All the Way Home

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Rory’s mother’s eyes drift past her.

  “Mom, please change your clothes.”

  “I’m cold.”

  “It isn’t cold out.” The rain has cooled things down and broken the unbearable humidity of the day before, but it’s hardly cool enough for a jacket, and certainly not a woolen dress and sweater.

  “I’m cold,” her mother says again.

  Rory contemplates arguing, then thinks better of it.

  “Fine,” she says shortly, continuing to the staircase leading up to the third floor.

  If her mother thinks she’s cold, let her wear whatever she has to. Those sirens are still audible in front of the Wasners’ house, and Rory is anxious to find out what’s going on.

  “What is it, Lou?” Michelle gets up the minute her husband comes back inside, shoving her hefty body out of the easy chair so quickly, she feels distinctly dizzy once she’s on her feet.

  “It’s their daughter. Rebecca.”

  Michelle holds on to the back of the chair to steady herself. “What happened to her?”

  “Are you all right, Michelle?”

  “I just stood up too fast. I’m fine.”

  “I told you to take it easy.” He crosses over to her, puts a hand on her arm, and with a gentle push, forces her to sit again.

  He’s been all concerned ever since she had a contraction during breakfast. False labor, she’s certain—­it’s too early.

  But Lou was so worried about her, insisting that she rest with her feet up while he settled Ozzie in front of a video, that she decided not to tell him it’s probably nothing.

  When those sirens raced up to the house next door a few minutes ago, Lou wouldn’t hear of her coming with him to investigate. “Just stay here and keep an eye on Ozzie,” he’d said firmly.

  Now he’s wearing a grim expression.

  Michelle asks, again, filled with dread, “What happened to Rebecca?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Vanished from her bed sometime last night. Her parents are frantic.”

  “Oh, my God.” Michelle glances at Ozzie, who’s oblivious, sitting cross-­legged on the floor, engrossed in a Barney tape he’s watched hundreds of times. “How could she vanish from her bed? You mean someone broke into their house and kidnapped her?”

  “That’s what it looks like. I don’t know the details. The police just got there.”

  “I just saw her.” Michelle thinks of her last encounter with the slightly gawky, soft-­spoken neighbor girl. “She was looking for her kitten. She was so worried, poor thing. She just dotes on those cats of hers.”

  “I know.”

  For once there’s no trace of Lou’s usual derision for anything feline. He appears to be as distraught over the disappearance as Michelle is.

  “Maybe there’s been some mistake,” she suggests hopefully. “Maybe she was sleeping over a friend’s house and forgot to tell them.”

  “Maybe,” Lou says. “But her parents are hysterical.”

  “Oh, God. Oh, my God. Did you see the local paper yesterday?” Michelle asks, remembering. “This is just like—­”

  “I know. I thought the same thing. It was ten years ago last night that the first girl disappeared. Kirstin Stafford. You weren’t around here that summer, Michelle. You don’t know what it was like.”

  “I remember what it was like when I came back,” she points out. “Everyone on edge. ­People suspicious of their own friends and neighbors . . . And they never caught whoever did it.”

  “No,” Lou says, shaking his head. “They never did.”

  “Lou, I’m scared. The Wasners live right next door. What if something happens to Ozzie—­”

  “He’ll be fine, Michelle. Relax. Nobody’s going to kidnap Ozzie. Anyway, you were probably right. There’s probably a logical explanation. The girl probably ran away.”

  She knows he’s just pacifying her, but she sees that Ozzie has glanced up at them, having heard his name mentioned. She doesn’t want to scare him. “Right. She probably ran away,” she says to Lou.

  “And she’ll turn up sooner or later.”

  “Maybe.” Ozzie has gone back to his video. Michelle adds, in a low voice, “It’s just . . . she’s not the type to run away, Lou. I know her—­maybe not all that well, but still, I get the sense that she’s the responsible type.”

