Left

by Theanna Bischoff

  Reuben’s pretty sure the family never knew about the new beau. The little sister would have said something for sure. Reuben has kept this evidence to himself all this time. And until the ex-boyfriend trips up and lets on that he knew about the new boyfriend, Reuben’s not going to leak it.

  When they found the watch, a couple of weeks ago, the sister came down to the station with her little girl to make an ID. They had matching hair, braids twisted all around their heads. The little girl wore pink rubber boots with black stars on them. She had a ring of chocolate around her mouth, like she’d just been sucking on a fudgsicle. The vic’s sister turned the plastic baggie with the watch inside over in her hands. Then back to the front. “This means she got in a car, then,” she said, monotone.

  “A truck, a grey pickup,” Reuben said. “Does that sound familiar to you?”

  The sister shook her head. “No.” She glanced over at the wall behind his desk, at the picture of the vic as a little girl sitting beside her biological mother on a piano bench. She’d tacked up the photo years earlier without asking. Reuben doesn’t want it there, but every time he goes to remove it, he gets this tingly feeling, like it’s bad luck. Plus, the sister would notice.

  Reuben doesn’t like to look into the vic’s eyes. She was definitely keeping secrets. He imagines her yanking out a chunk of her own hair, winding it around her watch, and shoving the watch under the floor-mat. She’d have to have had a moment to herself to hide this evidence, which makes Reuben think it’s the ex even more. He can’t see a stranger leaving her alone in the car; too much risk. Had to be someone she knew. She must have known he was going to hurt her. Undoubtedly, he’d hurt her before.

  He doesn’t buy the theories that she got ambushed by some stranger in town for Stampede, or by one of the construction workers in the area. Her house was too far out there in the burbs, and it was too late for any of the workers to be on the job. He doesn’t buy the theory that she ran away or killed herself, either. He leaned that way in the beginning, but not now, after so much time has passed. People who kill themselves usually get found. It’s too hard to hide your own body. Even intentionally drowning. Bodies wash ashore unless they’re weighted down.

  Reuben read all the nasty emails her father sent her, at the time, and again since the case got re-opened. Even though he’s an asshole, the father is a wildcard for guilt. Being pissed at your kid is in a different category from filicide. Plus, would he have really taken out all his stocks and savings to put up reward money if he knew his kid was dead? Not likely—the guy was, still is, such as tightwad.

  The family had given Reuben heck for his failure to solve the case, too, hired that shitty PI who retraced a few of his steps, dug up some meaningless names, then held out on them for more cash. When all was said and done, the PI ended up making Reuben look good, and Reuben didn’t even have to do anything.

  That day at the station, the sister kept turning the watch over and over in her hands, like it might look different each time she flipped it. The battery had died, leaving the screen blank. She blinked and looked up, noticed that her little girl wasn’t right beside her, started freaking out, yelling the little girl’s name. Reuben was taken aback—like, how far could the kid have gone, really? There were cops everywhere! Calm the fuck down!

  The kid popped up again right away, sidled up against her mother’s leg, stuck her thumb in her mouth. The vic’s sis picked her up and put her on her hip. Reuben doesn’t even hold the twins like this anymore, and they’re years younger than this kid. The kid squirmed a little like her mother was hurting her, holding her too tight.

  Early on, when his team found something, he’d think yes, this is it! Like the soggy, black, lipstick printed panties in a drainage ditch in Twelve Mile Coulee. Every time a lead like that went nowhere, Reuben wanted to punch himself in the face for getting his hopes up. Those panties could have been anyone’s. Teenage lovers sneaking into the coulee to fool around. Someone camping. A drifter. A prank. A totally unrelated sex crime. They couldn’t pull any DNA off them anyway. Another dead end.

  But the watch, the long dark hair…yes, her sister said, it was hers. The hair was still down in the lab, being tested against her toothbrush.

