by Pamela Crane
Why would someone just sit in their car, clearly not talking on the phone or waiting for someone, unless he was up to no good? The whole thing felt stalker-ish, arousing my curiosity to check it out. A swell of adrenaline mixed with justified rage gave me the courage I wouldn’t have otherwise had to approach him.
The kids were playing on their iPads upstairs—I had removed my usual one-hour time limit and couldn’t care less if they gamed all day since it gave me more time to worry in secret—so I headed outside. The closer I got, the creepier he looked. A picture-perfect child molester hiding behind a baseball cap and large sunglasses, sitting in plain sight as if taunting me.
When I caught sight of a tuft of brown hair poking out under his hat, my primal instincts screamed that this was him. This was the man who took my daughter.
With bold steps I approached, by chin sternly lifted and my eyes glaring. Once he saw me, he acted confused, like he suddenly had somewhere to be but couldn’t remember where. His window was closed, so I tapped it with my knuckles. A moment later he rolled it down just a crack, enough that he could hear me.
“Can I help you?” My voice was no-nonsense but wary. I didn’t know what he was capable of.
“Um,” he fidgeted with his seatbelt, then tapped the steering wheel, “Nope. I’m just waiting for someone.”
“I don’t recognize you. You don’t live on this street. I know everyone who lives here.” I would be showing no mercy to this creepy pervert.
“I live further down.” He waved to somewhere in the distance.
“Oh really? What number?”
Turning his head, he looked away, clearly hiding something. “I gotta go.”
“How about you stay put so I can have the cops sort this out?”
Only now did he look at me with pleading eyes. “C’mon, lady. That’s totally unnecessary. I’m not doing anything wrong but sitting in my car. There’s nothing illegal about it.”
“Then you can explain that to the police when they get here.” I pulled out my phone, about to dial Detective Cox.
“You know what? Go to hell! Call the friggin’ cops, you psycho. I’m outta here.”
As he yelled, he rolled up the window and revved the car, flipping me off as he shifted gears. But I wasn’t about to let him get away. Raising my fists, I pounded on the driver’s side glass, punching it in a blind craze. As the car started to glide forward, I jumped onto the hood, gripping the edge to hoist myself up. Once securely sprawled across the hood, I continued banging the windshield with my fist.
“Get off my car!” he yelled loud enough for me to hear through the glass.
I was swept too far into the ire to hear Jay behind me, screaming for me to get down. It wasn’t until I felt two arms circle around me, pulling me backward, then setting me on the concrete, when I realized it was him.
“Jo, what’s going on? Why are you attacking Elliot’s car?”
I was too enraged to hear what Jay was saying at first, unable to put meaning to the words. Then slowly the sentence starting coming together. Elliot? Who was Elliot?
“Is this your psycho-ass wife, Jay? She needs to be committed. Out of nowhere she started attacking me. Stay the hell away from me.” He sped off, leaving a trail of rubber behind him.
“What happened?” Jay asked, folding me into his arms. “Are you okay?”
No, I wasn’t okay. I had just made a huge fool of myself, verbally and physically assaulting a completely innocent person. How could I have been so stupid to think Amelia’s abductor would make catching that easy?
“I’m so sorry,” I blubbered. “I don’t know why … I thought that was Amelia’s kidnapper. He was … sitting there watching the street. I just thought … Oh God, Jay. I’m so mortified.”
Smoothing my hair back, he lifted my face to meet his. “Hey, it’s okay. The guy shouldn’t be smoking pot down here anyways. That’s what he does—parks down the street from his house and lights up so his wife won’t find out. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I was punching his car, Jay!”
“Hey, think of it as keeping our streets clean, sweetie.” He smiled at me, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the ludicrousness of the whole situation.
Soon Jay started chuckling, which spurred us both into laughing fits the entire walk back to the house. It was only then when I felt the bruising on my knuckles. I shook my hand, as if shaking off the pain, which did nothing to help.
