Emily, Gone

by Bette Lee Crosby

  Suddenly the terrible ache of longing made it almost impossible to breathe. All these months Rachel had held on to Emily as she was, a cuddly soft infant, but now she’d be learning to talk, calling some other woman “Mama.” For Rachel, time had stood still, like the glass-enclosed pendulum of a broken clock. She’d remained mired in her world of sorrow, but Emily had moved on, grown into a toddler.

  She’d forever remember, but Emily was just a baby. Babies forgot so quickly. That year had seemed a lifetime to her, but . . . Rachel’s eyes filled with water, and she bit down on her lip as she came to realize the truth: to Emily she would now be little more than a stranger.

  “Dear God,” she whispered tearfully and buried her face in her hands.

  In August, when the anniversary date of Emmy’s kidnapping was only a week off, Rachel took a turn for the worse. For three days in a row she was too weary to get out of bed, and that Sunday she skipped going to church.

  On Monday morning Mama Dixon arrived at the house carrying a shopping bag filled with skeins of wool. Ignoring the fact that Rachel was not yet out of her bathrobe, she said, “I’m way behind on these afghan squares and need you to lend a hand.”

  Rachel had no heart for needlework, but she owed Mama Dixon, so she settled into the chair and began to crochet. Helen said she needed thirty squares, but that afternoon they passed thirty and moved on to forty. At first Rachel’s squares were stiff and tight, half the size of Helen’s, but as she began to take notice of what she was doing, her fingers found an easy rhythm. In time, you could not tell one woman’s work from the other.

  At the end of the day Helen suggested that if they were to keep working, they might be able to finish two afghans in time for the bazaar. And oddly enough, Rachel agreed.

  The anniversary of Emmy’s kidnapping was stretched over two days, because no one could say for sure whether she was taken late Sunday night or in the wee hours of Monday morning. On the first night Rachel was haunted by the memory of how the back door had been left unlocked. She blamed herself and there was nothing George could say or do to change that. Weary of such thoughts, she finally swallowed one of the little blue pills she’d taken during the first few weeks of Emmy being gone and climbed into bed. The moon was on the rise, and a narrow beam of light slipped through the summer-weight curtains. Before she had time to fall asleep, George climbed in beside her. He hesitated a moment, then moved closer, his shoulder warm against hers, his head resting on the edge of her pillow.

  For a long while the only sound was the rise and fall of their breath, hers rapid and shallow, his long and labored. In time, she turned her face to his, and he saw the glisten of a teardrop on her cheek.

  He touched his hand to her cheek and brushed back the tear. “Rachel, you might think I don’t understand your heartache, but I do. I swear I do. I don’t say it all the time, but not a day goes by that I don’t think of Emmy. The ache that’s in your heart is just as heavy in mine.”

  “You hardly ever mention her name. I thought maybe you’d forgotten.”

  “Never,” he said. “Every day I ask God to watch over her. I pray that she’s loved and cared for . . .”

  There was a moment of hesitation; then he added, “And I pray that He’ll one day bring her back to us.”

  “Do you honestly think we’ll ever see her again?”

  His answer was slow in coming.

  “Yes, I do,” he said, the sound of hope in the undercurrent of his words. “I believe God has heard our prayers and will someday answer them.”

  “He hasn’t answered them so far.”

  “I know. But I keep believing. When I feel doubt creeping up on me, I think back on what happened with Badger.”

  “Badger?”

  George nodded. “The dog I had when I was a kid. I loved that mutt more than anything. Then one day he just disappeared. Daddy drove all over town looking for him, but he was nowhere to be found. I cried my eyes out over that dog. Two years later he came trotting up the front walkway as if he’d never been gone.”

  Rachel turned her face to his. “Did you find out where he’d been all that time?”

  “No, but it didn’t matter, because I had him back.”

  That first year was the most difficult. Everything seemed a reminder of what they’d lost. The days dragged on, long and heavy until they finally became weeks, and the weeks then struggled to become months.

