Winter Flower

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  Noise erupted from the room when the bell rang. Laughter, joking, horsing around. I kept my distance, kept my eyes to the floor, and got out of there as quickly as I could.

  The gym was at the opposite end of the building, near the front office. I made my way to the back stairwell and waited until the traffic died down. No teachers in sight. I sat down, slipped a paperback out of my bag, and started to read.

  The book was a good one, about a girl in high school in San Francisco who fell in love with the captain of the baseball team. They were friends, but he didn’t see her that way. I read up to the part where she was going to tell him how she felt when I heard the loud clicking of heels coming up the stairs.

  I panicked. It had to be a teacher, or one of the vice principals. As the heels echoed off the steps, I put my bag over my shoulder, forgetting to zip it up. When I stood, the bag opened and dumped out, scattering my notebooks all over the steps. Stupid!

  Heart hammering, I scrambled to gather my things and get out of there. But I was too late.

  “Excuse me, young lady, why aren’t you in class?”

  I jerked up, my eyes widening.

  It was a black woman in her thirties. She wore a conservative brown suit with a string of pearls around her neck and a beautiful ring with a large stone decorated her left ring finger. Her hair was straight, long and shiny. Her eyes opened wide when I faced her.

  “I’m sorry. Young man. Why aren’t you in class?”

  I opened my mouth and tried to speak, but nothing came out.

  She blinked and said, “What’s your name?”

  “Sam,” I said. “Sam Roberts.”

  “Well, Sam, what class are you supposed to be in right now?”

  “Gym,” I whispered.

  “And … why aren’t you there?”

  I tried to answer. I did. But I didn’t have an answer, not one I could explain to anyone. Going to gym meant undressing in front of other people. It meant being in a locker room and maybe showers with a bunch of guys. I couldn’t go there. I just couldn’t. And when I tried to explain it, to say something, anything, I just started to shake again.

  Her eyebrows pulled inward, mouth turning down in a sad expression. “Why don’t you come with me. I’m Mrs. Mullins with the counseling department. What grade are you in, Sam?”

  “Eleventh,” I said.

  She looked surprised and said, “Well, that’s perfect. I’m the eleventh grade counselor. Let’s go talk.”

  Two: August

  Erin.

  When my eyes drifted open in the morning, Cole and Sam were gone. Only the ticking of the grandfather clock broke the silence. My clothes from the day before, which I hadn’t changed, felt sticky and rumpled. A headache that began at the base of my neck and ran all the way to my forehead clouded my brain.

  I slowly sat up and surveyed the living room. I’d slept on the couch again, and the heat had awakened me. The morning sun glared through the front picture window, silhouetting the duct-taped crack in the bottom-left corner. The house would soon be an oven. Our financial situation had been so dire, for so long, that I didn’t run the air-conditioning until the afternoon, just before Sam got home from school.

  I stood and stripped down to my underclothes. The heat pummeled me, enough that sweat slicked my skin and I smelled. I needed a cool shower. To clean the house. To check Sam’s computer. I needed to get a handle on my life. On our lives.

  Instead, I padded into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. The clock on the microwave read 11:05. No wonder my head was filled with fog. I filled a tall glass of water from the sink, drinking back the chemical-tasting tap water.

  Days like this, I felt paralyzed. I was bored and needed something productive to do, but I couldn’t bring myself to do the things I needed to do. Sam and Cole had added their coffee cups and Sam’s cereal bowl to the pile of dishes in the sink. I stared at the dishes and wanted to scream. But I didn’t have enough motivation or energy to do it. This was my life. Dishes. Laundry. Iron Cole’s uniforms. Go to sleep. Do it over again.

  At least when the children were small, they brought meaning to being a stay-at-home mom. But they weren’t little anymore. They weren’t mine anymore. Brenna was gone. Every time I thought of her it was like a mini-seizure. And Sam had shut me out. I knew nothing about my youngest child. Sam spent too much time locked behind his bedroom door on the computer.

