Finding Christmas

by Gail Gaymer Martin

  She lowered the plush toy into her lap and brushed her fingers along its fake fur. “I’d planned to bury Floppy along with the Christmas toys, but…I couldn’t.”

  “I understand.”

  “I couldn’t, because I kept wanting to think it wasn’t true, that they were wrong. I wanted the doorbell to ring and, when I answered, a police officer to be there with Mandy in his arms, but it didn’t happen.”

  Benjamin only looked at her, his eyes so sad she wished she hadn’t told him.

  “Maybe this year will be a breakthrough,” she said. “It could be.”

  “It could be,” Benjamin said, rising.

  “I feel something special. I believe this year will be different.”

  Benjamin’s chest ached from the sadness he felt surrounding them both. He’d adored Mandy and couldn’t imagine the pain Joanne felt as the child’s mother.

  He’d done a lot of thinking since they’d last talked, and had questions that he wanted to ask, but he knew she was too sensitive today. He watched her caressing the bedraggled, stuffed dog, his long ears soiled from Mandy’s dragging him with her everywhere, and finally he had to look away or fall apart himself.

  Then he mustered courage and spoke. “What makes you think this year is different? You don’t really think Mandy will come through that door, do you?”

  Her silence put him on edge.

  “Joanne, please, don’t—”

  She held up her hand to stop him. “I don’t know why I feel this way, but I’ve never felt that Mandy was totally gone. Gone from me, yes, but not gone. I hear that voice, and it’s her, but she’s not three anymore. She’d be almost six. Reality tells me she’s dead, but I sense she’s alive.”

  Benjamin’s heart sank. “She is alive in heaven, Joanne.”

  “I know, but I mean…”

  Her downcast look made him ache. Yet, common sense told him it could be no other way. He’d asked himself questions, too, about Mandy’s death, but nothing made sense. His attorney’s mind had sorted through the information and he had no doubt that a three-year-old couldn’t have escaped.

  The question came to his lips before he could stop himself. “How could Mandy have survived the freezing water of Lake St. Clair, Joanne? We’re talking November.”

  Joanne turned toward him, her eyes searching his. “Maybe she wasn’t in the car.”

  “She what?”

  “I’m not sure she was in the car, Benjamin. That’s the feeling I have.”

  He knelt beside her. “Joanne, I didn’t like the details, either, and I know they never found her body, but what you’re thinking is far-fetched.”

  “Far-fetched, but not impossible. In my heart, I knew that Greg would never let her in the car without her seat belt fastened.”

  “What if Mandy unhooked it? Did you think of that?”

  “She’d never unfastened the belt before. I’m not sure she knew how. I think someone else unhooked it. I’ve been thinking about this for the past few days.”

  Her admission swam through his mind like a fish avoiding a baited hook. He couldn’t imagine the possibility, but he’d found that fact of the case disturbing, including the child floating through the partially opened window.

  “And the window,” Joanne said, as if she had read his mind. “Why would Greg have the window open on a cold November night? The police speculated and dismissed that fact. It’s lived inside me for too long. I think something else happened that night. Before the accident.”

  Donna sat on the edge of Connie’s bed and brushed the child’s soft cheek with the back of her hand. “You’re a beautiful young lady—do you know that?”

  “Uh-huh. You always tell me I am.”

  “Well, you are.” The words almost caught in her throat. “Connie.”

  “What?” The girl peeked at her from beneath the blanket she’d drawn up to her nose.

  “Do you remember your real mother?” Donna wanted to kick herself for asking, but she’d been plagued by questions and fears that she couldn’t control.

  “No.”

  Donna had figured the child wouldn’t remember much at her age, but she’d hoped.

  “Is Daddy coming home?”

  Connie’s voice wavered when she asked. Donna knew the child heard their arguments and her cries of pain when Carl knocked her around. She’d had to cover her bruises with makeup so that Connie wouldn’t see them. “He’s out of town tonight. On business.”

  “Good,” she said, her pink lips turning up at the edges.

