Where They Found Her: A Novel

by Kimberly McCreight

  So much for charm. At least Barbara could cut to the chase now.

  “I need to know what happened to Cole, Stella.”

  “Have you lost your mind, Barbara?” Stella looked her up and down. “Are you seriously accusing us of something?”

  “Cole said that something happened here that scared him.” That might as well have been the truth. “He’s too afraid to tell me exactly what, but he’s positively traumatized.”

  “So you thought it was appropriate to try to traumatize my son by interrogating him outside of my presence?” Stella worked her neck like a teenager. “What are you, Barbara? The Mommy Gestapo?”

  “I’m just trying to help Cole,” Barbara said, her voice cracking unexpectedly. She couldn’t get emotional, not now. Not in front of Stella. She’d go right in for the kill. “If it was Will who was traumatized, I’m sure you’d be asking the same questions.”

  “Listen, Barbara,” Stella said, her voice trembling. She checked over her shoulder to be sure that Aidan had gone. “I think I’ve been pretty patient with you and your husband, but I’ve had just about all the bullshit accusations I can take for one week.”

  “I’m here as a mother who’s worried about her son, Stella. I’d think you could have some compassion. I just want to restore calm to my household.” Barbara should leave it there, she knew. But there was that look on Stella’s face—so smug. “Maybe it’s hard for you to understand, but not everybody lives for drama.”

  “Drama?” Stella snorted. “I’m sorry, is that some kind of dig? You don’t even know me, Barbara.”

  But Stella’s best friend, Molly, did and it was she who’d said that Stella was a drama queen. Barbara wanted so badly to rub that in Stella’s face, but Steve would have killed her.

  “Let’s just call it an educated guess.”

  Stella batted her eyelashes, then smiled unpleasantly. “I’m sorry your son is struggling, Barbara.” Her voice was so cool and composed suddenly. It was unsettling. “I can imagine that would be extremely difficult for someone like yourself, who really values what’s ‘normal.’” Stella’s fingers hooked the air. “But nothing happened to Cole here. Not under my roof. And now I’d like for you to get your bony, judgmental ass the fuck off my porch.”

  And with that, Stella stepped back and slammed the door.

  By the time Barbara made it down to Ridgedale Elementary School and was walking down the hall to Cole’s classroom, it was past four o’clock. Luckily, she saw through the small glass window, Rhea was still there, seated at one of the tables writing out some kind of card.

  After their run-in, Barbara was absolutely convinced Stella knew more than she was telling. Otherwise, why would she be so defensive? But Barbara needed one last piece of proof before presenting her case to Steve: that nothing could have happened to Cole at school.

  Barbara knocked on the door and kept her face near the glass. Rhea frowned as soon as she looked up. She was probably about to leave for the night and didn’t want to get hung up. Slowly, Rhea closed the card, then slid it into her bag. After forever, it seemed, she waved Barbara inside.

  “What can I do for you, Barbara?” Rhea asked flatly, gathering her things. She hadn’t even looked at Barbara. There was something wrong. Rhea wasn’t at all her usual bubbly self.

  “I wanted to talk some more about Cole,” Barbara began carefully. “If you have a minute.”

  “Yes, I heard about some of your concerns.” Rhea’s voice was coated in ice and pointy things. “At length.”

  At length? Barbara blinked at her. And then it occurred to her with a creeping unease. Barbara had stopped by the PTA office to talk to some of the mothers there, and she may have said a thing or two about Rhea in anger. And she may not have been careful about who was around listening. Had it been one of Rhea’s fellow teachers? Or, God forbid, Rhea herself?

  “I’m only trying to do what’s best for my son,” Barbara said. She wasn’t about to admit to saying anything specific, not if Rhea was going to be vague. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “My shirts are too tight?” Rhea said, crossing her arms over her—precisely the point—very clingy top. “Oh, and I wear too much makeup. That’s right, it’s all coming back to me. Enlighten me, how is either of those related to my teaching ability?”