“I think I broke something.” I lifted my hand for Jay to examine. He kissed the tender bones, then opened the door for me.
“How about you ice your paw, Rocky, while I get us some wine. I think we could both use a glass.”
Or a whole bottle.
Chapter 33
June
“Remember this one, when we kissed on Valentine’s Day at that frat party?”
Despite the sharp pain in my abdomen, Ellie and I laughed at the decade-old photograph of us in our prime—young and beautiful, single and in college, sharing a drunken kiss at a party. We had showed up dateless and dressed to impress, but we ended up leaving early for a night of pizza, beer, and chick flicks. Although I had never told Ellie, it was one of my fondest memories with her out of the hundreds we shared because of its simplicity.
No drama. No tears. No responsibilities. No children. No husbands. No bills. No struggles. Just us, living it up, dancing and feeling free, enjoying something intimate and meaningful that only we understood. It was our secret life, a precious moment captured in time, forever locked away in my memory to get me through the tough times.
I’d always have that moment with the one person I could count on, the one person who loved me as much as I loved her.
I hugged my side, which was covered in bandages that did little to ease the ache in my cracked ribs. As soon as Ellie got the news of my accident, she showed up on my doorstep carrying a casserole and soup, insisting on nursing me and the kids back to health. Of course, no meal was complete without some cheap Merlot, which we sipped straight from the bottle. I could never turn her down, even if I wanted to spare her the trouble.
“The good old days,” Ellie said, her voice soft and nostalgic. “How did life get so bad after this? Why couldn’t life have stayed this good?”
Ellie turned to me, serious. She wanted an answer, but I had none. After hearing about Denny’s love child with another woman, I had no hope to offer. The truth of the matter was that he didn’t deserve her, but she’d never leave him. She’d just take his crap and eat it with a smile. Didn’t she know how much more valuable she was than that?
I spent our entire friendship trying to show her, but she was a glutton for punishment. The typical hapless wife who sucked up the emotional abuse she was fed. But who was I to talk? I was doing the same damn thing—trapped in a Mobius strip of disappointment, unwilling to change things or fight for myself. Maybe it was time to take control. Only, my methods of control nearly killed my entire family, because I knew what Mike and Ellie wouldn’t believe. I knew the accident was indeed no accident. What was wrong with me? Had I snapped? Was I losing it? Was my sanity too far gone to salvage?
“Yeah, those were the best days of my life. I miss that sense of feeling free, happy, hopeful. It’s so long gone now, isn’t it?” I drowned the thought with a gulp of wine.
“But why does it have to be?” Ellie asked, taking the bottle from me. “Why can’t we get back to that?”
I laughed, not because it was funny but because it wasn’t. “We can’t because we chose to have husbands and kids instead. Maybe if we had stayed single with jobs that allowed us to travel and blow our money on cute clothes, cute boys, alcohol, and fine dining … I don’t know. It seems like everyone who settles down is miserable. They’re either broke or stressed or plagued with a sense of duty to someone who doesn’t appreciate them. Maybe that’s just life.”
Ellie groaned. “That can’t be the way it is. There’s no point to it if it only makes you miserable.”
“I’m sure there are a lucky few who are happy in their marriages, but we’re not among them. We chose poorly.”
“Aw, is Mike really that bad?”
I shrugged, rolling my eyes. “He’s got his moments where I’m reminded why I fell in love with him, but the constant letdowns, job losses, laziness … eventually it wears on you. I’ve lost that loving feeling.”
As soon as I said it I knew what was coming. Off-key and pitchy, Ellie belted out the lyrics to “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’,” which made me wonder just how much Ellie had to drink. A couple lines in I joined her, both of us teary with laughter.
When our loudly obnoxious rendition ended, Ellie touched my hand, penetrating me with wet eyes. “Do you think life can get better?”
“I don’t know. Without a complete restart, I just don’t know. Maybe we missed our chance. Picked the wrong path with the wrong people.”