  Connie’s faint smile reflected Donna’s sense of relief. The night alone would give her time to think—and to “snoop,” as Carl called it.

  “I love you,” she said, bending over to kiss Connie’s warm cheek before she stood.

  “Love you, too.”

  Connie’s sleepy voice touched Donna’s ears as she slipped through the doorway.

  Donna stood in the hallway to think. Tonight she had time to search for something that would help her learn more about Carl. Ever since she’d found the photo, she’d been sick with confusion and fear.

  Carl had said he wouldn’t be home until tomorrow, which would give her time to put the photograph back and see what else he’d hidden down there.

  The bulb had always been dim in the closet beneath the stairs, so Donna located the flashlight and carried it with her. Her nerves stood on end like the hairs on a scared cat. Every sound caused her to jump.

  At the bottom of the steps she headed back to the door beneath the staircase. She turned on the faint light, then stepped inside. The room appeared to have been a small pantry at one time, but now it held miscellaneous items—luggage, boxes of papers in manila folders and the metal box.

  She opened the box again and pulled out more of the photographs. Tonight she had time to study them. The same dark-haired woman appeared in numerous shots. One showed Carl with his arm around her. She had to be his first wife. The child appeared again, and Donna knew she wasn’t Connie. The features were wrong. She dropped the photos back into the envelope and set it on the floor.

  Petrified by her thoughts, Donna delved into the metal box, rifling through old receipts, car registrations, and the restraining order envelope. Then she saw another legal-size envelope. She pulled out the document, and her heart stopped. Stella Rose Angelo, Plaintiff. Peter Carl Angelo, Defendant. Divorce papers. Peter again. She’d seen that name used in the restraining order. Donna skimmed the contents. His wife agreed to forgo some of her settlement in trade for his agreement to never see her or their daughter again.

  And then she died?

  Her hand shook as she stuffed the paper back into the envelope. Her mind spun with questions and fear swept over her. She knew Carl was abusive. He’d treated her badly, but so far, he hadn’t hurt Connie. Would he?

  As Donna lifted the documents to place them back in the metal file, she spotted a newspaper clipping near the bottom of the box. Her tremors grew as she reached in to pull out the paper. Fingers fumbling, she unfolded it, and the headline flared before her eyes: “Attorney and Daughter Drown in Lake St. Clair.”

  Below the article, Donna saw the grainy photographs—a man and a blond toddler. She gazed at the photo. Donna clasped her face, gasping for air. Black spots peppered her eyes, and an unbearable hum roared in her ears. She lowered her head and clung to the wall, fearing she would faint.

  Donna stayed there until she regained control of herself. Then she inched upward, still grasping the closet wall for support. Her breath came in gasps as she scanned the text of the article.

  Gregory Fuller and his three-year-old daughter Mandy drowned when Fuller’s car accidentally skidded into Lake St. Clair last night during a snowstorm. Fuller works for the law firm of Saperstein, Fuller, Drake and Welsh.

  Donna skimmed the rest of the article with disbelief. Fuller had left his wife, Joanne, behind. Gregory Fuller. The name rang in her ears. Where had she heard it? She lowered her gaze to the envelope at her feet and gaped at the re
turn address: Saperstein, Fuller, Drake and Welsh, Attorneys at Law. The divorce papers.

  She eyed the restraining order sent by the same firm, then unfolded the document. The truth struck her. The plaintiff’s attorney was Gregory Fuller. Carl’s wife had hired Fuller to represent her, and a year later he died.

  Joanne Fuller? According to the article, she lived on the east side in Grosse Pointe, about twenty miles from Dearborn.

  Donna returned her gaze to the photos beneath the article, studying Mandy Fuller. Her head swam. Could it be? She lifted her eyes toward the basement ceiling. Connie was sleeping upstairs—Connie with blond hair. It couldn’t be. Donna loved Connie—she couldn’t be someone else’s child. Donna couldn’t live without her.

  But what if—

  “What are you doing?” The voice bellowed from the staircase.

