The Homecoming

by Alan Russell

  She was tired of being a recluse. She hated the individual who had emerged after her daughter’s disappearance. Losing Stella had brought on what felt like a terminal illness. There was no joy in her life. And she knew that she’d been a disappointment to Michael and Duncan. She hadn’t even been able to bring herself to watch Michael play his high school football games. It wasn’t only her fear of seeing him hurt. It was her overall fear.

  Her family would be better without her—it was what she had been thinking for years. Now was the right time to act. Michael would leave for Colorado Springs and the Air Force Academy in June. Her son was already independent, and didn’t hide the fact that she was an embarrassment to him. As for Duncan, he had a workload that was enough for two people.

  If all went as planned, no one would ever suspect she’d killed herself. For weeks she had pretended to be increasingly upbeat, and earlier that day she had done some particularly good acting at the homecoming. Duncan had been pleased she’d joined him, and she’d been smiling and cordial with all the military families. She had kissed Duncan good-bye, and they had made plans for his congressional break.

  Michael wouldn’t suspect either. When they’d talked in the morning, she had asked when he’d be home. Every day she needed to be reassured by his ETA, and Michael knew to call if he would be late. He’d promised he’d be home by five, and she’d asked what he wanted for dinner. He’d decided on fried chicken and home fries.

  It was almost two o’clock. That gave her three hours to die.

  Eleanor made Copper’s dinner, as she always did. That would look normal as well. She gave the family’s golden retriever a hug. He was ten now, and his face was gray. The dog had been her constant companion all these years. One of the great things about dogs is that they are not judgmental. She left his emptied can and the bag of kibble out. It would be yet one more indication of her natural death.

  During the past year, her shrink had prescribed her plenty of pills. She had studied up on the dosages, and knew what combination of pills and amounts would kill her. She was leaving nothing to chance.

  Eleanor set out the dinner preparations. She lined up the seasoned flour, buttermilk, bread crumbs, and chicken, and put russet potatoes on the counter. Then she made a show of sorting the mail. She paused to study an envelope-size flyer. On one side it advertised a cellular-phone sale; on the other were the words HAVE YOU SEEN ME? She looked at the pictures, as she always did. One showed a little boy. Next to it was an age-progression picture. The boy, taken at age eight, had been missing for twenty-five years.

  Somewhere, Eleanor knew, parents who loved that boy were still waiting for a phone call. Soon she would no longer have to relive the pain she felt every time there was a child-abduction case. She couldn’t take any more pain. Her personal statute of limitations had run out. If she was lucky, there would be an afterlife, and she would see her daughter there.

  She poured herself a glass of water and took her first handful of pills.

  Eleanor lay down on the sofa. She wanted to look peaceful for Michael’s sake. In forty-five minutes she’d take another handful of pills, and then in another forty-five minutes, she would finish the last batch. She doubted they’d perform an autopsy on her, but if they did, the medical examiner would discover that the pills had been taken over the course of more than two hours. They’d assume she was disoriented, that she had forgotten that she’d already taken her pills. It would look like an accidental overdose.

  Already she could feel the pills’ effect. The Ativan combined with Xanax had taken the edge off. She steadied her breathing, preparing for the big sleep.

  But then a buzzing sounded. Someone was pressing down on the intercom at the front gate.

  Go away, Eleanor thought.

  As if the person was responding to her dismissal, the buzzing sounded again. This time it lasted longer, and sounded even more insistent than the first buzz.

  Leave me in peace, she thought.

  But whoever was out there wasn’t yet deterred. They buzzed again. And now Copper joined in the discordant chorus. He was barking furiously. Normally he barely stirred, but something had gotten into him this time. He was racing around the house, running from room to room and sounding the alarm.

  “No, Copper, no!” Eleanor yelled, but the old dog wouldn’t listen.

  He started scratching at the door, apparently frantic to get outside.

  “Stop that!” said Eleanor.

  Their normally obedient dog ignored her, continuing to bark and scratch.

