Still Missing

by Chevy Stevens

  In my pain, I aimed to hurt. “You can’t understand. You could never understand.”

  “No, you’re right, I probably can’t. But I want to try.”

  “I just want to be left alone.” My words hung in the air between us like flies on the carcass of what used to be our relationship. With a nod of his head, he stood up. Inside I screamed, I’m sorry. I take it back. I didn’t mean it. Please stay.

  But he’d already opened the sliding glass door. He was thanking Mom for dinner, saying he had to get back to the restaurant and he’d be sure to get the recipe, sounding so polite. So polite. While I sat there red-faced in my shame, in my regret.

  Then he was standing at the door and with his hand on the knob he turned and said, “I’m so sorry, Annie.” The sincerity in his voice made me hurt deep inside, in places I’d thought were too full of pain to possibly feel any more, and I turned away, turned away from his beauty and kindness, and walked down the hall past him without even the grace to meet his eyes. From my bedroom, I heard the front door close and then I heard his truck pull away. Not even fast in anger like I would have, but slowly. Sadly.

  Now, months later, he interrupted me on the phone and said, “Please stop, Annie. You don’t owe anyone an apology, least of all me. I screwed up. I shouldn’t have just showed up like that. I rushed you. I’ve kicked myself over and over for that. That’s why I kept calling. I knew you’d be blaming yourself.”

  “I was so mean to you.”

  “You had every right to be—I was an insensitive prick. That’s why I’ve tried to keep my distance, but maybe you’re still not ready to talk to me? I won’t be mad if you say so. Promise.” That was always our thing—he’d say I love you, and I, not quite willing to say it back even after a year, would say, Promise?

  “I do want to talk to you, but I can’t talk about what happened.”

  “You don’t have to. What if I just call you once in a while, and if you feel like talking, pick up the phone and we’ll yak about whatever you want. Does that work? I don’t want to push, like before.”

  “That works. I mean, I’ll try, I want to try. I’m getting a little tired of only talking to my shrink and Emma.” His soft laugh broke the tension.

  After that we chatted about Emma and Diesel, his black Lab, for a while. Finally he said, “Talk to you in a few, ’kay?”

  “Don’t feel like you have to call.”

  “I don’t, and don’t feel like you have to answer.”

  “I won’t.”

  He called the next day and again earlier this week, Doc, and we just had brief casual conversations, mostly about the restaurant and our dogs, but I still don’t know how I feel about it. I like it, but then sometimes I feel rage toward him. How can he still be so kind to me? I don’t deserve it—the guy needs to give his head a shake. His very goodness makes me love him and hate him. I want to hate him. I’m like a wound barely sewn shut, and every time we talk the stitches break, the wound reopens, and I have to sew it back together.

  On top of all that, his kindness makes me feel even stupider because my biggest fear in seeing him again is that he might try to touch me. Just thinking about it makes my armpits flood with sweat. And to react that way to Luke, of all men? Luke, who would remove spiders from the sink and carry them outside? It’s beyond ridiculous. If I can’t get myself to the point where I can be comfortable around a person like Luke, then I’m royally screwed. Might as well pack up my crap and move right into the pent house suite at Chez Crazy.

  SESSION FIFTEEN

  Thanks again for accepting that I didn’t want to talk about the mountain last session, and it’s been a hell of a week, so I’m still not sure if I’m ready to tackle it today—I’ll see how I feel. My grief is a windstorm. Sometimes I can stand straight up in it, and when I’m angry, I can lean into it and dare it to blow me over. But other times I need to hunker down, tuck around myself, and let it pummel my back. Lately, I’ve been in hunker-down mode.

  Hell, you probably need a break yourself—pretty damn depressing stuff, isn’t it? I wish I could tell you happy stories, or make you smile at something witty I’ve said. When I leave here, I feel bad that you had to listen to all my crap—it makes me feel selfish. But not enough that I want to change. This shit made me selfish. I have a righteous sadness.

