Finding Emma

by Steena Holmes

  Jack walked back into the front room. Their old china cabinet sat against the wall. Sometimes Dottie kept papers in those drawers. He once found their wills shoved in there. That was at the beginning of this new phase with Dottie. Her forgetfulness. Now he never knew where to find things. Emmie called it Grandma's hide and seek game. Hide and seek, indeed.

  Jack grumbled under his breath. Receipts from years ago cluttered the drawers. Seriously. He grabbed a wad and fingered through them before he tossed them in the trash can beside the cabinet. Why keep such senseless junk around? Dottie used to be so fastidious about stuff like this.

  He spied Dottie's knitting bag. Hmmm, sometimes she hides things in there she didn't want Emmie to find. Jack crouched down and riffled through the bag. At the very bottom lay the phone book. He opened the tab that contained Mary's phone number, the only link to Mary they had. But it had been crossed out with black marker.

  Jack scratched his head. Why would Dottie mark out Mary's phone number?

  He tried to recall what the numbers were. He could barely make out a few of them, but not enough. He flipped through the book; they had to have the number of that place Mary would stay.

  He glanced at the kitchen table where his crustless sandwich sat. What he was about to do felt taboo. Dottie was the go between them and Mary, never Jack. Mary would take his money, but not his calls. With a grumble under his breath, Jack ambled over to the desk in the kitchen, pulled out the stool and sat down. If a father wanted to call his daughter, there was no reason why he shouldn't. No reason indeed.

  He opened the book, found the number and punched in the numbers. After the third ring, he was about to hang up. But someone answered.

  “Martha Dover's House, how can I help you today?” A soft, sweet voice answered the phone. Not what he expected from a halfway house located in the inner city of Seattle.

  “Yeah, um, I'd like to speak to Mary Henry, please.” Jack cleared his throat. He pulled out a pen from a jar on the desk and began to doodle on a pad of paper.

  “Is she a resident, sir?”

  Jack glanced behind him again. He should have just gotten Dottie to call.

  “Sir?”

  “A resident? She stays there off and on I believe. Is she there now?” The way the sweet voice said the word resident made Jack feel like it was a hospital or something.

  “I'm sorry, I don't recognize the name. May I place you on hold while I go through our files?”

  Did they have a lot of residents? He remembered it being littered with druggies and messed up kids, much like Mary, but were there too many to recognize his daughter's name? He'd been sending money there for years.

  The first and only time he'd been to the Martha Dover house was after Mary ran away, at age of sixteen. He still carried the note she left him in his wallet.

  Gone to live my own life. You'll always be my knight in shining armor, but I don't need to be rescued. I love you Daddy. Love, your Princess.

  Jack didn't believe her. She was too young and had no idea what it meant to live your own life. Of course she needed to be rescued. That's what fathers did. Except she was nowhere to be found. He'd managed to trace her to the halfway, house but when he arrived in his pickup, she hadn't been seen for over a week.

  He remembered thinking there was no way his daughter would be living at a halfway house, especially not amongst the unseemly crowd which loitered around the front yard. Mary had been raised differently, not like these kids. A little girl from a small lake town didn't do drugs. Or so he thought.

  “Sir, I'm sorry for the delay. I found your daughter's file. I have Dr. Shepherd, our counselor here at Martha's House, who would like to speak to you about your daughter. May I transfer you?” The voice didn't sound so sweet anymore.

  Even before he could reply, the elevator music came on. Jack groaned and swiped at his bald head. He just wanted to talk to his daughter, not some counselor.

  The last time he saw his daughter was at a coffee shop. Dottie arranged for them to meet. She was supposed to have been there too, but bowed out last minute. Something about a hair appointment. Mary was livid when she saw him alone in the pickup. She almost left, turned her back on him and walked down the sidewalk. She would have walked away without a backward glance too, if Jack hadn't called her name. When she turned, the greeting he'd been about to give caught in his throat.

