Running errands did sound boring to Tracey, but the idea of doing something different appealed to her. She weighed the excitement of doing something new against the chance of getting exposed to the toxins, and opted not to press the issue. “I hope you don’t get sick,” she said.
“I’m big and healthy. I think I’m pretty safe, but I don’t want to be out there all the time, that’s for sure!” She moved to the cooler, sliced an apple, and handed it to Tracey. “I have to get us some food, and I wanted to find some more warm clothes for you.”
“Where do you get our clothes?” she asked.
“Oh, different places. There are people who give clothes to those of us who…who are a little less fortunate, and I have some friends that I’ve met at the park and other places, and they give us hand-me-downs.”
“What about our food? You don’t work, and there is no daddy. How do we buy our food?” Tracey asked.
Mummy reached over and put her hand on Tracey’s leg, whispering furtively, “Don’t you worry about things, okay? Mummy has friends, and they let me do some little jobs here and there. We will always have enough food. There are places that give us food, too.”
Tracey looked at her sideways, “You don’t steal it, do you?” Her eyes grew wide with the thought.
“Of course not! My mummy taught me never to steal—and don’t you ever steal, either. That’s no way to live!”
They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence, and Tracey wondered if she’d make a good mom one day, if she’d be able to keep her kids safe—if she’d even be able to have kids. Didn’t you need a daddy to have kids? As Tracey’s mind wandered, she gazed at Mummy’s coat thrown carelessly on the mattress. Her happiness went away as she realized that soon Mummy would leave for her errands, and she’d be left alone once again.
Shortly after Mummy had left to run her errands, the candle had burned out, and Tracey was unable to relight the wick, becoming more frightened with each passing second. She’d frantically grabbed at the table, desperately feeling for the flashlight she hoped Mummy had left behind, and knocking her drawings onto the floor. Mummy returned from her errands to find Tracey huddled in the center of the room in a fit of panic, sobbing so hard she could not understand the words Mummy yelled. Tracey gripped the sides of her head with her hands, pulling her hair, like needles from her scalp, she rocked back and forth, shutting out the darkness that surrounded her. Then Mummy had fled, leaving Tracey alone in the dark once again.
Hannah sat across from Newton in the café, recalling the memory of the cold and dreary night twenty years earlier, as if it were yesterday. Fear still resonated throughout her body. It had been just months after Charlie had left her, and she had been petrified every minute since, terrified that he would come back, that he would find out her secret. She had kept watch as she ran errands, to make sure she wasn’t followed, and Newton, God bless him, would drive by the farm at night, a few times each night, as a matter of fact, and make sure that Charlie wasn’t parked outside. Though it was Charlie’s choice to leave, he had a hair trigger of a temper, and Hannah was never quite confident that he wouldn’t return. On that particular night, she’d just come in from feeding the horses and her body ached all over, her back, her legs, even her arms hurt. It was too early for the baby to come, so she hadn’t been worried about early labor. She’d thought that she was coming down with a bug. She’d gone inside, bundled up with a cup of tea, and decided that she’d desperately needed rest. As usual, she’d called Newton to tell him that she was in for the night, reported how she was feeling, and said that she was going to try and sleep. One could set their clock by their nightly calls, but Newton and Betty insisted. They had wanted to know she was safe, and she’d appreciated their concern.
It was near midnight when she’d placed the call. Newton and Betty were at her bedside in minutes with medical manuals, fresh towels, and ice chips. None of them was quite sure what to expect—Newton had not been in the room when Betty had given birth to their son, Sam, and Betty had been highly sedated. Newton paced the room, shaking as if his shoes were vibrating. He tried so hard to convince Hannah to go to the hospital, begged her, in fact, but she’d stood firm. She couldn’t risk Charlie tracking down this baby and taking it away from her.
