by Rea Frey
She kicked her heels against the counter and squealed. I turned her around and she screamed, smoothing her small fingers over the bob. I could see a few uneven parts, but I could fix those with better scissors.
“Oh. My. Goodness. I look so beautiful!”
I squeezed her to my chest. “You do look beautiful. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Do you know that?”
She looked up at me and smiled, squeezing me harder. “I love it! I love it so much. Thank you.”
I patted her on the back and finished getting her ready for bed. As I tucked the covers around her chin, she pulled me close to her face.
“I have a secret,” she whispered.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
She cupped her warm fingers around my ear and pulled me close. “You’re my favorite person in the whole wide world.”
The tears came before I could stop them, and I crushed her against my chest and held her, not ever wanting to let go. What had I gotten myself into? What had I gotten this child into? I pulled back and gingerly held both of her cheeks in my hands. “You’re my favorite person too, Em.”
I sang her to sleep and crept from the room, leaving the door cracked. I poured myself a giant glass of wine and then extracted my computer from my bag, connected with the password Ethan had left—woodisgood#1*6—and keyed in the search. It was time to absorb any minute detail I’d missed; to see if the woman today recognized us, if Ethan had made good on his threat yet.
The rainbow wheel appeared, making me work for it—why wouldn’t I have to work for it?—and then a list of articles appeared, stacked on top of each other like headlines of war. I’d read every single one. I moved the cursor all the way down to the first piece of information I could find, several days after I had taken her from the woods, and reread the article.
Missing Girl Rocks Longview Community—Search in Woods Continues
June 5, 2016 (Longview, WA) Late Thursday afternoon, five-year-old Emma Grace Townsend wandered off into the woods and has not yet been recovered. Police say she was playing in the woods after school. The search is on for the missing girl, and the community is coming together to scour the neighborhood for clues. This is not the first time tragedy has rocked this small community, though this is the first time a child has gone missing …
I continued to pore over every headline, though I had already memorized all the facts, looking for clues to actual leads. The titles went from generic to more specific, listing not only Emma’s name and age, but weight. Where were the mentions of the bruises, the under-eye circles, the smacked face, the sadness, or the lack of proper nutrition? Had her teachers not seen the marks? Had they not asked her about the same clothes she wore day in and day out, the lack of happiness, or her appetite?
There were comments and facts from her teachers—Emma had been attending the school for a year and was a quiet student. Her parents were hard workers, blah, blah, blah. My fingers stiffened. It was insane how a living being could be reduced to stark facts—height, weight, hair color, birthmarks, shoe size—instead of the real details that composed them.
I knew Emma was a loving, patient child, despite everything. I knew that she didn’t like cereal—that she preferred oats loaded with blueberries, peanut butter, and honey instead. I knew that she had to have the same rotation of songs sung every night to fall asleep, and that she loved when I changed the words to something silly. I knew that she didn’t need a night-light, but liked a sliver of light coming from somewhere—the moon, the window, the bathroom, or the crack of a door. I knew that she did a special dance post-shower or bath to shake the water off, sometimes running through the cabin at full speed (anything to avoid a towel). I knew that she loved bugs but was afraid of snakes and frogs; that she sometimes took what you said literally, so joking was something of a concept. I knew she had a small birthmark on her right hip, and that it was shaped like a raisin. I knew her toenails grew faster than her fingernails, and that the fingernails of her left hand grew longer than her right. She was right-handed, but preferred to throw with her left. She had mismatched ears, a small gap in her two front teeth, and eyelashes that were so long, they brushed the tops of her cheeks when she slept. I knew she preferred pants to skirts, dresses to shorts, and always wanted to wear flip-flops. She had terrible balance but was very strong, and though she loved the water, she was afraid to be let go in it, panicking and screeching if the water dipped above her waist. I knew that she could sit for hours and study books, though she could only read a few words, and that she sometimes inverted her letters and numbers. She scanned the page right to left, skipped words in sentences, and had a choppy, slow cadence that made me worry about dyslexia. I knew that she drew her twos like the letter S and scribbled her N’s backward. I knew that she had memorized almost all of the fifty states, but she didn’t know about other countries, or the people in them. She could recite the first five presidents and was extremely good with her hands, though she hated washing them. She had a small cavity in her lower right molar—one we brushed repeatedly—and I hoped it wouldn’t get worse. She didn’t love candy, though I suspected she ate it often, and strawberries were her favorite fruit. She slept without covers, no matter how cold it was, and still wet the bed on occasion, so that we had to buy the largest size pull-ups I could find—and I think it embarrassed her.
Her teachers knew her. Her babysitter knew her. I knew her. I realized her parents didn’t know how she thought—they told her how to think, how to behave, and what not to do. But they didn’t know the real Emma—the Emma beneath all the ridicule, rule following, and excess punishment.
I delved deeper, discovering Amy was an executive assistant at a large firm and Richard worked at a factory in Longview that made deli meat. Beyond the basic details, they had no digital footprint. No Facebook account. No Twitter. No Instagram. No Pinterest.
