Blink

by Sasha Dawn

  A chill darts through me when I consider Wayne could see a sand castle and know she’d been on that beach, too. Or this guy who’s mysteriously following her . . . if he was on the beach the day I met her, and saw her building a sand castle, could he connect the dots and know she’s still here, too?

  My phone buzzes at me impatiently.

  All right, already.

  I look at this most recent text, which is also from my mother: Please come home. Emergency.

  I’m not surprised she didn’t hear me open my bedroom window for Chatham to slip through, but how unobservant does she have to be not to hear me come in through the front door? I sit up and rub some life into my eyes. When the Scrabble board, still set up and undisturbed on the table in front of the sofa, comes into focus, I let out a yawn and stand up.

  And, damn. It’s only five. I’m guessing my mother’s getting called in early, so I understand she needs me, but especially after my excursion last night, I could’ve used the extra half hour of sleep.

  I slip into my room, as quiet as I possibly can be, to grab my workout garb.

  Chatham’s sprawled out on my bed, one incredible, bare leg sticking out from beneath the covers.

  I reach for her—my fingers graze against her ankle—and tuck the covers back around her leg. It’s pretty cold in here. She shifts in the covers, but doesn’t wake up.

  In sleep, she looks carefree, as if the turmoil of last night had never happened.

  Would I be able to sleep soundly if I was close to losing hope of finding my sister alive? Maybe the pure exhaustion of the evening is enough reason for her to fall into such a deep sleep, but I consider the alternative: Is she relieved because maybe we did find Savannah last night? And she just doesn’t want to tell me?

  The bathroom tile is freezing beneath my feet, and I can’t get the water to warm up either, so I splash an icy stream against my cheeks. I change into my workout clothes, brush my teeth, and climb the stairs into the land of the living.

  Rosie’s scuttling about down the hall getting ready for her early shift, and I hear my sisters chattering quietly in their bedroom, too. They’ll have to go to Peppermint Swirl as soon as the doors open today, which is in just under an hour. I turn on the television and pour myself a bowl of cereal.

  When they hear me moving around, Margaret comes running down the hallway in her socks on her way from her room to the living room, and skids to a stop. “Joshy!” She’s got a Barbie by the hair.

  “Hi, sisters!”

  Caroline brings up the rear, dragging a blanket behind her, and crawls up on the sofa. “I miss you.”

  “I missed you, too,” I say.

  “Mwah!” Margaret blows me a kiss from the living room, where she’s gone back to playing with her Barbie. Caroline stays on the sofa, wrapped up in her blanket.

  I lean a hip against the countertop and eat. I look up at the television when I hear the news anchor say, “The case of a long-missing local girl, Rachel Bachton . . .”

  I stare at the television screen to see her frozen in time, smiling out at the world from the frame of a twelve-year-old preschool portrait. And then, the image morphs to what she might look like now: her hair a little darker, the bridge of her nose more pronounced.

  The commentator’s talking: “. . . leaving everyone in search for a brown sedan. The suspect: a white male, thirty to forty-five years of age, five-ten to six-two in height, with stringy hair, dishwater brown, on the longer side. Police cite a generic description, given by the only witness who got a good look at the man who snatched her, as an explanation for their lack of resolution to this case. Rachel’s younger brother was only three years old at the time. Tips came in. A task force was assigned.

  “But as yet, she hasn’t been found.”

  The camera clicks to another face. “We have to remember we aren’t looking for a four-year-old girl anymore.” The moment Mrs. Bachton’s face fills the screen, my heart aches for her. We’ve watched her parents age on television over the years since Nondescript Longhair snatched her. It’s like the Bachtons get ten years older every time they do an interview, and today is no exception. Rachel’s mother looks war-beaten and too thin as she describes watching the team of investigators dig for more of what could be her daughter’s remains in rural Georgia. The commentator continues:

  “An unconfirmed report says initial DNA testing disproves the remains have any link to Rachel Bachton, but local police have not ruled out a connection between the remains, to which investigators are referring as ‘Baby A,’ and ‘Rachel.’ Some suspect the reference to ‘Baby A’ may indicate the possibility that the dig site may contain the remains of more than one body. Investigators are now following a lead in the form of an anonymous tip, northwest of the Vernon and Moon Rivers’ meeting in unincorporated Catoosa County, Georgia. No details as yet, beyond the possible excavation of farmland known as the Goudy tract.”

