Emily, Gone

by Bette Lee Crosby

  “Who’s Tommy?”

  “He would have been George’s older brother,” Mama Dixon said, “but he died when he was two months old.”

  Rachel gasped. “From what?”

  “The doctor couldn’t give it a name. He said sometimes a baby just stops breathing, but I blamed myself for it.” Mama Dixon gave a sad, drawn-out sigh. “Tommy was a colicky baby who’d cry and cry until he wore himself out, then he’d finally fall asleep. That night I had a terrible headache, and after I put Tommy in his crib, I closed the door because the crying made my head hurt worse. When I opened the door the next morning, Tommy was lying there dead.”

  “Oh, how terrible!”

  “Yes, it was.” Mama Dixon nodded. “For the longest time I kept thinking that if I hadn’t closed the door that night I might have heard Tommy choking and been able to save him.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Rachel said.

  “Exactly my point,” Mama Dixon replied. “And if the person who took Emmy was determined to get to her, they might have found a way whether or not the door was locked.”

  “I doubt—”

  “But you don’t know. Nobody does. And hanging on to that guilt will just cause you to stop living.”

  For several minutes they sat hand in hand, saying nothing. When the mantel clock chimed ten, Mama Dixon stood.

  “It’s getting late; I should go.”

  “Please don’t,” Rachel said and tugged her back down onto the settee. Returning to the conversation, she asked, “How were you able to move on?”

  “A heart doesn’t heal all that easily. It took a year, maybe more. I didn’t just wake up one morning feeling better about myself; it happened slowly. George’s daddy helped a lot. Henry was a lot like George: kindhearted and patient as the day is long. At first I used to snap at him for every little thing, but the truth was I was angry with myself and not him. Once I realized that, things started to get better.”

  She hesitated a moment, then gave a soft chuckle. “It’s funny how thinking of somebody other than yourself can help your heart to heal.”

  “I’ve been pretty testy with George also,” Rachel admitted. “And a lot of times it wasn’t called for.”

  “I think George understands what you’re going through.”

  Rachel thought back to the night she waited up believing the sheriff would bring good news. Even after she’d turned George away, he’d come back a second time and held out his hand for her. She smiled and gave a nod. “I think you’re right, Mama Dixon. Absolutely right.”

  That evening the two women sat on the front porch and talked until almost midnight. When they went inside, Rachel took a nightgown from the drawer and handed it to Mama Dixon.

  “Don’t go home tonight,” she said. “Stay here.”

  Mama Dixon smiled and gave a nod.

  A short while later, when Rachel crawled into bed, she lay there for a long while thinking of the things Mama Dixon had said, remembering how more than once she’d jumped down George’s throat saying he was at fault for keeping her in bed that morning, yet not once had he blamed her for the unlocked door. When she was angry, he was patient. When she cried, he comforted. They were different in a thousand ways, but perhaps that difference was as it should be. When she was weak enough to crumble, he was strong enough to hold her together. Although she’d heard the soft snores of sleep, she scooted her back up against George’s chest and whispered, “I love you, sweetheart.”

  He curled his arm around her shoulder, sleepily mumbled, “Me too,” then dozed off again.

  RETURN TO SENDER

  Spring 1972

  Vicki carried the letter she’d written to Murphy in the side pocket of her tote bag for well over a month before she gathered enough courage to mail it. When she finally added a return address in the corner of the envelope, it wasn’t the house on Hillcrest Street. It was in care of Dimitri’s Diner at 1217 Clover Road, Fairlawn, Kentucky.

  Although in the letter she’d sworn to trust him, the truth was she didn’t. Not altogether. For now, it was better if he didn’t know about Angela and she didn’t know about him. Once he agreed to keep her secret, she’d gladly introduce them. She’d explain that Murphy wasn’t truly abusive; they’d simply been at odds with one another. She’d laugh and say it was hardly more than a lovers’ quarrel, then invite Murph to dinner at the house. Afterward Kenny could show the movies of Lara’s first Christmas. As soon as Vicki dropped the letter in the mailbox, she began imagining the fun they’d have.

