by Webb, Debra
I feel the camera lens zoom in on me, its red light as hypnotic as a swaying serpent’s head. Could this get any worse?
“Do you feel these abductions are eerily similar to the ones twenty-five years ago? Natalie was your sister. Surely, your family has considered the horrifying possibility that yet another monster lives in this quiet, paradisiacal community.”
My mouth is so dry I can’t swallow. I have to say something, I realize this. “You should speak to Sheriff Cotton. She knows the case far better than me.”
“But you were the last person to see Natalie and Stacy twenty-five years ago, the only one to return. Now two more girls are missing and you’re back in town. Don’t you find that oddly ironic?”
Those two words had stalked me all day. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
Somehow I squeeze into the car and start the engine. My hands shake as I steer through the crowd of shoppers who have suddenly converged in the vicinity of my car.
Voices and images from twenty-five years ago follow me home.
* * *
An hour later I stand at the closet door, staring at the wooden panels, my heart thundering. Helen watched the breaking news bulletin filmed outside the Piggly Wiggly. She said she only recognized me because of the cap and, by the way, it was dad’s favorite. I glance at the cap that sports the Crimson Tide logo lying on my bedside table. No one had touched it since the last time he hung it on the hall tree. I shouldn’t have worn it. Dad wouldn’t mind but that isn’t the point. The things he left behind are too precious to treat so cavalierly.
Half the town has called to ask when I arrived home and when they can come by to catch up. Every member of St. Mary’s, even the twice a year Catholics who only attend Mass on Easter and at Christmas, will find their way to the front door between now and Sunday. My skull throbs relentlessly.
So much for my big plan of holing up and licking my wounds.
Downstairs in the living room there’s a liquor cabinet. There would certainly be bourbon and scotch, maybe vodka. To my knowledge Helen never touches the stuff. Wine is her drink of choice when the occasion arises. If I wait until she’s in bed I can put myself to sleep with a few shots of vodka or bourbon. Otherwise, the chance of sleep is about zero. I tossed my sleeping pills a week ago. They seemed to make the nightmares worse. I don’t want to dream…not about the past. Alcohol doesn’t seem to produce that same side effect.
But no. I will not risk it. Maybe a glass of wine. Of course my AA sponsor would tell me that wine is alcohol the same as vodka or bourbon or my personal favorite, tequila, but I take a different view—the one I can live with. A glass of wine now and then isn’t an issue…it’s the hard stuff that makes me stupid.
My fingers curl and uncurl with the too familiar anxiety and useless anticipation pumping through my system. Is it possible something I saw or heard twenty-five years ago could help the girls who disappeared day before yesterday?
If so, wouldn’t Letty call me?
I close my eyes. The television news is all about ratings. I know this. Connecting the two crimes is a way to boost viewer interest. Besides, I couldn’t help Natalie and Stacy all those years ago. How could I possibly help the two I’ve never even met?
Chewing my lip, I consider that whether I think I can or not is irrelevant. I need to try. If there is even the most remote chance, I have to put forth the effort.
I reach for the closet door, open it. When Dad renovated this space for me he made sure I had a nice big closet and I quickly filled it with lots of things not remotely associated with clothing. My rock collection as well as various other collections are boxed up in here on one of the shelves. I would wager I have some unearthed object from the yard of every old house in this town. Now to mention stacks of DVDs and CDs. Boots and hats. Photo albums and rolls of undeveloped shots. When I was ten, Dad bought me a camera. I snapped endless photos of stuff I found in the woods and in the dirt. As a kid I preferred the search for hidden treasures to eating or sleeping or anything else.
The stack of newspapers waits on a shelf in the farthest corner. I take the bundle in my arms, the smell of ink, old paper and dust wafting into my nose. I shuffle to my bed and place the yellowed papers there.
Wishing again for a drink, I climb into the middle of the mattress and pick up the first paper, the one that hit the newsstands the day after the bus crash.