  I shook my head a little, trying to shake loose from the oppressive thoughts. The coffee had been ready several minutes, and I’d just been standing here. I poured myself a cup, stirred in a packet of Splenda. I opened the kitchen window, and despite the heat outside, well over a hundred degrees, the slight breeze cooled my skin a little.

  The heat, laden with moisture, brought an intense flash of memory. Summer in Georgia, twenty years ago. I still remembered when he touched my skin. When we desired each other. When the heat burned so close to the surface, it took nothing more than a word, a whisper, a breeze, for it to flare up and pull us into each other’s arms.

  It had been a long time since I’d experienced that. Instead, most of the time a blanket muffled my emotions, dulling the pain, true … but also dulling joy and love and desire, leaving me with nothing but bare existence. Maybe because it had been two years, or because Sam was back in school and I was alone at home for the first time in months, or it was nothing at all, but I squeezed my eyes shut as fresh grief washed over me.

  Brenna would be eighteen soon.

  If she was alive.

  I finally made my way into the shower. I thrust the past out of my mind, trying to concentrate on nothing more than the water beating against my skin.

  Head finally clear, I stepped out of the shower and dried off, then dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I wouldn’t be going out today. Honestly, I hadn’t worked that hard to find a job. Because every day, after Cole and Sam left, I worked on the computer. Searching. Today I would push that off a little, because I planned to get a look at Sam’s computer. I was no technophile, but I’d learned enough about computers to check his history and cookies.

  I didn’t find anything. No cookies on the computer. No history in the web browser. Which meant that Sam had cleared everything before leaving for school.

  Not a good sign. If I had found random websites in there, I guess that would be fine. But nothing? That meant he was hiding something. I sighed, shut the computer down, and walked out into the living room. Still broiling in there. I sat down on the couch and opened my aging laptop. The battery no longer functioned, so I had to keep it plugged in all the time, and one of the keys had broken off, but it still worked. We weren’t likely to be able to afford another one for a long time. Once it booted up, I started my daily search.

  I started with public arrest records. After two years, the only way I could stay alive was to have hope she was still alive.

  But I’d learned so much, so many horrible things about what happened to sixteen-year-old girls who ran away or were abducted. If she still lived, one day she might turn up in these records. Arrested for jaywalking or theft or worse. A thin hope, but it was hope. Not long after she disappeared, I’d learned of the teeming markets that existed online for women. Dozens of sites where you could pick a city, any city, and shop for a woman or a girl. Men who called themselves “mongers” or “hobbyists” even operated review websites and discussion boards where they would discuss how a particular woman behaved or what she was willing to do.

  Today I found nothing. No new records, nothing with her name on it. Earlier this year, I’d had a terrifying moment, when an arrest record for prostitution turned up in Detroit with her name on it. I’d contacted the National Crime Information Center and the Detroit Police Department. It turned out to be another girl, a different girl.

  Someone else’s child. Someone else who was lost.

  From there, I moved on. This was the difficult part. Every day I picked a different city, mostly focusing on the larger ones, because that’s where the market for
young teenage girls existed. Craigslist once, and Backpage, and worse. I read the headlines and looked at the pictures.

  Toe Curling * Highly Skilled * $60 Incall * 18 years old.

  Busty tantalizing blonde * Outcalls * 20

  Brunette College Girl * Let me be your fantasy * 180/hour

  Scanning through the pictures, I saw hundreds of girls and women. Some of them were undoubtedly still children, though all of them claimed to be at least eighteen. I looked into their faces and their eyes, and whenever I came across one close to my daughter’s age and build I’d peer into their faces if they weren’t blurred out. This one? Was it her? I tried to picture her at eighteen and match her features up to the pictures.

