by Rea Frey
“Emma,” she hissed. “Stop pulling on your dress.”
Emma nodded, let her hands go, and then, just one minute later, started again. Amy could feel the anger tugging her away from the sermon, the coffin, the dark blue veins of Aunt Sally’s left hand, and the digital slideshow that showed her mother as a younger, more handsome version of her older self. She shielded the side of her face with a program just to block out Emma and keep her rage in check.
Emma knew what she was doing. She knew just how to push her buttons, and now, Amy was on the verge of losing it and snapping at her daughter here in the house of the Lord. She took deep, cleansing breaths as Aunt Sally leaned over and whispered, “Oh Amy, what are we going to do without her?”
The burial was sparsely attended and swift, with a cheap coffin and a handful of tulips tossed on top. Amy watched as they lowered her mother’s corpse six feet under and sprinkled the box with dirt. At the house, she took Saran wrap off casseroles and porcelain dishes, opening the home to her mother’s community of friends, relatives, and acquaintances.
She felt strangely envious—her mother had had such a full, wonderful life in the middle of nowhere, while Amy had a small, lonely life in the bustling Pacific Northwest. Her mother had always seemed woefully content with her life, never wanting anything other than what God had given her. And Amy had done nothing but squander every single cell of her loose, unfortunate body, wanting anything but what she’d been given. She had it all wrong.
A few other kids were running wild with Emma and Robbie on the wide plank floors, shoes on, but her mother would have loved the noise. This was her mother’s house, not hers, and Amy didn’t have it in her to scream, scold, or chase after them. It had been such a nice distraction being away from their daily routine: the house, work, and the endless chores. She didn’t have to be a dictator here—not until they got back home and it would all start to trickle back into place: the impatience, the schedules, the sleeplessness, and the many annoyances.
“Amy, how are you doing with all of this?” Aunt Sally stood beside her, crooked and brittle, a shawl wrapped over the pointy bones of her shoulders. If Amy pressed a finger into her clavicle, she was afraid it would go all the way through and pop out the back of her spine.
“Oh, you know. It’s hard.”
“Well, you just never got to see her. She always talked about you. She just wished she could have done more for you and the kids, you know…”
Something in Amy began to fester and twitch. She cleared her throat and looked for another casserole to de-foil. “Did you get something to eat?”
Sally waved a bony paw in her face. “You know, I rarely eat. Always found the fountain of youth is to eat less. And I never snack. You know they don’t snack in other countries, but the way we snack here is just disgusting, isn’t it? And all these fat children…” She squeezed her arm. “Besides, you can get away with exercising less. When you don’t eat.” She laughed, a throaty rattle that sounded like emphysema or pneumonia.
She watched the debate on Sally’s face as she gauged her next words. “Not that you take after me in that regard, or your mother, really. She worked so hard, laboring day after day for all those years. By herself.”
Amy slammed a casserole dish onto the butcher-block island, and Sally smacked a hand to her chest. A few others looked their way, and Amy wiped her hands on the apron she’d found at the very back of her mother’s pantry. “Is there something I can do for you, Sally? Or do you just want to guilt-trip me about how fat and sedentary I am, and what a shitty daughter I was?”
Sally stumbled over her next words, and Richard came to the rescue, steering her aunt into the living room. He glared at Amy, his mustache fidgeting over his top lip, and mouthed, Really? She shrugged.
“Amy?”
She blinked into the face of an older man she didn’t recognize. “Yes?”
“I’m Gary, a good friend of your mom’s. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“Is that one yours?” He pointed out the kitchen window at Emma, who was halfway up a giant swamp white oak. “I know most of the other kids, but I’ve never met her.”
“Christ … Yes, it is. Thank you.” She looked around for Richard.
“I was going to get her down, but I didn’t know how you’d take to a stranger grabbing your girl, so I just thought I’d alert you.”
Gary’s words faded as the fury took over. Just once. She couldn’t even mourn at her own mother’s funeral without Emma hoarding all the attention for herself.