  “Even responsible kids find ways to rebel at some point, Michelle. When my senior class in high school voted on superlatives, I was elected Mr. Straightlace. Little did anyone know I had spent that Halloween setting mailbox fires.”

  “That’s terrible!”

  “I know. Don’t ask what got into me. I surprised myself.”

  “Yeah, well, by the time I met you, you weren’t all that straightlaced.”

  “I changed in college. The dorm was one big party—­there was no escape. I learned how to have fun.” Lou walks back over to the picture window facing the porch, parts the sheer drapes, and looks out. “The police are still there. And now a bunch of ­people are standing on the curb. Mrs. Shilling is front and center, of course.”

  “Of course.” Michelle knows the woman is the neighborhood gossip. “Then again, Lou, here we are, peeking out the windows to see what’s going on.”

  He drops the curtains and turns away from the window. “I’m going to go finish my coffee.”

  “Okay. I’ll be here.” She props her swollen legs onto the footstool again.

  “Any more contractions?”

  “Nope.”

  But she’s still feeling a little woozy, even though she’s sitting down. Must be her nerves.

  Poor Rebecca Wasner. What on earth could have happened?

  Michelle focuses her gaze on the back of her son’s head.

  If anything ever happened to Ozzie, I would die. I would just curl up and die, she thinks grimly.

  Then doubles over as another contraction clenches her belly.

  Molly is filled with an acute sensation of dread as she makes her way toward the knot of ­people gathered in front of the Wasners’ house. Most are familiar faces from the street.

  She spots Rory right away. She’s talking to Mrs. Shilling and a dark-­haired guy Molly doesn’t know. All of them are wearing serious expressions, talking in low voices.

  Molly slows her pace, needing to put off knowing.

  Because it’s Rebecca.

  She’s certain about that.

  And it’s something awful. And if nobody says it out loud, it won’t become real.

  She concentrates on other things. On the way everything seems to sparkle after last night’s downpour. On the fresh, damp, grassy scent in the air, and the tiny droplets of water still clinging to the leaves of the hedge separating the Randalls’ front yard from the sidewalk.

  She thinks about the Randalls, about how she’s supposed to baby-­sit there this afternoon while they go to a childbirth preparation class at the hospital.

  The baby will be here soon.

  That’ll be nice.

  Babies are sweet.

  Molly stops several paces away from the crowd and the police cars and the Wasners’ house. She glances up. The house looks deceptively the same as always.

  Neatly clipped shrubs.

  American flag.

  Wicker furniture on the porch.

  See? Everything’s fine. You can go back home and—­

  Rory turns her head suddenly, as though sensing Molly’s presence. Their eyes meet, and Molly recognizes the mixture of distress and sympathy in her sister’s gaze. She’s seen it before. Years before, in other ­peoples’ eyes, when she was too young to understand what it meant. When she couldn’t grasp the enormity of losing Daddy, and Carleen, too, and how it made ­people feel sorry for her, poor little girl, having lost both her fa
ther and sister in so short a time.

  And now . . .

  “Molly,” Rory says, breaking away from the crowd and coming toward her.

  “No.” Molly shakes her head, taking a step backward.

  Don’t you dare tell me, Rory.

  Don’t you dare make this real.

  “Molly,” Rory says again.

  Molly backs away, then turns and begins running toward home. She runs as fast as she can, and it feels good, her sneakers slapping against the concrete and her hair streaming out behind her.

  All too soon, though, she’s home. She takes the steps two at a time, conscious of the pounding footsteps behind her, and throws the door open.

  Rory grabs her from behind, catching her on the shoulders, saying, “Molly, Molly, don’t run away. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

  “No it isn’t!” Molly hollers, spinning to face her sister.

  Tell me I’m wrong, Rory. Tell me again that everything really is going to be okay. Please.

  “It’s Rebecca” is all Rory says at last, her gaze fastened on Molly’s.

  “No.”

