Red Water, Shadows of Camelot Crossing

by Lisa Courtaway

  At no time during the punishing pain had she ever considered giving up on her own life to end the unrelenting ache. Maybe she deserved all the suffering for allowing harm to come to her baby. She pleaded with herself for forgiveness that would never come. Although she doubted her capabilities, she did her best to give as much as she could to those who needed her.

  Thirty-Four

  Two years after Laura went missing, Miss B passed. Her steady decline was lovingly managed by Charlotte, who had plenty of hours to care for her as she neared the moment of her last breath. It happened one evening when the setting sun reached through the window in the sunroom and touched Miss B's face. Charlotte was there, as was Mr. Childers and their son Thomas. Charlotte quietly hummed Miss B's favorite songs as she left behind the confusion and turmoil that marred her final years.

  Charlotte was there for Mr. Childers in all that followed, and he was there for her. There was never the fear that she would have to leave the trailer, and even when she cut her hours at The Roadside, he never lowered her pay.

  She found him one morning under the MossyCup Oak. His new collie, Mavis, was feverishly barking while refusing to leave her fallen master's side. His heart had given out just as he set out to cross the fields and check in with the ranch hands. Charlotte knew there was no better place for the man to lay down his life.

  Even with all he had given her in his living years, she was astonished by how much he continued to care for her after he left. In his will, he shared everything with her, a fifty-fifty split with his son, Thomas. She got the trailer, some land, his prize mare, and a barn. All the things she used to think she wanted in life before she learned of true longing. He left her the motel, which she quickly sold off to the Watts family in a deal her lawyer called a steal.

  Thomas moved into the ranch house while she tended to the matter of all the loose ends. He was dealing with more than the loss of his father, as he'd also lost his wife to his partner at his law practice. There was no way he could stay in business with the man who now lived the life he had once shared with his wife and sons. He decided to start over, and opened a small practice near the Payne County Courthouse. The worst part was the time he had lost with his boys, only seeing them for holidays and summers.

  He and Charlotte grew close as she showed him the tempo of the ranch, and they picked through the treasures of Wallace and Betty Mae's lives. The two had almost grown up together, and this union felt comfortable and consoling, easy and right. His love couldn't fill the void left by Laura's absence, but he was good to her, and she felt almost whole again as she taught his boys how to ride, and how to care for their grandma's flower gardens, Mavis, and the chickens. In a sense, she was growing a family again.

  The search for answers never ended. She worked tirelessly, demanding action from authorities, using the media to keep the story alive, since she knew things could turn as the players aged and relationships shifted. Hope lifted each time a news story ran—maybe it would be that whisper in someone's ear reminding them of something they saw or felt or heard. Maybe that voice would murmur annoyingly in their ear until they walked into the sheriff's office and offered up their hunch.

  The methods used to keep the story in the forefront of people's minds changed as time passed. Once, all the details were repeated on television and in newspapers, and Laura’s face had once been seen on cartons of milk at family tables. Now, her image was held in the hands of prisoners, on the backs of playing cards, and theories were shared and debated on blogs and websites. She scrolled through the online comments, always searching for one that might ring true, perhaps from a person who knew too much. Every lead that might hold water was carefully scrutinized until it evaporated.

  Life at the Dark Horse Ranch continued with so many of its originators gone now. Thomas and Charlotte wed. They held a small ceremony under the Mossycup Oak, a tree that now symbolized the loss of two young souls. Even after the passing of Mr. Childers under the very same tree, Charlotte still believed the oak was a monument to hope and love and life. The tree had seen so much sadness, so much happiness, so much change. Yellow flowers were chosen to match the yellow bow as it remained tied around the tree's trunk that, on their wedding day, had added ten growth rings since Laura vanished.

