The Feathered Bone

by Julie Cantrell

  Within twenty minutes the boys are back under the carport cleaning the batch of fish they’ve pulled from the river. They work the filet knives as Raelynn’s house fills with women oohing and ahhing over her new hairdo.

  Another friend shows off her latest pair of heels. I recall the shoe-box lesson I’ve used with my clients, teaching them to compartmentalize their pain. Now I’m on the other side of the trauma, and it’s not always easy to “keep it somewhere.”

  Just count the dots on the dice, Amanda. Don’t let your mind roam. Count.

  We’re barely five minutes into the game when the first “Bunco!” is yelled out across the room. While I mark the winner down for a prize, Raelynn nudges my buzzing cell phone. Beth’s name is on the screen.

  “Amanda, you have a minute?”

  “Of course. You okay?” I step outside to escape the loud chatter.

  From inside Raelynn’s living room, the light slants yellow through bent aluminum blinds, reminding me of an old Emily Dickinson poem about winter: Heavenly hurt it gives us. We can find no scar. I used to read poetry aloud when Ellie was young. The cadence of the language seemed to soothe her. Those old verses tumble to the surface sometimes, usually when I least expect them.

  “They found her, Amanda!” Beth’s voice cracks as she tells me that after four long years of an agonizing search, Sarah has been found.

  Beneath the amber glow of porch lights, my mind flashes a million different reactions. “They found . . . they found Sarah?”

  “Yes! She’s alive!” Beth sounds as if she can barely believe it herself.

  My mind races. “Where is she?”

  “She’s okay. That’s all that matters.” Beth tries to reassure me, but I get the sense she’s reassuring herself too. “Listen, they’ve got her up at Jay’s office. Preacher’s driving us there right now. We just wanted to be the first to tell you.”

  “I can’t believe it.” I brush my fingers across the rough surface of the bricks. Am I dreaming? Sarah has been found? Alive? “Where has she been, Beth?” Breathe, Amanda. Breathe.

  “We don’t know much yet. One thing’s for sure. God’s hand is in this. He brought her home.”

  A silence falls between us. Unlike Beth, I struggle to understand God’s “hand” in all of this. How he let Sarah go missing in the first place, how he allowed my Ellie to pay for it. “How can I help?” I stand straighter, eager for instructions.

  “Well, for now I can think of only one request.”

  “Anything. Anything at all.”

  She sighs. “We don’t want the press to get hold of this. Not yet. So try to keep it quiet if you can.”

  I look through the window into Raelynn’s lively living room. “You mean Raelynn?”

  “I mean Raelynn.” Cliché as it sounds, Beth reminds me how people in town joke that there are three good ways to send a message: telephone, telegram, or tell-a-Raelynn.

  “I’m at her house now—Bunco.”

  Beth sighs.

  “Don’t worry. I’m on my way.” Then I hurry to catch her before she hangs up the phone. “Beth?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m just so glad . . . I mean . . .” With this, the walls within me break. I begin to cry, and I cannot finish my sentence.

  Beth listens patiently. I struggle to find words.

  “I know, Amanda. I know.” Then she adds, “What am I thinking? Absolute truth. Absolute trust. Go tell Raelynn.”

  I exhale and rush to find the third arm of our fleur-de-lis. Despite it all, we are still the three amies.

  “It’s hard to believe. Four years.” Raelynn drives us to Jay’s office in Livingston as I try to imagine what Sarah has survived. “Wonder what she’ll be like?” Raelynn slings my thoughts through the air.

  It’s clear we are both trying to picture the innocent, kindhearted little girl who vanished all those years ago.

  “She was twelve when we last saw her.” That means she’s sixteen now. Same age Ellie would be today if somehow I could bring her back to me.

  One second on the clock. That’s what haunts me most. The irreverence of time. If I had not collapsed into bed during the news that night, and instead had gone to Ellie’s room for a third time to wish her sweet dreams and remind her to say her prayers, I might have seen the gun before she pulled the trigger. I might have been able to stop her from believing her life was no longer worth the effort.

  The what-ifs have stalked me for years, carving their way into every hour.

