by Pamela Crane
My baby girl … gone because of my failure as a mom.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Trubeau. We’re going to do everything we can to find Amelia.” Detective Cox rested his hand on my shoulder. The touch was a small comfort. But it was from a stranger, not from my husband, who I so desperately needed.
I looked into the detective’s eyes, beseeching him with a silent plea for a guarantee that Amelia was safe. That she’d be back in my arms soon. My gaze flittered over to Jay, who sat stoic and cross-armed. And that’s when I noticed it. It was subtle. Undetectable to anyone who hadn’t lived with Jay Trubeau for ten perfect years. But it was a glaring beacon to me, the woman who cherished him, knew him, read between his lines for over a decade.
He blamed me, too.
I felt it in the way he avoided my gaze. I saw it in the cold inches of space that separated us. I sensed it in the tense muscles of his jaw that remained clenched as I wept.
I could carry the burden of self-blame. It was heavy but manageable. But Jay’s blame too? No, no, that would crush me. If Jay couldn’t forgive me, how could I ever forgive myself for letting this happen to our family? For ripping apart our perfect life? In one neglectful moment I had broken the only thing that mattered to me. And unless I found Amelia and saved her from a deadly fate, I could never repair our lives.
As I walked Detective Cox and Officer Buchanan to the front door where a news van waited to prey on my misery, I caught a glimpse of the growing crowd of neighbors on the sidewalk, like ants feasting on a crumb. While my life fell apart, they enjoyed some fresh drama unfolding on Oleander Way. I’d be their gossip for the next few days, until someone had an affair or got an unflattering haircut.
“You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.” Detective Cox gestured to the microphones and video cameras lining my driveway. “But the more we get Amelia’s information out there, the more likely we’ll be to find her.”
“Yeah, I’m ready.”
I turned to Jay, who stood behind me so close I could feel the heat of his chest on my back. We needed each other now more than ever. I grabbed his hand, weaving my fingers through his, and pulled him toward me.
But then he did something he’d never done before. Unclasping my hand, he recoiled from me. “Jay—” I pleaded.
“Jo, I can’t. I can’t touch you right now.” Taking a step back, he created a schism that I couldn’t cross, no matter how much I apologized or begged.
Jay blamed me. I blamed me. And I knew in that instant that if we didn’t bring Amelia home, we could never recover, I would never be forgiven. Amelia was the only lifeline we had, our only guarantee of survival. If she ended up dead … we would die with her.
“Go ahead, Jo.” Detective Cox turned to me as a reporter stepped up, pushing her microphone in my face. Her hair was smooth and shiny like a wig, her makeup heavy but flawless. She would have fit in perfectly on Oleander Way.
With sobs breaking up my speech, alone, abandoned by my husband, I begged anyone who was watching the news that night to help me find my little girl.
Chapter 8
Ellie
Sunlight slipped through the wavy sliver between the drapes, caressing the kitchen countertops, then slithering down across the floor where it rested in fractured beams.
I’m failing at everything I do,
I wrote, sitting at the kitchen table sipping hazelnut coffee with more cream than coffee.
My kids are becoming spoiled brats, I’m running myself ragged, nothing I do is ever enough. I’m constantly paranoid and angry … Who am I? I don’t want to be this person. But I don’t know how to find my way back to who I was—the happier me, the fulfilled me. Was she ever real? Or was that all just a façade? Is this the real me? It can’t be. I won’t let it. I started leaving notes for Denny around the house, little I love you’s and XOXO’s. Maybe I can win him back. Can I win him back? I need to try something. Anything. He hasn’t mentioned them, which breaks my heart.
Yesterday I bought junk food for the kids—God help me, it took every ounce of strength not to toss it out of the grocery cart before I checked out. But I want them to be happy, to love me. If their own mother’s love isn’t enough, maybe teeth-rotting sugar will do the trick. I feel like I have to bribe my own family to like me. Maybe it’s a stage. Maybe I just need to toughen up. Or maybe they need to learn a lesson.
