by Jenn Faulk
Family issues.
I could write a book about family issues. I could’ve written a book before this all started, and now, I’m pretty sure I could turn it into three or four books. Poor Emma.
But I can’t think about that now. I can only think about her being back here with me, after this guy figures it out, after he gets her home, and after everything is made right again.
Emma and I will deal with whatever issues have been raised. Emma and I will deal with all the drama that has gone on. Emma and I will be just fine, as long as we’re together.
This is why I continue to sit on the phone, waiting.
~Peter~
I hit the ground. I don’t mind admitting that I’m a coward (because I am), but the police and troopers hit the ground, too (and they’ve probably got bulletproof vests on), so I figure I’m in pretty good company. They start scrambling around, positioning themselves behind car doors and such, while I crawl along and get behind a Hummer that’s parked beside the curb.
I can’t see anything now, but I can hear. I can hear officers calling for backup, and I can hear them announcing, “Shots fired,” even though it was just one shot. One, horrible shot.
This is what happens when I make decisions . . . what happens when I act . . . when I actually do something.
Please don’t let Emma be dead. Please don’t let Emma be dead. Please don’t let Emma be dead.
I talk to God fairly regularly, but nothing has brought out the desire in me to pray before like that gunshot. All I can imagine is that precious little girl with a TravelNote icon touching her golden curl on Brandon’s computer screen now lying on a hardwood floor with blood pouring from her tiny body.
Please don’t let Emma be dead.
I think of Andrew when he was little and of all the things I’ve seen him do in the past since he was Emma’s age. Learning to ride a tricycle. Then a bike. Learning to print his name, multiply, make cookies. I think of Christmases and Easters and birthdays and I think of Maggie celebrating all of those things without Emma and how all of this is my fault and if I had just—
And then, in a rare moment of quiet—when no officers are screaming at each other—I hear yet another sound. One that is every bit as unmistakable as that of a gun being fired.
It’s Emma.
And she’s wailing.
She hasn’t been shot, or—at least if she has—she sure hasn’t been critically injured or anything. Her lungs are working great. She’s crying now with an intensity that puts what she was doing earlier to shame and spurs on a whole new level of activity from the officers in front of the house.
It doesn’t seem to take long for other responders to arrive, but maybe it’s longer than I realize. Emma continues to cry, and the sound of it brings me a peace that transcends time.
Thank you, God. Thank you, God. Thank you, God.
SWAT team members arrive, some sort of negotiator, and even Detective Meyer from Naples. The negotiator gets on his loudspeaker and tries to communicate with whoever’s inside, but there’s no response other than Emma’s wails. When even those cease, I realize that officers must have entered the back of the house without me seeing them, because suddenly one of them is coming out the same front door that got slammed in my face not too long ago.
And he’s carrying Emma.
She is pressed tightly to his chest as he races across the yard to a waiting ambulance and hops in the back with her. This time, I can’t catch a glimpse before the door slams shut.
~Maggie~
Maybe God is listening after all.
I think this as I’m driving way over the speed limit, heading toward Bonita Springs, to a hospital I’ve never heard of and a situation I don’t entirely understand. I wipe away tears as I look to the bag sitting in my passenger seat. Emma’s diaper bag, with some clothes, a sippy cup, some snacks, and Mr. Snuffles the bear.
Emma’s waiting for me.
I’m not sure of the details. Detective Meyer called me as I was on hold with that private investigator. I already knew him well from all that I tried to do before Peter came along, and he was the one who told me that there wasn’t anything else the police could do. Someone did something, though, because he told me to come to the hospital, that Emma was there, that she was okay, and that the hospital could only release her to her mother.
Thank You, God. I keep murmuring it through my tears, while the GPS tells me that I’m only a mile away.
It can’t pass quickly enough, as I think about all the questions I asked even as I was stuffing Emma’s diaper bag full. No, he couldn’t tell me anything about the details. No, Emma wasn’t harmed. No, it wasn’t that far of a drive to Bonita Springs.
Bonita Springs . . .
It only hits me once I’m at the hospital, pulling into a parking spot and grabbing the diaper bag on my rush out.
Peter mentioned Bonita Springs.
Is Peter somehow involved in Emma coming home to me?
I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.
First, though, I’m going to walk through those doors. I’m going to rush down that corridor, down to the ER where Emma is waiting for me. I’m going to show my ID to the front desk there, where they’re already briefed on who I am and why I’m here. I’m going to do all of this while holding it all together, not crying, and not being an emotional wreck . . .
I’m still envisioning it even as I’ve gone through it all, as I’m standing here at the foot of the bed where Emma is sitting with a nurse. I’m still thinking about how I was going to do it as I’m here, with tears streaming down my cheeks as I see my baby, as she turns to me, and as she breaks out into that smile I know so well, her arms raised toward me as she scoots herself to the edge of the bed, wanting me to hold her—
And I’m there. I’m already there, with my arms around her, my face in her hair, and my sobs filling the room.
“Mommy!” she laughs, like this is the best day of our lives.
