“I guess I can’t help thinking that if Carl was home . . . if our family was intact . . . then maybe she would feel a little more protected or something. She must not even feel safe at home now—the one place she should never be afraid.”
“Have you met with an attorney yet? About the divorce?”
“Oh, Viv. Come on.” I blow on my tea again, then stir it with a spoon, adding a little lemon. “Let’s get happy. You still dating that fireman? Mr. Hottie?”
She laughs. “So corny.”
“That’s me!” I head to my office and she follows.
“Seriously, Amanda. If Carl’s really going through with this divorce thing, you need to be careful. I’m sorry, but I have to ask. He can’t touch the business account, can he?”
I take a seat and she does too.
“No worries. I’m sure the business is off-limits.”
“That’s what the attorney says?”
“Well, I haven’t actually talked to an attorney, but Carl’s name isn’t on this account. So it’s safe. Don’t worry. He wouldn’t do that anyway.”
Viv gives me a look of disbelief. “You have got to see an attorney, Amanda. Please. I don’t put anything past Carl at this point. I hate to sound cold, but I have to protect our clinic. This is my business too. He’s already opened his own accounts, transferred money without asking you. If you don’t call a lawyer, I will.”
“Honestly, Viv, I just keep thinking he’ll wake up. He can’t seriously want to marry that girl. She’s young enough to be his daughter. She was four years old the day we said our vows.”
“See why I don’t put anything past him?” She sits back now, settling into the plush chair. “What makes you think he’s really going to change, Amanda? Has he given you any indication of that? In any way at all?”
I rearrange papers on my desk and lock my purse in the bottom drawer. “I don’t know. Yeah. He still says he wants to come back. And that he loves me. This just isn’t like him. If I can give him enough time.”
“Time?” Viv scoffs. “He moved out nearly a year ago.”
“Yeah, but he’s moved back in a few times since then.”
“For what, a week? Two at most?”
“I know.” We both turn our attention out the window, where my first client is parking her car in the lot. “It’s not the typical situation, Viv. This whole thing with Sarah. It’s been really hard on all of us. I still can’t seem to get past it. My mind is never fully with Carl. I’m a million miles away most days, reliving it all, trying to find the clue we aren’t seeing. And before that I was taking care of Mom through all her treatments. Hospice. Then her death. I wasn’t the wife I needed to be.”
“I don’t feel sorry for Carl. You’ve always been there for him, for everything he needed. And he left you at a time when you needed him most. Not okay.”
I grab the file for my nine o’clock session. “It isn’t that simple, Viv. I left him too. Maybe not physically. But mentally, emotionally. It’s not all that different really. What’s important is that we have Ellie. And she needs us to be together. I have to believe it will all work out. So I’m sorry, but I’m not meeting with an attorney. I’m trying, with all I have in me, to save my family. That’s all I can do.”
“My blazing-hot fireman has a friend, you know.” She stands and lifts her eyebrows as if she’s waiting for an answer.
I shoo her out of my office, rolling my eyes.
“He’s divorced. No kids. Wife simply wanted more money. Left him for a surgeon in Baton Rouge.”
“I’ve got a new client. Need to get a few things together.” I close the door, ignoring her prompts about the fireman.
“Don’t forget,” she hollers through the door. “Getting my hair done after lunch. Lock up when you go to carpool. If you have any trouble, call 911! He’s a first responder.” Her laughter follows her trail as she goes to begin her day.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
It’s been two years since Sarah disappeared, and I’ve spent another anniversary of The Day looking for answers. The digital numbers glow red from my nightstand: 10:07 p.m. Another day in which I have not been able to give Beth, Preacher, or Ellie what we all need most—Sarah.
I set my alarm early for tomorrow morning, having packed my schedule with clients to make up for today’s search. Then I head across the hall to give Ellie one more kiss good night. She rolls her eyes and says, “Mom, seriously?”
“I know, I know,” I tell her. “You’re getting too old for this. But I’m going to steal as many kisses as I can, as long as you’ll let me.” I brush her hair from her shoulders and pull her into a hug before planting a final kiss on top of her head. She smells like jasmine bubble bath, one of the birthday gifts we gave her in September when she turned fourteen.