  “She’s gone, Molly. Nobody knows where she is.” She pauses to heave a deep breath, then adds, “Her parents found her bed empty this morning.”

  “No!”

  “Molly . . .” Rory folds her into her arms and Molly lets her.

  She allows her head to fall on her sister’s shoulder and she allows her tears to soak Rory’s T-­shirt and she allows Rory to croon her name and whisper, “Shhh . . . shhh” as she strokes Molly’s hair.

  The way a mother would comfort her hurting child.

  Mom has never comforted Molly this way.

  But Mom isn’t my mother.

  Renewed pain surges through her gut.

  It’s too much. It’s all too much.

  “I can’t take it anymore,” she says, pulling back from Rory and looking up at her face.

  Rory’s eyes are still sympathetic. She understands. She knows what Molly means. For some reason, that helps.

  So does the fact that she doesn’t tell Molly again that it’s going to be okay.

  She says only, “I know. You’ve been through hell.”

  “I want it to stop. God . . . I want it all to go away.”

  “I know.”

  She closes her eyes and sees her best friend’s face.

  “What happened to Rebecca?” she asks Rory. “Where is she?”

  “Nobody knows. You don’t have any idea, do you, Molly? You’re her friend. You two must have been together.”

  “No. We haven’t. We had an argument. God, it was so stupid. Friday night. I haven’t talked to her since then. I haven’t seen her.” Her voice breaks and tears rush in.

  “Shhh,” Rory says again.

  “Why did I give her such a hard time about that stupid party? I knew she didn’t want to go. Why did I start a fight over it? If I hadn’t, we would have been together yesterday and she wouldn’t be missing.”

  “No, Molly. Don’t blame yourself. You have nothing to do with this.”

  And she knows Rory’s right. But still a sick feeling comes over her as she thinks of Rebecca.

  Poor Rebecca.

  What could have happened?

  Pounding feet on the porch steps catch Molly’s attention. She turns to see Lou Randall standing on the other side of the screen door.

  “Molly, thank God,” he says, slightly breathless, his eyes flicking briefly to Rory, then back to her. “I was hoping you’d be here. I know this is a terrible time—­” He breaks off awkwardly, adding, reluctantly and belatedly, as though he isn’t sure if she’s aware of it, “Rebecca . . .”

  “She knows,” Rory tells him.

  “I’m sorry,” he says simply, to Molly, and repeats, “It’s a terrible time, but . . . we need you. It’s an emergency.”

  It’s Rory who responds first, as Molly’s head reels. “What is it?”

  “My wife is having pains in her stomach. She’s pregnant—­we think they’re contractions. They’re pretty strong. I called the doctor and he said he’ll meet us at the hospital. But Ozzie—­”

  “It’s okay,” Molly speaks up, finding her voice. “I’ll watch him.”

  “Molly, are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. I’ll come with you,” she says, making a move toward the door.

  “Molly, wait . . .” Rory puts a hand on her arm. “I don’t think this is a good time to—­”

  “It’s okay, Rory.”

  And strangely, it is.

  Not just because there’s nothing else she can do—­how can she tell Lou that she can’t help him under circumstances like this?

  Besides, watching Ozzie will get her out of here.

  Away from Rory’s sympathetic eyes.

  Away from Sister Theodosia and Mom.

  What about Rebecca? You can’t escape that.

  But I can’t deal with it now. I just have to get out of here. If I don’t I’ll go crazy.

  “I’ll come with you,” Rory offers. “Just let me grab my keys and—­”

  “No,” Molly quickly cuts her off. Lou is already down the steps, striding swiftly toward home. “I’ll be fine alone, Rory.”

  “Molly, this isn’t a good time to—­”

  “I know, but Ozzie—­he doesn’t like strangers,” she lies. “It will just upset him if you come, too. I’ll be fine. I’ll be right next door. If I need anything, I’ll yell.”

