Everybody's Daughter

by Michael John Sullivan

  Michael placed a thin piece of paper in the old book to mark his spot. “I’ll see you there.”

  “Compassion is a wonderful gift. Perhaps the greatest gift you can give to a stranger.”

  Michael downed a bottle of water and hurried to the basement. He climbed back upstairs, dejected. As they drove away, Michael talked about Elizabeth. “She grew up so fast. Seems like it was only a few months ago that I was lugging around a diaper bag at the basketball games I was covering. She told me all about her dreams, how she wanted to marry and have kids. She wanted to be a writer too.”

  “I know. She sent me some beautifully written poetry,” Susan said.

  “I didn’t know that. When she came back from Jerusalem, she was a different person, so much stronger, more mature, assertive, and self-assured of what direction she wanted to go in her life. But I still had my own fears and reservations. I guess my fears were right.”

  “No they weren’t,” Susan said. “Kids grow up no matter how much you worry. You couldn’t stop her from pursuing her dreams. Think back when you were her age and how you felt about the world and your life, your aspirations. It wouldn’t have been fair to suffocate her dreams. I know you didn’t like it when you felt your father was doing that.”

  “You sure do have a good memory.”

  She smiled. “Hey, we’re confidants, remember.”

  “My own aspirations got Elizabeth trapped.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He knew he had to come clean about how he felt about Leah. “I have to tell you about someone I met when I went to Jerusalem.”

  “Who?” She parked the car in the funeral home’s lot.

  “I met Leah the first time we were in Jerusalem. I fell in love in with her. Or I thought I did. Heck, I don’t know what love is after I lost Vicki.” He winced. “When I went back this second time, it was the wrong time period and she didn’t recognize me. The first time I traveled there with Elizabeth, she was a widow. My real intention was to convince her to come back with me to Northport.” He paused. “I thought I wanted to marry her.”

  She opened the door without looking at him. “Let’s go inside.”

  * * *

  The funeral home was empty; only one room was occupied. Michael’s mind surged with sad memories of Vicki’s wake. He had held his newborn baby close to his heart during those awful days, greeting friends and relatives and even strangers who heard of his plight.

  It might have even been in this room.

  Tonight he sat in the last row, reflecting. He was uncomfortable in funeral homes. Yes, he would occasionally attend a service to support a friend or relative who lost a loved one. For the most part, he had done what he was most skilled at – he’d shove his grief and emotions into the far recesses of his mind and mentally run from reality.

  He remained pensive, his stare pinned on the coffin where the old man lay. He watched a lone woman sit in the front row.

  I don’t want that. I don’t want people gawking at me. I have to tell Elizabeth this.

  He hung his head.

  “Michael, are you okay?” Susan asked.

  He shook his head. “Time is so short, even if it’s long.”

  “I know.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Let’s go up.”

  Mrs. Farmer wore a dark black dress and flat brown shoes. She was nearly eighty but strong and stable on her feet. Her white hair was neatly groomed, her hands folded, holding a small Bible with the prayer card stuck in it.

  Susan knelt in front of the casket and Michael joined her, leaning against her for support.

  He recalled his favorite memories of his deceased loved ones – the baseball games with his mother, playing with Sammie, the talks he had with Nana when he felt discouraged, the walks and dinners with his buddy Leo.

  Lord, I’m scared. I’m worried about Elizabeth. Please give me a sign, anything that will help me find her. I’m begging you for your help. I’ll do whatever you need me to do.

  He looked at Mr. Farmer, so peaceful. Is he there with you, Lord? Is Mr. Farmer with his relatives and family members who have died too? Tell me, Lord, what happens when we die? Goosebumps chilled his spine and arms and he shivered. Elizabeth? Lord, is my Elizabeth dead?

  He closed his eyes tight. No, Lord I take that question back. Elizabeth isn’t dead! She’s so young. She has so much life left to live. Let me trade places with her. Take me. Take me tonight, Lord. Let my daughter live. Show me the way to bring Elizabeth home safely. I’ll be ready to do your work. I promise.

  Susan gave her condolences and Michael followed. Mrs. Farmer asked if they knew her husband. He shook his head.

  I wonder if once someone dies do they feel love? Anger? Remorse? Can they cry or laugh? Can they move around in heaven? Can they come to earth sometimes and visit their friends and relatives? Can they touch them? Feel them? Hear their hearts beat? Hug them?

  Michael closed his eyes again. My Lord, please protect Elizabeth until I can find her. Please guide Mr. Farmer into your Kingdom. Have mercy on me and forgive my sins. I would give everything up for Elizabeth’s safety. Everything.

  He rubbed his shoulder, hoping to work out the knot that sent pain shooting up to the back of his neck.

  Dennis gave a short eulogy, talking about Mr. Farmer’s infectious smile and his unconditional devotion to his wife.

  Michael patted Mrs. Farmer’s hand and paid close attention to his friend’s speech as he read a passage from the Bible. His voice was compassionate and energetic.

  Dennis is amazing. He’s been through a lot of tragedy and yet he’s so positive about life and the community he serves.

