by Darcy Coates
Once Returned
By Darcy Coates
Copyright 2013
Part One: Lost
Part Two: Returned
Part Three: Damaged
Part Four: Graves
Part Five: Taken
Part Six: Seeking
Part Seven: Gone
Part One: Lost
A branch snagged my shirt. It flicked over my forearm as I pulled free, leaving a sizzle of pain where it scraped the top layer of skin off.
It was only five in the afternoon, but it was becoming hard to see as twilight descended over Harob Forest. I stumbled and clambered as quickly as I could, weighed down by the knowledge that the search would be called off at sunset.
Bushwalking was Jon’s hobby - something he’d do on the weekends I visited my mother. I didn’t have the balance or coordination to adapt to the forest as easily as he did.
I was searching an area that had been scorched by a bushfire nearly five years previously, and most of the trees still wore a coat of black. I imagined flames licking at the branches, burning bark and boiling sap. Two people had died in the fire, unable to reach their cars before the flames overtook them. Their bones hadn’t been found until weeks after the smoke had cleared.
I was surprised so many of the trees had survived. The black trunks were the only reminder of the blazing destruction; high above me thick leaves flourished and blocked out most of the waning light. They were beautiful in a strange, twisted way.
A fallen tree blocked my path. Moss and lichen were speeding its decay and its surface crumbled under my hands as I pulled myself over. As I dropped my feet down the other side the moss gave way, and I slid to the ground with a shriek.
“Carol, you all right?” a woman called from somewhere to my right.
“Yep, fine. Don’t mind me,” I called back. Truthfully, I was an exhausted, aching, sweaty mess, but I had no right to complain. Not when so many people had volunteered their time to help search for my husband.
As I pushed myself onto my feet my hand brushed over something cold and metallic. I paused, scooping a layer of leaves out of the way, and picked up the object.
Jon’s locket.
Adrenaline shot through me, mixing with irrational panic and desperate, hungry hope. “Jon!” I screamed as I stumbled forward. “JON!”
Tears pricked my eyes and my voice cracked, but I kept calling. The whispering of the trees was the only reply I received.
* * *
The park ranger’s office was small and old, but I didn’t care. After spending ten hours walking through Harob Forest, sinking into his faded blue couch felt better than I could have ever imagined.
The senior ranger, Ted, couldn’t have been older than fifty, but the deep creases around his eyes and forehead made him look like he was pushing a hundred. A grizzle of unkempt salt-and-pepper stubble covered the entire lower part of his face, but his voice was smooth and cultured. Sympathetic. Hopeful, but not obnoxiously optimistic.
“We’ll start the search again at first light,” he said as he set a mug of tea on the table in front of me. It had a crack running from its top to the base, but by some miracle wasn’t leaking. “We’ll focus around the area you found the locket. We won’t have as many people as today, though.”
I picked up the mug. The tea was too hot to drink, but I needed something to keep my hands occupied. “What do you mean?”
Ted sighed as he settled into the chair opposite, and his thick eyebrows creased the folds of skin around his eyes. “Carol, tomorrow will be the fourth day of searching. The police don’t have the manpower to keep up this pace, and the volunteers are starting to leave. You…” he hesitated to choose his words, “you do realise the odds are very strongly against finding Jon alive.”
I knew. Jon had gone for a day hike last Friday. I’d spent the weekend with my mother, so I hadn’t even known he was missing until I’d returned Sunday afternoon. It was now Tuesday.
Five days spent in a forest with minimal equipment, no mobile phone and no thermal clothing. The nights could get down to four degrees. I broke out into a sweat whenever I thought about it.
“What’re his chances?” I asked.
Ted inhaled through his nose and held it for a long time. “Very, very slim. The police say they’ll continue the search tomorrow, with reduced numbers. If they don’t find him then, they’re likely to call it off. You understand?”
I frowned at the mug as I ran my nail up and down the crack, feeling the subtle groove. “Is there anything I can say to convince them to keep searching?”
Ted shook his head. “There’s only so much they can do, Carol. We’ll still have nearly twenty people out looking tomorrow, plus four sniffer dogs, and that’s a decent number, but you need to prepare yourself for the worst.”
We sat in silence for a long time while Ted shifted in his chair, searching for a comfortable position. When he spoke again, it was on a completely different subject. “How’s your son?”
I sighed. “Confused, mostly. He doesn’t understand why this is happening. Mum’s looking after him at the moment. She’s been taking him to parks and playgroups to keep him distracted.”
“You spoken to them today?”
“No, not since last night.”
“I bet he misses you.”
I wanted to say “He misses his daddy more,” but bit my tongue. It wasn’t the park ranger’s fault Jon was lost. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Just dumb, horrible luck.
* * *
I stood beside my car, facing the forest, as the police officer talked at me, explaining in clear and simple words why they couldn’t justify continuing the search.
It was day six, and I knew I wasn’t getting my husband back. I’d known from the moment I stepped into the house Sunday afternoon and couldn’t find him. The hardest part was not finding his body: there would be no funeral and no closure, just the empty knowledge that he lay somewhere in the woods, being reclaimed by nature.