She stormed out the door, slipping into rain boots, and screamed Emma’s name into the sprawling acreage. Robbie toddled below her at the tree’s base, next to the other kids, all of them covered in mud and pig shit. Had they let out the pigs from their pens?
Emma ignored her and climbed higher—so high that by the time Amy got to the tree, Emma kicked off a shoe and it tumbled down to hit Amy’s shoulder. She snatched it from the damp earth and threw it back as hard as she could, narrowly missing her daughter’s head. Emma’s eyes widened and Robbie began to cry.
The other children went inside, sensing danger, and there they were again, facing off, a battle of the genetic wills.
“Amy! Amy, go inside. I’ve got it. Pumpkin, come down from there, please!” Richard sprinted toward the tree and waved his arms in his attempt at interference. She let Richard switch places with her as she searched the yard for Robbie and spotted him close to the back door. After a moment of encouragement, Emma slithered back down the trunk and dropped into Richard’s arms, her tangle of pale limbs clutched around his middle in a spray of bark and leaves.
Amy just wanted Emma to respect her, and she just wanted to respect Emma. She could imagine her own mother laughing, telling her to calm down, that it all goes by so fast, that it’s not a big deal. Her daughter was safe, feet on the ground again, her will unbroken. And wasn’t that enough?
But it felt like a big deal. It always felt like a big deal, and no matter how hard Amy tried, she couldn’t let her anger go. Emma fried the mechanics of her nerves and pushed her to an anger that felt raw. Amy always promised herself that tomorrow would be different, but it wasn’t. Every day played out the same way, with her daughter dictating the sequence—politeness, acceptance, annoyance, rage, screaming, hitting, defiance, forgiveness—until the cadence of her days ran just like that, hot and cold, and she had no one to blame but Emma (and herself). The explosiveness of their relationship was becoming too much, and she felt there was nothing and no one to help.
sarah
after
My voice was hoarse from screaming. By now, the entire park knew a girl named Emma was missing. Would anyone make the connection to the news? I didn’t even care—I just wanted her back, and I would do whatever it took to get her.
Time was stretching in waves. Had it been a minute? Two minutes? Fifteen? Think, Sarah. Where would she go?
A hand brushed my elbow and I turned, even though I knew the hand was too high and large to be hers. I came face-to-face with a man wearing black-rimmed glasses. He was only a few inches taller than me.
“Ma’am? Have you lost your daughter?”
“Yes, I … she’s not my daughter, she’s my niece.”
“Okay. What does she look like?”
I rattled off a description—pink sweater, red pants, gray boots, blond hair, large, gray eyes—and he told me he’d take the left side of the park. He had a small person attached to his left hand, who looked as worried as I felt.
“Thank you,” I managed to get out. “I … I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Don’t panic. Let’s meet right back at this bench in,” he glanced at his watch, “five minutes or so. Okay?”
I nodded and stumbled forward, trying to steel myself against the possibility that she was gone and this time—this time—something bad could actually happen. The world of difference between my actions—a reverse kidnapping to help a child, not harm—an
d an actual kidnapping made me almost capsize with grief. This was only happening because I’d taken her from the woods. There was no one else to blame.
I made the rounds again, fitting my body up the wooden tower, my ankles wobbling on the bridge as I scanned all the moving bodies below. Where was she? How far could she have gone? Maybe she’d run back to the bean. A frayed loop of her actions played in my brain. Sometimes she ran off. Sometimes she got excited and forgot to ask for permission.
But sometimes, kids also just disappeared.
It wasn’t like her to run off from me, but then again, she had a history of wandering off in general; it’s what had given us the cushion of escape in the first place. Maybe this was just what she did in crowds.
I climbed down and looked at my watch. I’d never felt more on the verge of coming undone. I retraced my steps back to the bench, but the man wasn’t there. I sat on it and dropped my head into my hands. If I hadn’t taken that call. If I hadn’t been so stupid to turn my back for just a few seconds. But I knew, more than anyone, that a few seconds was all it took.