My hand paused as I heard the scurry of feet pounding down the stairwell. My time was up.
Early morning—the only time of day I truly had to myself, a bite-sized morsel of time for me. These were my precious pre-dawn minutes of quiet leading up to the rush to fix Darla’s breakfast, pack her lunch, check her book bag, run her to the bus stop, and make it back to my half-drained cup of coffee before it got lukewarm. Of course, by then Logan would shuffle out of his bedroom, his golden bedhead hair sprouting in every direction as he snaked along the floor in his Superman pajamas, dragging lines into the carpet with his heavy steps.
After biting another student for the second time two weeks ago, my nine-year-old son was sent home and threatened with expulsion. It would have been the first expulsion at any elementary school in the district—way to go, son. To save everyone embarrassment, I offered to keep Logan home while I figured out another schooling option. So not only had I become wife, cook, and maid, but now I adopted the role of homeschooling teacher to a boy who could care less about “stupid” things like reading, writing, or arithmetic.
Once Logan was awake, the demands began … and never ended until bedtime fourteen hours later. “Mom, I want juice. Mom, make me eggs for breakfast. Mom, these eggs taste nasty. I want French toast instead. Mom, clean my favorite shirt. Mom, Mom, Mom …” And on it went, day after day, hour after hour, an endless cycle of “make me this” and “do that,” with the occasional break for an “I don’t like this anymore.”
Despite the mundanity of parenthood, for eleven years I had dealt with it. Despite counting down the hours before I’d tuck both kids into bed, exhaling relief after that last kiss goodnight, I nonetheless accepted my lot in life. I had a successful husband, two beautiful children, a gorgeous home, the latest gadgets, the fanciest cars, summer vacations, and trendy clothes—what wasn’t to love about living on Oleander Way, the epitome of upper-crust society? It had never been my dream life, but over time I slid into its mold. I powerwalked with fitness moms I didn’t like, attended PTA meetings that bored me, mastered nut-free, gluten-free, dairy-free brownies for the school bake sale, hosted baby showers for women whose last names I didn’t know, and complimented garish décor while sipping bitter coffee with neighbors who would gossip about me the moment I walked out of their front door. It was the circle of upper-class life, and I had acclimated quite fluidly, if I did say so myself.
But as Denny slumbered blissfully in our bed, curled up in our sheets, probably dreaming of her, I realized I wasn’t okay with this. This boring, mindless routine I lived out. Kids, cooking, cleaning, homework, start over. I had given up a career to make Denny’s dreams come true—his Leave It to Beaver family and June Cleaver wife. It was a wonder he didn’t require me to wear sensible dresses and pearls around the house all day. Meanwhile, he went off and lived his own fantasy with another woman while I ignorantly toiled away, washing his clothes that stank of her scent, preparing him dinners that satisfy him after a secret rendezvous with her in some crappy motel. I sacrificed and became exactly what he wanted, only for him not to want me anymore.
Flinging open the fridge, I grabbed the strawberry jelly and slammed the door shut. In a haze, I envisioned him kissing her, running his fingers along her skin, whispering “I love you”s in her ear as he nibbled playfully on her earlobe, biting her neck. All moves he used to woo me with many moons ago. Moves I hadn’t seen in ages. Banging the jelly down on the counter, my anger began to boil as a tidal wave of scenarios crashed into me.
“Mom, you’re gonna break the jelly jar,” a tiny voice chirped from behind me.
I turned
around, embarrassed at being caught in a tantrum by my nine-year-old.
“I’m just a little frustrated, honey. But I’m fine.” I forced a grin and rested a hand on Logan’s head, smoothing out his frizzy hair. He shook my hand off and glared at me. “How about we head to the playground after I finish cleaning up? And don’t forget to dress warmly—the air’s a little cool this morning.”
“I don’t wanna. I want to play video games.”
And already it began—the negotiations.
“It’s either math or the park—you pick.”
“Fine,” he grumbled. “The park.”
“Good choice.”
