Carl reaches for his shirt, eyeing the few small wrinkles. “You expect me to wear this?”
I shift from fight to flight, moving to the first escape hatch I can find, the master bathroom. My back is turned when the iron flies by my ear. It crashes through the wall, mere centimeters from where I stand frozen in place. I turn to see Carl, red-faced and yelling. “You can’t even get your mind right enough to iron a shirt!”
The familiar fear rises in me. I hurry into the bathroom, slamming the door. He is throwing things. I slide into the dry tub. I cover my ears. Stay strong, Amanda. Don’t fall apart.
Then my mother: You should have known better than to push him like this. You knew this would happen.
In the bedroom Carl continues to rant. Ellie is down the hall. I can’t get to her. And this is the worst of it. I know he’d never hurt her, but of course she’ll wake and hear every bit. Of course she’ll hate the both of us for all the tension and anger and hurt in her life. Of course she’ll blame me for not keeping him calm.
“Don’t you understand what you do? Why can’t you just go to work? Do your job. Come home. Take care of your family. Why is that so hard?”
His fury builds. I begin to sway back and forth in a subtle soothing rhythm, the way my mother used to rock me in her lap when I was a little girl. It’s pathetic, but in this moment it’s all I can manage. Just as I did when I was a kid and my father would yell and throw things and threaten my mom. No matter how many times I tell myself to stand my ground, I cave. So here I am, curled in a ball, rocking away the pain, crying until I go numb. One simple word swirls inside my mind. Disappear.
“You think we all need Perfect Amanda to swoop in and save us. Well, guess what? Nobody needs you. Nobody even wants you. What we want, what we need, is for you to either grow up and pull yourself together, or stay out of our lives. Leave us alone. Stop running around in circles trying to fix everything. You mess things up, don’t you see? You can’t even iron a shirt!”
Don’t listen to him. It isn’t true.
But I can’t hear my own voice. All I hear is Carl. “You have some fancy college degree and you think that makes you so smart. Think you know everything. You can’t even help your own daughter!”
Another crash, this one against the bathroom door. I pull my head between my knees and shield myself like a schoolkid in a tornado drill.
Carl continues. “Want to know what our problem is? It’s you! You’re our problem! Solve that!”
“Stop!” I yell, pounding my fist against the tub. “Stop, please stop!” Get a grip, Amanda. He’s pushing all your buttons. Don’t let him break you. You’re stronger than this.
He’s at the door, yelling through the thin wooden panels. And then he kicks it, and his boot comes right through. I jump to my feet, grabbing the first tool I can find to defend myself. It’s a hairbrush. Nothing makes sense. I don’t say anything. I don’t move from my place. I don’t open the door or yell or fight or flee. Instead, I freeze. And this is how I stay until I hear the front door slam.
After some minutes of quiet, I am finally able to get control of myself. I make sure the bathroom door is locked. Then I run the shower water, letting steam fill the room. I undress and step under the steady stream, turning the dial almost as warm as it will go. As I yield to the roar of white noise, I think, The problem is me? I’m not the one who just threw an iron.
My mother speaks again: He’s just a man, Amanda. They get angry. It’s normal.
And then, from somewhere deep inside me, another voice: Normal people don’t try to hurt their wives. Normal people don’t destroy the ones they love. Nothing about this is normal.
By the time the water turns cool, I find my footing. I take my time getting dressed. Then I exhale and I re-press his shirt, smoothing the lines that triggered his outrage.
The hole in the wall reminds me how close he came to hurting me. How many times have I warned a client about the dangers of domestic violence? How many times have I sat in my office listening to stories like this one, wondering why in the world a woman would stay in such a relationship? How did I end up in this situation?
I bring the shirt to the living room. Carl has returned to sit in his favorite chair and watch the morning news. Now that things are calm, I try again to communicate. Don’t show emotion. Don’t go too deep.
“Can’t you understand? It’s my responsibility, Carl. It’s the anniversary, and Beth and Preacher will be out there looking. I need to help them.”
