by Natasha Boyd
He still wasn’t back.
In the kitchen, I wiped the crumbs from the scarred butcher-block counters while humming in lieu of listening to my music. Seeing the small kitchen trash can under the sink was full, I pulled the bag out.
Might as well make myself useful.
I hauled on my boots, laced them up tightly, and wound my scarf around my neck. Picking up the small bag, I headed out of the house into the bracingly cold afternoon. I went around the side of the house to the fenced off trash area attached to the house and pulled open the large trash can lid to throw my bag in. And stopped.
I stared into the can at the box of bottles all neatly capped. Reaching in, I pulled one out. Vodka. It was empty. They were all empty. They were all exactly the same. A case of empty vodka bottles. No other types of liquor. I wondered how long they’d been there, and why. Surely, if you drank vodka, you just threw them away one by one as you went through them. And how quickly had they been gone through? In one go? I shook my head. Did I even want to ask him? For him to know I was nosing into his business, snooping in the trash? I certainly didn’t want him asking me anything. I’d seen the questions in his eyes when he saw the prescriptions in my bag.
I slammed the lid closed and wrapped my hoodie tighter around my body. Folding my hands under my arms to keep them warm, I aimed for the path that wound through the thick vegetation to the beach. You wouldn’t even know the ocean was so close to the cottage, if you didn’t know about the path.
Drawn by the distant sound of crashing waves and hungry gulls, I ignored the swing hanging from the oak branch to my left, satisfied it was still there at least.
Passing out of the shade of pines and gnarled live oaks onto the grassy dunes, I paused at the arresting sight of the dark grey ocean against the moody sky and breathed the frigid air that flew deep into my lungs.
Squinting against the wind, eyes already watering, I looked to my left, where a dark figure sat hunched over, rocking on his heels. His elbows were resting on his knees, his arms cradling his head, hands clutching tufts of unruly thick hair. His bare feet were sunk into the sand, his boots discarded several feet behind him.
It was a picture of desolation and grief, and it made no sense.
I stared.
He said he’d loved my sister, but she died six years ago. There was no way he was still grieving her, was he? I mean, I missed her every day, but she was my sister. What was going on with this man? I’d come here to escape my demons and suddenly it seemed like someone else was battling even bigger ones than mine.
Part of me wanted to go and ask him what was wrong, and part of me didn’t want to know.
He’d come down here to get away. Now that I’d stumbled on his private sanctuary, I couldn’t invade his space again. I backed up slowly, then turned back toward the path, hurrying away before he saw me.
HE STILL WASN’T home when dusk set in. I thought about walking back to the beach, but the darkness that blanketed this island at night was absolute and made me nervous. I made myself another sandwich, more Manchego and a sliced tomato. After a slight pause, I made one for him too and put the plate in the fridge. It was deathly quiet in the house, except for the ticking of the clock made from an old tin plate on the wall next to the refrigerator.
As it got darker, I went and found the small bookshelf in the corner of the sitting area. Running my fingers over the old spines, I came to a hardbacked illustrated version of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales. Gran had read these to us as children. Abby adored the Little Match Girl story, although it always made us all cry so hard, I’d hated to hear it. I certainly wouldn’t be able to read it now.
Should I wait up for him? Was he okay? He was probably fine, just didn’t want to come home to a place where he could no longer be on his own. Close to midnight, I nodded off on the couch, my last thought being I should probably find a flashlight and go check if he was still on the beach.
The crash of lightning, like an explosion going off behind my eyelids, had me sitting bolt upright in the pitch darkness. I fumbled next to me for the light I swore I’d left on, my chest constricting. Coasting my fingers up the rough rattan lamp base until I felt the neck and the switch, I put two feet on the floor and tried slow breaths. God, storms. I hated storms. What if the house got struck by lightning and caught fire? What if… I pressed the switch with my thumb.
Click.
Click click.
Clickclickclick.
