by Rea Frey
She reaches up to touch my hair, and I let her. “You are so, so beautiful,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I messed it all up. I’m sorry I was so horrible. But we still have time. We can start from here, right? People do it all the time, don’t they?” She is desperate and we both know it.
I shake my head, get into my car, and reverse down her driveway before I start bawling. I don’t even check to see if Emma is still buckled—I’ll stop the next block over—but I have to keep driving before I lose it.
My mother is back in my life after twenty-five years, with no real explanation for where she went or who she was with, and for some unexplainable reason, I miss her—I miss her to my very core—but I hate her too, which seems to be the problem with mothers. Mothers like Emma’s. Mothers like mine.
now
“New to the area?”
I look to my left and a man of about thirty-five or forty is talking to me, his eyes trained on the playground. “No.” The conversation flatlines, because I am cautious. I reveal nothing.
“Which one’s yours?”
He is asking all the right questions, the nice-stranger-at-the-playground-so-maybe-our-kids-can-be-fast-friends questions, but I have nothing to offer. I will not give myself away, will not tell this stranger who I am and what exactly I’ve been up to for the past several months. Not that we’ve been halfway across the country and back, not that I’ve almost lost her, not that we have been in Utah, stalled, as I grapple with my final decision.
Instead, I extract my phone and pretend to answer a nonexistent call, giving him an apologetic look before moving away. I keep my eyes on Emma, watching her beautiful face as it transitions from stark concentration as she navigates the monkey bars to absolute glee as she coasts down the slide.
This is a different child than she was at the beginning of summer. Fear doesn’t follow her like a shadow. There is no yelling or cowering here. We have a rhythm I’ve never had in any relationship, familial or romantic. I trust her. She trusts me.
I tell Emma we have five more minutes before we go. She climbs up a pole, squeezing her thighs around the cold steel.
“Sarah, watch this! Watch this, Sarah!” She pushes herself off the pole and lands in a gymnast’s stance, arms thrust back, head up, knees bent, a perfect landing.
“Nice job, Em!”
I am still reeling over the case updates from several weeks back. Not the spotting from the Nebraska waitress, which is a problem in and of itself, but the one about Amy. The one for murder. I think how easy it would be to let the cops dismantle her life; to keep looking and pushing for a confession that doesn’t exist. As much as I hate this woman, I do not want her to go to jail for a crime she did not commit. She is a bad mother, but she is not a killer. Her child is gone, but she is not dead.
I keep my eyes on Emma and know what I must do. I step away from the other parents and dig around in my bag until I find the burner phone I bought at Walmart. I fish the toll-free number from my wallet and recall the story I concocted—a good one—and dial. The phone connects and rings. I clear my throat.
“Emma Grace Townsend tip line. How may I help you?”
“Um, yes, hello? Is this the help line?” I shock myself at my own country accent and struggle to keep my breathing steady, my voice light, praying Emma does not come running over and interrupt.
“Yes, it is, ma’am. May I help you?”
“Well, yes, I sure hope so. I’m a nurse in the walk-in clinic here in Destin, Florida, and I just had a little girl come in here I’m pretty sure is that missing girl that I saw on TV?”
“Ma’am? Can you give us the details, please?”
“Why, I sure can! Well, she was just the cutest little thing you ever did see, but I noticed she had dye all along her temples, like her hair had been colored or something? Because it was jet black and you could see her brown roots, and my sister is a hairdresser, so I know when something’s not real.”
“Yes, ma’am. Please continue.”
