Finding Emma

by Steena Holmes

  “This is a surprise.”

  Megan turned her body until she stood face to face with her husband. She laid her hands on his chest, looked into his eyes and smiled. “Laurie picked up the girls for a night out. Which means we are alone.”

  “And you're dressed. Why?” Peter's curved eyebrow rose, a suggestive smile lingered on his face as his gaze travelled along her body.

  “Because I thought we could have a nice dinner. It's been a while since we've spent alone time.” She leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on against his lips. “Maybe we could go to the Silver Rose?”

  Megan turned back to the mirror. All she needed were earrings and some heels and she'd be ready to go. A tiny sliver of excitement sprouted in her heart. She was actually looking forward to a night out. She'd keep her promise to Laurie, but it could wait until after dinner.

  Then she saw the pout on Peter's face. Her tiny sprout withered. If she were to make up for this morning, maybe she needed to give in a bit.

  “Or we could order in?” Megan said. Something like a smile flirted with her lips. Her eyes twinkled back to herself in the mirror.

  Hope sprang in Peter's eyes. He bent his head to kiss the back of her neck.

  “I like how you think, Mrs. Taylor,” Peter wiggled his hips in a suggestive dance that brought a blush to Megan's face.

  Watching this dance of seductive love play out in the mirror added a new dimension to the experience. Despite being fully clothed, Megan might as well have been naked, vulnerable to Peter's desire. His tie now off, he began to unbutton his shirt, slowly. Megan placed her hands on his chest and pushed him. He took a few steps back until his legs met the edge of the bed. She pushed again. He fell onto the bed, his arms spread out while a grin remained fixed on his face.

  Passion took over Megan's body. Her limbs flowed together as she loosened her top and slid it up her body. She edged closer to the bed. Peter's eyes lit up. When her legs were between his feet, she stopped. The unfamiliar sexual feline response shocked her and at the same time, excited her. It had been a long time since she played this role. She hoped it served her well. When Peter found out she broke another promise, this scene might be erased from any future scripts forever.

  *****

  Relaxed, Megan leaned back against the couch in the family room and waited for Peter to join her. The Mu Shoo Pork they ordered was delicious. Peter had found the scones she baked earlier, so he offered to make coffee to go with the treat. The coffee's aroma wafted through the house as it brewed.

  She curled her feet under and picked up a magazine Laurie had dropped off when she picked up the girls. The Home & Garden Ultimate Dessert Magazine. Laurie stuck bright yellow post-it arrows on her favorite recipes. Laurie couldn't bake, so apparently this was her way of asking Megan to do it for her. Nice one.

  She studied a coconut vanilla cake recipe as Peter entered into the room with a tray. Two cups of coffee sloshed over their rims with each step he took. Megan placed the magazine down on her lap and took hold of her coffee as her husband stood before her. She didn't touch the scone.

  “Find anything good?” Peter asked as he gestured to the magazine.

  “Maybe.” She shrugged her shoulders. Megan turned it over and showed Peter the delectable picture of a white cake with coconut icing. Everything depended on how their conversation went tonight.

  Peter sipped his coffee and pulled the magazine off her lap.

  She waited for him to speak, but he continued to flip through the pages. An edgy silence filled the room. Megan knew she should say something, but she wasn't sure how to begin. She glanced down at the watch on her wrist. The girls would be home in a few hours. She concentrated on her coffee cup, listening to the rattle of paper as Peter turned each page.

  “So what's wrong?”

  Megan looked up and found Peter's eyes on her. Her heart gripped with fear, her stomach knotted together with sharp pains. He knows. The thud of the magazine as it closed startled her.

  She held the coffee mug tight in her hands. Its warmth didn’t impact the sudden numbness in her fingers. She took a deep breath, held it to the count of three and exhaled. She could do this. He would forgive her. He'd understand, he had to understand.

  “The other day, when I went to get coffee...” she struggled with the words. Her fingers pushed the coffee cup around the palms of her hand.

  “You already apologized,” said Peter, his voice void of any emotion.