And it is. It is, as I kiss her face, whisper to her that Mommy loves her so much, and as my heart cries out once more . . .
Thank You, God . . . thank You . . .
~Peter~
The next person who was brought out and put into an ambulance was the skinny lady with the track marks running up and down her arm. I couldn’t actually see her because she was completely covered, but I knew exactly who it was. Few people would take up such a small amount of space under a crisp, white sheet.
No one else is brought out, and it’s over. Emma is okay and the skinny track lady killed herself and both things are because of me. And Brandon is still missing and Thursday is two days away . . .
I had been heading home, but I turn and point my car toward Crystal’s instead. I knock on her door, but she doesn’t answer and when I check her phone records I realize that she’s in Cape Coral, even further north than Bonita Springs. I wonder what she’s doing there, and I envision her shopping for baby clothes with a friend. I see them holding up little outfits and exclaiming over the cuteness of them all. I know full well this is probably not at all what she’s doing, but that image is much better than one of a white sheet covering a thin body, so I hold it in my mind as I back my car out of Crystal’s driveway and head yet again away from home.
Soon I’m the one surrounded by baby clothes, and after a very short time, I leave the store with a little white stuffed lamb. It has a green ribbon around its neck and a music box buried deep inside its stuffing that plays Pachelbel’s Canon in D whenever someone twists the silver key jutting from its side.
Pachelbel’s Canon in D is exactly why I bought this little white lamb, and I twist the silver key and listen to it at least thirteen times between the store and Crystal’s house. Then I put it back in the bag, leave it on her doorstep, and pull out of her driveway once again.
~Maggie~
I’m sitting at the kitchen table with Emma, grinning stupidly as she continues to giggle at Tanner, who is making faces at her from my computer screen.
“Emma Dilemma,” he says, laughing, too, the relief apparent in his red-rimmed eyes. I called him as we were driving home from the hospital, with Emma napping in the backseat, content and exhausted. He’d broken down in tears and made me promise to set up a chat with him as soon as we got home so that he could see her with his own two eyes. “I’ve missed you.”
She’s exactly the same. Well, not exactly. There are bruises on her arms, on her legs. While she’d come to me easily and joyfully, I noticed as we made our way out of the hospital, getting her discharged, that she clung tighter to me every time a stranger approached. Man or woman, it didn’t matter. She didn’t want to even look at them. I was worried that she would shy away from Tanner, even with him on a computer screen and not in the room with us, but she cocked her head to the side and said, “Tan!” just as soon as his face appeared, with him still wiping his eyes.
She’s been through something awful. They checked her over at the hospital for more injuries, but apart from the bruises, they couldn’t find anything else. She was hungry and thirsty, but we took care of that before even leaving the hospital, giving her the snacks I’d packed and the milk one of the nurses went to get for her.
As she continues waving Mr. Snuffles back and forth in front of Tanner, singing a song as he waves to the stuffed animal as though it’s alive and speaking to him, I run my fingers through her curls, marveling that she’s here. She’s really here.
I have so many questions about all that’s gone on, but for now, all I can think of is how thankful I am that she’s here.
“Hey, Tanner,” I say, moving so that he can see me.
“Yeah?” he says, smiling, his eyes still on Emma.
“I’m going to let you go,” I say. “I want to give Emma a bath. Maybe help her get another nap in.”
I want to wash this experience out of her life. I want to help her fall asleep and forget the past four days. I doubt I’ll be able to sleep as I lie down with her, checking every few minutes to make sure she’s still here and that I’m not dreaming.
“Of course,” Tanner sighs, contentment in the sound. “Emma, I’m going to come visit you soon, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, leaning back against me, her little hand finding its way into mine.
It is. Okay.
Everything is blissfully and wonderfully okay again.
~Peter~
“You look horrible,” Andrew says, his voice full of concern.
I imagine I do since I cried the entire way home from Crystal’s house, and that’s never a good look for anyone.
I fill him in on everything, and he assures me that I did nothing wrong—that no amount of practice or discussion beforehand would have made any difference. But I’m not so sure. I could have called the police without ever visiting 8749 Kaula Lane myself.
“What good would that have done?” Andrew reasons. “She probably still would have shot herself as soon as the police pulled up in her driveway.”
But she might have been caught off guard then. She might have answered the door for them just as unaware as she did for me. They might have heard and seen Emma before any plans for suicide could be made. Skinny track lady might have been taken out in handcuffs instead of on a stretcher.
And I don’t like thinking about her like that. She wasn’t “skinny track lady.” She had a name. She was someone . . . I make up my mind to find out exactly who.
Andrew looks at me sympathetically.
“You got Emma back,” he reminds me. “Think how happy Maggie must be right now.”
I do think about that, and it makes me happy, too. Not happy enough to eclipse the fact that someone with a name I don’t even know is dead or that Thursday is inching closer with every second that ticks by, but happy enough that I’m able to give Andrew a little smile.
“You know?” he says with a rakish grin. “You’re officially her knight in shining armor now.”
“Actually, she fired me.”
“What?”
