When Time Is a River

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  “Please,” Brandy whispered into the silent little room. “Let her grow up to be a bride.”

  It took Brandy a moment to calm herself and refocus on her mission. One drawer at a time, she removed the clothing Vernon had scattered about from Emily’s dresser, shook each item to make sure the necklace wasn’t hidden inside the fabric, then organized the contents—training pants, tights and socks, T-shirts, long pants and shorts. When the drawer was completely empty, she carefully repacked it.

  She ripped the sheet and pillowcase off Emily’s bed, shook out the pillow and then removed the mattress to search beneath. That necklace had to be here somewhere.

  She crawled across the floor, using her fingertips to comb through the carpet, hoping to find the necklace chain caught in the long fibers. She found two buttons and some pink plastic beads the size of small marbles Emily had gotten for making necklaces. Brandy should have spent more time with Emily, should have taught her how to connect the beads.

  She searched behind every piece of furniture. She took the books and toys from the built-in bookcases, but found nothing. Finally, she tackled the wooden toy box Vernon had dumped in front of Emily’s closet. One by one, she picked up each toy, shook it, and then placed it back into the toy box. She found all the pieces to the Fisher-Price barn, the fence and the silo. She put the little animals inside the barn where they belonged.

  When there was nothing left but puzzle pieces and blocks, she carefully replaced the shapes into the wooden puzzles, put the stray Lincoln logs back into their cylinder, and gathered the colorful bristle blocks and dropped them into the baskets on the floor beside the toy chest.

  It had to be here somewhere. Brandy remembered taking it off Emily and setting it on the dresser, but the following morning, Emily raced into Brandy’s bedroom. “I yost it,” she’d said. “I yost my necklace.” Again, Brandy pulled out the dresser and checked behind it. Nothing.

  She closed her eyes. Think like Emily. Where would Emily have put the necklace? Someplace safe. A place where she put her treasures. Of course, Brandy thought—the little pink purse Emily had gotten for Christmas. She carried it with her whenever they went on a treasure hunt and filled it with pebbles and wildflowers, a leaf fallen from a maple tree.

  The purse hung from one of the three pegs her father had attached at a height Emily could reach—right beside her purple rain jacket and matching polka dot umbrella.

  Brandy lurched across the room. She opened the purse and released the smell of pine and something metallic. Turning it upside down, she emptied the contents—two flat stones, a few pennies, and half a dozen tiny pinecones. Then she remembered the pocket on the left side of the purse with its nearly invisible zipper. Emily called it her secret hiding place.

  Brandy unzipped it and plunged her fingers into the pocket. The necklace wasn’t there. She sat on the floor, closed her eyes again, and tried to remember the last time she’d seen Emily with the necklace. Little by little, the memory returned. Emily had been playing on the floor with her Matchbox cars. She’d tucked the necklace into her pink Mustang convertible and launched it across the room where it had banged into the wall beneath the window.

  It was a long shot, but worth a chance. Brandy lifted the grate covering the heater vent, and there it was nestled on an aluminum ledge. She took a hanger from Emily’s closet, fashioned it into hook and fished out the necklace.

  She ran through the house, looking for Radhauser, and found him in her father’s study. “I’ve got it.” She dropped the pendant into Detective Radhauser’s open hand. “It’s a clue, right?”

  He held the necklace up to the light.

  “Do you think whoever gave her that necklace is responsible for her disappearance?” Brandy asked.

  “Maybe,” he said, dropping the necklace into a small evidence bag that he slipped into the inside pocket of his blazer. “To tell you the truth, I hope so.”

  Brandy cringed. “Why?”

  “It beats some of the alternatives.”

  “You mean like pedophilia or child pornography?”

  Radhauser held her gaze. “I know how scared you must be. That necklace may be nothing more than an innocent gift. Or something Emily found in the park. But if it is connected to her disappearance, it might be a good sign. Where did you find it?”

  She told him.

  “That was clever thinking,” he said.