  Rachel was like the oak in Mama Dixon’s front yard, which no longer had life in it yet somehow managed to remain standing. For a long while she was as dry and brittle as that oak. Then in the spring of 1973, the tree sprouted green buds, and she too began a return to life.

  It didn’t happen all at once but came in slow bits and pieces: an afternoon of shopping with Mama Dixon, a few meetings with the Hesterville Women’s League, a night at the movies with George, and then the four-day trip to Atlanta for the Hardware Dealers Convention.

  When George first mentioned it, Rachel claimed she wasn’t up to socializing. “I’m not very good company these days.”

  “Maybe you’ll feel better if you get away from the house for a while.”

  She shook her head. “I should be here in case . . .”

  “It’s going on two years, honey. If the sheriff comes up with something, he can call us at the hotel.”

  Although it took some convincing, Rachel finally agreed to go, and the trip, while not quite a turning point, became the start of one.

  On the last night of the convention they dined at The Palm with a couple from Chicago, and for the first time in nearly two years Rachel found herself laughing. It was not simply a polite pretense of laughter but a musical sound that settled sweetly on George’s ears.

  After dinner, the orchestra played “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” and they danced. As George held her close, his hand firm against her back, she lowered her head onto his chest.

  “This is nice,” she whispered.

  For the first time since that fateful morning she allowed her body to feel what it had once felt. That night in a hotel room that held none of the painful memories, they found their way back to being lovers. His touch was slow and unhurried, her response filled with warmth and unbridled passion. Although they’d been married for almost four years, it was as if they were discovering each other for the first time.

  Afterward as they lay curled together, her drifting on the edge of sleep, he whispered, “We’re going to make it, Rachel. We’ve gone through the worst that can happen, but we will survive.”

  That year the good days outnumbered the bad ones, and Helen seemed to know when a bad day was on the horizon. Before Rachel could fall into a fit of depression, Mama Dixon was standing on the doorstep with yet another project that needed to be done. In December when the church held their Christmas bazaar, the two women donated five afghans. Prayers for Emmy were woven into every stitch.

  THE JOY OF MOTHERHOOD

  Fairlawn, 1972

  Once Vicki was gone, the McAlister family’s life changed. Angela never did go back to work at the diner. She couldn’t. The thought of spending her days in a place so closely linked to her sister’s death was daunting.

  “You’ll have to find a new counter girl to work the morning shift,” she told Dimitri, and offered to return the uniform shirt hanging in her closet.

  “Hold on to it,” he said. “After a while you might feel differently. When you’re ready to get back to work, we’ll have a place for you here.”

  Although she doubted she’d be ready anytime in the foreseeable future, Angela kept the shirt. But before the week was out she realized that even the sight of it brought back the most terrible memories of Vicki’s death. She pushed the black shirt to the back of the closet, behind a heavy wool coat she hadn’t worn in years, and that’s where it remained.

  The truth was she blamed herself for Vicki’s death.

  “If I hadn’t gotten her that job at the diner, she wouldn’t have been working that day,” Angela claimed, “and i
f she wasn’t working she wouldn’t have been wandering around the park alone and in the rain.”

  “Vicki’s death had nothing to do with the job,” Kenny argued. “It was her heart. The coroner’s report said so.”

  “All the same, I’d feel better looking for a job elsewhere.”

  “You don’t need a job. We can manage without a second income. Stay home and be a full-time mom to Lara.”

  At first such an idea appeared somehow foreign to Angela. She’d been working since she was sixteen years old and couldn’t imagine getting up in the morning with no place to hurry off to. In an odd way, it seemed almost lazy.

  Their discussion over the practicality of this idea went back and forth for a while, but after a few short weeks of being at home with Lara, Angela knew Kenny was right. By then she’d become Lara’s mama, and the thought of whether or not they could afford a new car or summer vacation no longer mattered. She was focused on more important things, things such as good-night kisses, morning hugs, and afternoon walks to the park. An aunt’s fondness had morphed into a mother’s love, the kind of love that says you will never be left alone; you will always have a hand to hold.