“I promise, Mrs Garrett, if there were any chance we might still find him, of course we would keep looking.”
“Yes, I know.”
“We’ve consulted multiple experts. They all agree that the window of opportunity has long passed.”
I gazed at the woods as tired tears stung my eyes. The blackened, burnt trunks seemed to stretch impossibly high.
“Most agree that it’s likely he would have passed away during the first or second night, before you knew he was missing.” The officer paused to wet his lips. “We don’t think he would have suffered.”
I couldn’t bear talking about it. I slipped past the officer to get to the front door of my car and fumbled for the keys in my pocket.
The officer cleared his throat. “Mrs Garrett, maybe you should let someone else drive you home tonight. Do you have a family member to call?”
“No.” Keys found and car unlocked, I slid into the seat and closed the door before he could offer to drive me himself.
* * *
I sat on the edge of my bed as I turned Jon’s locket over in my hands. It was a plain silver pendant that stuck when you tried to open it thanks to years of wear. I’d given it to Jon on our first anniversary - inside was a small, folded-up photo of us at our wedding, hugging and laughing at the camera. Jon had said it brought him good luck.
I wondered if he’d dropped it before or after he’d become lost.
The house was quiet. Mum had offered to stay with me for a few days, and was watching Ryan. I was grateful for the chance to think about our future.
Ryan was only eighteen months. He would forget about Jon. The lullabies sung by a deep voice, the trips to the park and the pancakes shaped like smiley faces would all fade from his young memory much, much sooner than they would f
ade from mine. I was grateful for that.
As for me…
In one weekend I’d lost my confidante, my provider, and the lynchpin I’d centered my world around. I could never have my old life back. But maybe, with a little hard work, I could build a new one.
I dropped the locket back into the drawer and pressed the palms of my hands against my eyelids.
Part Two: Returned
Two weeks later
Life was settling into a steady routine, but our house was still crusted in memories of Jon. I couldn’t bring myself to move his clothes out of the closet, or touch the papers on his table.
At least Ryan had stopped asking for his daddy at bedtime.
It was just after lunch; Ryan napped while I washed the dishes. I was starting to come to terms with my new future. I would need to get a job soon - our savings wouldn’t hold out forever, but I could afford to take a few more weeks for myself and Ryan before starting the job hunt in earnest.
I put a clean mug upside down on the draining tray as the doorbell rang.
It was probably another neighbour or friend come to give their condolences and hand over a frozen meal. I was grateful, but at the same time, it was an aching reminder of Jon. When I ate the gifted casseroles and bakes and soups I couldn’t stop myself thinking about my lost husband freezing to death, trapped in a maze of blackened trees -
I opened the door.
Jon stood on the other side.
I’m not sure if I screamed. I clutched the dish cloth to my face, as though I wasn’t supposed to look at him.
It had to be a joke. Some cruel, malicious prank. I lowered the cloth, and Jon still stood there.
“My god, it really is you,” I whispered.
I threw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and squeezing with everything I had in me. I was shaking, wheezing in shallow breaths, half crying and half laughing.
“Careful, Carol,” he said. “You’ll get mud on your clothes.”
I drew back. The words were mild, but his tone was unexpected. Flat. Emotionless. Cold.
Very different to how my Jon spoke.
I paused to look at him properly. He was still wearing the clothes he’d been in when he’d left the house on Friday three weeks previously: a red and white flannel top with a singlet underneath, dark brown cargo pants, and his hiking boots.
Only now he was filthy with mud. His shoes, clothes and face was smeared in it, and his hair was caked from the red-brown sediment. His arms were coated to just above his elbow, as though he had been digging a hole with his bare hands.
I raised my eyes. His face was gaunt, strangely sagging and expressionless under the smattering of stubble. A raw-looking gash ran from his temple, over his eye and down his cheek, ending just above his lips. I couldn’t see a single trace of affection or warmth in his face. He was watching at me with a frightening intensity, the way a predator looks at its prey. I felt chilled.
“Who cares about a little mud?” I managed to squeeze through dry lips. “Hug me.”
I leaned back into his arms and embraced him. This time I was aware of how cold he felt.
Slowly, hesitantly, he raised his arms to return the hug. As they wrapped around me his fingers squeezed my sides hard enough to bruise.
“I’m going to have a shower,” he whispered into my ear. His breath felt cold on the side of my neck. “Don’t wake Ryan.”
He released me from his vice-like grip and walked upstairs while I stood in the doorway, arms wrapped protectively around my torso, breathing heavily and trying to make sense of my emotions.
* * *
Ryan sat in front of the TV while I rushed to prepare an early dinner for Jon.
I felt like I was in a dream.
My husband, back, after being missing for three weeks.
Surely he couldn’t have survived in the woods for that long - but if he’d made it out and had been hitchhiking, why was he still wearing dirt-caked clothes, and why hadn’t he contacted us before now?
I felt drained. I rested my forehead against the cool cupboard for some relief.
“Tired?”
I swung around to see Jon standing in the kitchen doorway, watching me. He was wearing fresh clothes and had shaved. The cut above his eye was the only reminder of his ordeal, and even that looked better than it had when he’d arrived.