  Things weren’t going as Eleanor had imagined. In her final hours she had envisioned the grayness finally turning to a black that she wouldn’t be around to see. All this bedlam wasn’t part of her plans. When the intercom finally stopped buzzing, she sighed in relief, but the respite didn’t last for long. The intercom buzzed again.

  “Dammit,” she said.

  She got up and walked over to one of the security-station monitors. There were CCTV cameras and alarms all around the home, and she narrowed in on the screen that showed a view of the front gate. A young woman was standing there. Probably because of the FOR SALE sign, thought Eleanor. The girl’s garb looked a little off, or at least a little different from what girls seemed to be wearing these days. Maybe the girl herself was a little off.

  Stay calm, she thought. It wouldn’t do to get overwrought. She didn’t want a rush of adrenaline slowing down her time frame.

  Eleanor pressed the intercom button and asked, “May I help you?”

  The girl looked startled by the sound of her voice. She turned around, searching for its source. Then she said a single word, but Eleanor was sure she’d misheard. Copper was still barking, which was making it hard to hear. And the girl wasn’t facing the monitor or speaking into the microphone.

  “I wasn’t able to hear what you said,” Eleanor told the girl. “You’ll need to talk in the direction of the monitor.”

  The girl turned to face the screen and microphone. When she spoke again, the word was clear and unmistakable: “Mommy?”

  This time Eleanor couldn’t pretend she hadn’t heard. Still, the word hit her like a blow to the stomach and took her breath away. When she was finally able to reply, her voice was raspy and devoid of any welcome: “You have the wrong house.”

  Instead of backing away from the gate, the young woman shook her head.

  She’s crazy, thought Eleanor. She’s not right in the head. The security system was hardwired to the alarm company, and Eleanor’s finger hovered over the panic button. The alarm would certainly send the girl scurrying away. It would also bring help. Guards would be dispatched, and the security company would call Eleanor to make sure everything was all right. When that happened, though, she wouldn’t be able to follow through with her plan.

  The girl didn’t look like much of a threat anyway. She was craning her head around, as if orienting herself. For the first time, Eleanor got a good look at her. She was very pale, her skin almost translucent. The camera’s wide-angle lens was better at showing the big picture than pulling up details, but Eleanor could see the girl’s blue veins standing out on her see-through skin.

  Her hair was almost a white blonde, a color usually seen only on young children. She wasn’t wearing makeup, but instead of looking washed out, the girl’s extreme paleness gave her an almost ethereal glow.

  Again, she moved her mouth closer to the intercom. This time there was no mistaking her words.

  “Mom,” the girl said, “I’ve come home.”

  A current ran through Eleanor’s body. With so many of her emotions vying, it felt as if her insides were short-circuiting. Seven years of scar tissue threatened to rip away. To survive this long, she had accepted disappointment as a way of life. She was prepared to kill herself, but she wasn’t prepared for one more letdown.

  And yet the worst letdown of all had been saved for last. This was someone’s idea of a cruel, terrible hoax.

  A single sob escaped her. Her agony played
out over the intercom, but still the hateful girl didn’t have the decency to leave.

  “Go away!” shouted Eleanor. “Leave!”

  The girl was clearly mentally ill. She was standing there with her mouth open, looking as if she was the one who was about to cry.

  “I’m calling the police,” Eleanor said.

  The girl didn’t move, save to look into the camera. Seven long years melted away. Those were Stella’s eyes. Oh, God, it couldn’t really be true, could it? Was this her little girl?

  “Stella,” Eleanor gasped.

  She ran for the front door, where Copper was scratching. When she flung the door open, the dog streaked for the fence, crying out joyful noises with every step. Eleanor followed right behind, shouting, “Stella, Stella, Stella!”

  As she ran, she prayed. Please don’t be like before, she thought. Please. Please. There had been times, especially early on, when Eleanor was sure she had heard her daughter’s voice calling to her from outside. Time and again she had run out the door, screaming her name, but there had never been an answer.