I hadn’t intended to be cryptic, but I could never tell Ellie about my lost love. No one knew, not even Mike. Besides, she would never understand. To her love was a man’s provision for his family; to me love was a soul connection. I had found it once, then lost it because I was too afraid to reach for it. I ended up settling for Mike, whom I loved, but never in the same way.
“A restart?” Ellie asked.
“You know, a complete do-over. Getting a clean start in life.”
“How’s that possible when you have kids and a mortgage?”
“I dunno. Turning back time?” I held up my finger to Ellie’s lips in a playful warning. “And don’t you dare start singing Cher or I’ll have to join in and my lungs will literally explode!”
Smiling at me, Ellie mimed zipping her lips. “I promise no more breaking into song.” Then her smile faded. I watched the twinkle in her eyes flicker and die. “So if a restart is the only way to be happy, I’ll have to lose everything. Maybe that’s what I need.”
She paused, her lower lip trembling. “I don’t think I can handle watching Denny father another woman’s child. And my own kids have no respect for me. Heck, I don’t even have respect for me. I’m miserable, June. And my only option is to leave it all behind and go it alone.”
A tear slid down her cheek. The strongest woman I knew had become a wilted rose right before my eyes.
“You don’t need someone else to carry you, El. You can walk on your own two feet.”
Ellie shook her head at me, fiddling with the blanket’s unhemmed edge that fell off the side of the sofa where we sat. “I don’t know if I can. I’m not that courageous. I’ve always relied on others—boyfriends all through high school, you during college, Denny throughout my entire adult life. When have I ever stood on my own?”
“What are you talking about? You’re tough, forged in steel, girl. Don’t sell yourself short. You’re a genius, you’re incredibly good at helping Austin, you have your PhD, you’re gorgeous … I mean, you’re perfect. How can you possibly think you couldn’t survive—no, thrive—without your idiot husband? You don’t need him. In fact, he’s probably holding you back.”
Ellie chuckled humbly. “I don’t know about any of that, but thank you. I love you so much, Juney. I don’t know how I’d get through this without you.”
“We’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we?”
I grinned. “We sure have. And there’s lots more to come.”
I had reached the end of my college photo album, the last page a close-up we had taken with my disposable camera in my college dorm. Behind us in the photo was my Justin Timberlake poster—why I faked a crush on him, I have no idea. I never needed to fake it with Ellie. I wore my favorite pink velour sweatsuit with a Juicy butt logo, and Ellie wore her classic cargo pants and tank top. I admired how courageous we were back then, savoring every ounce of life.
“How about a selfie for old times’ sake?” I suggested.
“Definitely. Screw my bad hair day and bags under my eyes. Let’s do it!” Ellie agreed with a giggle, holding up the bottle of wine.
I held my phone’s camera out with my good arm—the other one had limited mobility—and snapped a picture of us with piles of unfolded laundry and children’s toys in the background. The living room, which opened into the dining room, had become a dumping ground for clothes, shoes, and junk that climbed up the walls, leaned against the furniture, and smothered the tables. Junk engulfed us. I would have kept the Hoarders’ crew busy for days. Had it been anyone but Ellie in my house, I would have ushered them out the door in a horrified hurry. But after living together in college, Ellie knew how I was and accepted me unconditionally.
“Send me a copy of that,” Ellie said, eyes on the picture. “Gotta put it in my family photo album, since you’re my sister from another mister.”
It’d been a running phrase we’d used over the years, since Ellie had been like another sister to me, only better, without the sibling rivalry or petty fights.
I pulled up the picture and texted it to her, then began leafing back through my latest photos out of habit. Scrolling through pictures of the kids at the park playing and laughing, it seemed like we could be happy at times. So why did I feel so miserable and my life so pointless?
“Aw, cute. Are those from the park?”
“Yeah. I’ll send you the good pictures.” I selected a picture and texted it to her.