“I loved going through the haunted house rehearsal tonight. It’s a lot scarier than I thought it’d be. So much fun!”
“We messed up. You’d think we’d know how to do it. Three years of the same old thing.”
“Seemed perfect to me. Thanks for letting me come.”
She stares at the ceiling and doesn’t respond.
“How’d you get all that makeup off? I could barely recognize you, especially with the black lights. You were glowing.”
“It wasn’t hard.” She’s obviously in no mood for chitchat, so I tuck her in beneath her bright new turquoise comforter, another birthday gift she received as I helped her redecorate with a more mature theme. The pastel décor was no longer cutting it. I switch off the overhead light, but she keeps the lamp on to read.
“Still obsessed with John Green?” I ask as she leans to pull Looking for Alaska from her bedside shelf.
“He’s my favorite.” She settles against her pillow and opens the book. “Mom?” She catches me watching her, thinking how thankful I am that she wasn’t kidnapped along with Sarah that day.
She shifts for emphasis and repeats, “Mom?” This time, a genuine question. “I know I’m supposed to believe she’s coming back. That we’ll find her. But I don’t believe that anymore. Dad might be right. What if Sarah’s gone for good?”
I listen, wishing I had answers.
“In a way, I kind of think I might be gone for good too. None of us came back from New Orleans, did we? We all got lost that day.”
“I know it feels that way sometimes, honey. But we’re here. And Sarah is too. Somewhere. It’s only a matter of time before we find her. I believe that.”
She gives me the saddest look I’ve ever seen. A long, deep stare, as if I’ll never understand anything.
“I love you, Ellie. From the sky to the mud.” It’s what she used to say when she was little. “I wouldn’t change one single thing about you. And even if you weren’t my daughter, I’d think you were the coolest person I’ve ever known.”
“I love you more.” She says this as if she’s never told me before. As if it’s the last time she’ll ever say it.
I close her door, grateful to have her home. Safe.
After finishing the supper dishes, I settle into bed alone and listen to the evening news. On my dresser, the divorce papers sit waiting for ink, but I still can’t bring myself to sign them. No matter how long Carl is gone, I can’t get used to this empty bed.
As the anchorman breaks for a commercial, I hit Mute and turn my attention to the Baton Rouge Advocate, which still waits wrapped in a rubber band from the daily delivery. I’ve just popped the elastic beyond the paper edge when I hear a strange sound from Ellie’s room. Almost as if she has kicked an empty cardboard box. As soon as I hear it, a fire spreads through my veins and I know. Somehow I know she has done no such thing.
I drop the paper on my bed and run to Ellie’s room, calling her name. I open her door. My knees buckle. My voice scrapes across tense vocal folds, barely catching wind. “Ellie! No!”
My daughter is still in bed, but she has changed positions since I tucked her in. Her limp legs now dangle across the side of the mattress, and blood
soaks the fabric. Carl’s hunting shotgun leans against her chest, one of the few things he left behind and the one thing I begged him to take.
For a split second, Ellie seems to be smiling. Some part of my brain wants to believe it is a cruel joke. That she’s poured ketchup on her sheets and is testing out a costume for the haunted house fund-raiser. That has to be the explanation. “Ellie,” I say sternly. “Sit up. It’s not funny.” I can’t bring myself to step closer.
I try to get my bearings, looking across the room to anchor myself to some specific place and time. Splattered around her newly painted walls, splashed across her favorite pen-and-ink sketches, and caught between the woven carpet fibers are tiny pieces of my daughter’s brilliant brain, bloody strands of her beautiful brown curls. Her entire life, shattered into fragments, breaking all the promises we made—that we would always be here for each other, no matter the pain.
“Ellie!” I scream now, falling against her bed, grabbing her arm. Girls don’t use guns. Especially Ellie. She hated guns. This isn’t how this happens. This can’t be real.