The pain had lasted for hours, Hannah’s screeches mirrored by Newton clenching his face and shoulders so tight that Betty had worried about him, as much as she had about Hannah, but she also knew Newton was a strong man, and that his strength would carry him through this ordeal. Hannah writhed from the stabbing pains that seared across her lower back and engulfed her protruding belly with the force of two giant hands, squeezing, pushing with so much pressure she’d thought she would surely burst open, but the baby would not come, and Hannah was not sure she was able to continue—part of her wanted to die, right then and there, leaving behind the fear of Charlie, the pain of childbirth.
Betty constantly wiped her brow with a cool cloth, soothing her with supportive words and rubbing her shoulders. Newton, on the other hand, pleaded with her to go to the hospital, get some real help. When Hannah refused with such determination that Newton finally understood the futility of his efforts, he became her ally, breathing in tune with Hannah, right through each powerful contraction, sweating bead for bead, spinning tales and telling jokes to take Hannah’s focus off of the gut-wrenching pain that gripped her. Suddenly, the contractions had stopped. Hannah’s breathing slowed, Newton’s followed. The three of them watched Hannah’s belly, waiting for the next contraction, waiting, it seemed, for hours, though in truth it was only mere minutes. Newton placed his hand on her belly, and Hannah watched his mouth move in prayer. Then, as if someone had kicked her in the lower back, Hannah let out a wail so loud she was sure to wake the sleeping cows across the road. She arched her back and pushed as hard as she was able, and out she slipped, tiny feet first. Newton was there, with his gloved hands outstretched, and a blanket laid across them, pillows below, Just in case. He’d caught Hannah’s dear baby daughter, bundled her up, and set her gently in Hannah’s arms. It was Newton who heard her first gasp of breath, and it was Newton who saw her last—the same as her first. The first was a shallow, labored breath in, and the last, a long, breeze-like breath out. She was beautiful, with a mop of brown hair, little cherub face, and scrawny little body. Her arms and legs had hung like a rag doll’s, pink and soft. Ten little fingers and ten little toes—Hannah had counted them, each with the tiniest little nails she’d ever seen—but she had come too early. It had not been her time, Hannah had said—or maybe it had.
Hannah was brought back to the café by the warmth of Newton’s hand on her own, “Hannah?” he said.
Hannah blinked, shook the memory from her mind. “I’m sorry.” She wiped the fresh tears from her cheeks.
The short drive was familiar, comforting. Pastor Lett thought about Rodney’s life, what he’d been like when they were growing up, and how she had stood by her little brother and protected him since the day he was born. Her mother had told her that she had Rodney for her, so she would not be alone. Pastor Lett had taken that responsibility very seriously, protecting Rodney when neighborhood kids made fun of him, trying to teach Rodney how to read and write when it had been a daunting, almost impossible task. She had cared for him as if he were her son, rather than her brother. When she had moved to Boyds, she couldn’t fathom leaving Rodney with their parents, who told her often how much of a burden Rodney was to them. She had no qualms about being a sole provider for Rodney. As a young woman in her twenties, she’d felt ready to shoulder the responsibility. Rodney had never questioned Pastor Lett’s role of caregiver. He only became uncomfortable when she had other duties that took her away from him. It had taken years for Rodney to come to understand that Pastor Lett had to run the church, often leaving Rodney alone in the manse. Rodney had a fear of crowds, even the small community gatherings at the church made him fret. In time, Rodney came to prefer staying at home. Pastor Lett had often made the effor
t to walk Rodney through the historic road on which they lived, introducing him to the neighbors, making him feel more comfortable in his surroundings. It hadn’t come easily—many times Rodney had turned on his heels and run back to the manse, leaving Pastor Lett alone in the effort. Pastor Lett had seen the value in Rodney becoming adjusted to people, and she forged forward, eventually breaking Rodney’s fear almost completely.
Rodney’s favorite walk was the one that led to the Boyds Country Store. He had taken instantly to Jin and Edie, who had reciprocated the fondness. Pastor Lett had shown Rodney the safe way to get there, using the pedestrian underpass. She taught Rodney how to listen for oncoming trains, and never to cross the tracks. Rodney had been hesitant, at first, to believe that he would indeed come out of the underpass on the other side of the tracks. Pastor Lett had made a game of the lesson. She’d run through the tunnel, appearing across the tracks with an overly enthusiastic smile and waving her arms, then doubling back to show Rodney that he could, and would, appear right before her once again.