  When I first came to you, I mentioned I had a couple of reasons for giving therapy another go, but I never told you what finally popped the I’m-doing-just-fine-on-my-own-thank-you-very-much bubble I’d been bouncing around in.

  It happened in a grocery store—I only shop late at night and with a baseball hat on. I’ve considered Internet shopping, but God knows who they’d send to deliver the groceries, and I’ve had enough of reporters using any ruse to get inside my house. Anyway, a woman was bent down reaching for something on the bottom shelf. Nothing weird about that, except a few feet behind her sat her cart, unguarded, with a toddler in it.

  I tried to just walk by, tried not to stare at the baby girl’s little white teeth and rosy cheeks, but as I passed, one of her tiny arms waved out at me, and I stopped. Like metal to magnet, I was helpless to keep my feet from bringing me close or my hand from reaching out. I just wanted to touch that tiny hand for a second. That’s all I needed, I told myself, just one second. But the baby’s hand curved over my outstretched finger and she giggled as she squeezed it. Hearing her giggle, her mom said, “That’s my girl, Samantha, Mommy will be there in a sec.”

  Samantha, her name was Samantha. It echoed in my head, and I wanted to tell this woman, who was kneeling down to choose jars of what I now saw was baby food, that I had a baby too, the most goddamn beautiful baby you ever saw. But then she’d ask how old my baby was, and I didn’t want to say she was dead and see this woman’s eyes turn to her daughter in relief and gratitude that it wasn’t her child, then see in those eyes that she was sure—sure with a mother’s necessary confidence—that nothing terrible was ever going to happen to her daughter.

  When I tried to pull my finger away, Samantha squeezed tighter, and a tiny bubble of spit formed at her lips. My nostrils inhaled her scent—baby powder, diapers, and the faint sweet odor of milk. I wanted her. My hands ached to lift her out of the seat and into my arms, into my life.

  With furtive glances down either end of the aisle—empty—my mind worked to calculate how many steps it would take me to escape. I knew only one cashier worked this late. Easy breezy. I stepped closer to the cart. With my heart whooshing in my ears, I noticed every one of the baby’s fine blond hairs glimmering in the store’s fluorescent lights and reached out with my free hand to finger one silken strand. My baby had dark hair. This wasn’t my baby. My baby was gone.

  I stepped back just as the mother rose to her feet in the aisle, noticed me, and began to walk back toward the cart.

  “Hello?” she said with a tentative smile.

  I wanted to say, What were you thinking? Turning your back on your child like that. Don’t you know what could happen? How many crazies are out there? How crazy I am?

  “What a happy baby,” I said. “And so beautiful.”

  “She looks happy now, but you should have seen her an hour ago! It took me forever to get her to calm down.” While she went on about her mom-stress, stress I would have traded my soul for, I wanted to call her an ungrateful bitch, tell her she should be glad for every cry out of her baby’s mouth. Instead I stood paralyzed and gave an occasional smile or nod to the woman until she finally ran out of steam and wrapped it up by saying, “Do you have kids?”

  I felt my head shake back and forth, felt my lips straighten out from the smile, even felt my throat vibrate with the words, “No. No kids.”

  My eyes must have revealed something, though, because she smiled kindly and said, “It’ll happen.”

  I wanted to slap her, wanted to scream and rage. I wanted to cry. But I didn’t. I just smiled, nodded my head, and wished her a pleasant evening as I left them there in the aisle.

  That was when I
realized I might not be doing such a good job of handling things on my own. I’d managed to shove that moment behind all my other moments of near-madness until I saw a notice in the paper yesterday that one of the girls I used to work with just gave birth to a boy. I sent a card, but I knew I didn’t trust myself to be around that baby. Even picking out the card was agony. Not sure why I did it, other than as another pathetic attempt to prove to myself I can handle shit I very clearly can’t.

  “Wayne and I would like you to come for dinner tonight,” Mom said when she called late Tuesday afternoon. “I’m making a roast.”