  In Reuben’s nightmares, the vic is on the ground, her ex’s hand clamped over her mouth, one of his knees on her chest, pinning her back to the cement. She thrashes under his weight, wrenches her head to the side. Her heart wrestles against her ribcage. Her lungs burn. The storm starts to creep in. The sky exhales, giving up. And then hands close around her neck. Hands that have held her and caressed her before. Hands she once trusted. Reuben feels like he’s choking, too.

  Fucking nightmares. Now, he feels dizzy as he ascends the stairs; puts a hand out to brace himself on the bannister. Upstairs, Reuben finds his little boy sitting cross-legged in his racecar bed. His son stops crying immediately when his father enters the room. He’s somehow wearing his pajama pants on his head and no bottoms; a soggy looking diaper sits, open and discarded on the other side of the room.

  “You okay, Buddy?” Reuben asks. Parenting three-year-olds is the worst hangover ever. Or this investigation is the worst hangover ever. Both together are going to kill him. When he took on the case, he was only engaged. He didn’t even want a baby yet, let alone two.

  “Hi Daddy,” his son says, grinning. The legs of his pajama pants dangle like inverted rabbit ears. “Wanna play?”

  JOSIE

  www.findnatashabell.com

  The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged. —Deuteronomy 31:8

  June 2008

  Hello blog readers and prayer warriors! We are approaching the sixth anniversary of the date Natasha was last seen. There have been recent developments in her case, including the recovery of a key piece of evidence—the Timex watch Natasha always wore, which was recovered in a grey pickup truck that had been sent to the junkyard. This discovery led to the investigation being re-opened. New searches are being scheduled. It is only a matter of time before more information comes to light. If any of you know of anything suspicious that could be related in any way to Natasha’s disappearance or to a grey pickup truck, I implore you to please report it to the authorities, no matter how trivial or unrelated you think it may be. Natasha was a beautiful, recently single woman who interacted with many different people through her job as a nurse. Furthermore, Natasha disappeared during the Calgary Stampede, a time when many tourists were in Calgary. The person responsible for this heinous crime could be a complete stranger to Natasha, but he could be your co-worker, your friend, your boyfriend, your brother. If someone you know was acting unusual during this time, or if you know anything that you even think could possibly be relevant, please come forward.

  We remain convinced that our Lord Jesus Christ will bring Natasha back to us. While statistics say that people who are abducted are often killed within the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours, there have been cases of missing people who are found after months or even years. Take, for example, the 1990s case of Stefany Beale, a nine-year-old girl from Toronto who was missing for three years, presumed dead, until she was found abducted by her biological father. Stefany was returned safely to her mother. We must not give up hope for our own happy ending.

  Sincerely,

  Josie Carey McKinnon

  ABBY

  IN THE BEGINNING, NO ONE WOULD TELL ME ANYTHING. No one would let me help look for you.

  That fall, I took Summer for walks in the fancy stroller you bought me. I loved that stroller because, inside of it, Summer faced me instead of the world. During my pregnancy, I wished that the baby would look like you. But, in all honesty, she looks mostly like Cam—fair skin, thinnish blonde hair and eyes that mottled from navy blue to hazel by her first birthday. Right after she was born, she had these tiny white bumps along her nose and cheeks, like baby pimples, and a rashy scalp. She still has dark, full lips, like she�
�s wearing lipstick all the time.

  But, as a baby, she had long fingers, like yours. A nurse who came into my hospital room to teach me how to breast-feed called them pianist’s fingers, and I remembered you teaching me how to play “Chopsticks,” remembered the picture you had framed in your room, you sitting with your mom at the piano. I started to cry. The nurse said, “I know, it hurts, doesn’t it?” by which I think she meant breast-feeding. I couldn’t wipe the tears away while holding Summer and holding my breast at the same time. Eventually the tears dried on my face, sticky and itchy, and Summer sucked angrily; my milk hadn’t come in yet. I could hear my parents arguing in the hallway, Dad saying, “She doesn’t know what she’s doing!” I couldn’t make out my mom’s response. Dad again—“I don’t care if she is eighteen. It’s not…” More mumbling. “I don’t care if he is the father!”

  The nurse was right—it did fucking hurt.