  Until this time.

  She ran down the front pathway, and she saw, standing at the gate, the girl she had never thought she would see again. Whenever Stella had been happy as a little girl, she’d shown her joy through what the family called jazz hands. Her fingers would go up and down. They were doing that now while Stella hugged a joyful Copper, who had managed to vault up and over the fencing. Eleanor had half a mind to jump over the fence herself. The sleepiness that had come with taking the meds had vanished. Now she was Whitman’s body electric. She tried to cry out, but speech melted from her. She could only make trumpetlike sounds, high-pitched, unintelligible, but joyous.

  The fence stood between them. Eleanor desperately tapped out the code to the security gate while tears ran down her face. And then the gate opened, and Stella was there waiting for her.

  Eleanor threw her arms around her daughter. Her little girl was now a young woman as tall as she was. Eleanor reached her hands to Stella’s face and felt her flesh. She was real. She was beautiful. She was her daughter.

  There were so many things she wanted to say, but she lacked the vocabulary for what she was feeling. She had lived in darkness, and the sudden light was blinding. Her joy was so intense she was almost afraid of floating away. That was how light she felt. She wanted to sing out as only the angels could, but instead she held her baby close, stroking her, looking at her, absorbing her presence.

  “I missed you, Mommy.”

  Something had to come out, or Eleanor was going to shatter. “Stella.” She announced the name like it was a word in a language she didn’t know. It was said in wonderment, in bewilderment, in ecstasy, in awe.

  “I know, Mom.”

  Eleanor’s screams had alerted Meg Downing, bringing the elderly woman out to her stoop. Mrs. Downing was squinting at the two of them, trying to make out what was occurring. Even with her thick glasses, she had trouble seeing.

  “Is everything all right, Eleanor?” she called.

  Stella answered for her mother: “Hello, Mrs. Downing.”

  The old woman squinted a little more. “Who’s that?”

  “It’s Stella.”

  Age hadn’t dimmed Mrs. Downing’s faculties. “Stella?” she said incredulously.

  “I’ve returned, Mrs. Downing.”

  The old woman hobbled down the path, while Eleanor continued hugging her daughter. When Mrs. Downing was close enough, she reached out a hand.

  “She who was dead,” Mrs. Downing said, “is alive again. She who was lost is found.”

  Her wrinkled hand touched Stella’s hair where Eleanor’s tears hadn’t yet soaked it.

  “And now I feel the nourishment of the Holy Spirit,” said the old woman. “It’s a miracle. It’s a miracle.”

  Duncan felt his phone vibrate. The hearing was just about to begin, and the bailiff had already cautioned everyone about turning off their phones and electronic devices. He surreptitiously checked the display and saw that Eleanor had texted.

  Call home!

  Excusing himself, he rose from his chair. In the hallway he called up his contacts and hit the home phone number. Eleanor answered on the first ring.

  His wife was clearly hysterical. She was shouting and talking and laughing and crying all at once. Her words were gibberish. “Stella was at the gate she’s beautiful no warning just out of the blue and I still can’t believe it it’s just beyond incredible and wonderful and I’m still having trouble taking it in . . .”

  “Eleanor,” Duncan said, “slow down. I can’t understand a thing you’re saying.”

  The hearing had probably put her over the edge. His wife had started to decompensate years ago. Her mental state had worsened after she’d visited Guy Wilkerson in prison. She had come back damaged. That’s what animals like Wilkerson did. Their actions pulled apart families and tore at the fabric of society.

  “Stella,” his wife managed to get out, “is here. She’s sitting next to me.”

  Oh, God, Duncan thought. He had been afraid of this. After seven years you would have thought Eleanor might have learned how to cope. But she’d grown worse, if anything. She usually went into a funk several days before Valentine’s Day, and didn’t emerge until a few days after, but she had never actively hallucinated until now.

  “I’m going to call the doctor, Eleanor,” he said. “You’ve been under a severe strain—”

  “I know it sounds too incredible! I wouldn’t believe it either. It’s a miracle. But it’s true!”