  “All this time, I figured she was dead,” Raelynn whispers, bringing me back from my own tragedy to Sarah’s. It’s what most of the townspeople have assumed. That Sarah had somehow fallen into the Mississippi. That the waters were simply too swift for her body to be found. That alligators and snapping turtles had discovered her, and that her bones had settled deep beneath the mud, waiting for the river to reveal those secrets in its own slow time.

  Raelynn drums the steering wheel nervously while she drives. “I didn’t want to believe the worst. None of us did.”

  “I don’t know, Raelynn. What if this is worse?”

  With a long sigh, she reaches for my hand. “I know you’d give anything to have Ellie back.”

  The thought leaves me aching deep inside. Would I want Ellie back at any price? Would I trade places with Beth right this instant if I had the chance? I pull my hand back and rub my temples.

  “Maybe I’m wrong to wish it, Raelynn, but I do. I wish I had my Ellie in that room right now. I mean, it’s not that I would want her to have suffered.”

  Raelynn stays quiet. I keep talking. “All that matters is Sarah’s alive. She’s here. And now she’ll be safe.”

  I speak as if I’m trying to convince myself. “But honestly, I’m scared to see her, Raelynn. What will she say to me? After all these years?”

  I’m gone again, fighting the familiar spiral. Sarah’s disappearance, Carl’s abandonment, Ellie’s suicide. The events whirl into a mix of unfinished sufferings, my own inner storm. No matter how hard I try to put it in frame, to sequence the hurt into rational pieces and line it all up behind me, the story is still being written. Here. In the now.

  Jay greets us outside his office, waving us toward the back of the archaic three-story courthouse that holds the sheriff’s department. Weaving through the maze of historic hallways, he calls out his youngest deputy as the hero. “It was luck, really, and good work on Dex’s part.”

  “Just doing my job.” Dex shrugs off the praise. His rookie nerves are apparent as he tries a little too hard to look me in the eye. The poor guy is barely out of school, and I fear this entire experience could be too much for him. He knew both Sarah and Ellie from church. Back when he was a kid, he placed one of those store-bought lemon-flavored daisy cookies on Ellie’s tiny finger, told her it was a ring, and swore he’d marry her one day. She was just a preschooler, and he was trying to be big and make her laugh. By the way he shuffles his feet now, I’ve got a hunch I may not be the only one remembering that playful promise. She dipped the ring in red Kool-Aid before enjoying every bite.

  “Sheriff was always talking about Sarah. Insisting we keep our eyes open all the time.” Dex gives Jay the credit. “He kept her photos on the boards, made sure she stayed on the Crime Stoppers list, all that. We had those age-progression pictures too, and that’s actually what she looked like when I found her. That stuff really works.”

  Jay takes a sip of coffee. “I always emphasized that if Sarah was still missing, other girls were too. Maybe not from here in LP, but from somewhere.” He leads us down the hall toward his office where Sarah is waiting with Beth and Preacher. “I made it a point to train my guys to watch for it. Young girls with older men. Stories that didn’t add up. Teens hanging out at hotels, truck stops. That kind of thing. We did those cyberstings too, posing as underage kids online. You know all this.”

  I nod. “So is that what happened? You found her online?”

  Dex shakes his head. “Routine traffic
stop. That’s all it took.”

  “Speeding?”

  “No, ma’am,” he says. “Broken taillight.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Jay offers his quick, matter-of-fact chin dip. Sheriff-speak for I kid you not. He continues to fill us in as we near his office. “But anybody can pull a car over for a broken taillight. The difference is, Dex was observant. He had a hunch something wasn’t right, and he had the sense to pull Sarah off to the side to question her. If he hadn’t done that, she’d probably still be in that truck.”

  “She didn’t want to tell me who she was,” Dex says. “I had to ask her five times. I kept trying to assure her she was safe, that she wasn’t in trouble. But even then, she kept saying her name was Holly. So I told her how we used to go to church together. That the whole town had been looking for her. I said her parents loved her very much and that they’d kept her picture on TV, even after all these years. She started crying. That’s when she looked at me and said, ‘My name is Sarah Broussard.’ ”

  The questions rise so fast. I want to know everything. “Trafficking?” I look at Jay, and he confirms our worst fears.