  Her mind raced ahead, jumping from one image to the next. She pictured the surprise on his face when he saw how the baby had grown. With seven months having gone by, he could relax and stop worrying that someone would recognize Lara as the missing baby. In all that time, no one—not a shopkeeper, a neighbor, or even her own sister—had questioned the fact that Lara was her child. She was confident that when they were all three together again, they would have the perfect life he’d described.

  Before the day ended, Vicki had begun to make plans. On the way home from work she lingered in front of the houses along Hillcrest Street, eagerly anticipating which one they might someday buy. Later that week, Lucky’s, a department store two blocks down from the diner, had a winter clearance sale, and Vicki bought three bright-red sweaters: one for Murphy, one for her, and a matching one for Lara. That night as she lay in bed waiting for sleep to come, she imagined the three of them posed in front of the Christmas tree as Angela snapped the picture. It would be one she’d frame and keep forever, sitting atop a mantel or on the bedroom dressing table.

  A week passed without an answer to her letter, and a bothersome tic began to settle in her mind. It started the day she saw a man crossing the street with his arm snugged around a woman’s waist. From the back he could have been Murphy. For a fleeting second she’d thought about the possibility Murphy had moved on, forgotten about her, found someone new. The thought came and went in less than a heartbeat, and moments later she’d chastised herself for such a foolish notion.

  Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

  She’d heard it a million times and knew it to be true. After seven long months she loved Murphy more than ever, loved him so much that just the tiniest remembrance of his touch caused a burning sensation to wrap itself around her spine.

  The next day the tic was there again. This time it came from the young family sitting in the back booth of the diner. When the toddler threw a tantrum, the daddy got up, paid the bill, and walked out, leaving the harried mama to deal with the problem. Vicki tried to picture Murphy’s reaction given the same set of circumstances. She wanted to believe he’d lift Lara into his arms and soothe her anguish, but like the toddler’s daddy, he was nowhere to be found.

  When the weekend finally rolled around, Vicki’s stomach was in knots, and even though she’d eaten next to nothing, nauseating waves of acid indigestion plagued her.

  “Whatever is wrong with you?” Angela asked.

  “Probably something I ate at the diner,” she said, shrugging it off, but she knew it wasn’t what she ate. It was the terrible uncertainty that was gnawing away at her.

  Three weeks to the day when Vicki had mailed the letter, Dimitri gave a nod and said there was something in her cubby. The envelope was lying facedown, but even before she picked it up and turned it over, the familiarity caused a wave of nausea to rise in her throat. It was the same envelope she’d dropped in the mailbox. As she stood there looking at the rubber-stamped words MOVED, NO FORWARDING ADDRESS, her heart skipped several beats.

  Murphy would never do that to her, she told herself. He most likely moved back to Bardstown and was again living in Mrs. Bachinski’s furnished apartment. That would make sense. That’s where they were happiest. Feeling somewhat satisfied with this explanation, she stuffed the letter back into her cubby and placed her tote on top of it. Then she began thinking of what she would say when she wrote the second letter. She changed into her Dimitri’s Diner shirt, tied on an apron, and read
ied herself for work.

  An hour into her shift, she was recalling how she’d predicted they might one day return to the tiny apartment and suddenly remembered Murphy’s words.

  Once you cross a bridge, you can’t go back.

  That thought was like a door slammed in her face. Moved. No forwarding address!

  All those weeks she’d waited for his answer, and now she realized this was it. Without speaking a word, he’d said his final goodbye.

  No matter how good or bad yesterday was, once it’s gone, it’s gone.

  He’d never wanted Lara in his life, and now he didn’t want Vicki either. This was his way of telling her. He’d moved on without leaving a trail of bread crumbs for anyone to follow.

  Her hand trembled as she set the coffeepot back on the burner.