  That wasn't his daughter, it was just her shell. Gone was the vibrant little girl, so full of life and laughter. In her place stood a strung out teen, hair limp and tattered, her face shrunken and her body half its size. Her clothes hung on her, her girlish curves vanished. Dottie had warned him she was addicted to drugs, but he didn't believe her. Didn't want to.

  “Come have a cup of coffee with me. It's been too long.”

  Jack begged Mary to spend time with him. He was her father. Her knight in shining armor. Why did she keep him at arm’s length? All he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and never let her go.

  He took a step towards her, but she stepped back, as if she couldn't bear to be seen close to him. Jack walked into the coffee shop and prayed Mary followed him. He didn't look behind him until he was at the counter and ordered his coffee and muffin. Mary ordered a hot chocolate and cookie before she turned away from him and walked to a table. Jack bought two cookies and plunked them down in front of his half-starved daughter.

  She ate the first cookie in three bites before she even touched her hot chocolate. Jack drank in the sight of her face, her eyes, the shape her nose and waited to see if she would begrudge him a smile. She never did. He didn't know what to say, how to break the silence that stretched between them. The murmur of the other customers enhanced the awkwardness. Jack fiddled with his coffee mug while Mary stared at hers.

  “Come home, Mary.” He didn't realize he voiced his thoughts until Mary's head popped up and she laughed. Jack winced at the bitterness emanating from his daughter.

  “Home? Home to what, Dad? To make bread in the afternoons and knit endless amounts of baby hats for the hospital? To roam the streets of a small town where the only fun is getting dressed in pajamas and follow some lame bagpipe band down the main street on a Saturday night?” Mary leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.

  A twinge of pain plucked at his heart. He thought she liked doing that with him. It was their tradition, the Scottish Pipe Band Parade.

  “I wanted a life, Dad.” Mary spread her arms out. “It might not be the life you wanted for me, but it's my life. The one I chose.” She hugged her body with her arms again. Jack wasn't sure if she were cold or defiant.

  “It wasn't a bad life, Princess. Was I really that bad? Did I make you run away?” Jack couldn't look in her eyes.

  “It's Mom's life I ran away from, not yours.” Jack lifted his head up, surprised at what she'd admitted.

  “Then why won't you take my calls?”

  Mary's head bowed and a tear trickled down her cheek. “Look at me Dad. I'm not exactly that little girl you knew.” Her fingers, nails bitten down except for her pinkie, drilled on the table.

  “Come home.” Jack knew she wouldn't, but he had to say it.

  “No.”

  One small word, yet it held the ability to shatter dreams.

  Jack looked around the coffee shop. There was nothing unique about it. It looked like the same one in his town. Yet it felt colder, more hostile.

  “Where are you staying?”

  Mary shrugged. “Here and there. Mom calls the Martha House when she needs to get in touch. They'll give me the message when I'm around.”

  That night, when Jack sat with Dottie at their kitchen table, eating alone, he told her to include money in the monthly parcel she sent to Mary. Dottie refused. She wasn't going to supply Mary's drug habit. They agreed to send money to the halfway house instead.

  When Dottie brought home Emmie, she said they didn't need to send any more money to Mary. He didn't ask any questions then, but he should have.

  “Mr. H
enry?” Jack dropped his pen. He looked about the kitchen. Still alone.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Dr. Shepherd. I'm sorry it took so long, but I was just going over your daughter's file. How can I help you, Mr. Henry?” The female doctor's voice sounded calm, soothing even. Too calm. Too smooth.

  How can I help you? Didn't I make myself plain to the gal who answered the phone?

  “I just want to speak with my daughter. Is she there?” Jack sat straight, determination filled his spirit.

  Above him, a creak sounded. Footsteps pounded on the floor. Emmie was up. Jack glanced at the clock. He was out of time. The voice on the phone continued to speak, but the words were mumbled. One word caught his attention, forced him to stand and stare at the stairway. He waited for Emmie to come down.

  “I'm sorry? I don't think I heard you right.”