  “I know.” Megan took a deep breath. “I was in the drive-thru and I saw her.” Megan shook her head, “Emma. I thought I saw Emma walking across the parking lot.”

  There, she'd said it. She made no excuses, didn't even try to explain. It would be pointless. It was always the same, every time it happened. Whether she saw the top of Emma's head in a crowded mall, or heard her voice in a busy park, it always ended the same. She left the area alone, devastated that she'd gotten her hopes up. Nothing Peter could say would hurt as bad. Nothing.

  The steady tick-tick-tick of the wind up clock that sat on a bookshelf filled the silence in the room. It had been a gift from Peter when they first started dating. Megan picked at her fingernails, her head bent down to avoid her husband’s gaze. Why doesn't he say anything? She glanced out of the corner of her eye and found him staring at his own hands. The look on his face shattered her heart into tiny pieces.

  “Peter?” Megan winced. She sounded like she was begging. What if that little girl had been Emma? Would she be asking for his forgiveness then? No, it would be the other way around. Why couldn't he understand?

  “What did you do?”

  Megan whipped her head up. Peter's voice was so low, Megan almost asked him to repeat what he'd said.

  “I, ah ...” She couldn't say it. Not to him. He already knew. Why did he even have to ask?

  Peter brought his head up and stared at the wall straight ahead.

  “You what, Megan? What did you do? Did you just watch her until you realized it wasn't our daughter? Did you get out of your Jeep and grab her? Did you follow her into the store?” Peter's voice rose in cadence as he barraged her with his questions.

  “What exactly did you do?”

  A tear slide down Megan's cheek as she tried to form the words Peter wanted to hear. She opened her mouth, but no words came forth. There was nothing to say.

  Peter jumped off the couch and headed to the fireplace, where a multitude of family photos stood on display across the mantle. Even though his back faced her, his anger confronted her. His shoulders were tight, his legs stiff. The muscles on his back protruded against his white t-shirt. She couldn't see what he was doing, but she knew. He stood in the same spot she favored. Directly in front of Emma's birthday picture, taken just before she was kidnapped.

  “Peter, I --” Megan shuddered as her husband's shoulders dropped. He leaned his elbows against the mantle and his body shook. What had she done?

  “I miss her too,” Peter's voice cracked. “More ... more than you can imagine. I dream about her, I wake up to the sound of her laughter. I see her too.” Tremors wracked his body. “Just out of my reach, her curly blond hair -- always out of my reach.”

  Megan perched on the edge of the couch, unsure if she should go to him to offer comfort. Is this what our marriage has come to? Peter turned, his bright blue eyes flooded with tears as he looked at Megan. She didn't move.

  “But I know it's not her. I know the difference between my dreams and reality, Meg. Do you?” His eyes dared her to argue with him, to try to prove her innocence. She knew she shouldn't, but she did anyhow.

  “What if, Peter? What if that was her? What if it was Emma? Do you want me to just give up and give in? Is that what you want?” Megan stood and crossed her arms. Please let him say no.

  The silence the room was deadly. All it would take was one word to shatter the precarious silence. Please don't let him say it. I won't choose. I can't.

  “Of course not. But, you promised Meg. You made a promise and broke i
t. To me.” Peter walked over to chair opposite the couch and sank down.

  Megan didn't know what to say. She didn't know what words he needed to hear.

  “I can't keep doing this. We can't keep doing this,” Peter said. He rested his elbows on his knees and buried his head in his hands. “We need closure. We can't keep our lives on hold waiting,” he took a deep breath, “waiting for something that will never happen.”

  “What are you saying?” Megan worked hard to keep her voice level. Inside her whole being shook. She clenched her hands. She wanted to shout at him, rail at him, but he wouldn't even look her in the eye.

  “Maybe it's time to move on.” His voice, a mere whisper, shattered whatever hope Megan held for them.

  “Never.” Venom filled her voice, full of hatred and anger. She didn't care. How dare he.

  Peter lifted his head, tears rimmed his eyes. “Not give up, I didn’t mean that.”