  Carl. Donna jerked and dropped the restraining order, then spun around.

  Carl loomed in the doorway. “I told you to stay out of there.” He grabbed her arm and jerked her from the closet.

  “What’s wrong, Carl?” Donna panicked, struggling to find an excuse. “I was looking for luggage to store some summer clothing.”

  Carl clung to her with one hand and leaned in to grab something from inside the closet. Then he stepped back, hurling a piece of luggage across the basement. It struck his tool bench, and metal tools clanged to the concrete floor. With a swift move, he grasped her by the throat and pinned her to the wall.

  Donna felt her breath leave her. She tried to speak, but choked. Color drained from the room. I have to get away. Connie must get away. The hum filled her head as her knees buckled.

  Chapter Four

  Joanne pressed the telephone to her ear but heard only silence on the line.

  “Hello,” she said again.

  Nothing. She lowered her gaze to the caller ID. Blocked. She hated crank calls, especially now that she’d become so nervous.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, her voice rasping with irritation. She listened for a second more until a faint sound like a moan wavered along the wire, making her neck prickle. She closed her eyes, then dropped the phone onto the cradle and sank into a kitchen chair.

  The desperate moan reverberated in her ears. Voices and silent callers. How much more could she take?

  She let her frustration subside, then rose and headed for the coffeepot to make coffee for Benjamin. Joanne spooned in the grounds, added water, then wandered into the living room. The clock on her cable box showed 7:47. She had expected Benjamin earlier. Uneasiness filled her, but then she laughed at herself for being so jittery.

  The phone rang again and for once she didn’t jump. Joanne knew Benjamin well enough to realize he’d call if something was keeping him. She strode into the kitchen and grabbed the receiver.

  “Hello,” she said, expecting Benjamin’s rich, baritone voice.

  Distant unclear sounds drifted over the line, but no one spoke.

  “Benjamin?”

  Then she heard it again—the emptiness.

  It grated on her senses like nails on a chalkboard. Her knuckles turned white against the dark beige of the phone. “Either say what you want or stop calling.” Her own determined voice startled her. As she yanked the telephone from her ear, she finally heard something, and brought the receiver back to listen.

  “I—I…” A woman’s voice.

  “What do you want?”

  Only a sigh wrenched the silence.

  Breath shot from Joanne’s lungs like air from a pricked balloon. Anger fired within her. “If you’re not going to talk, then leave me alone.”

  She heard a click, then an empty line.

  Joanne slammed the receiver onto the cradle.

  Sick people. They had nothing better to do than harass people. Play the jokester. But it wasn’t funny. Not at all. Then her thought shifted. She recalled the voice and the foreboding. The coincidence seemed too great.

  Benjamin? Was he on the way? She called his numbers and got his answering machine. She hung up. The police. She needed someone. She grabbed the telephone book from a drawer, found the number and punched the buttons. Her body trembled as she waited.

  “Grosse Pointe Department of Public Safety. Officer James. May I help you?”

  Joanne opened her mouth and choked on the words. “I—I’ve received some strange telephone calls.” She sounded foolish.

  “What kind of calls?” the officer asked.

  She gave her name and tried to explain, but the more she said, the more insane she sounded. The officer obviously didn’t see the connection between her daughter’s death three years ago and two anonymous calls. Right now, neither did she.

  “Was the caller abusive or obscene? Or were you threatened in any way?”

  “They were hang-ups,” she said, realizing how trivial it sounded.

  “Ma’am, two hang-ups doesn’t really warrant police action. You’re welcome to call your telephone company, but unless the calls are threatening or abusive, we can’t take action. After three telephone calls from the same caller, you can contact the telephone company and then we’d be happy to take your report.”

  Frustration charged through Joanne. “Thank you for your time.”

  “If this continues, call your phone company and then give us a call.”

  “Thanks,” she said again, and hung up feeling mortified. He’d explained twice, as if she were stupid.