  “Well, that’s taking what I said quite out of—”

  Rhea held up a hand. “On second thought, I don’t even want to know.” She walked over to a short stack of papers on a nearby table, brought them back, and slid them into her bag. “Now, what is it? I’m on my way home.”

  “We had Cole evaluated by that doctor you suggested,” Barbara offered. It was something of an olive branch.

  “Really?” Rhea looked genuinely taken aback. Because Rhea was judging Barbara, too: stubborn, inflexible know-it-all. She’d heard it all before. “What did he say?”

  “That Cole’s behavior is the result of a trauma.” A small lie with a noble purpose.

  Rhea’s eyes were wide. “My goodness, what trauma?”

  “We’re trying to figure that out. We were hoping you could help.”

  Rhea’s face tightened. “Nothing happened to Cole here, Barbara. If that’s what you’re suggesting again. I thought we already discussed this.”

  But Barbara needed to push. She needed to be absolutely sure before she went to Steve. Otherwise, he’d never listen. “Well, I’m sure that you didn’t mean for it to. But there are nineteen children, Rhea. Surely you can’t have your eye on every single one of them all the time.”

  Rhea hung her head and let her shoulders drop. She took a deep breath before she looked up. “Listen, Barbara, I understand how difficult this must be for you and your family,” she began, as though she had mustered the very last of her patience. “It’s so painful for a parent to watch a child suffer. I know what you’re feeling and—”

  “Wait, I’m sorry, what did you just say?” Rage flashed in Barbara’s gut. “You know what I’m feeling? Excuse me, Rhea, but you don’t even have children. How dare you say you know what I’m feeling?”

  Rhea looked like she’d been slapped. But that wasn’t a judgment, it was a fact. Rhea didn’t have children. It wasn’t Barbara’s fault if Rhea was the kind of person who could be unaware of the gaping hole that created in the center of her life.

  “To each his own, of course,” Barbara went on, just to clarify. Because she wasn’t suggesting that everyone needed to have children. Only those people who wanted to claim they knew what it was like to be a parent. “Not everyone was meant to have a family.”

  Rhea nodded, frowning with exaggerated thoughtfulness. But now there was hate in her eyes. “You know, Barbara, all these years, I’ve been wondering: Why me? Why did I have to have a hysterectomy when I was only twenty-six?” Her voice quaked. “And here you had the answer all along: I just wasn’t meant to have a family.”

  Barbara’s eyes went down to Rhea’s perfectly flat midsection. Well, how was she supposed to know? “I didn’t mean to suggest . . .”

  But there was no point. They both knew exactly what she’d meant. And Rhea was already reaching for her coat.

  “I am genuinely sorry that Cole is hurting. I care about him very much.” Rhea was all business as she crossed the room and opened the classroom door. “But if something happened to him, it didn’t happen here.” She waved a hand toward the hall, ushering Barbara out the door. “And now, Barbara, you really do need to go.”

  RIDGEDALE READER

  Print Edition

  March 18, 2015

  Essex Bridge: An Area Marked by Tragedy

  BY MOLLY SANDERSON

  The woods behind Essex Bridge were long known to be a place where Ridgedale High School students congregated on warm weekend evenings. When the parties got too raucous, neighbors would inevitably summon the Ridgedale Police. Students would be sent on their way, the intoxicated occasionally having their keys confiscated or being driven home in the back of a police car.

&n
bsp; There were never any arrests. The general view among residents and local law enforcement was that these were good kids, out to have a good time.

  In the spring of 1994, Simon Barton was enjoying the end of his senior year at Ridgedale High School. An accomplished athlete as well as an honor student, Simon’s biggest concern was whether he should enroll in Duke University or play basketball for the University of Virginia, where he had been offered an athletic scholarship.

  The only child of Sheila and Scott Barton, Simon was born at Ridgedale University Hospital and had lived in town his entire life. He died after slipping in the woods and suffering a traumatic head injury.

  Despite evidence of heavy underage drinking that night, there were never any arrests in connection with his death. In place of accusation or prosecution, there was a collective outpouring of grief. Simon Barton’s funeral was attended by more than 900 of Ridgedale High School’s 1,000 students. Within weeks, there had been more than half a dozen fund-raisers to establish a scholarship in Simon’s name.