I made a million deals with myself as the squeals of excited children cut across my conscience. If one was Emma, I’d do anything. If one was her, I’d make it all okay. I took off from the bench again, staking out the same path I’d just been through, the two syllables of her name rolling off the back of my throat. I saw girls in similar outfits; girls with similar hair. I lunged at each of them, startled parents gripping their children in worried fists. Wild, cautious eyes stared back at me as I extended hand after hand in apology.
“I’m sorry, it’s my niece. She’s run off. I’m sorry, have you seen a little girl? I’m sorry, can you help?”
I ran until my calves seized, and I’d circled the park three times. I huddled back at the bench as my lungs burned and my heart closed in on itself.
“Miss?” I heard the man’s voice somewhere around my shoulders and looked up. His son was on his right, fiddling with his baseball cap. To his left, a hand cupped loosely around her shoulders, stood Emma. She held a pile of flowers, roots dangling, in her fingers by her right hip. “Is this her?”
I dropped to my knees and seized her to my chest. The crunch of petals smashed against my shirt, and she screamed in protest.
“My flowers! You crushed them!”
“Emma, my God, are you okay? Where did you go?” I kissed her forehead, her cheeks, and her eyelids. “Why did you run off? We’ve talked about this. You have to stay where I can see you at all times. Do you understand?”
“I didn’t,” she said, squirming out of my embrace. “I went to pick flowers right over there. I wanted to get you some. And you broke them.”
Blood coursed through my entire body, my bones limp with relief. I looked up at the man—my savior. “How did you find her? I swear I looked everywhere.”
“Well, Charlie here has run off a few times, and it’s always near the perimeter. They have all those flowers and bushes. Sometimes, when they crouch down, you can’t even see them. So I took a wild guess, and there she was, picking flowers.” His voice was light, relieved.
I stood, one hand still firmly on Emma, my knees cracking from all the miles in the car and sudden sprinting through the park. “I can’t possibly thank you enough…”
“Ryan. Ryan Bailey. And you’re very welcome.”
I dragged my eyes from his face and looked down at his son. “And this is Charlie, I’m assuming?”
“Yes, this is my son, Charlie. He’s seven.”
I pulled Emma closer. “I really, really don’t know how to thank you. I’ve never been so scared in all my life.”
“Well, especially if it’s not your child,” he said. Emma glanced at him, her eyebrows cocked in question, and I searched for something to say before she could. “Well, you guys have a good day. Thanks again. Truly.”
“Oh, okay. You too.” He squatted down to Emma. “So glad you’re okay.” He stood and lifted his hand in a wave as Charlie ran off. Ryan followed a few feet behind him.
“I want to go play with that boy.”
I crouched into a deep squat, my nerves still firing with adrenaline. “What’s that, sweetie?”
She pointed to Charlie, who was running farther and farther into the park. “I want to play with him.”
“Well…” I turned to look at Charlie and Ryan. That had been as close a call as any, but she was back, and it was fine. Everything was fine. I knew the chances of someone being familiar with the missing persons reports from Longview, Washington—or now, Montana—were improbable. And Emma didn’t talk about her family. I knew she wouldn’t just start gabbing about who I was or where we’d been.
“Look, you can play for just a few more minutes, but only where I can see you.”
She took off where Charlie was, and I lingered close to Ryan.
“Hello, again.”
“Hi.” My hand felt limp as I raised and lowered it.
“Are you guys from around here?” Ryan was standing a few feet away, his gaze split between Charlie and me. I stood, eyes glued to Emma.
“What’s that?”
“I was just asking if you were from around here? Or just visiting?”
I shook my head. “No. Just visiting.” I felt an urgency to get away from the prying questions. Charlie held up something to show Ryan from a distance, and Emma laughed.
“Hey, Em! We need to go, sweetheart.”
She turned. “But we just got here! And you said I could play!” Her voice was high, shrill, and testing. She was tired and hungry, and I could see a tantrum brewing in her balled fists and lifted chin.