  Brandy looked at the floor, then told Radhauser how Emily believed her big friends loved her.

  “That’s what I mean,” Radhauser said. “Of all the kid snatchers, give me one that loves them any day.”

  Brandy wanted so much to believe him, but remembered a man she’d seen on the news—a man who had claimed to love the little girls he’d forced into sexual acts.

  * * *

  After Radhauser left with the necklace, Brandy sat at the kitchen table across from Officer Corbin and waited for her dad to call. She tucked her hands, palms together, between her knees. All at once, her legs started hopping up and down as if they had little motors inside them. She flattened her heels in a futile attempt to stop the shaking.

  “This could have happened to anyone,” Corbin said.

  Her eyes filled. She turned away.

  Christine burst into the kitchen, out of breath and gulping for air. She leaned against the refrigerator and sucked in a few more breaths. “The park is mostly deserted. But there are reporters everywhere. They practically chased me into the house.” She stared at the quiet phone. “Has anyone called?”

  Corbin shook his head.

  “I need to do something,” she said. “What can I do?”

  Corbin reminded her that they’d initiated an AMBER alert and notified the Oregon Missing Children’s Clearinghouse.

  “What about the FBI?” Christine said.

  “They are aware of what’s happened and are watching the case. The best thing you can do is remain calm in case we get a call.”

  Christine grabbed the sippy cup from the tray on Emily’s highchair and held it so tight the knuckles on her right hand turned pale. “Yeah, right. Calm.”

  The clock on the stove ticked as regular as a heartbeat. Six thirty-three. But the seconds seemed like hours. And the minutes dawdled as if each one held an entire day. “I’ll make another pot of coffee,” Brandy said.

  When she reached into the cabinet for the filters, Brandy saw the bag of red jellybeans they kept on the top shelf so Emily wouldn’t make herself sick by eating all of them at once.

  She closed the cabinet and stood with her palms against the door, her face resting on her hands. They’d been so careful about something as small and harmless as a bag of jellybeans.

  The doorbell rang. All three of them ran for it.

  The shorthaired police officer with the Rattlesnake earrings stood on the porch. “I’ve made calls to the elementary and middle schools about Kent. They’re tracking down the lists. I checked out the Little Theater,” she told Corbin. “Get word to Radhauser that today’s rehearsal was canceled.” The officer stepped into the entryway.

  Corbin turned to Christine. “Do you have any reason to believe Kathleen Sizemore could be involved?”

  “No way,” Brandy said. “Kathleen loves Emily. Whenever I was at the park with her, Kathleen never let Emily out of her sight.”

  The female officer locked gazes with Corbin, then jotted a note on her clipboard.

  Christine leaned forward, a bright patch of color in each pale cheek. “Involved? What a perfect word. Kathleen knew my husband for years. They lived together in this house.” Christine stopped talking and gazed blankly at Brandy. “He never even bothered to tell me until after I got pregnant,” she added, her words painfully slow, as if this memory had been dragged from her and added to the misery of Emily’s disappearance.

  “You make it sound like Kathleen is some kind of home-wrecker. Of course she lived here.” Brandy tried to keep her voice steady. “She was my nanny and our housekeeper.”

  “Grow
up.” Christine’s mouth tightened. “Kathleen hates me. And I’m tired of protecting you.”

  “Protecting me from what?” Brandy asked, both transfixed and horrified by Christine’s bitterness. Her stepmother was hysterical, but it still frightened Brandy to see her like this. “I want to know what you think you’re protecting me from.”

  “Never mind,” Christine said, her gaze intent on her stepdaughter. “But if you’d protected Emily, she’d be sitting in that highchair right now eating pasta for dinner.”

  “That’s enough.” Brandy said sharply. “And if you’d stayed home from your luncheon, or taken Emily with you, she wouldn’t have been at the park. Blaming me or anyone else, is a waste of time and it won’t bring us any closer to finding her.”

  Christine stared at Brandy, her face softening. “You’re right,” she whispered, then turned and walked away.