  Thirty-Five

  By 2020 Thomas and Charlotte had celebrated their silver anniversary and were living a quiet life on the ranch surrounded by a growing family. They were doting grandparents of three young girls. Both boys followed in the path of the men before them, Charles becoming a lawyer and Russell using his degrees in Computer Programming and Animal Science to develop smart ear tag technology for cattle, which would have made his grandfather proud.

  In late March of that crazy year, Charlotte woke before sunup and rolled over in bed to find it empty. Thomas wasn't lying next to her. She was drenched in sweat and heat spilled out of her body. Her soaked nightgown turned icy hot as she sat up and saw the light escaping from the bathroom door which stood ajar, light cutting a wedge into the darkened room. A deep cough emitted from beyond the door.

  She sat up too fast and was reeled by a wave of dizziness. "Thomas?" Her voice was a whisper, her throat sore and dry. As she rose from the bed, every joint in her body moaned in disagreement. Her whole body hurt. "You okay in there?" she questioned, standing on the other side of the door as his baying cough continued.

  "Not feeling well at all, dear," he replied as he came to door. She could feel the heat radiate off him. Neither of them was willing to give voice to the potential that they had contracted the dreaded virus.

  "Let's check your temperature," she said, pushing past him, reaching for the medicine cabinet. She spotted the thermometer and hoped it still worked, unable to remember the last time it was used. She grabbed cotton balls and rubbing alcohol and guided him to sit on the edge of the tub.

  "Try to keep this under your tongue long enough for it to register, no coughing."

  His fever was 102.2.

  "Why don't you go back to bed? I've got some cold medicine in her somewhere. I'm going to need some myself," she said as she rummaged through the cabinet, and Thomas returned to bed. She cleaned the thermometer and placed it under her own tongue. Her temperature was 101.9.

  She fought the urge to steal a gulp of tap water as she filled their counter cups and broke off two blister packs.

  "As soon as Dr. Sawyer's office is open, I'll give them a call and see if they can squeeze us in today. For now, take these and let's see if we can get some sleep." She placed the water and medicine on Thomas' nightstand and returned to her side of the bed. The water burned her throat as she swallowed the gel caps, denying her relief from the searing pain she had hoped it would bring.

  "Do you think we have the virus?" Thomas asked, addressing the elephant in the room.

  "I can't imagine what else it could be. Maybe the flu?" she said. Trying to position herself in a way that eased some of the aching in her body and head, she said, "I felt fine going to bed, but now …" She reached down to the end of the bed and pulled up the winter comforter that was neatly folded, close by in case of an early spring cold snap. The shivering came from within her body, and she couldn't calm the trembling.

  Thomas tossed the blanket off himself. "I'm burning up,” he mumbled before being overcome by another coughing fit. She greedily grabbed his discarded share and pulled it tightly under her chin. The medicine didn't touch the headache, but somehow she drifted off.

  A feverish haze clouded her mind, and as the next few hours passed, Charlotte wasn't sure if she was asleep or awake. She only knew discomfort, and was incapable of pinpointing which part of her hurt worse. Her body fought more intense chills as she came to. Her pajamas clung to her. At some point in her delirium, she had thrown the blankets onto Thomas, who had hungrily gathered them around himself. Their bed trembled with the force of the chills their bodies were powerless against. Beside her, Thomas's cough had worsened; his breathing was rough and unsteady.

  The room
spun and vertigo grabbed her and swung her in its grasp, as she forced herself to contact the doctor. They were turned away, told to go to the emergency room. That didn't sound right to her, but she sensed Thomas needed medical care worse than she did. He was never one to be dragged down by a bug. She needed someone to assure her things were going to be okay.

  Russell drove them both to the hospital, a bandanna tightly wrapped around his face and all the windows rolled down. They refused his help in taking the few steps to his car and once again to the hospital entrance, despite their difficulties walking on their own. They clung to each other for support, unsure if they were helping or hindering. Her fear mounted as the certainty became clear. She had never been so sick in her life.