  “From what we know so far, she was kept in a small room at first,” he explains. “A shed. Down in Chalmette. Then it seems they moved up to Hammond. Apparently to escape Katrina. Good thing.”

  “Hammond?” My breath leaves me. “She’s been thirty minutes from home?” Thirty minutes. How many times have we searched Hammond, posting fliers, sharing Sarah’s photo, knocking on doors? Was this a house we visited by any chance? Had Sarah been there—right on the other side of the door?

  “We’re taking it slow,” Jay continues. “Don’t want to push her too fast, but we’re eager to get our hands on anyone involved before they run. I need you to help us, Gloopy.”

  I’m still the forensic interviewer on contract with the sheriff’s department, called in to investigate child abuse cases. But when I went through all that training, I never imagined I’d have to use these skills to help someone I loved.

  I try to hide my hesitancy. “Of course. Anything you need.” Fear swells within me. “But she may not want to see me, Jay. I’m the one . . . I’m . . . It was all my fault.”

  I have expected Sarah to be irate, perhaps with signs of drug abuse or visible scars. But instead, we open Jay’s office door to find her sitting quietly between Beth and Preacher. Her hair is dyed black, clipped short and clean. She wears a heavy dose of makeup and she’s got a row of earrings on both ears. Other than that, she looks no different from any other sixteen-year-old girl in our town.

  She seems reserved, staying in place on the office sofa. “Ms. Amanda?”

  Her voice is soft, still childlike in a way. I glance at Jay, whose steady look reminds me to stay strong. As much as I thought I was ready for this, I’m not sure I can handle it now that I am here with Sarah. Nothing I say will erase her suffering. Nothing I do will make up for the lost years.

  But I try.

  “Sarah—” I move closer. She doesn’t reach for me, so I give a gentle glance instead of a hug. Four long years I have imagined this moment, planning what I would say, but now that we’re really here together in the same room, words won’t come.

  “I’m sorry about Ellie.” Sarah’s voice quakes.

  I shake my head and reach for her hand. She doesn’t retract, as I fear. Instead, she takes mine in hers and squeezes it tightly. I don’t look at Jay this time. Or anyone else in the room. I say what I came here to say. To Sarah.

  “I’m the one who is sorry, Sarah. I’m sorry for all of it. I’m sorry I didn’t stay right with you and Ellie that day. I’ve relived it a million times, and there’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have let you out of my sight. Not for a second.”

  “You didn’t.” Sarah smiles now. It’s sincere. “We had to beg you to let us go to the bathroom without you hovering over us. Don’t you remember us calling you a helicopter?”

  Her words begin to heal wounds in me I thought would never mend. I speak a little slower as a calm moves through me. I want to hear her say it again. And again. Forgiveness. Relief. “I hope you know how hard I looked for you.”

  “I know.”

  “I searched and searched, but I couldn’t find you. Looked everywhere, asking if anyone had seen you.”

  Sarah, still dry-eyed, stands and pulls me into her arms. “It’s not your fault, Ms. Amanda.” My entire body reacts. Then she says it again. “It’s not your fault.”

  No matter how many times other people have said these words to me, it is different coming from Sarah. Years of dammed-up guilt and shame come bursting through like floodwaters.

  Sarah looks me in the eyes. The child-blue innocence is gone, but her gaze still holds true. “You told me to stay with Ellie, remember? I knew better than to go with a stranger, but I followed her anyway. Bridgette. She said Miss Henderson had chosen me to be her helper. I had to put on the costume and go with her. To be in her show, out in the street. She told me not to let anybody know I was under that costume because we would surprise everybody at the end of the skit. You see, Ms. Amanda? It wasn’t your fault. It was mine. She tricked me. I followed her. And by the time I realized she was lying, it was too late.”

  Now she falls back onto the sofa, curling in close next to Beth and placing her head on Preacher’s shoulder. It’s clear their daughter is caught in a strange space, some stratum that exists for those who grow up too fast. She’s become a sort of woman-child. A minute ago I was listening to a young woman, wise beyond her years. And now she’s a sixth-grade girl again, in need of a mother, a father, and a belief that the world is a good and happy place. She doesn’t yet know where she stands.