Forty-five minutes and two cups of coffee later, Denny headed out the door without so much as a kiss goodbye, while I threw on my everyday yoga pants and oversized sweatshirt before leaving the house with Logan whining the entire way to the car. Maybe some fresh air would clear the web of thoughts that seemed to tangle in my brain. And at least at the park Logan could occupy himself and leave me alone with my worries—the only place I wanted to be right now until I sorted things out.
Forest Hills Park was busy as usual, with a cluster of minivans in the parking lot and scattered strollers packed with snack cups and diaper bags, while moms sat along the outskirts of the playground at the ready to respond to a child’s call for help.
As I released Logan into the wild world of public playtime, I found an empty bench just far enough away to soften the playground noise and prevent other mothers from approaching me. I wasn’t in the mood for chickish chitchat. I was in the mood for finding out what Denny was up to, for plotting revenge against my cheating husband.
The benches scattered around the park were filling up fast, and as the last open seat was taken, I watched a bedraggled woman in a flowy navy skirt and ugly brown sweater being pulled toward me by her rowdy crew like a hapless dog walker. It was June Merrigan, my best friend since college, the only real friend I had. God help her. I could barely handle my two kids, let alone raise four without losing my sanity along the way. I didn’t know how she did it.
“June Bug, I thought you didn’t do mornings,” I greeted her as I stood and pulled her into a hug.
“I don’t. But today I made an exception. I practically had a meltdown at home, so I figured at least here I could put some distance between me and the kids before I did something I’d regret. Plus, too many witnesses.”
Once the children scattered, we both sat down on the bench, our thighs touching. June was a hugger, a toucher, a close talker. While other people thought her odd, I found it part of her charm. I guess true friends were blind to each other’s quirks. Or in June’s case, they made her even more lovable. She wasn’t plastic, fake smiles, or oozing perfection. She was vulnerability and hugs when I needed one. She was me.
“A meltdown, huh? What’s going on? Is it Austin?”
June flashed a grin at me, but I recognized the exhaustion behind her eyes. “That and everything else in my life. They’re home on a school break right now, so I’m stuck with all four monsters constantly fighting and crying and screaming. I can’t take it anymore. If I hear one more argument about which show to watch … Guess what? They’re all annoying! I swear …”
Wrapping my arm around her shoulders, I nodded my sympathy, though sometimes June made things harder on herself than they had to be. My mother always told me to pick my battles with the kids. Let some things go. But not June. She was the type who picked every battle—and in the end, she’d always lose the war.
“You’re stronger than you think,” I reminded her. “You just need to tune it out.” Empty advice, I know, but what else could I say?
“It’s hard to tune it out when they just keep coming at me. It’s always one thing or another. I just want a vacation from my life.” She rested her head on my shoulder like a child, and I kissed her hair.
“You know I’ll watch them for you anytime so you can get away. I’m practically family, June.”
“No, not practically. You are my family.” She sat upright and looked at me. “How are things with you, by the way?”
I considered telling her about my episode in the laundry room that morning—the lipstick stain I’d found, my suspicions. We told each other everything, after all. But something kept my words in check. With all that June was going through, maybe it wasn’t the right time to whine about my own problems, real or imaginary, since at this point I knew absolutely nothing. Why make something of a scenario that could be a misunderstanding on my part? I felt like voicing it would give it life, and that was the last thing I wanted to do. Better to bury it for now.
“Everything’s really good,” I lied. “Same old, same old.”
June sighed. “I wish I had your life. You’ve always got it together.”
I laughed. “No, it’s just an illusion. We all have our struggles, June. It boils down to how we cope.”
Which led me to wonder, how did I cope? While June poured out her heart and leaned on me for strength, I threw on a mask and hid behind a fake smile. I wondered which was the healthier method. Something told me my methods wouldn’t end well.
Our conversation ended when June’s kids rumbled toward us like a tornado, each one talking over the next. Austin’s eyes were fixated on his hands as he flapped them in the air like he was splashing in the tub.