  “I don’t care what kind of fairytale she’s concocted,” Brandy said. “Kathleen would never take Emily.”

  The female officer stepped further into the entryway and shut the front door. “Inform Radhauser I also talked to the boyfriend’s mother. His story checks out. He was home, helping her wash the car, until about 3:15. That wouldn’t give him enough time to get to the park until after Emily disappeared.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” Brandy said for what felt like the hundredth time, but no one appeared to be listening. She sat on the bench in the entryway, willing herself to focus her thoughts and actions on finding Emily.

  The phone rang.

  Both Christine and Brandy raced into the kitchen.

  Christine lunged to snatch it up before the first ring had completed its trill.

  Corbin held up his hand to stop her. “Don’t forget to let it ring three times,” he said, slipping on the earphones. “If it’s someone claiming to have Emily, try to keep them on the line so I can get a location. Ask questions or say you don’t understand. It will give us time to listen for inflections and background noise. And ask for proof of life. Ask to talk to Emily.”

  Panic caught in Christine’s eyes and unfolded across her face. “Do you think Emily is dead?”

  “No,” he said. “But we always ask to talk to the kidnapped individual.”

  Christine answered, her voice shaking so hard that Brandy had to look away. “Hello. Who is it?”

  Christine listened. “No,” she screamed. “I’m not interested in a home security system. Not now. Not ever. Don’t you see it’s too late?” She slammed the receiver down.

  When the phone sounded again, Christine was in the living room.

  Brandy’s heart made an extra beat. After three rings, she picked up. “Michaelson residence, Br—”

  “It’s not Emily,” her dad said. “I’m outside the emergency room. The little girl’s parents are here now.”

  Brandy’s knees nearly buckled in relief. Somehow it seemed important to know that this child, who might have been Emily, would recover. “Is she going to be all right? Is she hurt badly? What happened to her?”

  “Apparently the family had six kids in a van and when the mother took them all in to use the restroom, she left one behind. I don’t how that can happen, but it looks like it did.”

  Christine must have overheard part of the conversation. She raced toward the garage. “Oh my God. Tell him I’m on my way. Tell Emily Mommy will be right there.”

  Realizing her stepmother assumed the child was Emily, Brandy handed the receiver to Officer Corbin. She chased after Christine, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her away from the car. “It isn’t Emily.”

  Christine jerked forward, then turned around, her face mottled with color as bright as welts. She looked at Brandy with an odd expression, one Brandy wasn’t sure how to interpret. “This is my fault. I should have taken her with me. I should have been a better mother.”

  Brandy had never seen Christine so scared before, and she wanted to be patient with her. “Don’t blame yourself. It was an accident,” she said, avoiding Christine’s eyes.

  “It might not have made any difference,” Christine whispered. “But I wish you’d told me the truth about the necklace.”

  Brandy stiffened. “Me, too. But I didn’t want you to hit her again.”

  Christine looked stricken. “I ask you to watch her too much.”

  “But usually I don’t mind. I…I…”

  While Christine rolled Emily’s tricycle to the far side of the garage, Brandy headed toward the door leading into the kitchen. Beside the concrete steps, a pair of Emily’s yellow rain boots sat on the floor, one small boot tipped over on its side.

  Brandy couldn’t move.

  “Brandy,” Officer Corbin said. “Your dad wants to talk to you again.”

  Corbin handed Brandy the phone, then stepped away.

  “Are you still there, Dad?”

  “Yes. Is Christine all right?”

  “She thought the little girl at the gas station was Emily.”

  “Radhauser wants to broadcast Emily’s picture on the news,” her dad said. “He thinks the publicity might help. That someone may have seen her. I’m not sure Christine can handle it, but he thinks she should make a statement. Apparently, mothers make a bigger impact.”

  Brandy stared at the window over the sink. Outside, the daylight gradually faded. Emily was afraid of the dark, and had a Pooh bear nightlight in her room.

  “I know it’s asking a lot, but I need you to stay strong,” her father said.