  Stillwater Medical Center met the needs of much of Payne County, and was learning along with the rest of the world how to help those who were infected. A CT scan indicated that Charlotte and Thomas did indeed have the virus. She had been right about Thomas—his condition was worse than hers. A nurse informed them that the virus oftentimes hit men harder. Charlotte was sent home with a remedy for all the possibilities and a pamphlet telling her what to watch for, the signs that might tell her to head back to the hospital. Thomas was admitted, but never to ICU, so he avoided a respirator.

  Time stood still for Charlotte, back home, alone. Megan, Russell's wife, made soups and teas for her. Russell dropped them off on the front porch, texting Charlotte to get the items quickly, before they got cold. She did as she was told and all the things she knew she should. All the carefully made potions would help her, even if she couldn't describe their taste or smell. Russell temporarily moved into the old trailer where she and Laura had lived, isolating from his wife and baby. Megan took care of little Manda all alone for sixteen days, a little longer than the recommendations, just to be sure.

  As it turned out, the virus might have saved Charlotte's life. One day the phone rang, and she was sure it was Dr. Sawyer’s office calling to checking to see how she was fairing. Instead, she learned that her CT scan showed the shattered glass appearance the virus imprinted on her lungs, but upon review, something else suspicious was noted. A re-scan was suggested. The doctor assured her that it was prudent to rule the spot out as a possible test error.

  It was no defect of the test. Something was there, a small spot that didn't belong. The good news was that the timing couldn't be better, and it had been caught early. The bad news was that it was likely cancer. Her doctors wanted to act fast, but warned about the unknowns of what surgery might to do to virus-weakened lungs.

  Thomas tried to prepare her for how insufferable being alone in the hospital would be. He described the intimidating fear and anxiety of being cared for by faceless beings who had once been unique, individual doctors and nurses but were now hidden behind layers of PPE, robbing them of their ability to connect with their patients. He was unable to convey how best to ready herself mentally for the loneliness of the traumatic stay. There were far too many emotions from one minute to the next as the frantic beeping of machines never ceased and isolation took hold. Each piece of miraculous equipment sang a mournful song of those whose own voices were silenced by oxygen masks, or worse yet, tubes that breathed for them.

  What she remembered most about her experience, alone after part of her lung was removed and she fought to regain her strength and breath, were the dreams. Every moment her eyes were closed, she was dreaming. It was always the same dream, of Laura standing just outside her reach, boasting, "I've worked so hard, Momma. It's finally going to happen."

  "Who's Laura?" a nurse asked one day. "You say her name while you're sleeping."

  Even when she was back home and didn't have untold medicines coursing through her veins, the dream kept on. She could no longer believe their realness was drug-induced. Laura was trying to tell her something. Perhaps that was why she wasn't too surprised to see the sheriff's car rolling up to the ranch house, kicking up gravel dust in its wake. Something was about to happen, just as Laura had promised.

  Thirty-Six

  Sheriff Doug Rayne and Pastor Elliot were shrouded in solemnity as they donned their face masks and approached the Childers' door. Charlotte was sitting in the living room doing her breathing exercises. Even though the view wasn't as nice as the sweeping view from the sunroom, she had never taken to the room where Miss B spent most of her last years. It was remodeled after Miss B's passing, its clinical appearance having been erased long ago, but it still held Miss B's ghosts. As Charlotte rose to welcome her unwanted guests, she knew this room was about to become inhabited by ghosts of its own.

  "Thomas!" Her first attempt came out as a raspy, rough whisper. She found strength and volume on her next try. "Thomas!" she yelled, slowly walking toward the door on unsteady feet.

  Thomas rushed into the room, fearing she’d fallen, or just fearing. The dish towel he held dropped from his hand, left forgotten as he rushed to her side to open the door to news that would be life-changing.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Childers," Sheriff Rayne said, nodding as he removed his large hat.

  "Come in, please," Charlotte said politely, opening the door fully, stretching out a hand. She wondered how she found manners and grace in this moment. She had envisioned this event countless times, and this was never the way she believed she might react.