Carl takes his shirt out of my hand with a rough tug, but speaks with a quieter tone now. “Face it, Amanda. Sarah’s gone. All the fliers in the world aren’t going to change that. If she were still out there, someone would have found her.”
Of all the hurtful things he’s said this morning, these words throw the hardest punch.
“Mom?” Ellie grumbles into the den, rubbing her eyes. “I don’t feel like going to school today.”
Carl cuts her a look, now taking his anxiety out on her, something he’s never done. “What’s new? Nobody wants to go to work. Nobody wants to go to school. Why don’t we all just call it quits? Life’s too hard.”
The bite in his voice is too much. He knows today is the anniversary. Even Carl can’t be this cold. To me, yes, but never to Ellie. Mom speaks again: Maybe he’s just tired. Three night shifts at the plant would wear on anyone. Don’t react, Amanda. He can’t process emotions the way you do. He’s stressed. It comes out as anger.
I hold back my words and move to feel Ellie’s forehead, pressing the back of my palm under her long brown bangs. “No fever.” Then I kiss her, a motherly peck to offer compassion and care.
“You’re going to school, Ellie,” Carl says sharply.
I try to ease the blow. “You have the haunted house fund-raiser. Only two more nights of it. Then Halloween. If you miss today, you won’t be allowed to participate.” I turn to Carl. “Ellie’s been helping her theater group raise money for their summer competition in New York. Remember?”
“Of course I remember, Amanda. You think you’re the only one who knows what’s going on around here?” Such hate in his voice. He gives me his death glare. The one that reminds me to stay in my place. I cast my gaze toward Ellie, trying not to shake the boat.
Still in her pajamas, she eyes me, half listening, so I take advantage of her attention while I’ve got it. “You’ve been working so hard on the set. Who will be the Grim Reaper if you don’t show up?”
She shrugs, struggling to care about the haunted house today no matter how much fun it will be. I move to the kitchen and pull canisters from the pantry, trying to maintain a normal life for my daughter. “Pancakes?”
She nods sluggishly while Carl switches off the TV and heads to the shower.
I heat the griddle and whip up a batch of batter, finally able to breathe now that he’s left the room. What do I really have to complain about? Beth would trade places with me in a second.
It’s times like this I am hit with the unfairness of it all. Not only that Beth’s daughter is missing, but that Sarah was her only child. Beth suffered two miscarriages right alongside my own. Our lives ran parallel in nearly every way imaginable, until The Day. When my daughter returned from the restroom and her daughter did not.
“Can I go with you?” Ellie fumbles with a newly printed stack of fliers on the counter.
I whisk a half-dozen eggs in a glass bowl. “I’ll be going to some pretty rough places.”
Ellie holds one of the fliers in her hand, tracing the colored photos with the tip of her finger. One shows Sarah at age twelve, how she looked when she went missing. The other is an age-progression image, portraying how she might look today at thirteen. Beneath the pictures we’ve printed a toll-free number, still hoping someone may call with all the right information.
I have no words to soothe my daughter’s aching spirit. Her pain is as real as my own. There’s only one way to make it better. Bring Sarah home. In the meantime, I serve Ellie a warm batch
of buttered pancakes and pass her the maple syrup. I’m dashing salt and pepper into the scrambled eggs by the time Carl comes back to the kitchen, freshly showered.
“You used all the hot water.”
I don’t reply. Instead, I scoop eggs onto a plate and add a stack of pancakes, handing it off to him as he sits next to Ellie at the counter. He shoves the fliers out of his way and says nothing. I pass him some silverware and pour his coffee, stir in some sugar. He stays silent.
As soon as he finishes his breakfast, he announces, “I’m going to bed. One of us actually works around here.”
“Carl?” He waits as if it’s the biggest inconvenience of his life. “It’s a hard day. For all of us. Listen, please. Since you’ve been working the night shift, we do well to cross paths at all. Why don’t you call me when you wake up, and I’ll come home. Maybe we can do a late lunch before you head back. Talk some things through.”