  When Lara learned to speak, Angela was “Mama” and Kenny “Daddy.” They were a family. Angela held on to the hope that Lara would someday have a baby brother or sister, but it never happened. So she and Kenny poured all their love into Lara.

  That first year, the McAlisters had a number of discussions about trying to locate the man who was Lara’s daddy. Angela thought it was something they should look into; Kenny disagreed.

  “He’s her biological father,” Angela said. “It’s not important now, but in the future, Lara might want to know who he is.”

  “Why?” Kenny asked.

  She gave a mystified shrug. “I’m not certain, but when I was at the telephone company I worked with a girl who was adopted, and she was always saying she’d give anything to know her real parents.”

  “Lara isn’t adopted! She’s your sister’s child. Vicki was her birth mother, and you’re a blood relative. Isn’t that enough?”

  “For now, yes. But with Vicki gone . . .”

  “Listen, your sister wanted nothing to do with the guy, so there must have been a reason. He’s probably trouble.”

  Angela was going to remind him that Vicki could be somewhat less than truthful and often saw things in an altered reality, but she held back. In the months before her death, Vicki had been different, softer perhaps, more accepting of life. It wasn’t a specific behavior that Angela could point to and say this or that changed. It was more gradual, like a lazy sunset or the wind shifting direction.

  Nothing was ever resolved. One year turned into two, and by the time Lara celebrated her second birthday, the thought was all but forgotten. Angela scheduled her days around afternoon naps, visits to the park, and library storytelling sessions.

  The idea of finding Lara’s daddy remained in Angela’s head, but with the passing of time it became less and less important. On the rare occasions when she did think of it, his name was little more than a vague recollection. When she tried to remember, it came as a jumble of thoughts—Russ Morrissey? Morris Russell? Russ Murphy?

  THE THING ABOUT LOVE

  Spring 1973

  In the early months of their marriage, George and Rachel had planned to have three, maybe four children. After losing Emmy, they never spoke of it again. Then one evening George found her standing beside the empty crib, looking down as if she were watching Emmy sleep.

  Thinking this might mean a change of heart, he came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and kissed the back of her neck.

  “Are you thinking about us having another baby?”

  She shook her head, stood there for a few minutes, then began to sob.

  “I can’t,” she said. “That would be the same as admitting we’ve given up on finding Emmy and ordered a replacement.”

  George took hold of Rachel’s shoulders and turned her to face him.

  “It’s not like that at all,” he said. “Having another child doesn’t mean we’ll ever stop hoping to find Emmy.”

  She lowered her eyes and looked away. “That’s what you say now, but having a baby changes things.”

  “Yes, but it’s always for the better.”

  “Not always. Most of the time, maybe. There’s also a very real possibility that the baby will be a constant reminder of Emmy. What happens then?”

  “Then we’ll celebrate the fact that we have another child to help keep the memories of Emmy alive in our hearts.” He pulled her close and traced his thumb across her cheek to brush back the tears.

  “I know the thought of loving another child is a scary thing right now,” he said, “but I trust the goodness you have in your heart, Rachel, and I believe you’ll love our second child as much as you loved the first.”

  “Perhaps . . .”

  Several moments of hesitation followed; then she turned away without ever speaking of the deeper fear hidden in her heart.

  The next afternoon as she and Mama Dixon sat on the front porch crocheting granny squares, Rachel couldn’t stop thinking of her conversation with George and of what he’d said about having another baby. At times the thought seemed a way of moving forward, then moments later it was simply too painful to bear.

  The two women sat in silence for a long while before Rachel found courage enough to broach the subject. “Were you hesitant about having another baby after you lost Tommy?” she asked.

  Mama Dixon lowered the square she’d been working on into her lap and gave a pensive nod. “Yes, I suppose I was.”

  Feeling her own fears justified, Rachel said, “Because you thought the second baby would be a reminder of Tommy, right?”

