh, sweetheart. It’s okay.” She held her close and carried her downstairs, cooing at her the whole way. “Grandma’ll heat up your bottle, okay?”

  Emily settled down, her eyes big and blue as they looked straight at her. She made a soft sound, and Angela had the sense — as she’d had before — that this little girl would be a fighter, a child of determination. Already she knew what she wanted and when, and she wasn’t about to go unnoticed.

  Angela warmed the bottle and took Emily to a rocking chair in the living room. They were just seated when Bill came up and stood behind them, his hand on Angela�
��s shoulder.

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you see it?” He leaned down and brushed his fingers over Emily’s forehead, down the side of her cheek. “The way she looks like her parents.”

  “I can.” Tears stung at Angela’s eyes, but she blinked them away. She’d already cried enough tears for a lifetime. Emily needed her now, and she needed her happy and full of energy. “I think she’s going to have dark hair like Shane.”

  “And Lauren’s blue eyes.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She smiled at the baby, but inside her heart was breaking. “Sometimes I’m not sure which hurts more. Missing Lauren, or seeing her every day in Emily’s eyes.”

  Bill didn’t say anything. After a few minute she leaned closer and kissed Emily on the head. Then he straightened and gave Angela a side hug. “I’ll let you know how it goes with the PI.”

  “Okay.” She put her hand over his and squeezed. “I’ll be praying.”

  He left through the door to the garage, and she listened as he started his car and pulled away. Private investigators and phone calls and desperate threads of possibility. That’s all they had to go on now, all they could draw from if they wanted to find their daughter.

  She ran her thumb along Emily’s cheek.

  The thing was, Lauren had been crazy for her daughter, completely taken with her. Yes, she wanted to find Shane, and no, her trip west with Emily hadn’t gone well. But she wouldn’t have walked out of the hospital that day without saying good-bye. She would’ve at least explained that she needed to find Shane, and that she wanted to hand responsibility to Emily over. For a short time, anyway.

  Since she hadn’t done that, Angela could only imagine the absolute worst.

  Lauren believed Emily was dead. From the way she’d acted when Emily was sick, Angela was terrified that Lauren blamed Bill and her for the baby’s death. She probably blamed herself, also. And God. With no baby to bid good-bye, and no desire to talk to her parents, she would’ve been five hundred miles out of town by midnight.

  Grief and guilt settled like a cement blanket on her shoulders. Now that she’d allowed herself to admit that scenario, now that she could give herself permission to believe that was why Lauren had left, it made horrible, perfect sense.

  When Bill returned a few hours later, she told him her theory so he could share it with the private investigator. The possibility was enough to make her heart race whenever she thought of it. Because nothing was sadder than the thought of Lauren living on her own, believing her daughter was dead, when in reality she was growing up a little more every day. They would spare no expense; stop at nothing to find Lauren. And one day they would get the call or the clue they were looking for, the information that would bring Lauren and Emily back together again. Angela believed that with all her heart.

  Even if they had to spend a life time searching.

  TWELVE

  Eighteen years later

  Wheaton College was everything Emily Anderson hoped it would be.

  The only downside was that it kept her in Illinois, when everything in her wanted to be in Los Angeles. There, or anywhere on the coast of Southern California. Especially this time of year. It was Friday afternoon, and Christmas break was looming.

  She stretched her elbow out along her desk and rested her face in her hand. Her feature story on the women’s soccer coach was due at five o’clock, but she couldn’t focus. Three other journalism students were hanging out at the newspaper office that afternoon, but they were working on a project, so they didn’t pay her any attention. The outline for her feature was spread out on the desk in front of her. She glanced at it and tried to be interested. Footsteps sounded from behind, and her professor pulled up a chair beside her.

  “Hi, Emily.” Ms. Parker was young and likeable. Emily hadn’t ever heard anyone say anything bad about her. “How’s the story coming?”

  She sat up and gave her teacher a weak smile. “Not so good.” She looked at the clock. “I still have a few hours.”

  Ms. Parker found the outline on the desk. “You have your points down.”

  “Yes.” Her heart wasn’t into it; that was the problem. She met Ms. Parker’s eyes. “Did you always love writing?”

  “Not always.” She laughed. “Most of my students are the other way around, though. For me, when I was in high school I thought I wanted to be a math teacher. It wasn’t until college that I knew I wanted to write.”

  “Hmm.” Emily looked at her notes, not really seeing them. Her eyes lifted to the teacher’s again. “Did your mom like to write?”