He grumbles something I can’t hear and then closes the bedroom door behind him, not bothering to kiss me good-bye.
Ellie and I continue our morning routine and head out for the day. By the time I turn into the carpool line at the middle school, the cheerleaders are holding spirit signs at the entrance, sharing enthusiastic grins as they try to boost excitement about tonight’s big game.
“I still can’t believe you’re a teenager.” I touch Ellie’s long, soft curls and she retracts.
Leaning her head against the passenger-side window, she stares at the cheerleaders, who giggle and wave near our car. “I wonder if Sarah is in school somewhere.” She speaks from a haunted place, as if the weight of the world rests on her tongue.
Second-guessing Carl’s insistence on sending her to school today, I inch the car closer to the drop-off point and offer an alternative. “Maybe we should have a mother-daughter day. Spend time together, just the two of us.”
“We’re already here. I might as well go.”
I touch her knee. “Ellie?” I wait for her to look my way. “I know I’ve said this so many times, but you need to know—what happened to Sarah is not your fault.”
She sighs and turns back to stare out the window.
“Remember what all the counselors have said. And your grief group. It’s normal to be feeling overwhelmed, even after a year. Especially on days like today, the anniversary. But it’s not always this bad, right?”
She doesn’t respond.
“Ellie?” I try again to get through. “We may never understand what happened to Sarah. But it had nothing to do with you. And to be honest, I have often wondered . . . what if you had been with Sarah when it happened? What if we were out there looking for you too?”
She turns now and looks me in the eye. Every inch of her is drawn down, depressed. “Don’t you get it, Mom? I wish it had been me.”
Her words gnaw at my bones. “Ellie, listen to me. I couldn’t make it through a single day if something happened to you. I really don’t know how Beth and Preacher manage. I don’t have that kind of strength.”
“And I don’t have this kind of strength.”
“Oh, Ellie. Honey. You do. You are stronger than you think.”
“No, Mom. I’m not. I hate this. I hate that Sarah’s gone. I hate that I’m still here. And I hate that everybody blames me.”
“Nobody blames you, Ellie. Nobody. I assure you.”
“You don’t see the way they look at me, Mom. Like it’s all my fault.”
“Who looks at you like that? Everybody loves you, Ellie. You have tons of friends. The entire town has supported you. Nobody blames you at all. I promise.” It’s time for Ellie to get out of the car, but I’m not ready for her to leave. Not like this.
“Whatever,” she says, opening the door and grabbing her heavy backpack from the floorboard. “I’m staying late for haunted house, remember?”
“Okay, sweetie.” I smile through my worry. “What time should I pick you up? Seven?”
“Seven thirty.” With this she closes the door and makes her way through the crowd. Several girls rush to join her, tucking in at her side. If only she could feel how loved she really is. I don’t know how to help her see that. I pull my car to the side and watch her weave her way through the world, wishing more than anything I could ease her pain.
Chapter 17
BEFORE I HEAD TO THE OFFICE, I PULL INTO THE OLD FINA STATION to refill my tank and give Beth a call. Once upon a time we were meeting here as teens, trading cigarettes and wine coolers, chasing Carl and his older friends. Beth served as the designated driver and constant lookout to ensure we wouldn’t be caught. Now a long blank space spreads between Beth and me. No matter how many times she and Preacher insist they don’t blame me for what happened to Sarah, I blame myself.
She answers on the second ring, and I speak with a soft voice, acknowledging the weight of today’s anniversary. “Beth? I’ve got an eight-thirty client, but I’ve cleared my schedule for the rest of the day. I’ll be heading out with fliers. I just wanted to see if you might want to go with me? Or we can go for a walk? Grab some coffee? Anything you need.”
“Thanks, Amanda.”
There’s a pause, and I’m not sure how to fill it. If either of us speaks, we may burst into tears. So we steep in the silence until Beth takes the lead. She tells me their plans for the day include a few television interviews.
“We’ve just finished the local morning shows. We’re trying to keep Sarah’s pictures out there so people won’t stop looking.”