  “Damn, I just had an early dinner. Wish I’d known.” I hadn’t eaten, but I’d rather rake my body over hot coals—hell, I’d rather eat hot coals—than go over there and hear what I was fucking up on now. Only Mom could manage to make me feel like shit about feeling like shit. I was already in a bad mood because of this one asshole movie producer who keeps taping proposals to my front door—he actually stands there and tries to talk to me through the wood, raising the amount every few minutes like he’s bidding at a goddamn auction. He’s wasting his breath.

  Years ago, I remember watching the movie Titanic. People stuffed with popcorn were commenting on their way out about the great special effects and how realistic it was, particularly the bodies bobbing in the sea. And me? I went to the bathroom to throw up, because people actually died like that—hundreds and hundreds of people—and it seemed wrong to sit there and eat candies and lick salty butter off your fingers and admire how authentic their deaths in the freezing water looked.

  I sure as hell don’t want people stuffing their faces while they rate my life for its entertainment value.

  “I tried to call you earlier, but you didn’t answer.” Mom never says, “You weren’t home,” it’s always, “You didn’t answer,” in an accusing tone as though I let the phone ring just to piss her off.

  “Emma and I went for a walk.”

  “What’s the point of having voice mail if you don’t check it?”

  “You’re right—sorry. But I’m glad you called back, I wanted to ask you something. I went through my things last night looking for my pictures of Daisy and Dad but I couldn’t find them.”

  Not that I’d ever had a lot of photos anyway. Most of them had been given to me by relatives, and the rest were held hostage by Mom in her scrapbooks and albums with vague promises of their coming to me “one day.” I was especially pissed that Mom was holding on to one with just Dad, Daisy, and me—it was unusual to find a picture Mom wasn’t in.

  “I’m sure I dropped those off after you moved back to your place.”

  “Not that I remember, and I looked everywhere for them the other night….” I waited for a couple of seconds, but she offered up no explanation for the missing pictures, and I knew she wouldn’t unless I pressed harder. But there was something else I wanted to ask her, and I’d learned to choose my battles with Mom. Russian roulette was probably less risky.

  “Mom, do you ever think about Dad and Daisy?”

  An exasperated sigh hissed through the phone. “Of course I do. What a silly question. So how much did you eat? Those canned soups you live on aren’t a meal. You’re getting too thin.”

  “I’m trying to talk to you about something, Mom.”

  “We’ve already talked—”

  “Actually, no, we haven’t. I’ve always wanted to because I think about them all the time, especially when I was up there, but whenever I brought the subject up, you either changed it or you just talked about Daisy’s skating and all her—”

  “Why are you doing this? Are you trying to hurt me?”

  “No! I just wanted…well, I thought…because I lost a daughter and you lost a daughter, I thought we could talk and maybe you’d have some insight on how to deal with it.” Insight? What the hell was I thinking? The woman had never shown any insight deeper than an ounce of vodka.

  “I don’t think I can help, Annie. The child you had…It’s just not the same thing.”

  My voice turned to steel as my pulse sped up. “And why’s that?”

  “You won’t understand.”

  “No? Well, how about you explain to me why my daughter’s death doesn’t compare to your daughter’s so I understand.” Rage made my voice tremble, and my hand gripped the phone so tight it hurt.

  “You’re twisting my words. Of course what happened to your child was a tragedy, Annie, but you can’t compare it with what happened to me.”

  “Don’t you mean what happened to Daisy?”

  “This is just like you, Annie—I call with an invitation to dinner and somehow you turn it into another of your attacks. Honestly, sometimes I think you just look for ways to make yourself miserable.”

  “If that was the case, I’d spend more time with you, Mom.”

  Her shocked gasp was followed by the loud click of her hanging up. Anger propelled me out the door with Emma, but after a half hour of hard running, my brief high from the exercise and saying no to Mom was snuffed out when I imagined the next phone call. The one where Wayne would tell me how much I’d hurt my mother, how she was just beside herself, how I really should apologize and try to understand her better—she’s the only mother I’m going to have in this life and the poor woman’s already been through so much. Meanwhile, I sit there thinking, Why the hell doesn’t she try to understand me? What about what I’ve been through?