  “I'm sorry Mr. Henry. But Mary --”

  Emmie stood on the steps and rubbed her eyes with her fist. Her hair was all askew. Again. He listened to the woman on the phone, his shoulders tight as his world crashed around him. His vision blurred as dark circles swam before him. Jack grabbed hold of the chair, his knuckles white as he clenched it. Emmie stared at him, unaware of what was happening.

  “Papa?”

  “Mr. Henry? Sir, are you there?”

  Jack pulled the phone away from his ear. His hand shook. He brought the phone back up to his ear.

  “Um, thank you. Sorry to bother you. You have a good day now.”

  “Mr. Henry, did you hear me? Mr. Henry--” Jack placed the phone back on the receiver. His chest felt tight. He tried to take a deep breath, but a shallow one was all he could muster. He slowly sat back down in the chair. The sun still shone. The bees still buzzed around the flowers he'd placed in the window planter. All was right with his world, but him. Tiny footsteps echoed against the kitchen floor. Jack turned and stared at his precious granddaughter.

  “Papa?”

  Jack reached out his arms and waited for Emmie to throw herself into them. The moment it took her to do so felt like years. Two years to be exact. If Jack had known two years ago that bringing Emmie home would destroy his heart, he never would have let Dottie go and fetch her alone.

  Never. He would forever regret that he did.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Megan blew a wisp of hair out of her face as she jogged home. Sweat beads dripped down her face with each jolt on the pavement. She preferred to run in the early morning, when the sun began its climb and it wasn't so hot out. But she'd slept in. When she called Laurie to join her, her best friend just laughed. By the time she managed to step out her door, it was after nine o'clock.

  She jogged on the spot at a cross walk while cars whizzed by. Her house was just down the street. Her side had begun to pinch about a mile back. She'd taken a long route this morning, headed down to the beach, along the boardwalk, and then ran down to the pier before she headed back.

  A black Chrysler Sebring drove past and slowed. Her palms tingled when she recognized the car. She slowed her jog down to a walk and attempted to control her breathing as she neared her walkway. Why now, of all days, did he have to come?

  Detective Riley leaned against his car, his white dress shirt a stark contrast to the sheen of his black car. Megan's breath caught in her throat. She wanted to look away, to not stare, but she couldn’t. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her jogging pants and placed a smile on her face.

  “Detective Riley, this is a surprise.”

  “Megan.” He took a step towards her and held the file folder up for her to see. “I have those sketches I mentioned on the phone yesterday.”

  Megan let out her breath. She fixed her eyes on the file, hungry for a look at her daughter. She held out her hand and waited for him to place the folder in it.

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “Not at all.” Megan shook her head, unable to take her eyes off the file. It wasn't until the moment he placed the file in her hand, she raised her eyes. She met his green eyes; saw the understanding, the need to hold the photo in her hands.

  “May I come in? I won't take up much of your time. I'd like to go over the pictures with you, if that's okay.”

  Megan looked towards her house. If Peter found out ... but she couldn't say no. She glanced down at her outfit, at the damp spots on her shirt from her run. Why did I have to sleep in?

  “Of course. I just need to ...” she gestured with her free hand towards her clothing, “and then I'll put on a pot of coffee.”

  She walked past him, unlocked her front door and waited for him to join her. Once he entered the house, she took off upstairs and called down to him over her shoulder.

  “Just give me a minute. Make yourself comfortable.”

  A nervous flutter took root in her stomach. She yanked her top off and then pulled off her running pants. She glanced at the clock. Her pulse raced. She tried to convince herself that it was the thought of seeing Emma's picture, of what she would look like now, that caused it.

  Her new sundress, the one Peter had just bought her, hung on the back of the bedroom door. She pulled it on and ran her hands over the dress to smooth out the wrinkles. She yanked the elastic out of her ponytail and took a good look at herself in the mirror.

