When Time Is a River

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  “Stop it, I said. Stop it right now. She’s my daughter, too, and I love her just as much as you do.”

  “You never wanted her,” Christine said. “You never wanted either of us.”

  “I said, stop.” He glanced toward Brandy, a look dark with concern.

  In an attempt to halt her tears, Brandy swallowed, dropped her gaze to the soggy flakes of bran in her cereal bowl.

  “That’s right,” Christine said. “We must protect the firstborn, the child of the beloved, but crazy, wife. Well, who protected Emily?” She lifted his white coffee mug from the table and flung it across the room.

  A fragrant stream of coffee flashed through midair and landed, a sparkling brown vein, on the tile. The cup shattered against the edge of the kitchen sink, and bits of ceramic sprinkled across the floor like rock salt.

  “Leave him alone,” Brandy said. “He told me the truth. He’s doing the best he can.”

  Christine ignored her, surveyed the damage, then pivoted as crisp as a drum major and marched out of the room.

  Brandy wanted to run after Christine and shake her, but knew it would do no good.

  Her dad kept his gaze on the tabletop. He skimmed his right hand over the oak grain, again and again, as if smoothing the wrinkles out of a linen cloth.

  “Some birthday, huh, Dad?”

  He didn’t respond.

  After a few quiet moments, he stood, jammed his hands in his pockets, then withdrew them and busied himself tidying the kitchen. He swept up bits of broken coffee mug with a whiskbroom and dustpan, then got down on his hands and knees and mopped the floor with a dishtowel, careful not to disturb the Cheerios under Emily’s highchair.

  While he worked, Brandy folded her paper napkin into smaller and smaller squares. “Will she be all right?” she asked softly.

  He answered without looking up from his task. “She’s scared half to death. I don’t know what to do for her.” He shook his head. “For any of us.” He rose to his feet, tossed the wet, coffee-stained dishtowel into the sink, then turned his gaze on his daughter. His shirt pocket gaped open like a wound. “What Christine said is the truth. I didn’t want to marry her and I didn’t want another child.”

  Except for the ticking of the clock above the stove and the steady hum of their refrigerator, the entire room fell silent. They were caught in a hollow place where lies unraveled. Just the two of them, holding each other up with their eyes.

  Brandy didn’t want to be first to look away. Then she remembered the worst thing that could happen already had. She squared her shoulders, realizing there was little to fear. “You really loved my mother, didn’t you?”

  Her father’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down for an instant before he spoke. “It’s an essential misunderstanding that we’re in control of anything where love’s concerned. In that split second when I met Sophia Rose Delorenzo, she changed everything about me. Forever.”

  Brandy remained silent, afraid that if she said anything, he’d stop talking.

  “Rose tried so hard to rise above it, but the illness won. She lost her family and her little girl. But worst of all, she lost herself.” He lowered his head. “I’m just beginning to imagine the depth of her loneliness.”

  In the silence that followed, Brandy lifted the tiny wad of what remained of her napkin, then bit the edges again and again in an attempt to make something hold together.

  * * *

  Outside, cars lined up along their street. Reporters sat on blankets, sipped coffee and soda from Styrofoam cups as if picnicking at the Britt Festival. “Any word?” one of them asked Brandy, thrusting a camera in front of her.

  She shook her head and kept walking toward the police station.

  Wide yellow ribbons were tied in plump bows around the trees in their front yard, whimsical and bright as a child’s birthday presents. Electric candles burned in neighborhood windows. Brandy took off running.

  Sifting through the details of the day Emily disappeared had become as natural as breathing. In her mind, she parked the stroller outside the bathroom stall and knelt in front of it. She had just reached out to tie Emily’s shoe when her little sister thrust Pooh bear into Brandy’s face. The tiny voice rang again inside her head. “He berry tired. Pooh bear need nap.”

  Though her legs felt too heavy to lift, Brandy plodded forward. In spite of her movement, she had that odd floating sensation again, a perception that time had stopped, that everything had suddenly hushed and grown motionless.

  She picked up speed, raced down to the Plaza and crossed the street to the police department. It was just after 8:30a.m. when she burst into Radhauser’s office and closed the door behind her. He sat behind his desk, notes spread out in front of him. He had taken off his jacket and the sleeves of his western shirt were rolled up above his elbows—the same shirt he’d worn to the prayer vigil. “Did you spend the night here?”

  He nodded. “I hoped we’d get a legitimate lead on the hotline.”

  She could tell by his hangdog look that no such lead had come in. “We need to contact Vital Records in California.”

  “What’s with the we, Columbo? I took you off the case, remember?”

  “Okay, then you need to find out if there is a death certificate for a Sophia Rose Michaelson.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Last night, my father admitted he’d lied to me about her for years.”

  Radhauser angled his head, a suspicious look on his face. “Maybe this isn’t about a lead. Maybe this is something else. Something old between you and your father. And I think that’s where I should leave it.”

  She met his stare. “I tried to call them myself, but they said I had to put my request in writing and that it would take about six to eight weeks. Please. You could get the information right away.”

  Detective Radhauser tapped the eraser end of his pencil on his desk. “I thought your mother was dead. Are you saying he lied to you about that?”