“Daddy!” Ryan shrieked, jumping up from the TV. He waddled as fast as his stubby legs could move him and embraced his father’s leg. I expected Jon to laugh and pick him up, as he used to, but he only looked at the child with dulled, curious eyes. “Hello, Ryan.”
I felt uncomfortable, but hid it. I laughed, picked up Ryan and carried him to the table. “Let’s get Daddy some food first, buddy.”
“Daddy!”
“Yes, that’s him.”
Once I had Ryan secured in his high chair I hurried to collect plates and bring the pasta and meatballs to the main table. “Sorry, I didn’t have much to work with.”
“This will be fine for today.”
The tone was so cold, so distant. My hands shook as I scooped him a large bowl of pasta, added the lion’s share of meatballs and coated it in sauce.
“How are you feeling?” I asked. “I mean, are you hurt at all?”
“Just a scratch over my eye.” Jon speared one of the meatballs on his fork as I set his plate on the table.
“How… how did you get out of the forest? I mean, how did you… uh… survive?”
His eyes fixed on me, but they were hostile. “I just did.”
The mood was uncomfortable. Even Ryan seemed to feel it; he sucked on a piece of pasta without making any of his usual noises.
“We searched for you,” I said in a desperate attempt to shift the bad mood. “We had the police and sniffer dogs and volunteers. And a helicopter. Did you hear it?”
“No. You couldn’t have searched very hard.”
I felt like I’d been slapped. I tried to smile for Ryan’s benefit. “We looked for five days. Everyone said it was time - that there was no chance you could still be alive-”
Jon raised his hands, and his lips finally curled upwards. I’d been seeking the warmth of his smile, but this was a twisted, bitter smirk, and it made my stomach lurch. “Clearly, they lied.”
This was wrong. Everything was so, so terribly wrong. Jon was home, but the kind, optimistic, cheerful man I loved was still missing. What had he gone through to make him like this?
“We should take you to the hospital,” I said at last. “Get the doctor to check you over.”
“No,” Jon said. “No doctors. And don’t contact the media, either. I don’t want my home swarmed with reporters.”
I ducked my head and pushed some pasta around my plate. “I’m worried about you, Jon. You were out there for so long. I’d really feel better if you could see someone-”
“I said no.”
His voice was cold, borderline angry, but I didn’t want to give up. “We - we don’t even have to go out - I could ask your doctor to make a house call -”
I was cut off as Jon’s glass shattered. A dreadful silence fell over us as he slowly unclenched his fist, letting shards of glass and a dribble of blood fall onto the tablecloth. His face was blank, devoid of any sign of pain or anger as he leaned forward.
“I am perfectly fine, Carol. I do not need to see a doctor. Drop the subject.”
Ryan started whimpering as Jon rose from the table. He picked up his plate and I saw that, although he’d eaten all of the meatballs, he’d left the sauce and pasta.
He rounded the table and dropped the plate into the sink. I flinched at the sound of ceramic slamming into steel, and Ryan’s whimpers developed into a whine.
Jon leaned over the back of my chair to whisper into my ear: “Please, find a way to keep your child quiet. I have a headache.”
He left the room without another word, and I hurried to get Ryan out of his seat. “Shh, shh,” I murmured, cradling Ryan and stroking the back of
his head. “It’s okay, baby. I’m sure daddy will feel better tomorrow, after he’s had a nice long sleep. It’s okay.”
* * *
I changed into my pyjamas while Jon was still downstairs. I’d never had a problem with him seeing me naked before, but I felt vulnerable and needed space.
It was like a stranger had come back in my husband’s place. Was he delusional? Had he eaten something that could alter his mind and change his personality? Was that possible? He seemed lucid in every other way.
I went into our bathroom to brush my teeth. The window looked into the back yard, and I caught a glimpse of Jon standing under one of the trees.
What was he doing? I leaned against the window, trying to see him properly. He stood perfectly still, staring at the ground - like he’d seen something that demanded his full attention - but from what I could tell, the earth was bare.
His head snapped around to look up at me, and his lips peeled back to expose his teeth.
I jerked back from the window, breathing hard from the shock. He’d looked… hungry. Predatory. Wild.
I had to be imagining it.
I looked out the window again. Jon was back to his original pose: staring at the ground.
“Get a grip, Carol,” I whispered to myself. “It’s fine. He’ll be fine.”
I looked around for something to keep my hands and mind occupied. Jon had left his clothes in a pile on the ground. That was a dilemma - try to wash them, or just throw them out? I picked up the flannel top to examine it.
The mud was still wet. When had it last rained? I counted back in my mind - three, no, four days. No matter how humid the forest was, muddy clothes wouldn’t stay damp for four days.
And yet, the dirt was very clearly from Harob forest. I could see small twigs and tiny curled leaves and even a dead insect stuck in it. Just the smell of it - earthy and heavy, rich from decaying plant matter but also slightly metallic - was enough to bring back memories of stumbling through the woods, pressing through the black burnt trees, screaming Jon’s name.
Still, if the dirt was still soft, I might be able to salvage the clothes. I shook the shirt out over the bathtub to dislodge the largest clumps of mud, then peeled back the lapel to check inside.