  Twenty years later, there has been another death in those same woods. As of today, there have been more than 200 posts on a social media site called Frat Chat. Intended for use by university students, Frat Chat has in Ridgedale—as in many other towns—been overtaken by high school students. The vast majority of these posts accuse various students of being responsible for the baby’s death.

  Despite the proximity, the police believe the two incidents are unrelated. Police have yet to identify the baby’s mother or father and continue to ask for the public’s help. If you have any information, please contact the police at 888-526-1899.

  Molly Sanderson, Session 13, May 28, 2013

  (Audio Transcription, Session Recorded with

  Patient Knowledge and Consent)

  M.S.: Why don’t we ever talk about the baby? We talk about everything else—my job, Ella, Justin. My mother, who’s been dead for almost twenty years.

  Q: You don’t think she’s relevant?

  M.S.: No, I don’t. I’m afraid I’ll turn into her, of course. But other than that, no, I don’t think she’s relevant.

  Q: Turn into her how?

  M.S.: She was destroyed because my father left her. And because she was destroyed, she was a terrible mother.

  Q: Do you think you’re destroyed? That you’ll end up a terrible mother?

  M.S.: End up? It’s already happened. I’ve been a terrible mother for months. I have to get over this. I have to get better. Or, yes, I’ll end up just like my mother. I can live with almost anything but that. So how am I going to get over it?

  Q: I think we need to address your guilt.

  M.S.: The baby was inside me. Of course I feel guilty.

  Q: What was happening in the days before you found out the baby’s heart had stopped?

  M.S.: The days before? I don’t know. I don’t remember much. What difference does it make?

  Q: The fact that you can’t remember suggests to me that it might matter very much.

  M.S.: The usual things. I was finishing a draft of a piece of proposed legislation before maternity leave. And we were trying to potty-train Ella, and she kept peeing on the carpet, which sounds funny now. But it wasn’t funny then. All I kept thinking was that we were going to have to get the carpets cleaned before Justin’s family came to see the baby.

  Q: And what about Justin? Was he busy, too?

  M.S.: So busy. He’d taken over a class for a colleague, and he was presenting two different papers at two different conferences in the three weeks before the baby was due. We were both really busy. That’s life, right? Everybody’s busy.

  Q: I’ve never heard you be frustrated by that.

  M.S.: That Justin was busy? After how much he’s given up to take care of us since? How could I possibly be irritated by that? Besides, I was the one carrying the baby.

  Q: And so he bears no responsibility?

  M.S.: He has responsibilities, yes. He helped with Ella afterward. And before, too. But he was working all hours. That wasn’t his fault. He had a job to do.

  Q: You seem very frustrated now, though.

  M.S.: I am frustrated. With you. Listen, our problem wasn’t who folded more laundry or unloaded the dishwasher or who last took out the garbage. Our baby is dead, that’s our problem.

  JENNA

  MAY 28, 1994

  It finally happened!!! The Captain and I had sex! I’d call it making love, if that wasn’t so gross. But that’s what it felt like: love. Everything about it was so perfect. His parents were away, so we had the house to ourselves and I lied and told my parents that I was staying at Tiff’s house.

  And it worked like a charm. For once, they didn’t even call Tiff’s mom to check. Otherwise, they would have found out that her family was away at a wedding in Philadelphia.

  The Captain actually COOKED dinner for me first. Like he was my husband or something. It was some kind of spaghetti that was kind of gross, but I never tasted anything better in my whole entire life.

  And it was amazing. Didn’t hurt at all like Tiffany said it would. The Captain was so sweet and gentle. And he didn’t even know it was my first time. (I didn’t want him to be freaked out, and anyway it’s not like it’s that big of a deal. I’ve done A LOT of other stuff with A LOT of other guys.) He didn’t tell me he loved me afterward—I wouldn’t have wanted him to.

  It was so much better when he just held me like he did.

  Sandy

  At least there weren’t any cars in the driveway when Sandy got to Hannah’s house. Her heart was still beating hard, though, as she jumped off her bike.