I got up and poured myself another glass of wine and settled onto the couch, slipping my headphones on. I switched from Web to video. There were only three videos, one four days after I took her, one a week after, and one from just three days ago. Why had I not thought to search for video broadcasts? My fingers hovered over the play button. Did I want to see these?
I played the first one—waiting for the video to load. It was a local news broadcast. The reporter was wearing a red tailored jacket and red lipstick, her blond hair an unmoving shield across her shoulders. The irony of the red—it was almost too much. She just needed a red bow flapping in the wind to make it a complete tribute to Emma.
She cleared her throat, her manicured nails flexing around the slim black microphone. “It’s every parent’s worst nightmare,” she began. “Last Thursday, five-year-old Emma Grace Townsend was reported missing from her Longview home. A small community, Longview has banded together in its search efforts to find the missing girl, who is suspected to have run off into the woods late Thursday afternoon after routine play gone terribly wrong.”
The reporter stood outside Emma’s home, a glimpse of the woods behind her, menacing, deep, and dark. The camera cut to her babysitter, who looked like an animal primed for slaughter.
“She, um, she likes to play in the woods sometimes. This isn’t the first time, um…” The babysitter trailed off. “We always talked about it. I told her not to play in the woods, that it was dangerous—that it could be dangerous.”
The camera cut back to the reporter. “Her teachers confirmed nothing unusual happened on Thursday or the week of her disappearance. The babysitter, Carla Shirley, picked her up from school and took her home. Her mother came home after work and spent quality time with her daughter that very afternoon, though Emma was allowed to play outside until dinner. Nothing reported would give reason for the little girl to run away.”
I snorted. If only they knew.
“This is a very safe community,” an elderly neighbor said. “Kids play outside, even until dark. It hasn’t been a problem before now. Everyone helps everyone around here. It’s just … it�
��s just so awful what happened.”
Another neighbor had a different opinion: “It’s too dangerous. Anyone could get lost in those woods. There’s no dividing line. It’s too hard to keep an eye out. I think the woods should be cut down, especially after this tragedy.”
The reporter straightened and motioned one arm toward the trees behind her. “The woods you see here have been an ongoing concern for parents of this Longview community. There have been many failed petitions from concerned citizens to get them cleared. While many children know not to go into the woods, some still do. It seems that Emma was one of them.”
The camera panned the woods again, showing search crews combing through with flashlights and dogs. “Police are doing everything they can to retrace the steps of Emma and bring her safely back to her family. If there’s a clue here, they will find it. From KLTV, I’m Stacy Tucker. Gina, back to you.”
I removed my headphones and twisted my necklace around and around my throat. I thought about our trek through the woods. Yes, this was well over two weeks ago, which meant they probably hadn’t found much, but what about our footprints? Our scent? Could they trace that? Or had the rain taken care of it? Even so, could those results show intent? That she didn’t just wander off—that she was encouraged to come with someone? A size-eight-shoed female, perhaps? Would that change their search tactics, lead them my way? A neighbor spotting my Tahoe, maybe? Someone at the hotel?
I’d watched enough crime television to know they targeted family and close friends first, but still. It had been sudden and careless on my part. I’d taken her in public. I’d taken her into my hotel. What if people remembered seeing her red dress and red bow? Anyone could remember anything when pressed.
I looked at the next two videos, one another update, and the last an actual press conference with Emma’s parents. I scanned the comments first, the usual internet trolls making horrible comments about the family, about who took her, about how she was probably dead. I wondered if by taking her, I had somehow cracked the fake-parenting armor and given people insight to how her mother really treated her.
I scrolled back to the top, took a deep breath, and hit play. There they were, Amy and the dad, Richard Townsend, blinking into the bright lights. He stood beside her, a string bean to her short, round frame, both of them positioned behind the podium. They weren’t crying. Their faces were bland, revealing nothing. Richard spoke first.
“Please, if you know anything about our little girl, about, um, Emma, please tell the authorities. We just want her back at home with us, where she belongs.”
I watched Amy as he talked, scanning her every feature, her dead eyes. I wondered if, deep down, she thought she deserved this; if her cruel, abhorrent behavior warranted some tragedy like this. She had to know it could happen. She had to believe karma like that existed in some capacity.
Richard shifted his glasses, the flash of camera lights and murmurs from reporters filling the awkward gaps in his statement. He urged Amy to speak with his right elbow, nudging his sharp points into her side.
Amy cleared her throat and swayed from foot to foot. Her face was soaked in heavy foundation that ran off her jaw. It divided her red—now brown—complexion from her creamy neck, and I could see the ruddy cheeks emerging through, the large, open pores, and the sores she was hiding. She was sweating, and as she swatted her upper lip, her fingers came away to reveal a patch of red. “Mama loves you. If you’re out there, come home. We need you at home. If someone out there has Emma, please bring her back. She needs her family.”