  “Well praise be to God. For a moment I thought you meant to believe our daughter was dead.” She spit the words out at him, dumb founded that he would even assume they should move on without Emma. She held her hands up in exasperation. Her whole body vibrated with anger. “Don't you dare tell me to give up. Not on Emma. I will never accept that she's not coming home. Never.” She headed to the doorway afraid if she walked away, she wouldn't come back. Not to this.

  Peter's voice stopped her.

  “Each time you see her yet come home empty handed, my heart breaks all over again. Except, it was never whole to begin with. I don't want to accept that she's gone forever, but I don't know what else to do. We have two other children who need us, Meg. There won't be anything left for them if my heart keeps breaking.”

  Megan grabbed onto the trim of the door, an anchor to her trembling body. She turned to find Peter behind her. He reached his arms out but she stepped to the side. His hand brushed against her arm. She walked to the fireplace and grabbed hold of a picture on the mantle.

  “It's because of our other children that I won't give up on Emma. If I let her go, I let her down. You talk of broken promises, Peter. But I'm not the only one who’s broken them. What of the one we made to our girls? That they would always be safe? Oh, wait. You blame me for that one too.”

  Megan held on to that picture, her fingers white from the grip. A family picture when they were whole, complete. Now they were only broken, splintered into pieces that were forever lost. Megan didn't know how to fix it. Peter was supposed to be the key, the glue that held them all together while she held onto the hope of her daughter's return.

  Megan's throat constricted as she tried to swallow her anger. It took a few tries before she could speak without spewing the anger that consumed her being.

  “I need you Peter. I need you to believe in me, to believe in Emma. Everything that I have done has been for her. You asked me earlier if I was having a relapse. Trying to find our daughter is the only thing keeping me sane. The only thing. But I can't do this alone. You talk of your heart breaking, but have you ever thought of what I go through? Do you think I enjoy the agony? I literally die inside every time, Peter. Without Emma, I'm nothing. Nothing.”

  Sobs ripped through Megan's body as she crumbled to the floor. The picture frame tumbled out of her hand. Megan grabbed for the frame but missed. It smacked into the fireplace, the glass shattered from the impact.

  She stared at the splintered glass, at the jagged lines that ripped across the surface. It's how their family lived now, cracked at the core. She picked up the frame. She could replace the glass and no one would ever know. There was no easy fix for her family though. No way to ever hide the damage.

  She looked up but found she was alone. Megan struggled to walk the distance to the couch. The steady cadence of the clock filled the silence. She pulled an afghan across her body and curled into a ball underneath it. She watched the empty doorway, praying Peter would come back. He couldn't have left. Not like this. Their marriage stood on shaky ground, but was a landslide inevitable? She couldn't believe that this would be the catalyst.

  She leaned her head against the couch, her eyes closed. This could be the end of their marriage. Even at the thought, no tears came. There was nothing left within her to grieve. Maybe it would hit her tomorrow when she woke up alone in their bed.

  Minutes passed as she sat there, her mind numb. She should move, but her body betrayed her with its lethargic response. So she waited. Waited for the numbness to take over.

  A slight pressure of a hand on her shoulder forced her to open her eyes. Peter came back. He stood before her, tears flowing down his face as he held a book in his hand. She glanced up at the book, puzzled.

  “I do care,” Peter whispered as he laid the book in her lap. He bent down, placed a tender kiss on her forehead before he left her alone, again. Confused, Megan held the book in her hands, turned it over, unsure of what it meant.

  The book itself was plain. No writing covered the front or spin of the book. She opened it and her hand shook. Peter's handwriting covered the front page.

  To my darling Emma. Not a day goes past without you in my thoughts. My baby. My princess. My dream is to one day hand this journal to you and explain to you the words I have written inside. I love you, Emma Wynn Taylor. I always will.

  With tender care, Megan turned the page. The thin paper as it rustled beneath her shaking hand didn't escape her notice. Nor did she miss the wet marks, which covered the first few pages of the journal. Peter's words. Peter's tears. She held each page between her fingers with gentleness. With one glance, this book became a precious treasure, one that deserved her utmost care. Each page was dated. The words rolled together until they formed a love letter, from a father to his missing daughter.