  I’m rapt. That might be Chatham’s tip! Despite the fact that the police all but ignored the information when Savannah offered it, they’re finally taking it seriously. I have to tell her.

  On television, Rachel Bachton’s mother is speaking to her missing daughter: “If you’re out there, and we believe you are, all you have to do is tell someone your name. Remember the charm on your necklace. It was a gift from Nana. It’s okay if you lost it, or if someone took it from you. You’re not a little girl anymore. You can find someone safe to tell. Tell them about the charm.”

  “Josh.” My mother whips into the kitchen, stabs a finger against the remote control, and terminates the morning news. “Really. Your sisters.”

  I spoon the last of my cereal into my mouth.

  “When did you get home?” she asks.

  “Last night.”

  “You can take the girls to school?”

  “Yeah. But we’re leaving early. I’m going in to lift this morning.”

  “Do you have to?”

  “If you want me to take them, we gotta shake it.” And as soon as my mother is out the door, I’m going to head downstairs to tell Chatham about this morning’s newscast. “Girls! Go get dressed.”

  “No,” Margaret says. “Hunnnngrry.”

  My mother sighs. “Couldn’t you, just this once, skip early morning practice?”

  I put my bowl in the sink with just a few flakes stuck to the sides. “Not even once.”

  “Rinse it out.” Rosie reaches over me and blasts the faucet for a second or two, filling my cereal bowl with an energetic splash of water.

  Whatever. It’s not like she’ll be washing the dishes tonight—or any night, for that matter. If I want to scrub dried flakes from the bowl twelve hours from now, it’s my business, right?

  “Who wants a Pop-Tart?” I’m standing in the open pantry now.

  “Pop-Tarts, Josh?” Rosie sighs an overly exasperated sigh. “Really?”

  “Hey, you bought them,” I remind my mother, who is packing her lunch—watercress and bamboo shoots and some other nonsense she eats because she thinks she’s fat.

  “Sisters!” I raise my voice.

  “Joshy!” Margaret says.

  “Who wants a Pop-Tart?”

  “I do, I do!” Margaret squeals, and she comes running.

  “Can we maybe find something a little healthier for breakfast?” My mother hoists her bag over a shoulder. “You could scramble a couple eggs . . .”

  I ignore her. I don’t have time for healthy. “We got chocolate, we got strawberry, we got s’mores.”

  “What’s s’mores?” Caroline calls.

  “It’s the best one. Chocolate, marshmallow, and graham cracker.”

  “Okay.” But she stays on the sofa.

  I toss her a package of s’mores—it lands on the sofa cushion next to her—and dare Margaret to try something new. “What do you say, Maggie Lee?”

  She chooses strawberry. She’s predictable like that. She likes what she likes.

  “So I’ll be home in between,” Mom’s saying. “To
sleep. Then I’m pulling the double from eleven tonight to three tomorrow afternoon. You can be here? For the girls?”

  After all the drama of yesterday, she doesn’t have anything else to discuss with me? I don’t say anything.

  “Josh.”

  It’s not like I have a choice. I’ll work around the girls.

  “Text me,” my mother says. “Let me know everyone’s home safely this afternoon.”

  “You got it, Rosie.”

  “Help, Joshy?” Caroline’s at my leg, resting her cheek against me, and she shoves the s’mores at me.

  I rip open the package, then tend to Margaret’s. “You’re going to be late,” I tell my mother.

  She fills her go-cup with coffee, kisses my sisters. Then she’s out the door.