“I’m glad they’re giving you air time.”
“We go in to talk about trafficking. No matter how much we hate it, we’ve been given this platform. We’re trying to make the most of it. Even if it doesn’t bring Sarah back to us, maybe we can at least help other missing children.”
I take a deep breath. My lungs fill with the harsh fumes of gasoline.
“You think she’s being exploited?”
“It’s a possibility,” Beth says. “Preacher’s convinced.”
“I’ll target the typical hot spots again today. I keep thinking there’s something we’re not seeing. Something right in front of our eyes.”
“Thanks, Amanda. As soon as we finish up here, we plan to spend the afternoon out at Jay’s camp. Just the two of us.”
“I’m sorry, Beth. I’d do anything to fix this. To bring her home.”
As I say the words fix this, Carl’s criticisms come rushing back, and my hands begin to shake. What if he’s right? What if what they really need is for me to leave them alone? I set the fuel pump and clasp my hands together. The chemical scent clings to my fingers.
“We don’t blame you, Amanda. We really don’t. It’s . . . it’s all too hard.” Her sigh lasts longer than any I’ve ever heard. For the first time since The Day, I sense she is losing her final bit of faith.
We end the call, and I cap my tank just as Jay pulls his truck to the opposite side of my pump. He smiles and exits the cab. “You still fill up at the Fina? Who does that?”
“Too sentimental for my own good.”
“Yep. Loyal to a fault.” He laughs. “Where are you headed?”
“Work.” We talk around fumes as cars rush by. “Just one client. Then off to post more fliers. It’s been a year. Today.”
“I know,” he says. “You holding up?”
“Ehhh. What choice do we have?”
“Right.”
I move to his side of the pump. “How did you get through those days, when we all relied on you to be the strong one?”
“Somebody’s got to do it.” He shines his trademark grin, a bit of a crooked hook to the right corner, with the kind of perfect white teeth that make every girl dream of being kissed.
“I’m serious. It has to get to you.”
“Of course it does, Gloopy. Just don’t tell anybody.” Another smile. As Raelynn likes to say, Prince Charming has nothing on this man. But I’m not one of the many who fall for that charm. I’m his friend. He can’t butter his way through truth with me.
> “Jay,” I challenge.
“Gloopy.” He slides his credit card into the machine, selects his fuel, and begins to pump.
“Get real.”
He pulls back a second before lowering his guard. “Okay. Truth is, I learned it the hard way. Right after I was elected. One of the worst things I ever had to do. I had gone out to a wreck scene. One of my deputies was killed. Remember?”
I nod. I do.
“I had just hired him. He wasn’t on duty when it happened, but still. I felt responsible. Having to go to his house and tell his wife. She was standing there, pregnant, holding another kid on her hip. All of twenty-two years old.”
“Horrible.”
“It was.” He returns his debit card to his wallet and leans against his truck. It’s shiny clean, with a fresh coat of wax.
He doesn’t mention his own similar heartache. I can still picture Jay’s beautiful blond fiancée, Riley. She was a girl he’d met in college. He’d brought her home a couple times from Lafayette, once to announce their engagement. Her death was awful. Those invitations all stamped and ready to mail, strewn across the highway from the crash. There’s no doubt, delivering that kind of news to his deputy’s wife brought it all to the surface for him. But I don’t mention Riley. And neither does he.
“So I figured I sure wasn’t going to last long in this job like that. I had to learn right then and there. When it starts to get the best of me, I walk away. Separate from it. If I need to cry, I go off and cry. And then I come back and take charge again.”
He opens up to me and I listen. In all my years counseling families, I’ve never heard a man be so honest about his emotions. Not here in Livingston Parish, where boys are taught to be solid, tough, almost brutal. And yet here’s the strongest man in all of LP telling me he cries. And he owns it.
“It’s like my grandfather always said, somebody’s got to be the leader. That’s what I was hired to be. But how am I supposed to help anybody if I’m a wreck myself? Simple as that.”
The Feathered Bone Page 16