  “Sarah,” I whisper. “We’re all here with you. You’re not alone.”

  Chapter 29

  Sunday, November 9, 2008

  WE’RE SEATED IN FRONT OF THE SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT. A ROW OF reporters record the impromptu press conference. When Jay moves front and center, the eager crowd falls silent. He confirms the fact that Dex rescued Sarah during a routine traffic violation, and he guarantees that every measure will be taken to investigate this case further so as to expose all those involved in criminal activity.

  Then Preacher takes the spotlight, and the questions begin to flow. “Mr. Broussard, is it true Sarah has been rescued?”

  “Yes, our girl is home! We sure are grateful for all of you who helped us look for Sarah.”

  “Will she be going through any kind of therapy? Rehab?”

  “We’re already working with professional counselors. We’re taking this one day at a time. Of course Beth and I will do anything Sarah needs. Anything to help her recover.”

  “Is she planning to go back to school? Normal life?”

  “Right now we want to give her some quiet rest. A safe place to heal. We’ll reevaluate in a month or so, see what she’s ready for at that time.”

  “We’re told she was held captive and sold into prostitution. Is that true?”

  I want to pull this guy’s professional license, if there is such a thing.

  Preacher gives the man a disappointed glare, and a few reporters shuffle uncomfortably. It’s their job to ask the hard questions. Preacher handles it well. “The case is still under investigation. We can’t share any details at this time.”

  “Anything else you want to say, Mr. Broussard?”

  Preacher hesitates, then adds one final thought. “Yes. Again, we thank everyone who has worked so hard to bring our daughter home to us. Take this as proof. Miracles do happen.”

  Preacher and Beth have decided to take Sarah home, but Jay asks me to stick around to help him sort through the evidence. As he leads me back into the building, we both reach for the door, resulting in one of those awkward situations where I don’t know if I should let go or not.

  “Would it kill you to let somebody take care of you every now and then?”

  Every cell in my body turns to velvet, and my heart folds in on itself. After al
l these years of trying to take care of everybody else, determined to stay strong and independent, I turn to mush the moment Jay says these words. There’s no more denying the truth.

  When it comes down to it, I do want someone to take care of me every now and then. Sometimes I want nothing more than to roll my head against a strong shoulder, wrap into somebody’s safe arms, and let the worries of the world fall away, even if only for a minute or two. I’m tired of doing it by myself. It’s all I can do not to say, “Yes, please, Jay, take care of me. Take care of me and I’ll take care of you and we’ll shelter each other. Now. Forever. Forget the just-friends arrangement. I’ll stick with you.”

  But of course I don’t say anything of the sort. Instead, I force myself to snap out of it, killing the theme music that is streaming through my mind. If there’s anything Ellie taught me, it’s that happy is a myth. And that includes happy-ever-after, no matter how much Viv wants a fantasy ending for this brown-eyed girl. As Jay waits for me to enter, I step against the door and insist he go first.

  “The last thing I need is a man to take care of me,” I declare. “I tried that once. Look where it got me.”

  Jay retreats with a sigh. “Amanda, maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I’m tired of holding it back.”

  I can’t bring myself to look at him.

  “Everybody knows Carl wasn’t good to you, but that doesn’t mean somebody else wouldn’t be.”

  Suddenly my body feels as if it belongs somewhere else. What to make of those words? Is Jay suggesting he would be good to me?

  I don’t know how to answer, so I choose the safest route—silence. When I don’t reply, Jay heads toward his office and I follow. At the entrance, he puts his hand on my back to guide me into the room. Despite my resistance, the warmth of his touch sends a hum through my bones unlike any I’ve ever known. Never once has Jay’s hand caused me to flinch or fear, but right now it does more than comfort me. It ignites me.

  I don’t quite know how to absorb such a gentle touch. I move away.

  He drops a stack of spiral notebooks onto his desk and says, “Read these.” Each is wide-ruled with water stains and tattered edges. The colors range from green to blue to orange, with scribbles and doodles sketched across the cardboard covers.