The smell of death consumes me, its ancient, acrid attack burning a hole right through me. “No. No! No, no, no . . .” My daughter, my beautiful, beloved daughter.
Somehow I will myself to call Carl. My fingers are numb and I can’t feel the phone. I move to use the landline, but even with the larger buttons it takes four tries before I’m able to dial the right number. He answers by saying my name with hostility, aggravated I am bothering him.
“Carl . . .” I can barely talk. “It’s Ellie.”
“What? What’s wrong with Ellie?” His tone shifts to concern. “Where are you?”
“Home. Come, Carl, hurry.”
“Is she okay?”
“No. Please hurry.” These are the only words I can form. My brain refuses to shape facts into sentences. Saying the sounds would make death real. And more than anything, I don’t want it to be real.
“What happened, Amanda? Tell me!”
Carl needs more. I owe him that.
“She . . . shot . . . your gun.” I can’t do it. I can’t tell my husband our daughter is dead.
“Is she alive, Amanda? Tell me, is Ellie alive?”
“No.”
I hold the phone to my ear long after Carl has disconnected the call. A loud buzz tone breaks through, pulling me from the distant haze of shock. I shake my head and try to gather my wits. I struggle to dial 911.
Then I call Raelynn. She calls Beth, Preacher, and Jay. Within minutes, my house is filled with first responders, police officers, the coroner, our pastor, friends.
I feel only fear. I hear shattered sounds. Syllables bounce around me, out of sync. Nothing makes sense. Everything is broken. The words, the room, my world. All broken.
When Raelynn puts her arm around me, I break too. Beth catches me as I fall, pulling me to the sofa to ease me against the faded cushions. She is here with Preacher, whispering something I can’t quite make out. She holds me close, passing me a tiny blue pill and a plastic glass of water. “Take this. It’s from my doctor. It’ll help.”
The pill lands on my tongue, hard and small against the roof of my mouth. I tilt the cup to my lips, its bottom an eternal void. I want to disappear into it and never raise my head again. Into the black I go. Through silence and whispers and well-intentioned hugs and prayers, all is darkness.
A part of me has followed Ellie right out of this world, and the slender sliver of my spirit that is still alive is being pulled by the dark arms of death. A loud, horrible moan fills me. My blood becomes thick with the sound. I hear it. I feel it. I look down to see my heart pounding in my chest, throbbing against my rib cage, as if my very soul is banging to be set free.
“Where’s Carl?” I ask no one in particular. I need to see Carl. I need him here, right now.
“He’s with Jay,” Preacher says. “In the back.” He points toward Ellie’s bedroom. When I try to stand, my body stays slack against the sofa. I peel away from it. Suddenly I am in no pain at all. I am consumed by light. I float outside myself, across the living room. Am I dead?
I move without my body to Ellie’s bedroom, where Carl and Jay are tucking Ellie’s fingers into the long black plastic bag. Carl kisses her before pulling the zipper shut. His hands are covered in blood. And my heart is scarred forever.
“No!” I want to scream. “She’s my daughter! You can’t have her! Where are you taking her?”
But no words come. I’m nothing but air as the men from the funeral home move beneath me. Their black shoes march in sync. Left. Left. Left, right, left. A battalion of bizarre betrayals. A war against reason. Against all that is good in the world.
The bag is zipped, her body removed. Downward stares avoid me as I float suspended above them all. I begin to understand the truth. My daughter pulled the trigger. Ellie did this. Ellie, my only child. The one with a pitch-perfect singing voice and a laugh that could light up the night. Ellie, who rode bareback in fields of wildflowers and swore she’d never leave the mountains. Who dared to jump from the high dive at camp, ride her bike with no hands, and do a backflip on the trampoline. This beautiful spirit who called me Mom . . . she is gone. Ellie is gone.
In a flash I am outside the house, where yellow crime scene tape flaps in the wind. The men are carrying my daughter’s lifeless body out of our home. They slide her into the back of the hearse and take her away into the cool October wind.