  “Are you okay?” Dimitri asked. “You don’t look so good.”

  She shook her head, moving it only fractionally from side to side. “I might be coming down with something.”

  He reached around, untied her apron, and said, “You look terrible. Go home. Get some rest.”

  Without stopping to change her shirt, Vicki grabbed the letter, stuffed it into the bottom of her tote, and hurried from the diner. As she thought of the past seven months, tears filled her eyes. She’d suffered in silence, always believing Murphy was missing her as much as she was missing him. She’d never set aside their love. She’d stayed true. He hadn’t.

  At the corner, instead of waiting for the bus, she walked on for another nine blocks, then crossed over and followed the walkway that ran through the park. When her thoughts became so heavy that she could no longer move one foot in front of the other, she dropped down on a bench and gave way to the shuddering sobs drawn up from the deepest part of her soul. A line of dark clouds rolled in from the east, but she took no notice of them, because her face was hidden in her hands.

  “How can he move on and forget about me?” she asked herself through the sobs. “Doesn’t he care that I’m still in love with him?”

  A sharp pain ricocheted across her chest, but it was small in comparison to the heartache she felt. Moments later the rain began, a drizzle at first, then large drops that splashed against her skin and drenched her clothes. Lost in thought, she barely noticed. She was remembering all they’d gone through together, the good times, the bad times, the final weekend when he’d given her a glimpse of their future together. Gone. All of it, now gone.

  The truth hit her with a sickening thud. She’d loved him with all her heart, but he hadn’t loved her. Not in the way that counted. Sure, he’d been happy to enjoy the good times, but when she asked for the three of them to become a family, he’d turned his back and walked away. Moved. No. Forwarding. Address. “Screw you, Murphy!” she screamed. “If you can forget me, I can forget you!”

  With her breath now coming in ragged little puffs, she stood and started back toward the walkway. She moved with long strides and her mind racing, her determination greater than ever before. She could do it. She could start over and build a life of her own. She still had Lara, and that was the only thing that mattered. Halfway to the park entrance, a bolt of lightning sizzled across the sky, and she took off running toward the bus stop.

  Moments later, a pain more powerful than any she’d ever known slammed into her chest. It was as sharp and quick as the lightning bolt and knocked her to her knees. The pain spread like a river cresting. It flooded her arms and legs, making them impossible to move. She opened her mouth, sucked in a gasp of breath, and tasted the salt of her tears. Before she could cry out, a second pain hit, worse than the first. She toppled forward, her face crashing down against the cement walkway.

  An angry belch of thunder rolled across the sky.

  Moments before she lost consciousness, a single thought crossed Vicki’s mind.

  I’m sorry.

  She never spoke the words, but even if she had, no one was there to hear them. Not Murphy and not Rachel Dixon.

  ANGELA’S CHILD

  When the doorbell chimed, it woke Angela. She glanced at the bedside clock, saw it was after two, then swung her legs to the floor and snapped on the lamp.

  Kenny opened one eye. “What’s going on?”

  “Vicki must have forgotten her key.”

  He gave a groan and turned toward the wall.

  Angela hurried down the hallway, but before she could reach the knob, the bell chimed a second time. Concerned the noise would wake Lara, she yanked the door open, ready to lay into Vicki because of the hour.

  The moment Angela saw the uniformed officer standing beside Dimitri, she knew something was wrong. Dimitri’s nose was redder than usual and his face crumpled into a horrified look of tragedy.

  “Has something happened to Vicki?” she asked, her voice breathy and filled with fear.

  Dimitri nodded, and her knees buckled. He caught her and held his arm to brace her back as he walked her to the living room, eased her onto the sofa, and sat beside her. The officer followed them in, explaining that a woman walking her dog had come across Vicki’s body in the park.

  “They took her to Saint Vincent’s, but there was nothing they could do,” he said sympathetically.

  Angela gave an anguished wail.