  “He lied about the date.” Brandy didn’t doubt her father believed her mother was dead, but he hadn’t seen the body—only a box of ashes.

  She told Radhauser the things she’d learned last night about her mother’s mental illness and her acquittal on the arson charges, her hospital confinement. “You told me you investigate every lead. You said you never know when something might be significant. Isn’t that what you said?” Hearing the hint of impatience in her voice, she tried to stay calm. “If there is a death certificate for my mother, we—I mean you—have to call the hospital. What if my mother gave the necklace to someone—maybe another patient about to be discharged? Maybe my mother asked this friend to give me the necklace. If so, we have to find that person. She could have Emily.”

  Brandy reviewed all the things she’d already told him. “Everyone says Emily looks like me. I’ve read about schizophrenia and bi-polar disease. Sometimes the patients are delusional, especially if they stop taking their medications. What if this person with the necklace had the same illness as my mother? What if my mother showed her my photo, told her where I lived, and this other woman saw Emily in the park, and thought she was me?”

  “That’s a huge leap,” he said.

  She needed to say something to make him understand. “How high would you leap if Lizzie were missing?”

  Radhauser stared out the window. “I’d turn over every rock in Ashland Creek. I’d search until the day I died.”

  “Good answer,” Brandy said. “You know how I feel. I’ve gone over and over the details, just like you told me to. Please listen to me.”

  “I’m listening.”

  She told him what her father had said about the night of her escalator accident, how she’d been with her mother at the Palo Alto Mall. “I tripped over my shoelaces. I had long hair like Emily. It got stuck in the escalator teeth. The kidnapper may have tossed Emily’s shoes and cut her hair to keep her safe.”

  His gaze softened. “Didn’t your mother die from cancer?”

  “That’s what
I’ve been told.”

  “Have you ever visited her grave?”

  “Many times.”

  “Then why don’t you believe she’s dead?”

  She told him about the dates on the newspaper articles.

  “You say your mother was acquitted of the arson charges and put in…” He paused as if searching for the right wording. “A hospital near San Francisco.”

  “Bayview. Don’t you see the similarities? If my mother died in that mental hospital, like my dad was told, California would have a death certificate, wouldn’t they?”

  “Okay,” Radhauser said. “Give me a couple hours and I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Brandy pounded on Kathleen’s door.

  Within seconds, it opened.

  With a leaf-green scarf wrapped around her head like a turban, Kathleen looked small and frightened.

  “I hope I didn’t scare you.” Brandy panted, out of breath. “I should have called first.”

  “Nonsense, dear. There is no one I’d rather see than you.” She smiled sadly. “Well, there is one. Little Emily.”

  Brandy closed her eyes for a second, caught her breath, then met Kathleen’s gaze. “I need that list of costume makers and I need to borrow your car.”

  “I teach a class at the university at 11.”

  “My only other option is to become a car thief.”

  “What’s this about? Do you know where Emily is?”

  Brandy shook her head. But the trap door that held her feelings for her little sister opened anyway. She couldn’t allow herself to tumble into that emptiness. Not now. She gulped, took Kathleen’s arm, and led her into the living room. “Please. I’ll drive you to campus.”

  Kathleen backed up, but didn’t take her eyes off Brandy’s face. “Of course.” She reached for her purse, dug inside, then handed Brandy a set of keys and a list of part-time seamstresses not listed in the telephone directory. “I can catch a cab. Keep the car. Use it whenever you need to.”

  Brandy told Kathleen about her suspicions.

  “Maybe you should give that list to the police.”

  A quick glance at Kathleen’s face showed her worry, as sudden as the change in air when someone opened a window.

  Brandy gave her a big smile. “Radhauser is following up on another lead. It’s no big deal.” She shrugged. “I’m visiting some costume makers. They’re good people, like you.”

  Kathleen didn’t look so sure. “I’ll cancel my class and go with you.”

  “No,” Brandy said. “I’ve got this.”

  “You’re just like your father. Stubborn as a blueberry stain.”

  “Detective Radhauser said we need to check out everything—you never know when something is important. Good detectives have to follow their instincts.” She hugged Kathleen. “And my instincts tell me that whoever bought that Winnie the Pooh bear from the toy store, turned it into a costume and is responsible for Emily’s disappearance.”

  The kidnapper had lured Brandy’s family out of the house and tried to retrieve Emily’s stuffed Pooh bear. It all came back to that clue. The person who took Emily knew how much she loved her Pooh bear. And that person had played their role so convincingly that Emily had allowed herself to be lifted out of the stroller and taken without a sound.

  “Does Detective Radhauser know you’re doing this?”

  “Absolutely. He gave me the assignment.”

  * * *

  Brandy glanced at her watch. It was 10:30. Emily had been missing for forty-three hours.

  After the familiar burgundy and gold Shakespeare Theatre flags that lined Main Street had all paraded by her window, Brandy speeded up. The morning sun beamed through the windshield as she drove Kathleen’s Taurus up Siskiyou Boulevard, past the university campus where her father hid his secrets, to a squat brick bungalow—the first costume maker on her list.