  That autumn, six years ago, Summer and I took long, rambly walks through the nearby parks, stopping to look at any discarded garbage, any bit of fabric or wind-blown plastic bag. Peering into the windows of dented Buicks and rusted station wagons, noticing which ones stayed parked in the same spot for days at a time with licence plates gone past renewal. I wrote down all the licence plates, colours, makes and models in a little notebook. At first, my parents set up camp at your house and wouldn’t let me leave, argued that maybe whoever had targeted you would come after me. Here’s the thing, though—nobody would want me. Nobody would give a shit. You were the sister that drew people in. And with Dad back at work and Mom helping Kayla with last minute wedding planning, hosting fundraisers in your honour at the country club, and dealing with the home renos they started before you went missing, no one was around to stop me from leaving the house if I damn well wanted to.

  On those walks, when Summer got cranky, we’d detour into a gas station bathroom, and I’d mix her a bottle, pinching the nipple shut and shaking to break up the clumps of powdered formula. I know—breast is best—but the swelling, the dry, cracked nipples…I just couldn’t do it anymore. My mother never breast-fed me, but I bet yours breast-fed you. Every time I mixed a bottle, I heard your voice, your logical argument, your disappointment. One more screw-up from your little sis to add to the list.

  Once Summer had her bottle, I’d buy myself some muddy coffee and we’d head back out. One time, I heard the chopping of a helicopter above, the futile sound of blades trying to rip through the sky, and I looked up, wondering whether someone in that helicopter was looking for you. Another time, I found a tarnished silver keychain abandoned in the dirt of the baseball diamond by the school on Scurfield Drive. An inch-long unicorn with a saddle, front hooves raised, tail swinging, a pole protruding down through its back affixed to a round base at the bottom and to the keychain hook at the top. A carousel horse. A single bronze key attached. What door did the key open?

  That day, Summer and I took public transit up to Greg’s parents’ house where I knew he was staying. We got lost twice because I read the bus schedule wrong and because every house in the suburbs looks the damn same. But what else did I have to do? No job, no college, Daddy footing my bills. You wanted me to be independent. Well, what was I supposed to do, Tash? What was I supposed to do without you?

  The clunky movement of the stroller boarding the bus woke Summer, and she spit out her soother and screamed, flailed her fists. A thin, older woman with grey hair and two plastic grocery bags offered to hold her. I said, “No thanks.” I unstrapped her, lifted her out, ignoring the irritated looks of the other passengers, and held her against my chest, let her do her protest cry. She knew something was wrong, too.

  I could have taken your car, but then I would have had to go back home first, and there was always the possibility I’d find my mother in the living room, although she’d been stopping by less often. I didn’t want to drive your car without music, without rocking out to ’80s tunes like we used to. My favourite was Wham’s “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” from 1984, the year I was born. I hummed the tune to Summer as we walked from the bus stop to Greg’s parents’ place, Summer clutched in my left arm, the stroller empty, propelled forward by my right—but the notes got sucked up by the wind.

  Where the hell are your CDs, by the way? Reuben swore he’d searched your car and never found them, and I searched the car on my own, and the garage, and your bedroom, and all the drawers and storage spaces in the house. Maybe you moved them somewhere, before. I remember about a month or so before you went missing you couldn’t find 1983 and you asked me if I’d borrowed it. Why would I have borrowed 1983? 1984 was my favourite. You stopped asking me about 1983 so I assumed you’d found it. Maybe you put them all somewhere different after that to make sure none of them got lost.

  When I got to Greg’s, his mom let me in, and the waterworks started immediately. She reached out her arms as though to take Summer, but I shoved the stroller at her instead. Summer’s fingers had found her mouth. I shifted her from over my shoulder to a football hold, pulled the little knit cap off her head, the one you bought her at Baby Gap, grey with tiny mouse ears.

  “Your sister saved our marriage,” Greg’s mom blubbered. What the hell was she talking about? And why should I care?