  The sound roused Kenny. He appeared in the doorway of the room, snapped on the overhead light, and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m so sorry,” Dimitri said. “It’s Vicki; they found her in the park—”

  “She’s dead,” Angela sobbed.

  “Dead?” Kenny stared at them in disbelief. “I thought she was working! What the hell happened?”

  Dimitri pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Angela. “She wasn’t feeling well and left work early—”

  “We don’t have an official cause of death yet,” the officer said. “The hospital thinks it was a heart attack, but they’ll have to do an autopsy.”

  Angela listened as the officer revealed the minuscule bits of information they had. Vicki apparently had gone to the park alone. She was alone when she died. No one could say why she was at the park. Although there was money in her tote, she had no identification other than the Dimitri’s Diner shirt she wore.

  Alone. That was the word Angela couldn’t move past. It was heartbreaking enough to lose Vicki, but knowing she died alone made it worse. No one should have to die alone. And Vicki wasn’t just alone; she was lonely.

  Angela had seen the loneliness on Vicki’s face that very first day. It was a haunted look, the kind that comes from deep inside, from the place where a person hides their darkest secrets. Back then, she assumed it was a temporary thing, a sadness brought about by the breakup with the man who was Lara’s daddy. But now she was beginning to wonder.

  As the officer ran through the gruesome details, Angela thought back on how from time to time she’d seen the odd look of melancholy in Vicki’s expression. It came and went sometimes in a matter of minutes. She’d be happily playing with Lara, then suddenly drift off, glassy-eyed and lost in thought.

  Angela pictured the last time she’d seen that look. Was it yesterday? Or the day before? She’d asked what Vicki was thinking about, and as suddenly as the look came it went.

  Vicki had glanced up with a forced grin and said, “Nothing special.” But her eyes were the eyes of a lost soul, a person burdened by an unspeakable sorrow. Whatever secret she’d had, she would now carry it to her grave.

  When Dimitri and the officer finally left, the sun was on the edge of the horizon, and Angela could hear Lara stirring in her crib. She stiffened her back, brushed the tears from her cheeks, and stood. She could do nothing more for Vicki, but she could be a mother to Lara, and that’s precisely what she would do.

  Two days later the autopsy came back saying there was a small hole in Vicki’s heart that had interrupted the blood flow. Angela read the report through once, then folded it back into the envelope and slid it into a drawer.

  GOOD DAYS, BAD DAYS

  Summer 1972
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  Rachel eventually decided not to cochair the library restoration committee, but when the campaign kicked off in April she offered to help out with placement. Loading two cartons of printed posters in the trunk of the car, she and Mama Dixon went from store to store asking Primrose County shopkeepers for a spot in the front window. By the end of the week, both cartons had been emptied out.

  That summer was just as Rachel had predicted. She had good days and bad days. But the good days were all too often punctuated with some incident that would again open up wounds that never quite healed.

  In early July, she and Mama Dixon were in Weston having lunch at the Sweet Spot when a young woman walked in pushing a stroller. From where Rachel was sitting it was impossible to see the child’s face, but she couldn’t miss the wispy blonde curls; they were exactly the same as Emily’s. The menu Rachel held fell from her hand, and she sat there, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

  Mama Dixon was in the middle of saying she thought she’d have an egg salad sandwich when she noticed the expression on Rachel’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  Without taking her eyes off the child, Rachel gave a nod toward the woman.

  Helen turned and saw the golden-blonde curls. “Oh dear . . .”

  “That looks exactly like . . .”

  “The child looks like Emily, but it’s not her,” Mama Dixon said knowingly. She set her menu aside, reached out, and touched her hand to Rachel’s arm. “You can see that baby’s still an infant; she’s not much older than Emily was when she was taken.”

  “No, no, she’s—”

  “Look at how she’s slumped over in the stroller. Emily would be sitting straight now, probably walking and talking.”

  Seeing but not hearing, Rachel kept her eyes fixed on the child.

  “It’s been almost a year,” Helen said.