  I turn the television back on and watch the news anchors speculate about the bones found at the confluence, and what investigators might find on the Goudy tract.

  Chatham’s just downstairs, but I don’t want to tear away from the news even to wake her. I text instead: Are you up? Goudy tract on the news.

  It’s still dark, but the sun is attempting to rear its impotent head over Lake Michigan. It’s going to look like a nice, sunny day, but take one step into it, and you’ll freeze your ass off.

  “Joshy.” Caroline tugs on the sleeve of my hooded sweatshirt. Her cheeks are flushed, and she looks sad.

  “What’s wrong, Miss Caroline?” I look down at her and thumb away a streak of graham cracker and sugar from her cheek. She feels warm.

  “Love love,” she says.

  “Aww.” I lift her up.

  She kisses my cheek.

  Her cheek is hot against mine.

  I put my hand on her forehead. “Do you feel okay?”

  She shakes her head. “Yucky.” And a second later, she retches.

  I manage to run her over the sink just in time. Only a splash of vomit lands on the floor; the rest of it lands on top of my cereal bowl.

  “Done?” She looks up at me with teary eyes. But a second later, she turns back toward the sink, and more is coming up.

  Margaret’s crying sympathy tears, and I know it’s only a matter of time before she starts hurling, too. They eat each other’s food, sleep in the same room. If one’s sick, the other always gets sick, too. “School?”

  “No school,” I say. “Not today.”

  Then, it hits me. If they’re not going to school, and Rosie’s already gone . . .

  Fuck.

  Once I get Caroline cleaned up and resting on the sofa with a bucket in reach, I dial my mother. While it’s ringing, I walk downstairs. I don’t want the girls to hear what I’m about to say. I don’t want them to think they’re a burden.

  “Hi, Josh.” This is how my mother answers, in a clipped tone.

  “Caroline’s sick.”

  “Shit. I thought she looked a little—”

  “Christ, Rosie, you could’ve given me a heads up.”

  She sighs in return, as if my call is a big inconvenience for her. “Come on, Josh.”

  “You have to come home,” I say. “I can’t miss practice.”

  “You can miss one practice.”

  “No, I have to go to breakfast club.” That’s what we call the early morning team meetings. “And I have school, and if I miss school today—”

  “Well, I can’t miss work.”

  “Well, I’m leaving soon—I have to—so you have to come back here and take care of your daughters.”

  “Look, Josh. Football doesn’t pay the electric bill, all right? I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to stay home. You’re grounded anyway.”

  “From school? I have a test in history.”

  “You’ll make it up. I have to go. I’m sorry, but—”

  “Rosie.”

  “My name is Mom.”

  “Come on. I have a game tomorrow, and if I don’t practice today—”

  “I know it’s not fair, but life isn’t always fair, you know.”

  I don’t say anything in response, and this seems fine with her. The silence between us lingers on the line, indefinite, until I hang up. In a silent rage, I throw my phone against the cushions on the sofa and shove my hands through my hair. “God-fucking-dammit!” I whisper.

  I pace back and forth, trying to calm myself down. But it’s especially difficult because there are no options to pursue. Rosie won’t come home, the school won’t take Caroline in her condition, and I’m sure as hell not calling Damien to cover, which means I have to stay home. The girls are sick. It’s not their fault.

  Life sucks.

  Missing this practice will send a message to Coach Baldecki. I can almost hear him now: You’re not committed to the team, Michaels. All these guys counted on you, and you let them down.

  I plant myself on the sofa.

  God-fucking-dammit! I wouldn’t miss school even if I was the one throwing up, but there’s no way to explain my lack of control over the situation to the coach.

  “Hey.”

  I look up.

  Chatham’s standing there in one of my T-shirts, which is too large for her. Her hair is a curly mess, curlier than usual, and her cheeks are especially pink.

  I can’t focus. It’s like the world is starting to spin too fast, and I can’t keep up. I’m juggling these gargantuan issues—Chatham and her sister, Rachel Bachton and the shamrock pin, Rosie and Damien and the twins, the Goudy tract—and now I can’t even focus on the things I do routinely because I have to stay home and play nursemaid.