“It was before she knew she was getting Emma back,” I say with a shrug. “She called and left me a voice mail. Said she was going to hire someone else. I guess she didn’t think I was going to be able to get the job done.”
“Well, she was wrong, wasn’t she?” Andrew asks.
I shrug again.
“And now,” he goes on, “she knows that you did indeed get the job done, and you’ll officially be her knight in shining armor and . . .”
His voice trails off as he realizes that I’m really not in the mood.
“You did really good, Peter,” he says quietly. “Look at how you went and talked to Crystal and how you talked to that travel agent lady. I’m really proud of you.”
“They don’t make me nervous,” I remind him.
“Well maybe one day Maggie won’t make you nervous.”
This makes me laugh.
“I think Maggie will always make me nervous,” I say with a smile.
Andrew smiles back.
~Maggie~
The next day, Emma and I are back to our normal routine, as though this whole nightmare never happened.
It did, though. I know it did. Emma’s still leery of other people, and it’s a reminder of what we went through and all that I still don’t know. It’s only been a day, I keep reminding myself when I don’t hear more from the police, but my mind keeps wondering about all the details.
And my mind keeps going back to Peter.
I had to go into work today, after taking some time to just be with Emma. It was hard to leave her at daycare because I didn’t want her out of my sight and because I wasn’t sure how I was going to pay for it since, as far as I know, Brandon is still missing. He has always paid her daycare bill and—while it’s cold and callous to reduce the absence of my child’s father down to dollars and cents—well, that’s where I’m at right now.
I have to keep on living, after all, especially now that Emma is home.
I think about how she ate her breakfast this morning, pawing through the Froot Loops I’d given her and eating them alongside the banana I’d cut up. She chewed thoughtfully, using one banana covered finger to smear what I suspect she thinks is fine artwork right onto the table before reaching for a red Froot Loop to plop into her mouth as well.
I’d watched her, mesmerized by every move she made.
This is life. I have what I need.
I’m so thankful.
I’ve very nearly convinced myself that Peter is somehow to thank for Emma’s return. I’ve rationalized a lot of reasons to call him. If he’s not the one behind finding Emma, surely he’d still like to know that she’s safe at home now. I mean, we were more than just a business case for him, right?
No. No, we weren’t. And I did tell him that he was off the job, so . . .
I don’t care. I still want to call him. Because Emma being home is about the best news I’ve ever had to share, and I know he’d want to know. And if he’s to thank for it, like I hope he is, for reasons I can’t even sort out right now . . . well, I want to thank him.
And . . . well, I want to talk to him again.
So, when my lunch break rolls around and I’ve called the daycare just to check on Emma (for the third time that morning), I go to my contacts list and touch Peter’s name.
I don’t even wait for him to say hello when the line connects.
“Peter, it’s me. Maggie.”
~Peter~
I didn’t plan on having lunch with Crystal today, but she called this morning to thank me for the lamb and one thing led to another. That’s how it was two days ago, too, when I went to her house. One thing led to another.
She asked me how I’d learned so much about her, and I wound up telling her all about my computer program and how I’d developed it. She seemed so genuinely interested that when she asked me more questions I’d carefully explained to her exactly how it worked and how I’d used it to track down her father through the clubs that he’d sent her.
“I couldn’t b
elieve how much they were insured for,” I’d told Crystal, who then asked if I’d like to see them. After I told her I would, she disappeared for a moment before returning with a white cardboard box that had arrived the day before, compliments of QuestServe. She carried it like one would a newborn baby before lovingly setting it on an oversized footstool, opening the lid, and lifting one out.
Crystal talked about golf the way I talk about computers. First she’d told me all about Jack Fleck and how his defeat of Ben Hogan was not unlike David slaying Goliath. The clubs that her father had sent her were not only the same ones that Fleck had used, but they were actually Hogan clubs, Hogan-made and a gift to Fleck from the great man himself. Her eyes gleamed as she turned a driver over in her hands.
She spoke about all the hours she’d spent on the golf course with her father while she’d been growing up and how they were some of the happiest memories of her life. Her mother had died when Crystal was in elementary school, and her father had never remarried. “For most of my life it was just me and him,” she explained with a faraway look in her eyes. “He was always such a great dad.”
Then she looked at me as if suddenly remembering I was there. “He’s still a great dad,” she added with a smile.
“They’re for a charity auction on Saturday,” Crystal explained longingly. “But I’m really tempted to bid on them myself.”
I looked at her for a moment and then couldn’t help but ask, “Have you shown them to anybody else yet?”
“No,” she answered, tilting her head at me. “Why?”
“I just wondered,” I said, shaking my head. But that wasn’t the truth.
The truth is that I feel sorry for her. If she had any kind of a close friend, Crystal would have already gushed about those golf clubs to somebody besides me. She would have told somebody besides Brandon that she was pregnant. I was certain that Crystal had no one to talk to except for her father—just like I have no one to talk to except for Andrew. At some point she had Brandon, but he had an affair and a child with another woman, and when he found out Crystal was having a baby, he disappeared.