Pastor Lett had spoken to Jin and Edie about Rodney, asking if it was okay that he visit them daily, and assuring them that she would step in at any time. She’d made it clear to Rodney that if he became a burden, the daily visits would end. That day never came. Edie took care of Rodney, loving him like a son. She made sure he was eating well, and generally happy. Jin had looked forward to his visits as well, keeping an eye out for him at the same time every day, standing on the back stoop of the store, watching for his large head to pop out of the underpass, and calling to him when he appeared. They were a comfort to both Rodney and Pastor Lett. Their love for Rodney enabled Pastor Lett the freedom to run the church, without worrying too much about whether Rodney was okay. She knew that Jin and Edie would be there for him. It was an unspoken, appreciated, trust. On the rare days that Rodney did not visit them, Jin would call Pastor Lett and inquire about Rodney’s wellbeing.
The thought of her betrayal to Edie and Jin made her sad—and angry. It seemed that in her effort to save Rodney, she’d inadvertently hurt many people.
Throwing caution to the wind, she pulled up the long driveway without a care about being seen.
Pastor Lett entered the small dark room, already on edge from the weight of her past—twenty years were closing in on her. A disturbing sound emanated from the contorted face of her charge, who rocked furiously, forward and back, sobbing, in a frenetic state. Crayon pictures littered the floor—twenty, maybe thirty drawings, scribbled with a heavy hand and, clearly, dark thoughts.
Pastor Lett had seen this disturbing state only once before. She grabbed at the drawings, leafing through them quickly; black crayon streaks, thick and uneven.
“What is this?” panic raced through her. She tried again, hysterically raising her voice, “What is this?”
Pastor Lett raced from the room, What have I done?
Molly lay on the couch, having collapsed after her emotional morning. She grabbed her phone and exhaustedly dialed Cole’s number.
“Hi, honey, what time do you think you’ll be home?” she asked when she heard his voice on the line.
“I’ll leave now, since I know you’re home,” he said cheerfully. Molly smiled, relieved. “What do you want to do? Go to a movie?”
“Whatever you want. I would just love some down time with you,” she said, pleased by his effort at reconciliation.
His reply was interrupted by a loud knock at the door. The dogs raced through the foyer, barking excitedly. “Honey, hold on a sec,” she said to Cole.
Another knock, urgently sounded. “Who’s there?” she called to the visitor.
The answer stopped her in her tracks. “Pastor Lett?” Molly reached out to answer the door, the phone still up to her ear.
“Don’t answer it, Molly. After what Edie said, I don’t trust her,” Cole said sternly.
“I can’t just not answer it, Cole. Relax,” she said into the receiver, surprised at his sudden mistrust, his possible support. She settled the dogs and opened the door.
Pastor Lett stood on the porch, the afternoon sun failing to warm the cool day, a blue knit scarf hung around her neck, a dark hat atop her head. Her overcoat was buttoned from top to bottom, and her hands fidgeted nervously at her sides. “Molly, may I come in?” she said urgently.
“Don’t do it, Molly!” Cole said.
Molly stepped aside, letting Pastor Lett into the foyer. Stealth and Trigger sniffed at her legs. From her cell phone she heard, “Molly? What does she want?”
Cole was calling her name as she lowered the phone, “Pastor Lett?”
“I know...about what happened at the search today. I’ve seen that look a thousand times—with Rodney.” She slipped a few sunflower seeds into her mouth.
Molly bristled. Of course you have, she thought. Her palms grew sweaty. She gripped the cell phone tighter, beginning to panic.
Pastor Lett looked at her hand, then turned her head upward, toward the ceiling, and whispered, “Give me strength to do this, to do the right thing. Please, Lord,” She dropped her gaze to Molly, and she opened her mouth, revealing pieces of her habitual seeds, but no words came out. Instead, she reached into her pocket.