“Ten minutes, okay? Then we need to go.”
She nodded, already climbing a rope behind Charlie. “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t look at you.”
Ryan laughed. “Understood.”
We moved closer to where the kids were, and I reminded Emma to stay where I could see her. We broke into separate groups as Emma insisted on climbing the tower again, and Charlie wanted to go look at the ice ribbon. We climbed, ran, and chased, our cheeks growing pink, our bodies warm. I slid down one of the tallest slides, Emma perched on my thighs, and we rocketed out of the bottom, flying forward and landing on our hands and knees.
“Again!”
She went back up alone and then flew down the slide into my open, waiting arms.
“Whew, kid, I’m beat. Are you getting hungry?”
“Yes! Can we go eat?”
“Yep. And I think I know just where to take you.”
“And then can we come back here?”
“Maybe.”
She pulled on my hand as we started back to the car. At the edge of the park, I heard Emma’s name, and there were Ryan and Charlie, trotting up to us.
“Hey. You guys taking off, Emma and…?”
“Oh, sorry. Sarah. I’m Sarah. And yes. We are.” I smoothed Emma’s bangs. “I can’t thank you enough for your help. Seriously. You basically saved my life. Our lives.”
“Any time.”
“He didn’t save my life,” Emma stated.
“It’s just an expression, sweetie. I know he didn’t actually save your life.”
“Then why did you say it?”
“Because that’s just what people say.”
“Where are you guys headed?” Ryan asked.
“To eat.” I swung our hands back and forth. “This one is super-hungry, and we all know how that goes, don’t we?”
“We do, don’t we, Charlie? Do you know where you’re going to eat, or…?”
“Oh, I’m not sure really. I was maybe going to take her to Tempo? She loves breakfast for dinner, and their omelets are exceptional.”
“You don’t have to tell me. They’re the best.” He adjusted Charlie’s hat. “Would it be totally rude to crash your party and join? We haven’t been there in a long time either.”
I looked down at Emma. “Oh, um…”
She yanked my arm, a plea. “Say yes, Sarah. Say yes! Pl
ease, please, please?”
Ryan gestured to Emma. “How can you argue with that? It’s not like this is fate at work or anything, right? I mean, helping a complete stranger locate a child is totally a normal way to meet someone. It’s not like you should buy me dinner or anything for ‘saving your life,’ as you just stated yourself.”
“Laying it on pretty thick.”
“So that’s a yes?”
I couldn’t just throw caution to the wind, but we needed a distraction. Emma needed a friend. And I needed a break. “Sure. Why not?”
“Great.” Ryan squatted down to shake Emma’s hand. Her fingers dangled in his firm grip. “It was super-nice to meet you, Emma. You’re a great flower picker. We’ll see you soon?”
She pushed into me, shy, and nodded.
He stood. “We’ll meet you over there?”
“Sounds good.” I gripped Emma’s hot fingers and walked back to the car.
Emma gushed about her new friend Charlie as we drove down Michigan Avenue. I pointed out the buildings, the art museum, and the droves of people clustered on either side of the street. We found parking on State Street, a fragrant blast of air drifting up from the grates as I paid the meter.
I pulled open the double doors of the restaurant and let her walk through. “This is Tempo. They stay open all day and night, and you can get any type of breakfast dish you want. Waffles, pancakes, or huge omelets they serve in a skillet over crispy potatoes.”
“Do I like omelets?”
“Well, you love eggs. And omelets are made from eggs, so I would guess yes?” I scanned the restaurant for Ryan and Charlie. They were already in a booth by one of the windows. Emma yelped and ran over to Charlie. I followed.
We slid in across from them, shedding our coats. Our booth faced State Street. We watched people pass by as they left work or ducked onto the L. We helped the kids with their sticky, oversize menus and ordered our food. Ryan folded his hands on the table as the kids colored on smaller, paper menus. “So.”
“So.”
I expected Ryan to ask me why I had my niece, what the story was, but he didn’t. He rearranged the jams in the basket. “So, you’re from…?”