  After my baby died on the mountain, I woke up staring at her folded blanket, and my breasts began to leak milk through the front of my dress as though they were weeping for her. Even my body hadn’t accepted her death. When The Freak noticed me awake he came over, sat behind me on the bed, and rubbed my back.

  “I have some ice for your face.” He set an ice pack down near my head.

  I ignored it and rolled over to face him, in a sitting position. “Where’s my baby?”

  He stared down at the floor.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you, but I didn’t want her blanket, I want her.” I slid over the side of the bed and knelt in front of him. “Please, I’m begging you. I’ll do anything.” He still hadn’t looked at me, so I moved my face directly into his line of sight. “Anything you want, just tell me where you put her…” My mouth couldn’t form the word body.

  “You caaan’t always get what you want—” He broke off and hummed the last few bars of the Rolling Stones song.

  “If you have an ounce of compassion, you’ll tell me—”

  “If I have an ounce of compassion?” He leapt off the bed and, with his hands on his hips, paced back and forth. “Have I not proven to you over and over how compassionate I am? Have I not always been there for you? Am I not still here for you, even after you said those terrible things to me? I bring you her blanket so you can find some comfort and all you want is her? She left you, Annie. Don’t you get it? She left you, but I stayed.” My hands pressed frantically against my ears to shut out his terrible words, but he pulled them off and said, “She’s gone, gone, gone, and knowing where she is won’t help you one bit.”

  “But she was gone so fast, I just want to…I need…” To say good-bye.

  “You don’t need to know where she is, now or ever.” He leaned closer. “You still have me and that’s all that should matter. And right now it’s time for you to make my dinner.”

  How was I going to do this? How was I going to get through the next—

  “It’s time, Annie.”

  I stared at him dumbfounded.

  He snapped his finger and pointed to the kitchen. I’d only made it a few steps when he said, “You can have an extra piece of chocolate for dessert tonight.”

  The Freak never did tell me where my baby’s body was, Doc, and I still don’t know—the cops even brought in cadaver dogs, but they couldn’t find her. I like to think he put her body in the river and she floated downstream peacefully. That’s what I try to hold on to when I lie awake at night in the closet, thinking about her alone up on the mountain, or when I wake up screa
ming and covered in sweat after another nightmare about wild animals tearing into her with their teeth.

  I have no way to honor my baby—no grave, no memorial. The local church wanted to put up a headstone for her, but I said no because I knew journalists and people obsessed with morbid crap would be out there taking pictures. I’ve made myself her cemetery. That’s why it stung when Mom said I wanted to be miserable. A lot of truth to that.

  When Luke called again the other night, I found myself laughing for a few seconds when I told him Emma had fallen in the water on our walk. I stopped myself right away, but it was out there, my laugh was out there. And I felt ashamed, like I’d let my baby down by feeling even one moment of carefree enjoyment. Her life was taken away and with it her chance to smile, laugh, or feel, so if I laugh and smile, then I’m betraying her.

  I should be celebrating that I didn’t sleep in the closet once last week—that talk we had about acknowledging when I’m feeling paranoid but not reacting to it might’ve had something to do with it. Even though I couldn’t resist checking the front and back doors to make sure they were locked last night, I managed not to check all the windows by reminding myself that none of them had been opened after I’d inspected them during the day. It was the first night since I’ve been home that I’ve been able to skip part of my bedtime ritual.

  The peeing thing has gotten better and better—the yoga tapes you gave me helped a ton with that. Most days I can go when I need to and without even having to do any of the breathing exercises or repeat my mantras.

  Like I said, I should feel proud of my progress, and I am, but that just adds another layer of guilt. Healing feels a lot like leaving my daughter behind, and I already did that once.

  SESSION SIXTEEN