If I were in my own skin, if I had bones and muscles and ligaments to move me, I would run full speed after the taillights. I would scream, “You can’t have her! You can’t have her! She’s my daughter. She’s mine!” But I am nothing here, above the living. Trapped in a dark realm, the in-between.
As the lights fade into the autumn night, there is a snap. I am inside my body again. Feeling it all. The noise, the pain, the weight. No, no. I don’t want to come back. Take me with her!
There’s Carl. I need you, Carl. Come be by my side, Carl. Come!
Instead, my husband walks past me as I sit on the sofa surrounded by friends and church members.
The people. Who are these people? Why are they here? Whispers and hugs. And Brother Johnson with his prayers. Disappear! Disappear!
Carl looks right through me. Can’t you see I need you? He moves to the patio, leaving the door wide open. Nothing but cold, damp air to fill his space.
Under the pergola he built for us with his own two hands, he lights a cigarette. He hasn’t smoked since high school, but now he’s bummed one from a friend and taken a long, deep inhale before sending a cloud of smoke against the carport light.
I know the truth. I know the truth. I’ll walk among the dead now. Too broken for this life.
Chapter 22
Monday, October 30, 2006
CARL SITS IN THE DRIVER’S SEAT OF OUR FAMILY CAR. I’M TO HIS right, his passenger, but we’re going nowhere. His door is open and the engine is off. “Take Beth with you. Or Raelynn. I can’t do this, Amanda. I’m sorry.”
“Carl, we have to do this. We don’t have a choice. You can’t make me go there without you.”
“Choose something nice. Simple. Don’t let them swindle you into spending a lot of extra money.” He fidgets with the keys.
“Please, Carl, don’t make me do this alone.” I barely finish my sentence before he drops the keys in my lap and leaves the car.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. Then he heads for the house.
I sit in shock for a few minutes, certain he is not really leaving me to plan our daughter’s funeral without him. When he doesn’t return, I move behind the wheel, start the engine, and head down Walker North, trying to reach Beth and Preacher.
“Beth?” I call as I drive. She responds with concern. “Carl won’t go with me to the funeral home. I can’t do this by myself.”
“Of course you shouldn’t be by yourself. I’m coming to meet you.”
“I’m driving your way now,” I explain. “I’ll be there in a few minut
es.”
By the time I turn off the highway onto Beth’s gravel driveway, she is already waiting outside, purse in hand, ready to go. “Let’s take my car. You shouldn’t be driving.”
Without resistance, I pull to the side and park in the large space made for visitors. Before The Day, the Broussard home was frequently filled with guests, either teens for youth group activities or families coming to view their famous Christmas light display. Now a weathered Merry Christmas sign rests against a pear tree. Its letters were once painted to spread holiday cheer, but that was before. Before I lost Sarah. And my husband. And now, my own child.
“Thank you,” I tell Beth. As I climb into her car, it’s all I can say.
Beth brings me to Seale Funeral Home, where she’s friends with the owners. Time has warped again, and I am immediately drawn back into the memory of planning my mother’s funeral just a few years ago. But that was different. She and I sat down together and decided every detail in advance. It was difficult, but it was nothing like this. Now, as the funeral director shows us the room filled with caskets, asking me to choose one for my daughter, it is all I can do not to scream.
“Unfortunately, my insurance doesn’t cover suicides.” I can hardly say the word. No matter how many times I’ve gone out on call with Jay, counseling survivors of suicide, I never imagined I’d be in their shoes.
The director says nothing. My insurance is not his problem. I’ll have to pay him either way.
I stare at miniature color samples for satin pillows, trying to get my brain to choose a permanent resting place for my only child. Despite his best efforts to be considerate, professional, the salesman might as well be pushing a used car. It’s clear he has never known this kind of loss. I choose something simple, with a soft cream interior. This is nothing I should have to do. Just as printing out missing-child fliers is nothing Beth should have to do. Yet here we are, the two of us, and both our girls are gone.
Next we sit at a polished wooden table with a bowl of mints in the middle. The room is cold and quiet. The man checks his calendar. “Will the services be held here or at your church?”
The Feathered Bone Page 21