Two Jackson Falls Girls Missing.
Natalie Graves and Stacy Yarbrough, both 15, disappeared after a bus crash…
Whispers and giggles echo in my brain as I read. I smell the diesel fuel from the bus engine. Feel the bumpity bump of the paved road badly in need of resurfacing. We hit a couple of particularly deep ruts left by the icy cold winter. Bounce, bounce. More giggles. Whispers.
I glanced back at my sister and her friend, pushed my glasses up my nose. Hands over mouths, Natalie and Stacy are huddled in their seat whispering, about some boy probably. I can see them as clearly today as I did twenty-five years ago. I felt so alone without Letty.
I remember wishing I had stayed home, too.
I force the images away and imagine the smell of freshly turned fertile earth. The scent is darkly pungent, teaming with life and rich with nutrients. It feels clean and soft in my hands as I plunge my fingers into its depths in search of the secrets it holds. For as far back as I can recall, the feel and smell of dirt has prompted happy memories. It is part of who I am…it is in my blood.
Calmer now, I focus on the newspaper article. So many times during the past twenty-five years those hours and days have played out in my head, in my dreams. But today I’m going to read about them from someone else’s perspective. See if I remember something I haven’t remembered before.
Experts say that each person remembers events differently based on what they experience from their vantage point. Unfortunately, there was no one else on the bus that day except me, the driver who died and my sister and her friend who disappeared. No other vantage points are available.
One by one, day by day, I scour the newspapers for the entire month after that day. I read the articles, flinching when I come to the one about Letty’s father. Most folks believed that he had something to do with Natalie and Stacy’s disappearance. I didn’t believe it and not just because Letty was my best friend, but because I knew Mr. Cotton.
Funny thing is, I know him even better now. I was diagnosed with PTSD after the incident in Iraq. My therapist said I’d likely suffered with a mild form since the bus crash and Natalie’s disappearance. Only recently had I lost it the way Letty’s father did all too frequently back in those days. The accusations against him had pushed him over the edge. He’d gone into the shed and put a bullet in his head to escape the nightmare.
The idea of putting a bullet in my head hasn’t crossed my mind but I can see how he found himself on that tragic path.
The police were at a complete loss for clues or answers of any sort. Volunteers from dozens of surrounding counties had shown up to help with the search. No one could find a single shred of evidence. Not a hair, a fiber or a witness. One agent from the Alabama Bureau of Investigation asked my parents about memory regression therapy. Desperate to find Natalie and Stacy, we tried. The therapist learned nothing and I suffered immensely because of it. My parents refused to allow me to be hypnotized ever again. By the time I was an adult and could make the decision for myself to try again that day was so far in the past it no longer seemed relevant.
After the trouble in Iraq I allowed my therapist to try taking me back once more. She learned nothing we didn’t already know. In her opinion, if there are any other memories in my head they are locked so deeply they are never coming out.
A rap on my door is followed by, “Emma.”
Before I can answer, Mother opens the door and walks in. “Is it okay for you to be climbing all those stairs, Helen?”
Her eyebrows shoot up and I amend, “Mother.”
“Moderate exercise won’t hurt me. I took my time
. Eventually I’ll be able to get back to my normal activities.”
Jesus. “I could have come down. All you had to do was give me a shout.”
“I know how far to push myself, Emma.” She frowns, gestures toward the bed. “Why are you putting yourself through that?”
I stare at the papers and wonder the same thing.
“Emma.” The mattress shifts as she settles on the bed next to me. “What happened to Natalie and Stacy was not your fault and there is nothing now any more than there was then that you can do to help them. You were just a child. You couldn’t be expected to know what to do.”
My gaze lingers on the yellowed photos of the girls. “Did I tell you I tried the regression therapy again?”
“You did?” Her eyes grow wider, worry clouds her face. “When?”