Once June had passed out packaged cheese crackers and juice boxes, then shooed away the other three kids, she pulled Austin up on the bench between us and sat him down. Still he remained transfixed on his fingers as he flapped them in short bursts in the air. I’d seen him do this many times before, a self-stimulating tactic when he felt overwhelmed or exhausted.
“Austin, do you want to go play with the other kids?” June asked him, leaning down to meet him face to face. But instead of answering, he watched his hands, clearly fascinated and oblivious to his mother’s prodding. “Austin, honey, stop playing with your hands. Look at me.” But he didn’t. “Do you want to go play on the playground?”
His hands held his attention firmly.
June sighed heavily. “He’s in his own world today. I wish he would interact with the other kids for more than a few minutes. I can’t get a second away from him.”
Although lacking real-life work experience, I’d learned more about autism during my doctorate studies than I ever expected to need. Autism and speech therapy went hand in hand, which gave me a leg up when dealing with Austin. Back then I didn’t know just how close to home my desired profession would hit—right here in the life of my own best friend.
“Can I try something with him?”
June shrugged helplessness, then waved me on.
“Of course. You’re the only one he listens to, anyways.”
Sliding off the bench, I dropped to my knees and looked at Austin. “Hi, Austin. Auntie Ellie wants to play. Will you play with me?”
Normally I never would have talked to a five-year-old with such infantile phrasing, but that’s where Austin’s intellectual development was stalled. I pitied June for having a perpetual two-year-old for the past three years. Once was enough with mine. I couldn’t imagine dealing with it every day.
When he didn’t glance up, but watched his fingers flitter about, I gently touched his hand, drawing his focus to my touch. The simple contact pulled his gaze up at me and he smiled. “Hi, Austin. How are you?” I tapped my lips with each word, accentuating the speech to hold his attention. Each word was slow and articulated in my best nurturing voice.
“How are you?” he parroted me.
“Austin, say ‘I am good.’” This time I tapped his chin as I told him what to say.
Imitating me, he repeated, “I am good.”
Thrilled with his response, I applauded him. “Let’s try again. Austin, how are you?”
“How are you?” he mimicked again.
Then, mouthing the scripted reply for him, we said “I am good” in unison.
Again I clapped, and his smile widened with pride.
&nbs
p; “Would you like to play?” I pointed to the playground.
“Play,” he stated, before scooting from the bench and running off to join the other kids.
“You make it look so easy. You need to teach me how to do that, El,” June said as I pushed up off the ground and returned to my seat.
I’d worked with Austin many times before, little doses of therapy here and there, but June never seemed to put it into practice at home. It irked me that she couldn’t make the time, but I didn’t walk in her shoes, so I couldn’t judge. She had twice as many kids and half the free time I had, being a working mom, and more pride than an Arabian horse, never taking me up on my offers to babysit or treat her to a spa day. So I was left to impart my wisdom, hoping one day she’d piece it all together and learn how to help her son—and help herself a little too.
“It’s not hard. Touch is vitally important for some kids with autism, like Austin. A simple touch can redirect his focus. And sometimes a gesture—like tapping your chin when you want him to talk—helps him understand what you’re asking. He doesn’t always understand language as it’s presented to him. It’s just words, and putting the words together to create meaning can be hard for him. So when you practice and repeat the same questions and answers, he’ll eventually start making those brain connections on giving words more meaning.”
But no matter how much I explained these “tricks of the trade” to June, I knew the reality of parenting an autistic child was much harder than a simple fix and tricks. Daily tantrums, violent overreactions to discipline, emotional detachment … that was just the beginning of Austin’s labyrinthine mind and behavior. Sure, I had my hands full with a demanding and recalcitrant boy’s boy like Logan, but June wandered aimlessly through this maze of what-to-do and what-not-to-do, tiptoeing carefully lest a landmine explode.
“Thanks. I’ll try to remember to practice that at home … you know, when I’m not going crazy with the constant chaos.” She laughed lightly, the laughter of guilt.