  Mama Dixon picked up her crocheting and sat there with the needle not moving.

  “Being reminded of somebody you’ve loved isn’t a bad thing,” she said. “But I was afraid I wasn’t skilled enough. I worried that I’d do something wrong and lose the second baby like I lost Tommy.”

  She wrinkled her forehead like she was remembering something, then snagged a loop of yarn and pulled it through the slip stitch. “For a while I got so caught up in all that worrying, I almost forgot about how much joy having a little one can bring.”

  That thought intrigued Rachel. “So what changed?” she asked. “What made you decide to have another baby?”

  “I didn’t decide. I left it up to God. I told Him that I didn’t know if I was deserving of another baby, but if He thought I was, I’d be mighty grateful for the chance.”

  “That’s when you got pregnant?”

  Mama Dixon gave a big round laugh.

  “Not exactly,” she said. “Henry and I tried for over a year, and I was almost to the point of believing that was God’s answer; then it happened.”

  “You and Henry were pretty happy, I suppose?”

  “Of course we were happy, but that wasn’t the end of my worries about being a good-enough mama.”

  Rachel couldn’t imagine Mama Dixon not being a good mama. She set aside her granny square and leaned forward. “George turned out just fine, so how’d you finally move past all that worry?”

  Mama Dixon hesitated a moment, then smiled. “I never did, but before I had time enough to think about it, George was half-grown, out the door, and on his way to school.”

  She reached across and took Rachel’s hand in hers.

  “That’s the thing about babies,” she said. “They’re not something you can hold on to forever. You get to enjoy them for a while, but in time they grow up and branch out to start having a life of their own.”

  “Good grief, that’s so sad.”

  “No, it’s not,” Mama Dixon argued. “It’s the way of life. The sooner a woman realizes it, the happier she’ll be.”

  Thinking back on how Mama Dixon had made her disapproval of their marriage so blatantly obvious, Rachel said, “Well, you didn’t seem to think that when George left
home.”

  “I sure enough didn’t.” Mama Dixon snickered. “Most mamas aren’t happy to see their kids leave home, but, ashamed as I am to admit it, I was the worst of the lot. I made everybody around me miserable, and it was a long time before I realized the only one I was really hurting was myself.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I was depriving myself of the thing I wanted most.” Mama Dixon peered over her glasses and added, “A family.”

  Rachel smiled, gave her hand a squeeze, then went back to crocheting.

  Mama Dixon set aside the granny square she’d been working on, then eyed Rachel’s stack.

  “You’re way behind,” she said. “You’d better get a move on.”

  In the weeks that followed, the two women had several more in-depth conversations. Rachel found it easy to confide in Mama Dixon, and as that spring turned into summer she began to talk about her fears.

  They were sitting at Mama Dixon’s kitchen table having a second cup of coffee when out of the blue she said, “George wants to have another baby, but I’m afraid that if we do, Emmy will be forgotten and we’ll lose whatever hope we have of getting her back.”

  “That’s one worry you don’t need to have,” Mama Dixon replied. “You won’t ever forget Emmy. You’re her mama, and once a mama has held her baby in her arms, that child is forever in her heart. There’s no such thing as forgetting, even if you try.”

  “Why would any mother try to forget her own child?”

  Mama Dixon pushed her cup to the side and leaned in. “It’s obvious you haven’t heard of the Lambert family. Now there was a mama who had plenty of cause for wanting to forget her boy, but even she couldn’t do it.”

  “Why’d she—”

  “Because he was a cold-blooded killer, that’s why! Louie Lambert—you must’ve heard of him?”

  When Rachel shook her head, Mama Dixon went on with the story.

  “Louie was about five years older than George and spoiled rotten. Parents gave him the best of everything, but that boy grew up mean as a striped-ass snake. As soon as he got old enough to sass, him and his daddy would go toe to toe, and Alma, she was his mama, always took Louie’s side. Then one day Louie just up and shot his daddy straight through the heart!”