“After what happened in Iraq I was in therapy for a while. I figured why not see if there was anything in there—” I tap my head “—that might be useful. But it didn’t work any better this time than it did before.”
“Have the therapy sessions helped at all?”
A shrug lifts my shoulders. “I suppose.”
She reaches for my hand, cradles it in hers. “You’re a brilliant young woman, Emma.” She shakes her head. “My gracious the things you’ve done to help others. It’s incredible. I hope you know how special you are.”
Those sorts of compliments are rare from my mother. “I’ve already told you I would consider going to Mass with you on Sunday. No need to lay it on so thick.”
“Don’t be silly. This is not about whether you go to Mass with me or not.” Her hand tightens on mine as she searches my eyes, hers far too bright. “You have a guardian angel, Emma. Jake says you have some special purpose in this life and that’s why you’re still here.”
Suspicious, I ask, “This Jake is your new priest?”
“Yes. Jake Barnes.” She smiles and nods. “I adore him. He feels like the son I never had. He lets me talk about you and Natalie to my heart’s content.”
A smile tugs at my lips. I’m beginning to believe my mother has a crush. Maybe I will go to church and check out this guy.
The sound of buzzing like a bee trapped under glass draws my attention to my phone on the bedside table next to Dad’s cap. “Sorry about the cap. I wasn’t thinking.”
Mother leans forward and kisses my cheek before pushing up from the bed. “Your dad would be thrilled to have you wear it. I hope you’ll wear it again.”
I nod. She’s right. Memories of riding on his broad shoulders, of him tugging at my pigtails have me blinking back tears. If I’m completely honest with myself, my resistance to coming home for a visit is more about him being gone than my cantankerous relationship with my mother.
Or the memories of Natalie.
“Get your phone, dear. It might be important.”
Newspapers crinkle as I reach toward the bedside table. One missed call appears on my screen. Letty Cotton.
“It was Letty. I should call her back.”
Helen gives me a wink. “She’s inviting you over for dinner.”
I pause, my thumb poised above the screen. “How do you know?”
“She called to make sure we didn’t have special plans and that I didn’t need you here with me.” Mother lingers at the door. “Go. Have fun with your friend. I’ve got company coming for dinner.”
I’m not sure whether to be offended or grateful. “You’re certain you don’t want me to stay?” Now I’m curious. Maybe it’s this new priest. If she wants me to meet him so badly, why not tonight? Unless she does have a crush on him. But she said he was my age. Like that matters anymore.
“You go on with Letty. Howard and I have dinner every Friday night. He’s quite the chef.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Howard Kent as in the hardware store guy?”
“That’s the one.”
She disappears before I can ask anything else.
7
“I can’t believe you bought a house.”
Letty’s house is as warm and inviting as she is and gives me the illusion that I can do anything here and be safe, even risk a drink. I clutch my wine glass and wish it was tequila. The voice of Marty Griggs echoes in my ears. We both know how important it is to have someone to call. I don’t want to need a sponsor. I want to be able to do this myself. To be strong enough, to have enough willpower…
To hell with it. No pity party tonight.
Letty smiles and then sips her wine as elegantly as any sophisticated lady no matter that she wears a gun and chases bad guys for a living. I want to be strong like Letty. Her childhood was even uglier than mine. Her father committed suicide when she was eight. The stigma of having a murderer for a father haunted her even though it was never proven. On top of that she was a bi-racial child—not such a popular gene pool in some segments of the deep south back then.
“I have to live somewhere.” Letty sets her glass on the table, pushes her cleaned plate aside and leans back in her chair. “I was tired of throwing my money away on rent. Isn’t home ownership the goal of every millennial?”
I down the wine and reach for the bottle. “Speak for yourself.”