“Did you hear about the child that was abducted last week—most likely when we were there?” Ellie asked. “She lives on my street.”
“Yeah, scary, huh? I met the mother the other day. She was asking around to see if anyone remembered anything. It’s just awful.” While it was indeed awful, no emotions clung to the words. Maybe it was because I was tapped out. Or maybe it was because only a day ago I had driven my own kids off the road, attempting to murder us all.
“I can’t even imagine what she’s going through … just heartbreaking.” Ellie’s voice trailed away. I wondered if her empathy was as forced as mine.
After nearly killing mine in the wreck, such news should have felt tragic. It should have sent chills of horror up my spine to even think of something happening to one of my kids. But for some perplexing reason, it didn’t. Detachment watered down any emotional maternal response I should have had over the suffering of a fellow mother. What was wrong with me? Was I truly so damaged that I wouldn’t care if my kids disappeared off the face of the earth?
Of course, my accident raised an alarm with my attending physician. When I’d talked to him at the hospital about it, covering over the truth with a vague explanation about being tired and losing control in the rain, he sat down on the edge of the bed and rested his hand on my knee. I could see the worry in his face, the way his white eyebrows knitted together, how the creases around his eyes deepened. He went on to tell me postpartum depression could go undetected for years, mentally tormenting thousands of mothers well after giving birth. It could cause anything from mild depression to suicidal urges. Was that all it was—a delayed case of postpartum depression? Could my demons be easily scared away with a simple pill? Mother’s little helper? For some reason I didn’t think so, because only I knew the pang of dread that wakened me every morning as I faced another day of sleepwalking through it.
I’d read about mothers who drove their children into lakes, cooked them in an oven, duct taped them to walls, stabbed them to death. All seemingly normal people. Then suddenly they weren’t. These women gave in to an impulse and morphed from mom to monster. I now understood the progression in a real way. I was one of them, only I hadn’t succeeded. Yet. I had stood on that same step, jumping into something unforgiveable, irreparable. Like those child killers, I couldn’t endure the daily chip at my soul—the constant sacrifice, the endless responsibility, the battered self-confidence, the social deterioration into isolation.
Ellie shattered the wave of thoughts with a gentle pat on my leg. “Juney, I better get home. I’m trying to maintain life like usual until I know what to do about Denny and—well, you know.”
“Yeah,
I understand. We’ll talk later this week, okay?”
“If I don’t kill myself or Denny by then.” Ellie grinned as she said it, but I saw the gnash between those white teeth.
“I’m always here for you.”
“I know. You’re the only one who is.”
After a long hug, she walked out the door, shoulders hunched as if facing the outside world was too heavy a burden to bear. She needed my help, and I had no idea what to do for her. I couldn’t save my own life; how could I save hers? I had become useless.
A mother who couldn’t stand her children. A wife who felt apathetic toward her husband. And a friend who couldn’t shoulder the burden of her friend’s pain. I had to be better than this. I had to prove that I was capable of caring, of serving a greater good in this world.
On my end table was the flyer Jo Trubeau had given me—a picture of her little girl, the one who was kidnapped. Three-year-old Amelia Trubeau with a dimpled smile and innocent blue eyes. Last seen wearing a pink short-sleeved shirt and jeans. Her face seemed familiar, so I grabbed my phone and started scrolling through the pictures from the park, this time slower, looking for something. What, I wasn’t sure of yet.
At the kids’ request I had captured random accomplishments. Pictures of Austin on the monkey bars, Kiki falling off the bottom of the slide, Juliet picking a fluffy dandelion. Then further along my camera roll I saw it—in the background a hot-pink top and a pigtailed little girl being led away by a brown-haired man into a red car. On the back I could make out part of the license plate number—TY6—and the word Camry stretched across the trunk.
The girl was facing away from me, but her clothes matched the description.
This had to be him. It was a gift from God above to make up for all my failings. I could do something important for the greater good, help reunite a mother who would have died for her children. I could be the me I wanted to be.