  “Molly—­”

  “See you,” she calls over her shoulder, dashing through the door, down the steps, and onto the sidewalk to follow Lou. She nearly smashes into a stranger who’s just turning in their gate.

  “Sorry!” he says, and she looks up to see the dark-­haired man Rory had been talking to earlier.

  “It’s okay,” Molly mutters, hurriedly pushing past him.

  “Are you all right, Molly?” he calls after her.

  “Fine,” she flings back, wondering how he knows her name. Rory must have told him.

  It isn’t until she’s dashing up the Randalls’ front steps that it strikes her that she’s heard that deep voice before.

  But where? When?

  A long time ago.

  She briefly turns her head to look back toward home. The man isn’t visible from here, but she doesn’t have to see him again to know that he doesn’t look familiar.

  No. Not at all. I must be mistaken about knowing him, she tells herself, following Lou into the house.

  “Rory?” Barrett calls through the screen, looking into the front hall. “Are you here?”

  She sticks her head out of a nearby doorway. “Barrett?”

  “Hi. I just . . . I wanted to make sure everything’s okay.”

  Rory sighs and walks toward the door, running a distracted hand through her red curls. Her hair flops stubbornly back into its wayward shape, as though she hasn’t yet washed or brushed it this morning. “Things could be better.”

  “Is Molly okay? I saw her running away.”

  “She’s just going next door to baby-­sit.”

  “Now?”

  “It’s an emergency. The woman went into labor.”

  “Oh. Busy morning on Hayes Street, huh?” he asks humorlessly.

  “Looks that way. Listen, I was just going to grab a cup of coffee and then go up to take a shower, so—­”

  “Mind if I join you? Just for the coffee part, of course,” he adds quickly, offering her a faint grin.

  She hesitates, then returns it. “If you want to, I guess it’s okay.”

  “I just thought maybe you could use some company, with all hell breaking loose around here. It must bring back memories,” he adds cautiously, as she unlatches the screen door and holds it open for him.

 
“It does.”

  “It was like this when Carleen disappeared, wasn’t it.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  She nods. “And Emily, too.”

  “Your next-­door neighbor.”

  “And best friend. Just like Rebecca is Molly’s best friend. God, Barrett, I hope nothing terrible has happened to her, but all I can think is that this is no accident. It’s just like before. It’s starting again.” Her green eyes bore into his, as though she’s asking him to tell her that it’s not true, that this is different.

  “I don’t know,” he answers instead. “There’s no way to know, is there?”

  “No. Not yet. Not until it happens again.”

  She turns away from him.

  He doesn’t know what to say.

  Abruptly, she offers, “Come on into the kitchen if you want some coffee.”

  “Sure.” He follows her down the hall.

  As he does, he sees the framed childhood photos carefully arranged on the wall above the stairs rising along one side of the hall, none appearing more recent than a decade ago.

  He notes the faded floral paper, some edges curling along the baseboards and around the doorways, and the threadbare green runner stretched beneath his feet, hiding most of the scarred, dull hardwood floor.

  He glances at the small round pie-­crust-­edged table in the corner beside the archway leading into the kitchen, at the porcelain vase of artificial flowers sitting, precisely centered, on top of an Irish lace doily.

  It’s exactly the same, he thinks incredulously. All of it. Exactly the same as it looked ten years ago.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “How are you feeling now, Michelle?”

  She looks up to see the familiar face of her doctor poking through the curtain separating her bed from the one near the window.

  “Better, thanks, Doctor Kabir.”

  He gives a reassuring smile, but his black eyes are concerned. “I’ll be in to check on you again in a moment.”

  She nods and turns her head on the pillow to look at Lou, who’s sitting in the single chair beside the bed, his eyes focused on the computer screen showing the progress of the fetal monitor strapped to her stomach.

  “What’s going on?” she asks him.

  “Nothing. No contractions for a long time, now. I guess it isn’t labor.”