  Joanne eyed the clock again, wishing Benjamin were there. Her mind reeled as she wandered to the living room. She sank into a chair and her hands trembled as she ran them along the nape of her neck, thinking about the calls. Two hang-ups was nothing, just as the officer had said. So why was she distressed?

  She needed Benjamin to tell her she wasn’t losing her mind. Hearing Mandy’s voice in her head had been bad enough. Now, on the anniversary of her death, anonymous calls struck her as a cruel coincidence.

  She lowered her face into her hands. “Lord, why? If You love me, why are You tormenting me like this?” But beneath her frustration, she could hear Benjamin’s voice: You can’t blame God for all the evil in the world.

  Joanne lowered her head to the table and wept while her prayer rose from her heart, asking the Lord to forgive her. You’ve promised to be here when I call Your name. Here I am, Father, begging for mercy.

  Her mind whirring with questions, Joanne rose and dragged herself into the living room. Weariness had overcome her, and she wanted to sleep. She stood for a moment in the light of the living room and watched the snow drift to the ground—white, pure, fresh, like a baby, like Mandy had been once.

  Tears pooled in Joanne’s eyes, then rolled down her cheeks in rivulets. She’d felt sorry for herself for so long, and now this woman’s voice had dragged her back into self-pity.

  Joanne shook her head, trying to release her twisted thoughts. What did it matter? God knew the caller’s identity. It wasn’t her place to sit in judgment. “Lord forgive this woman,” she said aloud. “Forgive me for thinking the calls had any evil purpose. Help me find peace.”

  Gooseflesh rose on Joanne’s arms as a Scripture came to her: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you.” Then verses rolled through her mind: “Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.” She’d read similar words the other night in the Christmas story, when the angels told the shepherds not to be afraid. The words settled over her like rays of the sun. She needed peace, too. “Thank you, Lord.”

  She forced herself from the window as the snow blew into drifts, preparing the earth for everyone’s dream—a white Christmas. It hadn’t been her dream, but since Benjamin had returned, he’d brought a little light into her spirit. She wanted to talk with Benjamin and hear his calm, reassuring voice.

  The sound of a car caught Joanne’s attention. She rose and went to the window. Benjamin at last. She opened the door and waited.

  When he saw Joanne, Benjamin knew immediately that she was distraught. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” he said as
he stepped inside. “I couldn’t get out of the dinner, and it went on forever. You remember Greg’s long evenings. It hasn’t changed.”

  “I’m just glad you came,” she said, beckoning him into the living room.

  He followed her through the archway. “What’s happened? More voices?” He sank onto the sofa as she paced in front of him.

  “A voice, but this time a real one.”

  “A real one? What do you mean?”

  “Telephone calls. I had two tonight.” She finally settled into a chair.

  Benjamin winced, knowing he should have been there earlier. His chest tightened. “What kind of calls.”

  “Anonymous. Nothing, but they upset me. I called the police, but they can’t do anything. I made a fool of myself.”

  “No you didn’t. You felt threatened. So tell me exactly what happened.”

  He listened as she detailed the incident. His mind tried to make sense of it. He understood why the police had passed it off. Two calls—hang-ups really. What could they do? “What’s going on at Solutions? Is someone frustrated with your status with the company?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t imagine it being anyone from there. Certainly there’s tension at times, particularly in the powwow sessions when everyone has competing ideas, but no. No one would do that.”

  “What about your promotion?”

  “No. It’s no one from Solutions. I’m positive.”

  “You never know.” He didn’t want to remind her that most crimes involved people who were family or friends.

  “When Greg was alive, I learned to tolerate such calls. I’m sure you’ve had them. They were rare. Angry defendants usually blame the prosecuting attorney.” She looked at him as if seeking validation. “But why me, and why now? It’s morbid and awful.”

  “It was a wrong number or a crank call. The world has some sick people.”

  “I know, but…” She rose again to gaze out the window. “I’d probably blow if off if I weren’t so jittery already.” She turned and gave him a telling look. “I’m infuriated at myself for letting it upset me.”