  Tears rolled down Megan's face, as Peter's heart was laid out before her. Naked to the core. Peter managed to do what she had never thought to do. Could never do.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  If all mornings could be like this, I'd die a happy man. Jack whistled as he slapped another card down on the table. He'd woken up beside a woman who still had the ability to make his heart jump with one touch. He smiled. Happy man indeed.

  Emmie sat beside him at the table. While he relaxed and played his game of Solitaire, she colored. She'd slept in today, a rare experience for Emmie. It took her a bit to settle down last night. Jack must have read close to six stories before she fell asleep. He laid down another card as he watched her. Clad in her pink puppy dog pajamas that Dottie had sewn, her hair a rat's nest of curls, she looked cute. Emmie leaned over the table as she concentrated on her picture, the tip of her tongue showed through her lips as she drew yellow flowers all over a green field.

  “That's a pretty picture, Emmie.”

  The kitchen felt a little stuffy. Gonna be a scorcher today. Jack walked to the kitchen door and opened it about halfway, enough to let in the early morning breeze, but not too far as to chill his granddaughter.

  He rubbed her hair as he sat back in his chair. “Is that you?”

  Emmie drew a picture of a little girl in a pink dress. He recognized it as the dress she wore yesterday. He waited to see if she drew a picture of Daisy, but she surprised him by drawing another girl. He smiled to himself. Little girls and their imagination.

  Jack stared down at the row of cards in front of him. He'd lost another round. That was three rounds today. He normally won. He peeked at Emmie, surprised at her tenacity. His grandbaby was a flutter bug, going from one thing to another. Yet this morning she sat without making a peep, intent on creating her picture.

  His stomach rumbled as Emmie tilted her head to look at him. He covered his mouth with his hand and acted surprised. She giggled at him. He loved that sound. It reminded him of his daughter.

  Jack looked at the clock. Dottie would be up soon. Maybe he'd surprise her with breakfast. “Are you hungry yet, munchkin? How does French toast sound?”

  A smile lit Emmie's face. Her favorite breakfast.

  French toast it is.


  Jack rummaged around in the cupboard for the cinnamon. About to ask Emmie if she wanted to help him, but when he turned, she wasn't at the table. He spun around and found her standing behind him, holding her picture.

  “Can I tell you a secret, Papa?”

  Her face held a grave look to it. The sparkle in her disappeared at the word. Jack knew she was serious, so he squatted until he was eye level with her and made sure the smile that fought to show itself stayed tucked away.

  “Anything, you can tell me anything.”

  Emmie cocked her head to the side, pursed her lips and stared straight into his eyes.

  “You can't tell Grandma. Promise?”

  Jack thought about it for a moment then shook his head. His knees started to ache, his back screamed at him to straighten, but this was important.

  “Emmie,” said Jack as he took one of her hands in his, “you know I don't keep secrets from Grandma. But I will promise you this,” he held up two fingers, “if it's something I don't think Grandma needs to know, then we can keep it between us. Okay?”

  Emmie bent her head to her chest. She wouldn't look him in the eye. He'd give her a few minutes to think about what he said. He'd learned the hard way with Mary that promising to keep secrets from his wife did more damage than anything else.

  She kept her head bent. Jack noticed she wouldn't look him in the eyes. This must be bad. He placed his finger underneath his chin and gently tilted her head up until she looked at him. Her lips trembled.

  “I have a friend, Papa,” she said. Her eyes sparkled as she told him her secret. Jack bit back his smile.

  “You do?”

  He took his hand out of hers and placed it on the counter. With a groan, he used it as leverage to help him stand. Emmie stepped forward and offered her hand, which he took. He grunted as his back screamed in agony and his knees locked together.

  “What's her name?”

  “Friend.”

  Her answer took him aback. Friend? What kind of name is that? Maybe Dottie found one of Mary's old porcelain dolls and gave it to her. But why would she want this to be a secret?