Shit. What if a serial killer timed his attack for a storm so no one heard me scream? What was I thinking? No one would hear me scream out here.
Breathe. Breathe.
Another sharp crack of lightning lit the room. And then I was in blinding darkness again. No serial killers in the room with me. I was alone, thank God.
But not thank God.
I was alone out here. I couldn’t even lock the front door in case Tommy came back. I laid my head down on my knees, hooking my arms underneath them, curling myself into a small ball. Were my eyes even open? It was so dark, it was hard to tell unless I blinked. My grandmother’s room. My room. I could lock myself in my room. If I could get there.
I stood up and took a tentative step forward, my arms outstretched in front of me. My breathing got irregular and shallow again. Calm, Calm. Somehow, I got to the hall, planting my palms on either side of me, relieved I was somewhat anchored and knew where I was, and then felt my way along the wall.
I stood for a moment in the open doorway, mentally visualizing the path to the bed.
Count my heartbeats.
Slow my breathing.
One hundred, Ninety-nine… My pills were on the bedside table so that was good. Ninety-eight, ninety-seven, ninety-six…
In retrospect, the slow rumblings of thunder were a build-up. I should have taken them as a warning. But when the crescendo came, so loud and so bright the house literally shook, and illuminated Abby standing in the corner by my grandmother’s dresser, the scream that tore from my throat felt like it ripped my chest clear open.
Before
“WHERE IS SHE?” my mother screamed, her eyes wild.
I tried to stand my ground, but she was terrifying me. “I d—don’t know. I promise!” I sobbed.
In the next room, through the closed glass door, my father paced back and forth, the cordless phone to his ear. He was dressed in his striped pajama pants and a grey T-shirt, his hand raking through his salt and pepper hair. He wasn’t paying any attention to my mother, who had now grabbed my upper arm and was digging her fingernails into my skin so hard I hissed through my tears.
“You know something. I can see you do, Olivia. Do you understand how serious this is? She’s been missing for three weeks! And now you’re telling me she’s with this Whitfield boy. What else did she tell you?”
“Ow. You’re hurting me.” I tried yanking my arm free. “Let me go!” I screamed as loudly as I could, hoping my father would hear me. He looked up briefly, his eyes glazed, and then continued his pacing.
The front door banged open and Uncle Mike came in. I shuddered as dread coursed through me. Uncle Mike had been in almost a worse state than anyone. You’d think it was his own daughter he’d lost. “What does she know, Susan?”
The call had come in earlier that night. It was dumb luck I’d been walking to the bathroom and picked up the hallway phone. I hadn’t even managed to say hello before a male voice said he needed to speak to Olivia.
“This is me. I mean, this is Olivia.”
There’d been a shuffle, a sound of breathing, and then my sister’s voice. “Liv, it’s me.”
Excitement coursed through my veins. Relief at hearing Abby’s voice. I listened for the sounds in the kitchen that meant Mom and Dad were still down there. “Abby,” I whispered, squeaking by accident in my joy at hearing her voice. I took a breath. “Abby, are you coming home? Mom and Dad, they’re… worried sick.”
“Did you tell them anything?”
“No! No, of course not,” I as
sured her.
“Good, good. You’ve done good Livvy. Listen, this is important. You can’t ever tell them anything. There are some things that happened, bad things, and I’m worried they wouldn’t understand. That you wouldn’t understand. And I’m worried for you. Whit says I should be worried for you.” Her voice sounded funny. Slurry and tired.
I could hear footsteps at the base of the stairs. “I miss you,” I said quickly while I had the chance. My whispered voice broke over the last word.
“I miss you too. I left you something in your room. Under your soccer gear, bottom drawer. I wish I could explain it. I have to tell you so much, Livvy, but you’re so young. God, you’re so young. I—”
“I’m not,” I denied emphatically. My father’s head came up the stairs. I wanted to warn her I couldn’t talk, but I didn’t want to let her go.