  I’d learned the patterns. In the big cities, like Atlanta and New York and Washington, the girls were younger, dressed more provocatively, and charged less. The Asian girls worked in massage parlors mostly, and the young white girls worked hotels and outcalls, and sometimes the street. I’d spent two years researching the fates of missing girls, and I still couldn’t look at it, think about it, envision it, without horror catching my throat.

  The statistics were harsh, horrifying. Impersonal, until you realized each one was a person. Twenty-three hundred Americans reported missing every day, and all but a small fraction were children. Half of those were family abductions; many more were runaways. Only a tiny fraction were “stranger” abductions.

  But the stranger abductions had a pattern. A few hundred each year. Nearly all were young women, ages twelve to seventeen, just like Brenna. Most were abducted by men. Virtually all of them sexually assaulted. I knew the numbers. Far too many of these girls ended up abused or dead. And so, I kept looking. I kept peering into those faces, those bodies, wondering if one day I’d open up this computer and see her face staring out at me.

  I’d know my daughter anywhere, at any age. Today I didn’t find her amongst these women. But, as always, my rage stoked, a slow-burning coal in my gut that threatened to boil over at any moment. As always, I found myself sick to my stomach. The first time I did this search, I vomited. Because those girls on those pages had mothers somewhere. Because I’d learned hard facts in my search.

  Nothing today. I checked my email to see if any Google alerts had come, mentions of her name on the Internet. Nothing. I closed my laptop and leaned my head back against the couch, the images of those contorted, barely dressed women running through my mind.

  For a few moments I toyed with the idea of getting a glass of wine or four. I felt exhausted. That was nothing new—I was always tired these days.

  My phone rang while I was still considering the possibilities. Despite the expense we couldn’t afford, we’d kept our cell phones, and added a new one, which we transferred our old home number to. We’d kept the same email addresses, kept as many lines of communication open as possible. Any way for Brenna to reach us. The one exception was the house, and we’d stayed there until the bank, followed by the Sheriff’s department, threw us out, and the only option for employment was to come to this shithole of a town in the middle of nowhere.

  The caller was my sister. I sighed. Lori would be full of concern, wanting to know how I was. But if I didn’t answer, she’d keep calling, and eventually she’d break down and call Cole. That had happened twice in the months since he’d gotten out of prison, and neither time went well. Lori hated Cole and the feeling was mutual.

  I didn’t need that kind of hassle. I answered the phone.

  “Erin? I wanted to check in and see how you’re doing.”

  “I’m all right.” We both knew I was lying.

  “I haven’t heard from you in a couple weeks.”

  The silence grew uncomfortable when I didn’t respond.

  “I’m worried about you,” she said.

  “Please don’t, Lori. I’m doing the best I can.”

  “Listen … I was thinking … maybe you can come visit again.”

  “Lori. Stop. We just moved here a few months ago. Sam started school today. I can’t go anywhere.”

  “I could come visit you,” she replied.

  My eyes grazed across the house. The dirty walls and ragged carpet. The cracked front window. Neither Cole or I had put family pictures on the walls. No art. Nothing that represented us. Most of our things remained in boxes in the shed out back, at least what we hadn’t discarded when we left Virginia.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I replied. “I’m really okay, Lori. We’re just getting settled in. I’ve been busy.”

  She stayed silent for a few seconds, then said, “Erin … it’s okay to grieve. You have to. But it’s been almost two years.”

  My lips turned up in scorn. “What do you want, Lori? To just let it go? Forget about my daughter and move on? Is that what you want?” As I said the words, my voice rose.

  She sighed at the other end. “I … I want my sister back.”

  My eyes watered. “Well, we can’t get what we want, can we? I want my daughter back.”

  My words hit her. She sobbed, then said, “I’m sorry, Erin. Please let me help.”

  I pulled my legs up and leaned my forehead on my knees. “There’s nothing you can do, Lori. Nothing.”

  I disconnected the phone.

  Sam.

  I took the seat Mrs. Mullins indicated, across the desk from her.