“Oh, okay. I’m using this funky phone of my brother’s because I dropped mine in the toilet, can you believe it? Well, anyway, she had just the most startling gray eyes, and I thought, where have I seen those eyes before, and then I asked, ‘Honey, what’s your name?’ And she looked at the woman and the man who brought her in there, and they immediately jumped in and said, ‘Violet. Her name’s Violet.’ And I said, ‘Well, that’s a pretty name. Where did that come from?’ And the man and woman just asked me to treat her and to stop asking questions, which I thought was rather rude. They were dirty, you know, like they hadn’t bathed in a while, so I just did what they asked. So, I began examining her—she came in because she was having a hard time breathing and was complaining of severe stomach pain—and then I noticed the cutest little birthmark when I was pressing on her tummy, like a little raisin or something by her right hip? And I thought, ‘Now, why does this little girl look so familiar?’—and that’s when it hit me! I’d seen that broadcast, and I read all the details of that little girl’s case, and I knew it was her. Of course, no one said she had a birthmark shaped like a raisin, but I remember reading about a birthmark, and there it was.” I say the magic word—birthmark—and I can hear commotion in the background. Someone else comes onto the line, a man.
“Ma’am? Can you tell me where you are, please?”
“Well, don’t you sound official? Hi there! This is Jenny Grayson, and I’m a nurse at the walk-in clinic here in Destin, Florida. Anyway, like I said, I didn’t trust these people. They had two other kids with them who looked just like them, I mean they were the spitting image of them, but this little girl just looked—well, I hate to say it—but she was just so pretty, and she seemed scared. Like she was afraid to say anything. She had a real bad bug and a bladder infection, so I fixed her up and sent her on her way, but I got the make of the car. The license plate was covered up. But it was this sketchy red van. It was an old Chevy Express cargo van, I believe. My daddy was into vans and cars, so I know these things. It looked a bit older too. But this couple, they paid cash and hightailed it out of there, and something just didn’t sit right with me. Which is why I called you. I know it’s the girl. Emma Grace Townsend, right? What a pretty name that is, isn’t it? But I do. I just know it was her.”
“Ma’am, can you give me your exact location, please? And when this happened?”
“Hello? C-can-ou-ear-e?” I pretend to break up, giving bits and pieces of an address.
“Ms. Grayson? Hello? Can you hear me?”
“Hello? Hello? Yes, I’m at—” I hit the mute button on and off while I keep talking, giving the zip code in its entirety so they can hear. “I think I have a bad connection. Did you get that?”
The line goes dead. I take a massive breath. I walk farther into the grass, drop the phone, and stomp on it, feeling it explode and crunch into fat, black pieces beneath my boots.
I have done something for Emma’s mother. The police now have a new lead from Jenny Grayson of Destin, Florida. They will be looking for a couple with two kids, a red van, and a little girl with jet-black hair named Violet. They will not be looking at Amy. At least for a little while. And they will not be looking for two blondes. They will not be looking for me.
I tap my watch. Emma comes running. She smiles and wipes sweat from her eyes. Her teeth are lovely and small and will one day be large, goofy, and square. Will I miss when her first tooth comes loose and she places it under her pillow and wishes for the Tooth Fairy to bring her treats? I catalog all of her: her tiny shoulders, the fine, blond hairs on her lower back, her crazy long toenails, her uneven earlobes, her freckles that sprinkle along her nose and deepen in the sun. I clear my throat and stand straighter, draping an arm around her shoulders. “Are you ready, spaghetti?”
She leans into me. “I’m not spaghetti!”
“Oh, sorry. Are you ready, meatball?”
She giggles in a loose way, pushing in closer and closer to my hips. She is an affectionate child—now, anyway. I
buckle her in, hand her a bottle of water, and start the car. Fall is not so far away, and soon, the first dappled leaves will begin to change. Emma points out the science of it when we are driving, how the green leaves will turn gold, red, and orange; how they will catch the light, flutter toward the earth, and scatter in the wind.
I put the car into reverse, and we start driving.
“Where are we going now?” she asks.
I want to tell her where we’re going, but I can’t just yet. “It’s time for a new adventure.”
She nods and hugs her stuffed rabbit—chosen over her dog, Pinky—to her chest. She is used to the sudden changes and shifts; she has become a gypsy, just like I was a gypsy. On to the next place. A childhood spent on wheels. I choke back tears, and Emma asks me if I’m okay. I take a sip of water and assure her I’m fine, that I just swallowed wrong.
“Swallowed wrong?”