My father looked at me with the phone in my hand, and I froze.
Abby’s voice in my ear continued as he approached, but I couldn’t focus on her words. Something about Whit and Uncle Mike and… I wanted to hang up but didn’t want her to go, and then my father was right there taking the phone out of my hand.
He must have heard only two words of her voice before, “Abby?” His eyes scrunched in disbelief. “Abby? Is that you? Abby? Abby? Abby!” he yelled.
She’d hung up.
He looked at me in stupefaction as tears welled in my eyes. I missed my sister and I was scared. Scared that I knew something. But I didn’t. I didn’t know anything.
Now my parents and Uncle Mike were scaring me further.
“Where is she?” Uncle Mike asked me.
This was some bizarre nightmare where all the adults were screaming at me. “I don’t know!” All I wanted was to be comforted, and be told my sister was okay, and that they loved me. I wanted my mother’s arms around me, not hurting me.
I yanked my arm again, panic giving me another surge of strength, sharp, stinging pain over the dull, bruising ache as I tore free. I clutched my arm with my other hand, my fingers coming away smeared with a line of blood from her nail.
My mother’s face transformed from anger to horror in an instant. She took a step toward me, but I jerked back, tripping over the sofa arm, and then scrambling clumsily to the wall, to the corner, where I sank down to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest.
“I’m sorry, Olivia, obviously I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was panicked. You have to talk to us and tell us what you know.”
Uncle Mike immediately came over and crouched down, running a large hand up and down my wounded arm.
I cringed.
“Your mother didn’t mean to hurt you, but it’s extremely important to let us know where your sister is.”
“Whit,” I whispered the name again, my voice hoarse from crying. “I told you already, she mentioned someone called Whit. That’s all I know. I didn’t even see him.”
Abby had asked me not to tell. I had to keep part of the secret for her. Something was going on here that I didn’t understand.
Uncle Mike swung his face up to my mother’s.
“Whitfield Cavanaugh, I assume,” she responded. “Senator Cavanaugh’s son. She knows him from the country club.”
I racked my brain for an image, anything, and came up blank. They were all the same, with their khaki pants, striped ties, and blazers. Anyway, I only knew the kids my age.
“Christ,” hissed Mike, a strange look crossing his face. It looked like fear for a moment. I blinked, and it was gone.
He stood up. “That’s all we need. He’s a complete wastrel. And his father’s got half the squad on the payroll.”
My mother pursed her lips at me, then addressed Mike. “Andrew is calling Senator Cavanaugh right now, or trying to. His number is unlisted. I think he’s going through the country club directory.”
“He’ll get nowhere. Let me use my credentials, I know someone to call.” Mike headed through the door to where my father was. My mother followed.
He took the phone with a nod to my dad. “This is Michael Williams. I’m a consultant with the Atlanta PD.” He was? “Yes. Yes, that’s right. Listen, we have an emergency and I need a phone number. A missing teenage girl, and there’s a chance Senator Cavanaugh’s son is… also in danger.” He paused, listening to the other end of the line. “Uh huh.” He snapped his fingers at my dad, motioning for a pen. “Uh huh, yes, I very much appreciate that, thank you.”
I listened over my irregular and choked breath. My arm ached. Was Abby in danger? She seemed so sure and so calm, and so grown up. I couldn’t imagine she was hurt.
But this was all bad. Really bad. Everyone was acting crazy and scary. I shouldn’t have told them about Whit, or maybe I should have told them sooner. Abby would be so disappointed in me. But what if they really were in danger and needed help?
After another twenty or so minutes, Uncle Mike went rushing out of the house. I heard his voice speaking quietly outside the window I was closest to, then his car revved up and peeled away.
I sat there in the corner, my body aching with numbness, watching until the clock in the hall ticked past midnight and I turned twelve. Happy Birthday to me. Then I quietly got up and slipped unnoticed past my parents, who were still sitting in the kitchen, and went to my room. I closed my bedroom door with a soft click, and using my bathrobe belt, I looped it from the door handle to the hook that held my book bag just inside the door and tied it tight.