  Chaos spilled across her desk, which was piled high with papers and folders and a huge bowl full of candy. She sat down across from me, and rested her hands in her lap.

  “So, Sam. Talk to me. Why did you skip gym?”

  I opened my mouth. I tried to say something, but I didn’t know what. There was nothing I could say. So I looked at the desk, avoiding her eyes.

  She frowned. “Not ready to talk? I’m patient.”

  “Please don’t make me go,” I whispered.

  “I’ll have a very difficult time going to the principal and asking him to let you out if I don’t have a reason.”

  I looked down at the floor.

  “Did something happen to you in gym last year?”

  I shook my head.

  “Is there something you’re afraid of?”

  I looked down at the floor again. Of course there was. I was afraid of everything. Of them seeing me. Of having to change in front of the boys in the locker room. I was afraid of the possibility of dealing with bullies, of the certainty of being terrorized.

  Her eyes bore into me, like she was studying me, like she could see me. I slid my hands into the pockets of my hoodie and hunched over.

  “Well, then. Let’s look at your schedule.”

  She turned to her computer and began typing. A moment later, she said, “You just transferred here?”

  “From Fairfax County, Virginia.”

  She nodded. “I see you’re taking AP classes. That’s good. You don’t have any phys ed credits at all, though.”

  I swallowed and said, “At my old school you were exempt if you were in music theater.”

  “I see. Well, it’s a graduation requirement here. We require two semesters. You could put it off this year, but you’ll end up with no choice for next year.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “Sam … talk to me. Is something going on at home?”

  I shrugged.

  “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

  I looked away. “I had a sister.”

  “Had?”

  I swallowed hard. “She disappeared almost two years ago.”

  Mrs. Mullins’ face froze in place, impassive, lips in a thin line. “Disappeared?”

  “They never found her. I don’t know if she’s alive or not.”

  “Were you and your sister close?”

  Were we close? She was my hero. My protector. She was the only person who knew my secret. She was the only person in the world who called me by my name. The only person who accepted me and loved me for who I am, not for … whatever it was they thought they saw. Brenna dominated my memories; she was all that mattere
d to me. Her disappearance left a gaping wound. I didn’t have words to answer her question, so I answered with a simple, “Yes.”

  She sighed, and said, “Sam … I’m so sorry. Can you tell me what happened?”

  I shrugged. “No one knows. She … she snuck out after bedtime. It was her sixteenth birthday. And she … never came home. They found her car fifty miles away.”

  Mrs. Mullins closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “It must have been a nightmare.”

  I nodded. “It was,” I whispered. “It still is.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  I nodded.

  “Are you in any kind of therapy?”

  I shook my head. “No. I know my parents talked about it. But there’s no money. My dad lost his job not long after she disappeared.”

  A frown briefly appeared on her face. “What was your sister’s name?”

  “Brenna.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Brenna Roberts. I remember seeing her in the news.”

  Yeah. Everyone in the country saw her in the news.

  For a few moments she seemed to study me, putting a pen in her mouth and chewing on it unconsciously. Then, abruptly, she said, “Stay here.”

  She walked out of the office, closing the door behind her. I stared up at the ceiling. All day long I’d been fighting tears. I wasn’t prepared to deal with kindness. I almost wanted Mrs. Mullins to come back and tell me to tough it out, that I had to go deal with gym, that I needed to stop acting like a scared little girl. Because her empathetic eyes, her kindness, it made me feel like … it made me feel vulnerable.

  But I waited.

  Her questions brought back to mind those first terrible weeks after Brenna vanished. I stared off into space, trying not to think of it, but always stuck at that moment when my Mom said, “Sam, have you seen Brenna?”

  I jerked in my chair when Mrs. Mullins returned to her office. She gave me a warm look that mystified me and returned to her seat, then turned and began typing on her computer without a word. I sat up straight, watching her.

  A moment later, her printer began warming up, and spat out a sheet of paper.