  Greg was asleep upstairs, sprawled like a corpse on his bed. I shook him roughly and pulled the keychain from my pocket. “Do you recognize this?” He had some drool crusted in the corner of his mouth and there was a little bottle of tiny white pills on the bedside table. I would have killed for some prescription relief, killed to knock back a couple shots of vodka or something. Just to put everything on pause for a couple of hours. Dad wanting to talk about your mortgage, about Cam’s visitation rights, about me moving back home. Josie’s incessant blog posts and press interviews. The fact that she always wore that too-bright T-shirt with your face distorted over her breasts, that stupid cross pendant hanging down over your ironed-on forehead. Reuben’s repeated questions, like did you own black cotton underwear with a red lipstick print pattern? Why? Had they found something? How should I know what kind of underwear you wore?

  If I was out of it for a second, though, I might forget to feed Summer, or I’d let her roll off the changing table. Accidentally put her to sleep on her stomach and let her suffocate in her crib. Or my parents would say I was an unfit mother and petition for custody. Or worse, Kayla would. Those fuckers. I didn’t even let Cam take her for an overnight until she was a year old.

  “I...what is it?” Greg took the keychain, stared at it like he was stoned. Cam and I had once skipped school and got stoned, watched The Price is Right and ate peanut butter off spoons and laughed with our sticky mouths and poked each other and said, “One dollar, Bob,” and “Remember folks, spay and neuter your pets!” Mom and Dad probably smelled the weed on me when they got home—I didn’t shower or chew gum or brush my teeth—but they didn’t say anything. Either they didn’t notice, or they didn’t care. Probably the second one.

  “I found it in the park,” I said. “Is it hers?” Summer began to fuss again, an open-mouthed hungry cry. Earlier, I’d knocked over a container of formula in the bathroom at the Shell station, dusting the countertop with fine beige powder. How much did I have left in the diaper bag? How long would Dad keep buying things for the baby? What if I pissed him off? Would he force me to move back home? How was I supposed to support myself and a baby? Could I get an apartment and pay the bills on Cam’s child support alone? How much would rent be for a place big enough for me and Summer? You were just starting to teach me this stuff.

  Greg’s mother came back into the room holding a black cordless phone. “Do your parents know you’re here, Abby? They’re probably worried about you.” When I told my parents the name I’d chosen for my daughter, my mom said, “Summer? It sounds like a stripper!” It was your middle name, I argued. To which Dad said, “Her mother chose that name,” like Satan chose that name. I filled out the birth certificate anyway.

  Greg didn’t recognize the keychai
n. But I still kept it.

  It’s been six years now, but Josie’s twin brother Jason still runs the website and moderates the message boards. In the beginning, there were a lot of posts, mostly comments from people who were sure Greg had murdered you. The theories about how he’d done it were super gory. When Josie had the command post set up in the kitchen, I heard Jason telling Josie that he was pretty sure Greg did it, that everyone on the message boards thought so, too, and that Greg shouldn’t even be allowed to help with the searches because he’d probably lead everybody in the wrong direction. Josie didn’t know I was listening, and afterwards, she told me I shouldn’t let Greg around the baby, just in case. Dad and my mom told me this too, and I told them they were crazy except in a way that wasn’t so nice.

  Yesterday, there was a new post on the message board, just a half hour before I checked.

  I worked at the hospital with Natasha and I know for a fact Greg Morgan used to hit her. I saw her changing once and she had a bruise on her arm with fingerprints like somebody grabbed her and I asked her about it and she said her boyfriend had got mad at her. She said it had happened more than once. I told her to break up with him or I would report it and she said she was going to leave him. That was just before they broke up. She told me she was done with him but just before she went missing I saw the two of them talking in the hospital parking lot. He looked angry and he was yelling something but I didnt hear what. Then she walked away. The police questioned me but I didnt say anything at the time because I was scared. He knew me from her work and what if she told him I told her to break up with him and he came after me next?

  I closed my laptop and got up and walked into Summer’s bedroom. Crawled into bed behind her. Her tangled hair smelled like fake bubble gum, that expensive shampoo that she wanted because the bottle was shaped like Dora the Explorer.