  Sandy never would have gone to Hannah’s if she’d had any choice. After making it out of the chief of police’s office, the last place she wanted to go was his house. But it was the way Hannah had sounded on the phone when she’d given up on texting and started to call Sandy—like she was sliding down to the bottom of a well. Sandy had thought: This is it. This is the end. The whole time Hannah had been a house of cards. And finally, those motherfuckers had started to slide. Maybe right into the hands of the chief of police.

  He’d been nice enough to Sandy, had said he would look for Jenna and all that. But there was something about the way he acted after Sandy said Jenna’s name. Like it had changed everything for him. For sure Hannah’s dad at least knew of Jenna, had heard her name before. Maybe that could be a good thing, but Sandy sure as hell wanted to get in and out of his house before it turned into a bad one.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Hannah said when she opened the door. She gave Sandy a teary, worried smile, then pulled her into a tight hug as she dragged her inside. “It’s so good to see you. I’ve been really worried.”

  “But you really don’t have to worry,” Sandy said. Even though she already knew there was no point. Nothing she said was going to get them out of this wack-ass country they’d gotten lost in. “I’m all right, I promise.”

  “Do you want a drink or anything?” Hannah asked, leading Sandy toward the kitchen. “God, you look tired. Did you ever end up seeing a doctor?”

  Barely in the door and there Hannah went. Sandy had been hoping Hannah wasn’t going to do this—make them have this conversation face-to-face. Seemed stupid now, but Sandy had actually thought she and Hannah would never talk to each other again after that night. That Sandy would never have to talk to anyone about what happened. And after a while—a long time even—it would be like it hadn’t. Looking now at Hannah’s worried face, Sandy could see just how wrong she’d been.

  “I’m all good,” Sandy said. “Like I said a bunch of times. Totally fine.”

  The truth was she felt like crap. She hadn’t slept in two days, and she didn’t think she’d ever be hungry again.

  “Sorry to drag you over here,” Hannah said. “But I have to watch my brother. He hasn’t been . . . he’s not feeling well. He’s okay right now, but my mom had to go out and, well, I didn’t know when I was going to get the chance to get out again.”

/>   “Listen, can we go upstairs? Just in case your parents come home, I don’t want to be sitting here, right near the front door.”

  Really it was that Sandy could hear the TV in the other room, where Hannah’s little brother must have been. And it was giving her bad flashbacks.

  “Sure, come on,” Hannah said, smiling as they headed for the steps like she was eight and Sandy was there for a sleepover. “We’ll go to my room.”

  It wasn’t the first time Sandy had felt like a little girl around Hannah. It was part of why Sandy had liked hanging out with her. She felt like a regular kid when they were together, gossiping about stupid, regular shit.

  “You’ve never had a boyfriend, ever?” Sandy had asked during one of their last tutoring sessions. She’d been telling Hannah about Aidan, which felt dumb. It wasn’t like he was her boyfriend. “How’s that possible? You’re, what, seventeen? And look at you. I don’t believe you.”

  It wasn’t like she and Hannah had known each other long, but lately they had been talking about all sorts of stuff that had nothing to do with Sandy’s coursework. Hannah had suggested it the first time. You know, if Sandy wanted to hang out after. And it was nice, Hannah wanting to do that, because it wasn’t like she was hard up for friends or something. Unless what Hannah wanted was a friend as messed up as Sandy, to feel good about herself by comparison. But Sandy could live with that. Everybody needed something.

  “What do you mean, you don’t believe me?” Hannah had laughed a little. “I’m serious, no boyfriend ever. It’s true.”

  “Fine, whatever, but for the record, I don’t believe you.” Sandy had waved a pencil in Hannah’s face. “You’re too pretty and nice and smart— Wait, are you gay?” That felt like it might explain a lot. “I mean, I don’t give a shit. But in this particular situation, I think that would count as lying. Girlfriend, boyfriend, same thing.”

  “I like boys,” Hannah had said with a shrug. “But it’s complicated. They’re not worth the trouble right now.”