  "Sheriff, Pastor, have a seat. Can I get you something? I just took the kettle off the stove, tea maybe, or water?" Thomas rambled, and she was grateful he was taking the lead. He wrapped his arms around her and guided her to the sofa, helping her sit.

  "No, sir. Thank you, though," Sheriff Rayne replied. He and the pastor sat across the coffee table in a pair of high-back chairs.

  "I wish I could offer an embrace, Charlotte," Pastor Elliott said.

  Charlotte nodded her head, giving the impression, she hoped, that she understood what he was saying.

  The sheriff put an end to the awkward moment by saying, "We believe we've found Laura."

  The air left her battered lungs in a rush. Thomas reached for the oxygen tank she had been sent home with. She hadn't been forced to use it yet, but he had practiced with the knobs and familiarized himself, so he wouldn't be left fumbling in an emergency.

  Charlotte took the oxygen mask without thinking about it and held it to her face, forcing herself to breathe slowly.

  Sheriff Rayne and the pastor sat in practiced silence.

  A million questions rushed into her mind and clamored for attention as she tried to process what little he had told her. Each burning demand held no hope that Laura might be alive, but after all this time the chance for some resolution overwhelmed her.

  "Go on, please," is all she could say.

  Taking a folder out that he had tucked under his arm, the sheriff said, "I have some photos of the items recovered with the remains. While we are awaiting confirmation from the coroner, I do believe the articles strongly suggest the remains are those of Laura. If you are up to it, I can show you."

  The sheriff was looking at Thomas as he spoke, and Charlotte now looked to him too. She was lost, but couldn't keep her eyes off the folder as it was passed across the table.

  "The first photo is a picture of the items we found, the most telling one being the watch. There are some pieces of fabric and a pair of rubber boots, all consistent with what you described."

  Charlotte took the folder from Thomas and handed it back to the sheriff unopened. "It's my girl," she said. "That's my Laura. I don't need pictures to tell me." She sat numbly and listened to the few details. Laura had likely died the very night she went missing, if not soon after, and so close to home. How could she have been so nearby this whole time?

  "We hope to know more pending the autopsy report." He slid his card across the table, and Pastor Elliott led them in a prayer before they rose to leave. There were no departing handshakes, no hugs of condolence.

  Charlotte sat in the same spot for hours after they left. Thomas tried to get her to eat. He tried to get her to talk. She could do
nothing, so he sat beside her in silence until he felt her body weigh heavier on his. Then he gave her a gentle nudge, helped her up and put her in bed. Thomas tenderly eased her back to the pillows, covered her up, lay down next to her, and they slept.

  Over the next few days, the only time she spoke was to ask Thomas if he would drive her to the place where Laura had been all these years. He would not do that to her. Russell had already warned him that the town was overrun by media trucks from Tulsa and Oklahoma City. People were looking for any news that didn't relate to the pandemic, so the story had become even more popular.

  Sheriff Rayne met with them virtually to share more information. Numbness cloaked her again as he relayed additional facts.

  "While the autopsy couldn't pinpoint the exact time of death, we interviewed several people. Mr. Harold Buhl remembered the time very well. He was the contractor who dug the pool. His wife kept meticulous records which made connecting the dots easier. He has been ruled out as a suspect," the sheriff told them.

  "There was blunt force trauma to the skull, which is believed to have contributed to her death. Unfortunately, due to the advanced state of decay, there are still questions. But there is nothing indicative of bullet or stab wounds. The depth and makeup of the soil provided a somewhat preservative environment, allowing us to rule out strangulation. There just isn't enough to go on to know exactly what happened. The only anomalies are the skull fracture and her boots being on the wrong feet. Have you ever read an autopsy report, Mrs. Childers?"

  She shook her head, unable to find words.

  "I'm sending the file in an email. It might be best for you to go over it first, Mr. Childers. These things can be unbearable and confusing," the sheriff advised.