Molly’s heartbeat sped up. She took a step backwards. Stealth growled, Trigger followed, alert by her side.
Pastor Lett withdrew several child-like drawings from her pocket, flattened them against her leg, and handed them to Molly.
Pastor Lett was clearly disturbed as she raced through the streets of Boyds. Molly sat warily beside her, Cole’s angry words ringing in her head, “Molly, don’t be stupid! Do not go with her!” and silently cursing herself for her terse reply before hanging up on him, “Stupid? Consider me gone!” She flipped nervously through the dark drawings, her heart in her throat. “I knew she was alive,” she said under her breath, recognizing images of Tracey; drawings of a little girl surrounded by a cornfield, kneeling in front of candles, and walking through dark tunnels—drawn as narrow alleys colored black except around the girl, creating a halo of white around her. Molly’s breathing quickened—flashes of her visions mirrored the drawings before her.
They pulled into the familiar driveway, and Molly turned warily toward Pastor Lett, guarded, mistrusting once again.
They drove up the steep hill and parked in front of the old Victorian home.
Molly looked down again at the drawings that covered her lap. Her hand shook as she lifted one drawing and exposed another. “Look at th—” Molly’s voice dropped off. “Oh my God—look at this.” She held the disturbing picture up for Pastor Lett to see. The anguish in her eyes was undeniable. Molly’s mistrust was beginning to fade.
“It looks like she’s in a hole,” Molly’s voice cracked. “Where is she?” she demanded. She pressed the drawing to her chest. Her chest grew tight, and the smell of cold dirt and urine swirled around her. Tracey’s fear melded with her as if it were her own. Her heart beat so fast she thought her chest might explode, and just as suddenly, she felt a release, as if Tracey had given up hope and accepted her situation, succumbing to her captor.
Shortly after Mummy had left to run her errands, the candle had burned out, and Tracey had been unable to relight the wick. Mummy had returned from her errands to find Tracey huddled in the center of the room, scared and crying. Mummy had yelled something, but Tracey was too frantic to recognize the words. Then Mummy had fled, leaving Tracey alone in the dark once again. She’d been gone only moments before reappearing with fresh matches.
Mummy lit one candle, mumbling a prayer as she brought the flame to the wick, then went to Tracey’s side, comforting her, making sure she knew she was safe.
Tracey eyed the candle that lit so easily for Mummy. She knew she had to be able to learn to light the candles—she never wanted to be in that awful position again. “Mummy, can I light the candles today?” Tracey asked timidly. She’d watched Mummy for several days and was sure she could learn to light the candles.
“Maybe we can
do it together,” Mummy said.
Tracey perched on her knees next to her while Mummy struck a match. She was mesmerized by the sudden spark, the instant bright red and orange flame, and her favorite part, the low hiss that lasted only a millisecond. The smell of sulfur rose to her nose. Tracey put her hand on Mummy’s, and, together, they lit the candles. She knew what to say this time. She was proud of herself and began to speak at the same time Mummy did, their words blending seamlessly together.
They spoke quietly at first, “Heavenly Father,” Mummy’s eyes widened, surprised to hear Tracey saying the prayer, “we thank You that these things are written in Psalms 91, that we can dwell in the secret place of the most High, and we thank You that we can.”
Tracey forgot the next words and looked nervously down at her peaked hands. Mummy continued praying, her lips parted in a wide grin.
“Abide under the shadow of our Almighty God. We thank You that we can say You are our Lord, our refuge, our fortress, and our God, whom we can trust. We thank You for delivering us from the snare of the fowler and from the deadly pestilence. We thank You for covering each of us with your feathers. We thank You that we can walk under your wings and take refuge. We thank You that your faithfulness and truth is our shield and armor. We thank You that we are not afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. We thank You that a thousand shall fall at our side, and ten thousand at our right hand; and none will come near us.”
Chasing Amanda Page 26