  She parked in the driveway, wiped her clammy hands on her jeans, and knocked on a dark wooden door with varnish so thick she could see her blurred reflection on the surface. The air smelled like pear blossoms and marigolds from the front window boxes.

  Behind the house, a chainsaw roared to life, the sound so loud she felt the buzz of it in her teeth.

  A sharp-featured, bone-thin woman with deep wrinkles in her cheeks and forehead answered the door. “Are you here about an order?” She wore round black glasses that made her look like an ancient college student. Her gray bob hung to her shoulders.

  Brandy introduced herself as the sister of the little girl who’d gone missing on Saturday. “I know this will sound like an odd question, but did anyone hire you to turn a large stuffed Pooh bear into a costume?” Careful not to say too much, she explained why she believed the person wearing the costume may have seen something that could help them find Em.

  “I don’t make many, but the ones I do are either made from patterns my customers provide, or ones I design myself.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The woman smiled, but it didn’t lift up into her eyes. “I may be old, but my memory is good.”

  Brandy apologized, thanked her and moved on to the other addresses on her list, going through the same explanation. After five houses, no one had admitted to making the costume.

  She was running out of options, only two more names on the list, when she pulled into a small gravel lot in front of a clapboard farmhouse just outside Talent. A wooden sign directed her away from the wide ramp to the front door and down a paved path to a side entrance. All along the pavers, azalea bushes spilled over with clusters of pink and red blossoms like the ones in Lithia Park. She wondered if the flowering bushes would always be a reminder of the day Emily disappeared.

  She took a deep breath, tried to convince herself she wasn’t wasting time and rang the bell. There were two 3-foot high garden gnomes perched on either side of the door. A good sign that whoever lived here might be whimsical and kind, Brandy thought.

  A short, middle aged and slightly overweight man with pale skin and a fat round face the size of a basketball appeared at the door. His hair was thick and black. He had a tape measure around his neck and a mouth full of straight pins with multi-colored flowers on their ends.

  Brandy took a step back. She’d expected a woman.

  When he pulled the pins out of his mouth and smiled, two deep dimples indented the center of his cheeks. “Don’t be embarrassed. Everyone expects a woman.” His eyes were dark with a sparkle of mischief—a playful man who designed costumes and greeted his customers with gnomes. At ease now, Brandy smiled back.

  “What can I do for you this morning?” His breath smelled like peppermint candy and a recent cigarette. A man who smoked, but didn’t want anyone to know it.

  She introduced herself and said she wanted to talk with him about a costume.

  “How did you get my name?”

  “Kathleen Sizemore,” Brandy said. “She used to be my nanny.”

  He opened the door.

  She stepped into a big workroom with sunlight streaming through open windows on both sides. The walls were lined with shelves housing bolts of silk, satin, tapestry and cottons. A huge table sat in the center of the room with a cutting mat marked off in inches. Hundreds of spools of thread, arranged by color, filled racks attached to the walls just beneath the windows. And there was one dressmaker's mannequin so huge it made Mrs. Wyatt look like a Barbie doll.

  “Do you make a lot of costumes?” she asked.

  His gaze darted to the mannequin. “I mostly sew for Momma. She’s in a wheelchair now, but still likes to dress up. You should see the gown I made for her to watch the Oscars.” He shrugged. “She likes to pretend she’s been invited.”

  It was an image Brandy couldn’t quite conjure up, but she now understood the reason for the front ramp. “Have you ever made a costume from a big stuffed bear?”

  “Big is my specialty. I did a rush order for a woman last Thursday. She needed it in time for The Children’s Health Fair o
n Saturday.” He smiled. “Do you want me to do something similar?”

  Her spine seized up for a second. A tingling sensation spread into her chest and it was hard to breathe. “Was the bear wearing a yellow T-shirt? Was there a bumblebee on its nose?” She was trying to sound light, but her voice had a little quiver in it.

  “Right on both accounts.”

  It seemed as if the earth had stopped spinning. Brandy was too excited to say a word. She went mute and just stared at the gnome man, while inside her head one sentence kept repeating itself. This is it—the lead we’ve been waiting for.

  He kept watching her, as if expecting her to go on.

  Brandy tried to sound professional, like a real policewoman. “I’ll need her name and address.”

  “If you want references, I can provide them. Even the Shakespeare Festival has called upon me when King Lear or Macbeth were plus-sized actors.”

  “I don’t need a reference. Just the name and address of the woman who ordered the Pooh costume.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  Here we go again. Just like Mr. Pivorotto at the toy store. “Can’t, or won’t?”

  “No reputable businessperson would.”

  A chorus of bird voices twittered. The sound made Brandy feel sad. It didn’t seem right, the way everything went on as if the world wasn’t changed by Emily’s kidnapping.

  She told him she was Emily Michaelson’s sister—the little girl who’d disappeared from the park restroom. “The police believe this woman might have seen something,” Brandy said.

  “The police have been asking anyone who knows anything to come forward. If she knew something, she would have called the hotline.”

  Not if she’s got Emily. “Maybe she hasn’t been listening to the news or reading the papers.” She looked at him hard. “But you obviously were. Why didn’t you come forward?”