  Ms. Parker angled her head. “Yeah, I guess she did. I never really made the connection.” She folded her arms and leaned them on the desk. “She kept a journal and wrote poetry, that sort of thing. Maybe that’s where I get it.”

  Emily nodded. “May be.”

  “Did your mother like writing?” The question was an innocent one. Ms. Parker didn’t know Emily well enough to understand the territory she was treading.

  Emily forced a smile. “I’ve never met my mother.” She made sure she sounded upbeat. She hated people feeling sorry for her. “My grandma told me she spent time in her room, maybe writing, maybe reading. She isn’t sure.”

  “Oh.” Ms. Parker was quiet for a moment. “Well, I bet she was a writer.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  The instructor tapped lightly on the notes. “You’re one of the best soccer players this school has ever had, Emily. A feature on the coach should be easy for you.”

  “I know.” She drew in a long breath and grinned at the woman. The message was clear. Whatever was distracting her, the story had to be written. “I’ll get on it.”

  “Okay.” Her smile was compassionate. “May be you and your grandma can talk about your mom later tonight.” She raised an eyebrow. “When the story’s written and put to bed.”

  Emily made a silly face and nodded, then she took her notes to the computer and in half an hour she had the story finished. Ms. Parker was right. The soccer coach was a burly Nigerian man named Wolf, and if anyone understood him, she did. The man was demanding, but he’d improved her game by miles. If she were more committed, she could make a run at the national team. But competing in college was enough, because she wanted to spend at least some of her time thinking about her future. A future writing for a newspaper in Los Angeles. That’s all she’d ever wanted. Talent or no, soccer wasn’t her passion. Writing held that spot. It always had.

  Writing and her faith in Christ.

  From the time she was a little girl her grandma had told her simply, “Your mother and father loved you very much, but they weren’t ready to be parents.”

  The answer sounded sad and empty, but Grandma followed it up with this explanation. “God will always be your daddy, Emily. He’ll be there for you wherever you are, wherever you go. He’ll never leave you.”

  Her words proved true year after year, and now Emily considered God more than her father. She considered Him her best friend. He was her life giver, her soul maker, her redeemer. He brought her the greatest gifts — joy and love and forgiveness when she messed up. And He brought her peace. But He couldn’t quite fill the emptiness in her heart, in the hidden places where she wondered every day why. Why did her mom and dad leave? Why didn’t they ever come back for her? She’d met kids without parents and often they were rebellious or angry or distant. Not her. She had a wonderful life. Grandparents who loved her, a beautiful home, and a bright future.

  But the emptiness was always there.

  Sometimes it made her step back and wonder. Especially when the sky was full of snow clouds and California felt a world away and her heart simply wouldn’t leave the past alone. What were her parents like? What sort of people had they become? She focused her attention on the computer screen once more and repositioned her hands over the keyboard. The feature was easy, once she gave it some thought. Wolf had escaped captivity from an underground political group in Nigeria and ma
de it to the United States with just the clothes on his back. He earned a soccer tryout at UCLA and two years later he was on the men’s national team. Wheaton College was lucky to have him, and she had quotes from the school’s athletic director saying as much.

  When she finished the story, she sent it to the editor’s desk and stretched her feet out. She was going to spend Christmas break at her grand parents’ house, but they weren’t expecting her until five-thirty. For now she could surf the Internet, look for something to take her mind off the conversation she’d had with Ms. Parker.

  And off her mother.

  One headline proclaimed an outbreak of violence had flared up in Iraq. Four U.S. soldiers had been killed when their car hit a roadside bomb, and more troops were being sent over. She scanned the details and tried to imagine life in a war-torn country, a place where bombs and death and violence were commonplace. God is a God of peace, so she didn’t understand war or whether the United States should be involved. But she knew this: lots of her friends were fighting in Afghanistan and Iraq, and she supported them with everything she was. Still it was easier not to think about it, not to sort through the whys and how comes. I don’t really understand it, God.

  She typed another Web address into the search line, and in a matter of seconds she was looking at the soccer team’s standings. Wheaton was at the top. Unless someone got injured or one of the other teams had an unexplainable surge, Emily was pretty sure her team would stay in first. Wolf had done a great job recruiting over the past few years. For the most part the team was older. Emily was the only freshman.

  The room was quieter than before. Two of the three students had gone home, and the other was working at one of the computer stations. She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Then she typed in writing and genetic. After a brief pause, the computer screen showed a list that was thousands of websites long. The first one asked this question: “How much of who we are is a result of our parents?” She clicked it, and an article appeared.