I make a funny face and noise to demonstrate, and she breaks into a real giggle, and my heart scrapes inside my chest, a heavy, red lump. We pull onto the highway. We are just two females, charging across the open road toward our final destination.
I cling to every moment as though it is my last. I memorize her every feature. I listen to her sweet voice as she asks me random questions and tells long, ambling jokes to her rabbit. I want to cry. I want to pull over. I want to buy a house and live in our happy, two-person life. But I don’t. I can’t. I keep driving.
I must stick to the plan.
* * *
Emma presses her hands to her cheeks and splashes in the water, head angled, jaw slack, letting the rays absorb into her skin.
I will remember her like this, unburdened and damp from the steady rain. She is shoeless, pantless, shirtless, just dancing in her underwear, a smile stretched across the delicate skin of her face. In a matter of months, she has grown, changed, lengthened. Her hair is shorter and lighter, but her body is longer, except for the round belly that juts forward like a pogo ball. It’s the haircut; it’s the fresh air; it’s the freedom from verbal abuse, I’m sure. It’s childhood.
She wades deeper into the water, the raindrops coming faster and harder now. I clench my fists and watch. She is up to her hips—be careful, now!—and she swivels and attempts to run in place. The water is calm. There are no alligators or big fish, but still, my heart clamps as I sit on the shore, away from her.
Her body has the awkward coordination of most five-year-olds, each appendage acting independently from the rest. Her elbows flare and her knees hike and angle inward, giving her the appearance of pigeon-toes and knock-knees.
She wants to swim, I can tell, but I don’t trust myself to guide her under the water, though I want to. I cannot have her choke, sputter, and look at me with wild, fearful eyes. I can’t put her in a position like that, where her rubbery limbs could slip from my arms and then she is under, and I am thrashing about, trying to bring her back to me.
“Sarah, watch this!”
Emma jumps out of the water, a starfish of limbs, and then she is down on her butt, and I am lunging for her, because I am scared of her going under and being swept out to sea. This is not the sea, it’s a river, I remind myself, but still.
I take a swig of coffee, cold now, and tell her ten more minutes, and then we have to leave.
“No, I don’t want to go!”
She’s become more assertive lately, standing up for herself, knowing if she states what she wants, there’s not going to be a tornado of words and fury to challenge her.
I am the patient one, and I want her to stick up for herself. This is training for her other life, for when fear comes rushing in, and she is scared. That’s when I want her to remember me.
I stand, dusting off my legs, rough rocks and gritty sand sticking to the backs of my thighs. The rain is coming harder now. Both of us don’t mind the wet; we are so used to it, we hardly even notice. It brings her to life, here and now, as she twists and twirls, and the only sounds I hear are her splashing and the rare fish flopping out of the river, a silvery streak, before plunging back down into the deep, cold water.
Without asking, Emma trudges toward me. I grab her towel and hold it open. She lunges in and shivers, keeping close to my legs.
“It’s really coming down,” I say as I gather our things.
“Will you carry me?”
I hoist her up, my wet burrito, and start walking to the car. I slip on a rock and steady myself, and then her. “Well, that wouldn’t have been good, would it?”
She giggles and waves her tongue to catch stray raindrops that splash our cheeks and hair. We make it to the car, and I lower her, a damp snake slithering from torso to shins. I play-dump her into the Ford and help her change into dry clothes. We pull onto the highway, and it all comes into focus: these past few months, my intentions, my realizations, my enormous risks. I glance at Emma in the rearview, her cheeks still pink from her exertion in the water.
I keep driving, thinking of the last bags to pack, the trash bags to fill and toss in a Dumpster. I readjust the mirror. She smiles at me, the damp tangles of her hair flattened against her skull.
The uncertainty of what lies ahead rips into me like a saw. What will happen to her? What will happen to me? But then a singular thought thumps through my head as the miles fade: I have gotten away with it. In this media-frenzied, multiheadlined world, Emma Grace Townsend is a story in an unending list. She has to contend with bombings, school shootings, and contentious elections. Her story just wasn’t enough.