  “Almost three and a half hours have passed, Dad. I’m really scared.”

  He was quiet. “I am, too,” he finally said.

  When she hung up, Corbin paged Detective Radhauser. A minute later, the detective phoned back. Corbin relayed the new information Officer McBride had provided.

  Brandy updated Christine on the news broadcast. She would have liked to talk to her stepmother about a lot of other things. Feelings she had about Emily. Regrets about her resentment toward her stepmother and not ever telling Christine how much she loved Emily. But she remained silent—knowing she’d already told her stepmother the worst of all possible things.

  Chapter Ten

  Clutching the flyers, Brandy listened to her cowboy boots strike the pavement as she ran. The beat seemed way too slow. She intended to trace the path she and Emily usually took home from the playground, and talk to everyone who lived in a house either backing up to or facing Lithia Park.

  She forced herself to run faster, and didn’t stop until she reached the park. The area around the playground and restroom was still cordoned off, and uniformed officers searched, picking debris off the ground and moving bushes aside with long sticks.

  Brandy leaned against an oak tree to catch her breath, then crossed the bridge over Ashland Creek, looking for any signs of her little sister. Other than patrol cars, there were only a dozen or so vehicles parked in the Winburn lot, but Brandy looked inside each one. She hammered on the trunks with her fists, just in case someone had left one open and Emily had crawled inside and fell asleep. After all, she’d gotten up early from her nap. Brandy imagined Emily curled into a corner behind a spare tire with her thumb in her mouth.

  When Brandy found no one in the cars, she ran across the parking lot, took Winburn to Granite, past the Perozzi Fountain and the Japanese Garden, with its lacy-leafed maples, to the row of restored Victorian and Craftsman houses that faced the park. She’d ring every doorbell. Emily couldn’t have gotten far. Maybe someone saw her and invited her inside. The muscles in Brandy’s neck relaxed a little as she pictured Emily eating oatmeal cookies with a dishtowel tied around her neck like a bib.

  But then her mind shifted to other, darker, scenarios. Emily’s mouth taped shut. Her small arm belted to an iron pipe. Brandy cringed and forced herself to think about a positive outcome. Lots of retired people lived in Ashland. And they noticed things, especially when they faced a busy park. Maybe someone sitting in their living room, or on the front porch, or working in their backyard had looked up a
nd seen Emily go by.

  Brandy took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then climbed the brick steps to the first porch. It was a Craftsman bungalow, painted gray with burgundy trim. She rang the bell. The sun was just beginning to set and Brandy longed to move the clock back so that it was rising instead. She shuddered, thought of herself as Emily, trying to find her way home in the growing dark. She rang again. No one answered.

  During the next four house visits, Brandy timed herself. Each stop took about ten minutes, the first three spent pounding on the door and then trying to explain that she wasn’t selling anything. At the fourth house, a young man with black hair sticking up in spikes all over his head opened the door, glanced at her then shut it in her face. The sudden thwack of the door slamming enraged Brandy and she hammered on it with her fists.

  He opened the door, chin raised in a subtle challenge. “I’m not deaf.” His thick eyebrows rose at the same speed as his voice, as his gaze settled on the stack of flyers in her hands. “What is it you’re taking orders for?”

  Brandy straightened her shoulders and looked him in the face. She knew how to play a convincing role, to turn words into a living, breathing story. A story someone would listen to. “I’m not selling anything. I know I’m bothering you. And I’m usually polite and would have gone away when you shut the door.” She gave him a wide-eyed, sincere look. “But this is a real emergency.”

  “I’ll give you one minute,” he said.

  “My little sister is in danger. She’s not even three years old. When she giggles, it makes everyone in the room want to laugh, too. She doesn’t go anywhere without her Pooh bear. Someone may have kidnapped Emily from Lithia Park. The bear was left in her stroller. I know she’s sad and crying now and she might be hurt. Please, I have to find her.” Her eyes welled. There were tears in her voice, too. “Just look at her picture.” She showed him the photograph.