I shut the computer then, so disgusted by her fake pleas, I felt sick. How would Emma react if she saw this? Would she scream for her mother, demanding to go back, or would something inside her click? The bad memories, the shouts, the pushing and pulling, the bruises, the abandonment?
Not that these videos confirmed anything or changed the facts, but it was time for us to move on. The haircut would help, as would the slightly plump and tanned appearance. It had been nearly three weeks. What would happen after months of her being gone? Years? Some parents searched for decades, never giving up until they had absolute proof. I’d be like that, if I had a child. I’d never believe my child was really gone, unless I laid eyes on the corpse myself. Would Amy? Would they fight forever to find her?
What if I decided to just … keep her? Would the trail ever run cold? I thought of a book I’d read about a girl’s faked death by an insane grandmother. How relatively easy it would be to prove that she was gone. Then the search would stop. We could disappear into a normal life. The sordid thoughts gave me chills.
I tossed the laptop on the couch and stared into my empty wineglass. What did I really know about being a mother? I’d waited for my mother to change before she’d left us, willing it, even. Instead, I’d grown up thinking: How will I ever learn to love without conditions?
“You already love without conditions,” my father would assure me. “You love yourself, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you love me?”
“Yes.”
“And you love your mother, even though she’s hard to love?”
I’d swallowed and said yes, though my stomach felt like those sea otters I’d seen turning wet, slimy somersaults at the zoo. Could you love someone who didn’t love you back? I wanted to reserve that love—even as a girl—for someone who would appreciate it. Someone who would appreciate me.
“You know, Sarah, your mother does love you,” he’d said, as if my thoughts were real. “It’s just in her own way.”
“What way?”
He shrugged. “It just doesn’t come easy, but she still loves you. All mothers love their children.”
“How do you know? You’re not a mom.”
“But I’m a parent. And I just know.”
“But not all parents are the same. Elaine is different than every other mom.”
“She is.”
That was the end of the debate. What more could he say that I didn’t already know? It wasn’t the last time we’d visit the subject, turning it over like a ship in a bottle, unable to figure out how to get it out, or how it got in.
Those weren’t normal questions to ask myself as a child, but the anxiety had wormed its way into my heart, keeping me up at night. It destroyed my father that I was thinking about love and conditions, instead of dolls and friends.
But I grew up with that chip about love, so I looked for the signs with everyone I met: lazy eye contact, lying, detachment, annoyance, judgment, or irritation. I wanted to tell Emma this: that love was difficult and sometimes ugly, but that didn’t make it okay.
I closed my eyes and reveled in the safety of the cabin. What would it be like to enter into the real world with her? Beyond the quick run to the market or a gas station? If that clerk had spotted us—and there’d been no alerts to indicate she had—how risky would it be driving, stopping, and filtering in and out of random cities, restaurants, and stores? Could I really do this? Could I keep this child protected?
I stood and stretched, rinsing my wineglass in the sink. I would find a way. I had no choice.
after
We spent the following morning packing—Ethan’s threat pinging at the back of my skull like a constant iPhone reminder, as the forty-eight-hour ultimatum loomed—and then ventured down to the lake. I did another search while drinking coffee, but found nothing. I’d set up a Google alert to keep me updated on anything to do with Emma’s case when we first arrived, but now the stakes were higher. I couldn’t afford to miss a step.
I looked at the slice of backyard, how it sloped and bumped toward Fairy Lake, how grass grew in some spots and then refused in others—like alopecia—leaving bald patches of dirt everywhere. It was hard upkeep, and I knew Ethan had someone tend to the yard monthly, just to keep everything neat and tidy. I hadn’t thought of that, how some unsuspecting yard boy might descend upon us, startled and apologetic, and I’d have to ramble idiotically to make up a story about who we were.
Now, Emma was squatting over her yellow bucket, gathering rocks by the shoreline. I could hear her happy chatter, that kid imagination taking hold, devising plotlines and characters. Her belongings were scattered about as though they’d been emptied from a bag in a windstorm. Her size-eleven sandals, her beach towel, her books, her latest plastic toys from the dollar store, her beach dress, balled like a white cotton egg under a tree.
This was summer: her pink cheeks and tanned knees, her dirty feet and constantly damp hair, her bathing suits and pasty white bottom. I was witnessing something here, in a place that I loved, with a girl I adored.
I scooped up each item, gathering the details of her life into my arms, all of our secrets and memories. I thought of her own backyard, the messiness of it, the bareness of it, how the layers of grime told its own lonely story, and how those screams, pounding fists, and running into a blanket of dark trees told another.
These were happier items from a different Emma. No matter what happened, the summer of her fifth year went like this: She was safe. She was fed. She had fun. She learned things. She was loved.
“Emma, let’s start packing it up, okay? Time to hit the road first thing tomorrow.”
“Hit the road?” She said it with wonder, her inflection shifting as it often did with funny questions.