  Her eyes sparkled. She looked at her dress, marveled at how well it fit over her hips. She shrugged her right shoulder. I was going to wear it anyway. It's not as if I'm wearing it for Riley. Megan shook her head. Detective Riley, Megan, it's Detective Riley.

  The aroma of fresh brewed coffee met Megan as she neared the bottom of her stairs. Detective Riley was bent over the table, his arm outstretched as he placed the sketches of Emma on the table for her to view. He looked up as she stood in the doorway.

  “I made coffee. I hope you don't mind.”

  Megan thought back to the days when Emma had first gone missing. Riley had become a fixture in their house. This wasn't the first pot of coffee he'd ever made here.

  “Of course not...”

  She headed to the table and stared at the images of her daughter. Her hands shook as she gripped the chair in front of her. Detective Riley walked towards her. She kept her gaze directed to the table, until his hand rested beside hers on the chair. She looked up at him, his gaze gentle.

  Megan swallowed. She took a step backwards, and lifted her hand off the chair.

  “How is the walking program going?”

  Megan knew his attempt at small talk was to put her at ease. She wasn’t sure it worked.

  “I have a meeting this week to finalize the program at a new school. That makes three in total. It’s been a slow go, but the program is expanding,” Megan bit her lip at the thought of the frustrating months of attending unending meetings with the school boards. You’d think they would jump at the opportunity to protect the children in their care.

  “Good, good. What about those other meetings? The family support ones. Are you still going?”

  Megan glanced up in surprise.

  “I do. Not every week anymore, but I do go.” It hurt to go.

  Earlier on, when Emma had first gone missing, Megan couldn’t attend enough of the small group meetings. To be in a place with other parents who understood what she was dealing with, it soothed her hurting heart. There were no sympathy glances, no awkward silences. But as time passed and families she knew experienced reconciliation, Megan felt alone. She knew that she needed to move on, to move forward and to do more than just attend meetings to talk about how to cope. Megan needed to do something. So she started the Walk Home Alone program.

  Detective Riley nodded and pointed.

  “Why don't you sit down and I'll explain the process of these pictures to you.”

  Megan's face burned red as he pulled the chair out for her. She shook her head, sidestepped the table and headed towards the coffee maker instead. Seriously, you need to calm down. She grabbed on to the counter with both hands, closed her eyes and counted to five. Slowly.

  “Let me pour t
he coffee first. Still like yours black?” She pulled two mugs out of the cupboard and poured. Coffee splashed over the counter. She set the pot back in the machine, took another breath and placed his mug on the island. She hated herself for remembering how he liked his.

  “Here you go,” she said as she faced the fridge and opened it. She grabbed her creamer, fixed her coffee and headed back to the table. All the while refusing to look at the man who filled her kitchen with his presence.

  Megan grabbed one of the pictures and studied it. This is how Emma looks today. Her curly hair in a cute bob, chin length. A pink ribbon with a bow was in her hair. Her big blue eyes sparkled with life, while the dimples in her cheeks looked more pronounced. She didn't look like the two year old Megan loved. This was a little girl ready to enter kindergarten. A soft smile settled on her lips. This is my baby. She laid the picture back down on the table and went to grab another one when a hand stopped her.

  “Let me explain the pictures first. There is a forensic artist who works with police departments all across North America. What she does is provide sketches of suspects and missing persons. She's very talented, has done this for years and knows what she's doing. I heard she was in Seattle for a few weeks working with the department there on a case, so I contacted her and asked if she could create some aged-progressed sketches of Emma for us.”

  “What's her name?”

  Megan placed her fingers on the photo of Emma with the pink bow. With her index finger, she caressed the image.

  “Elana Stokov.”

  “She's very good.” Megan never altered her gaze. This was the only image she had of her daughter as she was now. Happy. Older. Alive.

  “That picture you're holding is how Emma would look today if she were here at home, or with someone who was taking good care of her.” Detective Riley pointed to the picture she held in her hand.

  Megan couldn't read the expression on his face. She placed the photo back down on the table and picked up another.