  Dennis spoke about Lazarus and how he was given a second chance to live. He compared that story to everlasting life. He said another prayer and closed his Bible. “I will see you tomorrow, Cecilia.”

  Susan and Michael took Mrs. Farmer home. She dabbed her eyes with a hanky from her purse. Sitting in the backseat with her, Michael rested his arm across her shoulder, remembering what Vicki had told him in the cave. “How are doing?”

  “My best friend, the love of my life....He’s gone.” She covered her face with the hanky. “He’ll never hold my hand again, or kiss me goodnight or ask me where I put the coffee beans every morning, even though I’ve never moved the can in fifty-five years of marriage.”

  He placed his hand into hers, not removing it until they arrived at her house.

  She held onto Michael’s arm. He noticed the cobwebs surrounding the door and the leaves scattered across the front porch. A motion detector flickered on, illuminating the final few feet of travel.

  “George never did finish sweeping up. I don’t know what I’ll do if anyone stops by.”

  “I’ll take care of that for you,” Michael said. “Where’s a broom?”

  “In the garage.”

  “One minute.” He grabbed the nearest broom and swept away the spider’s web and leaves.

  “That’s kind of you,” Mrs. Farmer said, opening the door.

  “We’ll walk you inside,” Michael said.

  The door squeaked as she opened it. “You’re probably wondering why it isn’t locked.” She continued before Michael could voice his concern. “No one would try to break in to our house. People are afraid of us.”

  Michael and Susan followed her inside.

  “I can’t imagine why anyone would be afraid of you,” Susan said.

  “They are.” Mrs. Farmer removed her coat and placed it on a wire hanger in a closet. “I’ll make you both a cup of tea.”

  “I can’t stay,” Susan said. “Michael, do you want to stay with her for a bit?”

  Michael hesitated and nodded. “Sure.”

  “Okay, call me if you need a ride home.”

  “Thank you for keeping an old woman company,” Mrs. Farmer said. “I have to admit, I didn’t want to be alone after the wake.”

  “No need to thank me, you’re doing me a favor.” Michael hung his jacket next to Mrs. Farmer’s
. “I won’t be able to sleep much anyway. So you’re helping me out as well, by keeping me company.”

  She led him into a living room where two chairs were placed together in front of an antique phonograph. A small, grungy looking couch was to the right and a tall pink vase sat on a battered, warped brown coffee table. The dark hardwood floors were dull and a lone picture hung on the wall. She lit a small lamp placed strategically between the two chairs.

  “Sit down. Please take George’s chair. He would be thrilled someone would be using it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’ll be right back.” She headed to the small kitchen off the living room.

  He continued to take in the surroundings of the dim room. “Do you have a TV?” he asked.

  “We’ve never owned a TV.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, people have called us strange. But we never saw a need for it. We’ve always had everything we wanted.”

  The floor boards creaked as he took a few steps toward the picture on the wall.

  “Oh, that’s something George started to paint many years ago,” she said, peeking in from the kitchen. “He said going to church inspired him to draw it.”

  “It’s hard to see. What is it?”

  “George had an incredible imagination. The funny thing about this particular painting was he kept on pulling it off the wall to paint more, like he was re-writing a novel. I always thought he was doing this so he wouldn’t have to rake the leaves or shovel the snow or go to the grocery store for milk.” She smiled, looking pleased to have an audience to share her memories.

  As he drew closer to the picture, he could see figures in a big field, running with what appeared to be an object in their hands.

  “Sit down, Michael. I’ll get you some tea.”

  “Could I help you?” he asked, turning away from the picture.

  “I’m fine. Rest. We’ll talk. George always said talking was better than any medicine a doctor could give you.”

  He relaxed in George’s chair, feeling the texture, staring at the beautifully kept phonograph. “Do you still use this machine?”

  “Yes, it still works,” she replied over the clanging noise of a pot being filled with water.

  His mind drifted back to Elizabeth, the church, and the tunnel. He noticed his cell phone was nearly out of battery power. Then he dug deep into his pocket to make sure he had his recharger with him. He tried to call out but couldn’t get reception. Stinking town. When are they going to put up a tower?

  “Would you mind if I use your phone?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. We don’t have one anymore.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Too many crank phone calls.”

  “How do you reach people?”

  She smiled. “We walk. We write letters.”

  He plugged in his phone and the recharger as she placed a tray on the coffee table. Her hands shook as she poured the steaming water over a tea bag in a ceramic cup.

  Michael listened to her delightful stories of George. The times they shared a dance while listening to their favorite songs, the endless walks around the town. Michael couldn’t help but wonder why no one else showed up at tonight’s wake. But it would be rude to ask so he remained quiet.

  “I’m not sure what I’m going to do now without George,” she said, her eyes filling with tears.

  Michael put his empty cup on the coffee table. “When my daughter comes home, we’ll both stop by and visit.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, taking a sip from her cup. “Pastor Dennis told me about your situation. Have you heard from her?”

  “No.” He glanced at his cell phone. “Not yet.”

  “Can the police people help you?”

  “I hope so.” He shrugged. “But I honestly don’t know.”