Later, in her bath, I run the conditioner through her ends and watch as she splashes with her toys. I squirt fluoride-free toothpaste onto her toothbrush and we brush her teeth in the bath while her conditioner sits. She spits into the water, a milky, foamy mess, and then smiles for me to inspect. I nod and rinse the conditioner. She hits the button to drain the water and stands, her arms open for her towel.
I fold the cotton around her, pick her up, and dry her damp hair. I smother her with kisses, read her four stories—and one chapter book—give her a banana, and rebrush her teeth. I sing her songs until she is sprawled on her back and breathing heavy, and then I slip from her room and head to my side of the rental.
I clutch my chest because it hurts, because it is all closing in. I pour myself a glass of wine, and I drink and stare out onto the street.
I think about calling Ryan—he knows we are heading back—because I just need someone to tell me it’s okay, that I’m doing the right thing. Does he know the truth yet? Instead, I brace myself and call Lisa.
“Well, holy mother of God, where have you been, you asshat?”
She is hissing at me like Brad did, and I deserve it. But still, the profanity takes me off guard and makes me smile as the alcohol works its way through my system.
“Well, hello to you too.”
“You better be in the hospital, secretly engaged, or hiding out because you won the lottery. I mean it. Those are the absolute only excuses I’m granting you for going so long without talking on the phone or seeing you. My kids think you’ve died. Or moved. But mostly died.”
I laugh, a real laugh, in spite of the situation. “I feel like I’ve died. I’m really sorry, but you’re not alone, I promise. I haven’t talked to anyone. I haven’t really worked. I’m … I’ve just been going through some s-h-i-t.”
“Why are you spelling shit? Are kids around? You know I say shit twenty-five times per day. It’s one of my favorite words.”
“I thought fuck was your favorite word.”
“Fuck is my favorite word. That’s why I said shit was one of my favorite words.” In the background, one of her kids shrieks, “Mama, you said fuck!”
Lisa rustles through her house, the kids barking out mommy demands, and then a door shuts—probably the laundry room—and I have her full attention. “Okay. Spill.”
“Oh, Lees, I’m … I’m afraid I can’t, exactly. It’s complicated. At least I can’t over the phone.”
“Are you okay? Did something
happen?” Lisa’s mother died two years ago from colon cancer. She was one of those eternally fit women—a yoga teacher, a daily walker, a vegetarian, the owner of a nonprofit—and ever since then, even though Lisa is sarcastic, I know, in the back of her mind, she sometimes expects the worst.
“Well, yes and no. I really can’t go into it on the phone.”
“Are you, like, in legal trouble or something?” Her voice is high-pitched and nervous. I’m not sure how much to say.
“I promise I’ll tell you when I get back. But I do have some Ethan news. And some other drama.” I fill her in on the whole Ethan debacle—Lisa is the only one who never quite liked Ethan; she tolerated him but didn’t think he was the one for me—and then I tell her about Ryan and Charlie.
“Why were you at a giant playground? In fucking Chicago, of all places?”
“I just wanted to check it out. Research. We’re thinking of adding a line of physical education products. Just wanted to see what the kids gravitated to in other cities.”
The lie slips easily from my lips, and while it could most definitely be true—because I have done just this very thing on numerous occasions—something rings false in my tone, and she can tell.
“So you drove all the way to Chicago to check out a playground? For research? Instead of flying like you always do? Okeydoke.”
“Well, that’s not, you know—not the whole story, no. But guess what else? You’ll love this. My mother called.”
“Shut the fuck up! She did not. She didn’t! Does she need money?”
“That’s exactly what I said!”
“So did you talk to her?”
“Yeah, I actually drove to Colorado to see her.”
“I’m sorry, but you did what, now?”
She’s as outraged as I feel about it all, and this validates me somehow. I curl up on the stiff sofa and tell her about that too—how different my mother seemed, how calm, how honest, how devastatingly beautiful. I tell her about my dad, and how I have no idea how to handle his heartbreak for the second time, and how angry I am that he kept her letters from me—unless that was a lie.