The red wine splashes into the stemware, sloshing to a point slightly beyond the invisible line everyone recognizes as a proper serving. I plop the empty bottle onto the table and study my gorgeous friend. Her skin is flawless and that perfect golden color that everyone wishes for in the summer—the perfect tan I had to work so hard to attain. Dark twisty curls hug her face. She wears a turquoise ribbed sweater with a bateau neckline that hangs off one shoulder and stretchy, wide-leg brown trousers. She looks sexy and happy and very much at home in her own skin.
I, on the other hand, am still wearing the same wrinkled tee and ragged jeans that started my day.
“Are you in a serious relationship, too?” I lift my glass as her smile widens. “Oh, go ahead. Make me feel like a real loser. You know Helen is already grieving at the notion that she will never have grandchildren.”
At one point in my late twenties I suffered through a mourning period in regard to my unattached status. I got over it. I have no permanent domicile. Certainly no serious relationship, not even a steady lover. I have an apartment that I leased barely a year ago and I have encounters with strangers who will never see me again after the first and only time we bump pelvises.
“I am not in a serious relationship,” my friend says. “I have no time. As for the house…” Letty glances around her small but utterly charming dining room. “It was time to make it real. We’re grownups now, Emma. Barreling toward forty.”
“Don’t remind me.” I sip my wine slowly, knowing I have to drive home eventually.
Home. How is it that no matter how far one roams or how long one stays gone, home is always where you started? As if part of me has always been here—trapped in this place that both molded and damaged me.
Dismissing the self-analysis session, I ask, “So, is the esteemed mayor of Jackson Falls still giving you trouble?”
Heather Beaumont Turner is the Jackson Falls mayor just like her mother before her. And just like her granddaddy before that, and so on as far back as the town’s history goes. She is a snob of the highest order—just like her momma—who loves nothing better than looking down her nose at others.
“You mean,” Letty asks with a pointed look, “is she the same condescending, racist bitch her mother was when she held the position?”
“That sounds like a yes.”
Letty shrugs. “She’s more a snob than a racist. She thinks she’s better than everyone, not just the folks whose skin is a different color from hers.”
I shake my head. This is not the same closed-minded south of long ago except for a few throwbacks, like the Jacksons and the Beaumonts. Letty’s point is a good one, though. These days it’s not so much about racism as simply considering themselves above everyone else. Of course that mentality is alive and well all over the country.
“I ran into her and
Brad at the Pig.”
“You did not.” Letty covers her mouth to hold back the laughter I see in her dark eyes. “Did you just want to punch her in the face? She wouldn’t feel it, you know. Too much Botox.”
We laugh and I explain how I told Heather that she called me about the case.
“I wondered why she’s been blowing up my phone all evening.”
We laugh some more, sip our wine. It feels good to be with Letty. Easy. Comfortable. “I heard on the radio that you have a couple of missing cavers, too.”
She sighs. “Which is just what I need.”
“Does that still happen fairly often?” As a kid I remember every summer being filled with stories of missing cavers. The smart ones left detailed itineraries about their planned expeditions with friends or family. Those were the ones generally found in a rescue situation rather than their bodies being recovered weeks later.
“People have gotten smarter about being prepared but it still happens far too often. We have our own rescue team now just for the ones who get themselves lost. It’s mostly volunteers but they know their shit.”
“I guess that takes some of the pressure off your department.” I tilt my wine glass, watch the rich burgundy liquid glide around the bowl.
“Yeah.” Letty stares at me for a long moment. “How are things going in Boston?”
I meet my friend’s gaze. Her eyes tell me how much I’ve hurt her by shutting her out this past year. We talked more when I was in Iraq than we have since I came back. It isn’t fair. She really is the only true friend I have. Of course I have casual friends and acquaintances in all the places I’ve lived and worked, but none know me as Letty does. Letty is the kind of friend who would follow me anywhere—who would come if I called no matter the time or the reason.
I am ashamed at how I’ve shut her out.
“The fact that you don’t know the answer to that question should tell you.” I close my eyes a moment. “Flashbacks, hallucinations. I had a meltdown in the classroom two weeks ago. Totally lost it.”