  His stared at the small particles of dust on the floor.

  She touched his hand. “George was right. He said many times we are only given what we can handle in life. We used to argue about that all the time.”

  “I’m not sure I can handle this one.”

  “You can and you will. You must stay strong for your daughter.”

  “I don’t know how I’ll ever find her.”

  “You must have faith. George always was vocal about this.”

  “I don’t have much faith right now. I’ll lose my mind if my daughter doesn’t come back home soon.”

  She was silent for several seconds, deep in thought. A few tears trickled down the side of her face. “I have faith God will take care of me while George is away.” Her voice trailed off as her final words broke up in sorrow.

  Michael crouched down and held her hands. “It’ll be okay. I’m here.”

  “I’m going to miss that big old lug. He was my best friend.” She waved her hand. “No, I can’t cry. George would want me to be strong and not be so sad.”

  Michael squeezed her hands tight. “I know exactly how you feel.”

  “You are such an affectionate man,” she said. “Very different from my George.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  She gave him a surprised look. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You seem uncomfortable with the compliment.”

  He nodded in agreement. “Perhaps it’s time I finally realized it’s okay to show your emotions.”

  She gripped his hands back with some strength. “It is.”

  “Mrs. Farmer, could I ask you a personal question?”

  “Why, of course. What is it?”

  “How did George die?”

  She hesitated, wiping her tears with a lace hanky. “So terrible. I found him outside the door, bleeding. There was a hole in his side.”

  “Do the cops know?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did they tell you?”

  “They’re still investigating.” She sniffed and shook her head. “They said all evidence pointed to suicide.” She touched his hand again. “George would never do such a thing. He loved life. He loved me. No, he would never take his life.”

  “You seem certain,” Michael said.

  “Because I am,” she responded, sitting straighter. “He talked to me before he died.”

  “What did he say?”

  “It was hard to understand him.” She paused.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you.”

  “No, I’m fine. George said a road man did this to him.”

  “A man on the road?”

  “I guess.”

  “You told the police what George said?”

  She nodded. “But they said there was no evidence of an intruder or anyone in the area who could have attacked him. They insisted this was self inflicted. But they did say they’d keep the case open.”

  “Did George describe this road man to you?”

  “After he told me it was a man, I didn’t wait around,” she said. “I went to my next door neighbor and asked them to call for help. By the time I got back he had died.”

  Chapter Thirty

  The next day Michael went to the church to check out the basement. After spending a few hours waiting for a miracle to happen, he went home and checked his answering machine.

  Allison left him a message. This time, it sickened his heart. He immediately erased it. She’s delusional. Vicki and I had separated at that time.

  He sat in his recliner and stared at the TV screen, waiting for Elizabeth to come dancing through the door like she had done so often after landing a great mark on a test.

  The banging on the door shook him out of his wishful thinking. He opened it, hoping it was someone coming to tell him that they found Elizabeth.

  It was Connie. She pushed the door wide open. “Come on, I’m driving.” She grabbed his coat from the hall closet. “We’re going to Dad’s for dinner.”

  He walked passed her and slunk back into his chair. “Have fun.”

  “Let’s go.” She put her hands on her hips. “You
need a hot meal and Dad really wants you there.”

  “Are you kidding me?” he said, exasperated. “He wants me there? The last time he invited me to dinner, Vicki was alive. Give me a break.”

  “Well, come for the food. You won’t have to pretend to like my cooking today. He’s ordering out and he’s paying for it too.”

  “Like I said. Have fun.”

  “It will be good for you to get out of the house.” She put her arm under his and tugged. “Like it or not, he’s your father.”

  “I don’t like it and I don’t owe him anything, especially my time right now.” He shrugged her hand away. “Does he even know what’s been happening to his granddaughter?”

  “I’ve told him a bit but not everything,” Connie said. “He has enough to deal with right now and he’s worried about you.” She pointed to the stairway. “Go get washed up and changed, and fake a smile if you have to, but you shouldn’t be alone today.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” He pounded his fist on the arm of his chair. “I’m not anywhere without my daughter.”

  She blew a strand of hair away from her face. “You’re impossible. Call if you change your mind.” She opened the door and left.

  An hour later Detective Brady called. “I’m checking in to see if your daughter has contacted you. Or have you heard from one of her friends?”

  “Nothing.” Michael closed his eyes. “I would have called you immediately if I’d heard something.”

  “Just to remind you, don’t leave Northport, Mr. Stewart.”

  Michael gritted his teeth and slammed the phone down. And where I intend to go and find my daughter is off limits, even to the cops. Catch me if you can but if I find a way back into the tunnel, I’ll be leaving Northport.

  * * *

  The next day, Michael forced himself to shower and shave but had no energy to look for something different to wear so he wore the same clothes. He met Susan for George Farmer’s funeral service.

  Michael kept his head bowed, clutching his stomach at times, mostly staring at his fidgeting fingers. Should I talk to Allison? She’s been talking to them. Maybe the police know something I don’t. Maybe I’m missing something she might have learned from the detective. She could help me. He contemplated running downstairs to dig into the ground once more. If I got back, why would I even return?