Pulling open my bottom drawer, I rummaged through my clothes until I felt plastic wrapped around something hard. It was a clear Ziploc over a wooden box with an envelope taped to the outside. The envelope was addressed to me.
There was no sound from downstairs and I hurriedly took the package to my bed. I extracted the contents from the bag, hefting the weight of the simple wooden box with its small lock holding it closed.
Opening the envelope, I took out a folded letter.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs had me hurriedly stuffing everything back in the bag. I slid it under my bed and turned off the light just as a knock sounded at my door.
I lay still in the dark.
“Olivia?” my mother called softly, regret in her voice.
I closed my eyes as I heard the door handle turn, and the soft sound as the door reached as far as it could open with the bathrobe cord attached. A sliver of light crossed my eyelids. There was a small intake of breath, my mother’s surprise at finding her way blocked. I knew it wouldn’t take much to just force it open. After a few moments and a deep sigh, the door closed again with a soft click and it was dark once more.
When I woke up in the morning, Abby was dead.
As details emerged throughout the day, I became certain of three things: I’d never celebrate another birthday, I would never again trust my parents, and the name Whitfield Cavanaugh, belonging to the man who had stolen and killed my sister, would be the most hated name in Baines family history. On that last point, my parents and I would always agree.
THERE WAS STILL no sign of Tommy when I awoke the next morning. Tom, I decided. Way better. He was a single syllable guy. One strong, short word was all he needed as a name. His golf cart was still parked between a saw palm and an oak sapling, where he’d left it the day I arrived.
I was exhausted from my panic of the night before and my vision of Abby. Still jumpy, I took my daily medication, shaking the pills out onto the worn wooden table and counting. I had twenty days’ worth. Forty if I could stretch to every other day. I hoped being here would help get me over the panic attacks at least; I didn’t know about the rest.
There were two storage bins of old clothes in a closet in the hall. I feared anything that fit me had probably been Abby’s, though I tried not to let that bother me. Most things were small, but there were a few items that could work. Pulling on a pair of denim cutoffs that were definitely Abby’s, and a faded floral blouse of my grandmother’s, I took anything that looked wearable and tossed them into the stackable washer to get the musty smell out.
For now, I too smelled like I’d been in a box for over six years, but it would have to do until I did the next load. Maybe I could head over to the golf club once I figured out decent clothes to wear.
I unpacked the few items in my bag, including my wooden box from Abby, laying it carefully on the dresser next to my grandmother’s silver backed hairbrush. Digging farther into my bag, I came across the card Fishy Pete had given me. I wondered if I should call him and see if he knew where Tom was. And say what? Tommy’s missing? How did I even know he was missing; maybe he had a girlfriend he stayed over with. I tried to picture the kind of woman Tom would be with and came up blank.
Anyway, he was a grown man capable of taking care of himself.
Walking out to the hall, I grabbed the wall-mounted telephone handset that had been there as long as I could remember, expecting to find it dead. To my surprise, a dial tone sounded. So the phone was maintained too. I put it back on its cradle for now and dropped back against the wall with a long exhale.
Day one of my new safe life, and I was bored out of my mind. I didn’t even have music to listen to. At some point I knew I wanted to sort all of my grandmother’s things. To my knowledge it had never been done after she passed.
Before I gave myself a chance to talk myself out of snooping, I walked quickly to the twin room I’d first woken up in, Tom’s room, and eased open the door on a faint whine.
Pausing, my ear cocked to set a baseline for the lack of noise in case he returned, I looked toward the desk against the wall. No laptop. Damn. But it had to be here somewhere. He hadn’t left with it. And his piles and piles of paper were still there. Satisfied I’d be able to detect the sound of his return, I sidled in.