  “The hearing is about to start—”

  “Forget the hearing, Duncan. Your daughter is here.”

  His frustration erupted. “Get a grip on yourself, Eleanor. Stella is not there.”

  Duncan looked around, realizing too late that he was all but shouting. Luckily, there weren’t many people around. But his outburst had drawn the attention of Barry Brass. Wilkerson’s lawyer was on a call of his own that seemed to have all of his attention. “You’re kidding,” Duncan heard him say.

  “Our daughter is sitting right next to me,” said Eleanor. “She’s alive. She’s beautiful. She looks more like your pixie than ever. Of course she’s taller. She’s willowy . . .”

  “Stop it.”

  “Talk with her, Duncan.”

  The phone apparently changed hands, and then another voice came on the line: “Hello, Daddy.”

  Could it be Eleanor speaking in a higher voice? Could she have completely and utterly snapped?

  “Daddy?”

  But no, that wasn’t Eleanor’s voice. Someone was pulling a heartless deception, preying on an extremely vulnerable woman who was blinded by her desire to be united with her daughter.

  “I’m here.”

  “You sound like you’re mad at me, Daddy.”

  “Let me talk with my wife.”

  He heard the phone being handed back to Eleanor. “Do you see?” she said.

  “Someone’s posing as Stella,” he said. “I don’t know what her game is, but I’m going to find out, and she is going to be punished.”

  “If you were here, you would see—”

  “I’m not there, Eleanor. I’m here at Wilkerson’s parole hearing. It’s time to remember where you are as well. Have you even thought to question that girl?”

  “No. I’ve just been soaking in the experience of having her with me again. She’s our daughter, Duncan. Don’t you think I would know my daughter?”

  He didn’t answer; she wouldn’t want to hear what he really thought. Springing this girl on his wife was like throwing a lifeline to a drowning person. Of course she had grabbed at her—at it.

  “Are you being threatened by this individual, Eleanor? Are you in any danger? Just answer yes or no.”

  “No. She’s our daughter, Duncan. Please, please, believe me.”

  Duncan wasn’t going to argue. His wife apparently preferred her delusion to reality. “I want you to leave the security gate and the fr
ont door unlocked. Do that without bringing any attention to yourself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when we finish talking, I’m calling the police.”

  “But I’ve never been better, Duncan, never in my whole life. Dare I say the word? I will. It’s a miracle.”

  “I don’t believe in miracles.”

  “You will.”

  “I’m coming home, Eleanor. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  Duncan was lucky there’d been a seat open on the commuter flight to Lindbergh Field. Now he was speeding along Interstate 5. His rental car smelled of smoke. Or maybe, thought Duncan, the smoke was just coming out of his ears. He had wanted to believe that Eleanor was finally turning the corner. Earlier that morning she’d comported herself perfectly around all the military brass and their wives. He had deluded himself, of course. Losing Stella had cut Eleanor off at the knees. And maybe above the neck. As much as she had tried to get on with her life, nothing worked. Not therapy, electroshock, meditation, drugs, or special diets. Not anything. He had told her they needed to sell the house. In that way he hoped she could leave the bad memories behind. Finally she had agreed to put the house on the market and come live with him in Washington, DC.

  And now this.

  For seven years Eleanor had been an absentee wife. Even before the geography of his job separated them, their love life had ceased to exist. There was a time when Duncan had been the envy of all his friends. Even with two kids, he and Eleanor had still been like honeymooners. But after Stella disappeared, everything changed. Eleanor was consumed by guilt. There was part of her that believed closing the door for privacy had resulted in Stella’s being taken from them. To Eleanor’s thinking, they had failed their daughter, putting pleasure in front of duty.

  There were times when he’d considered divorce. At one time that would have been political suicide, but no longer. Even conservative icons divorced and remarried these days, and still preached family values. But that wasn’t what Duncan wanted to do. He had hoped that his and Eleanor’s living together would help them return to normality.