  “What did they say on the news?” She falls onto the cushion next to me, and snuggles at my side, like my sisters do when they’re cold or sleepy.

  I kiss the top of her head, and try to concentrate on how it feels to have her cuddling next to me. She smells like hand soap and mint toothpaste.

  “You okay?” Chatham asks. “Was it bad?”

  “That girl at the rivers.” I aim the remote control at the small television in the corner of the basement to turn it on. “They don’t think it’s Rachel.”

  She sits up a little more when the picture on the screen develops.

  “The police are referring to the remains as ‘Baby A’ and they’re wondering if it’s more than one body,” I say.

  “Wayne’s farm,” she says when the camera pans over an aerial view of the Goudy tract, then cuts to a clip of police dogs combing the area.

  “Investigators are concentrating on the area around the stables,” a reporter on site says, “but are not yet ruling out the excavation of this vast tract of land.”

  “They’re investigating your tip. And Savannah’s.”

  “They’re finally going to know.” Her eyes are wide. “I’m finally going to know. The girl under the floorboards.”

  The impact of what she says hits me full force. If Savannah was telling the truth about that little girl, the dogs will sniff out the place in the stables where she was stashed.

  The reporter is now talking with members of the small crowd amassing outside the gate adorned with a giant, silver X.

  “This monster was raising my daughter,” a woman in the crowd says. She’s distraught, and looks as worn as Rachel Bachton’s mother.

  “Oh, God,” Chatham whispers.

  The woman continues: “This man . . . they gave a little girl to him. And I ask you, where is my daughter now?”

  The reporter briefly faces the camera—“Channel Seven, with this exclusive”—and turns back to continue her interrogation. “Ma’am, when was the last time you saw your daughter?”

  “Years.” The woman nods. “Years.”

  The reporter: “And she’s a foster child of the family who owns this land?”

  “She was. No telling what he did to her.”

  “God!” Chatham says again.

  I stiffen. “The girl under the floorboards.”

  “No,” Chatham says. “She’s talking about me. That’s my mother.”

  “Loretta?”

  She shakes her head. �
�The one that left me for dead in a hot car.”

  I snap my attention back to the television. The woman on screen doesn’t bother to wipe at her tearing eyes. Strings of saliva hang from her teeth when she opens her mouth with more accusations. She looks positively insane. “This woman? She’s your—”

  “Yeah.”

  On television: “Do the authorities know your daughter is missing?” The reporter shoves the microphone under the unfit mother’s nose.

  “They know,” the mother drawls. “Just don’t care.”

  Chatham grabs my hand. “They know?”

  But there aren’t any reports. For a second or two, neither of us says anything.

  I finally break the silence: “They’re looking for Rachel Bachton. They shouldn’t be distracted right now.”

  “So you think I should call. And tell them where I am.” She pauses for a second. “If I call, they’ll come for me.”

  Will they take her away? And then what? Does she go back to living with Wayne and Loretta, assuming they’re cleared of this accusation? Or does the state offer her birth mother another chance? Or do they ship her off to live with another family? A family she doesn’t even know? Or even a group home?

  I feel her slipping from my fingers and imagine life without her. My insides feel like they’re disintegrating with the thought of it. But still. She should call.

  “Joshy!” Margaret calls from upstairs. “Lina throwed up again.”

  “Fuck.” My sisters are another problem I have to solve today. What am I going to do? I’m already on my feet. “We’ll talk about this, okay?”

  Chatham’s nodding.

  “Just give me a minute to—”

  “I have to think.”

  “Joshy!”

  “We’ll talk it through.” I press a few knuckles to my forehead. “I have to stay home anyway, so—”

  “You have a game tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  “Go to school,” she says. “I’ll stay here and think about things, and watch the girls.”

  I lean against the newel post by the stairs. “I can’t ask you to do that. Caroline’s sick.”