Emily, Gone

by Bette Lee Crosby

  “Don’t you think a mother knows her own child?” she cut in, blinking away the tears.

  She eased the blanket back from the baby’s face, and her blonde curls seemed to glow in the pale light of morning. The color of the child’s hair was almost an exact match to Vicki’s. She lifted the baby to her shoulder and placed the tiny pink cheek alongside her own.

  Murphy was taken aback by the sight: mother and child, so alike it could go without question. It was like the phantom pain he felt from an arm that wasn’t there, a false reality. For a long while he didn’t answer. He stared straight ahead, focusing on the road, trying not to think, trying not to remember. But as the silence around them thickened, the thoughts he pushed back grew bigger and bigger.

  He thought back on the first time Vicki had imagined another child to be hers. It happened at the Super Save less than a month after they’d lost Lara. She saw a blue-eyed baby in a grocery cart, and when the mother turned away for a second, she reached for the baby. That day he’d caught hold of her in time and hustled her out of the store with the shopping basket left sitting in the middle of the aisle.

  Afterward he’d held Vicki pressed tight against his chest and waited until her sobs became a mournful whimper, then told her again how Lara had been born without a heartbeat.

  In the days that followed, she grew more and more certain Lara was still alive, and nothing Murphy said seemed to sway her.

  They’d been through this same scenario a number of times before, and he knew there would be no easy way of convincing Vicki this child wasn’t her baby. Especially when she was still half-stoned.

  A million thoughts raced through his mind, and every one of them was riddled with a sense of urgency. The festival had been too much for her, that was it. She was overtired and strung out. What she needed was food and rest. Once she was feeling like herself again, she’d realize this baby wasn’t Lara and be willing to give the kid back. It was too dangerous to return to Georgia, but they could drop the baby off at a church or fire station with a note saying where she belonged. Once the family had their baby back, the police wouldn’t waste time searching for the abductor.

  Until then, he had to keep Vicki and the kid hidden.

  It was a given that they couldn’t go back to his apartment in Kentucky. Bardstown wasn’t that big, and news traveled fast. The landlady knew their baby girl died the same night she was born. If they showed up with one now, it wouldn’t take much to put two and two together and come to the conclusion that something was amiss.

  He needed to get Vicki and the baby inside a motel room where no one knew them, then he’d have time to come up with a plan. Not Tennessee, he thought. Too close to Georgia. Arkansas was the next place that came to mind. That seemed less risky. It was two states away from where she took the kid and nowhere near Bardstown, Kentucky.

  Instead of continuing north, he made a left onto Route 40 and headed for Arkansas.

  Before they’d traveled another ten miles, the baby got fussy and started looking around as if she wanted to get free of Vicki. The soft mewling turned to a wail, and the closer Vicki held the baby the louder she screamed.

  “Shhh,” Vicki murmured, patting the baby’s back and shifting her from one shoulder to the other. “Don’t cry, sweetie, Mama’s here . . .”

  Trying to comfort the baby did nothing; she continued to howl, stiffening her body and screaming until she was red-faced and breathless. She cried for a good fifteen minutes, then slowed, gasping for air. Believing that was the end of it, Vicki cradled the baby in her arms and lovingly rocked her back and forth. Seconds later she started bawling again, this time louder than before.

  With fear crowding his thoughts, Murphy’s nerves were stretched paper thin. Concentration was almost impossible. How was he supposed to come up with a plan and figure out the next step when the baby wailing made it impossible?

  When he missed the turnoff, he shouted, “Stop her screaming!”

  “I would if I could!” Vicki snapped back. “She’s probably frightened, and your yelling at her isn’t helping one little bit!”

  Murph took a deep breath and reeled in his anger. “Is it possible something’s wrong with her?”

  Vicki shook her head and lifted the baby onto her shoulder. “I don’t think so. She’s just hungry.” Sliding her finger along the inner edge of the diaper, she added, “And wet.”

  “When you took her, did you take anything else? Food? Diapers?”

  She wrinkled her nose in a look of disbelief. “I didn’t exactly have time to look around. Stop somewhere and we’ll buy stuff. Diapers, formula, some clothes, and—”

  “Forget it,” Murphy huffed. “This is no walk in the park! I’m trying to keep a low profile so everything doesn’t blow up in our faces.”

  “And while you’re keeping a low profile, Lara’s supposed to go hungry?”

  The name rolled off Vicki’s tongue as if it had always been there, just waiting to be called upon. She touched the tip of her pinkie to Lara’s lips, and the baby started sucking.

  “This will keep her busy for a few minutes, but you’re gonna have to stop and get some food for her.”

  Murphy drove for another fifteen minutes, then pulled off the highway and headed for Brownsville. The sun had cleared the horizon, and the stores would be open. In an all-night drugstore, a stranger buying a bunch of baby supplies was something a clerk might remember, but in a supermarket where people often shopped for these things, such a purchase would go unnoticed.

  Once they left the highway he drove cautiously, slowing at amber stoplights rather than flooring it to beat the red and coming to a full stop at crosswalks. As he rounded the corner of Bowie Street, he spotted a Foodtown market and pulled into the sparsely populated parking lot. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a twenty and handed it to her.

  “Try not to be too obvious,” he said. “Grab what you need and get out as quickly as possible.”

  “Okay.” She hefted the baby onto her other shoulder and reached for the door handle.

  “You can’t take her with you!”

  “Why not?”

  “For all we know, that kid’s picture may be all over TV. If someone spots you with her, we’ll end up in jail.”

  She looked at him with a blank stare. “That’s crazy. Lara’s my baby. Why would anyone even question—”

  As she went on about how the baby looked exactly like her, Murphy sat there shaking his head. Obviously she was still blitzed and thought this kid really was Lara. Too risky, he decided and reached across to reclaim the twenty-dollar bill.

  “Maybe it’s better if you stay in the car,” he said. “I’ll get the stuff.”

  She listed the things she’d need: nursing bottles, cans of formula, diapers, wipes, jars of baby food. Although she’d never before cared for an infant, all the things she’d read in Doctor Spock’s baby book were right there in her mind, tucked away and fully prepared for just such an occasion.

  As he climbed from the car she called after him, “Try to get Gerber strained bananas.”

  Murphy rushed off without looking back.

  It took less than fifteen minutes for him to be in and out of the store. He hurried across the parking lot, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure no one was following. As he climbed into the car he handed Vicki the nursing bottle and a can of formula, then tossed the rest of the bags in the back seat and pulled out of the lot. He headed north and a few blocks later turned west. When they neared the edge of town, he zigzagged in and out of several side streets until he was certain no one was trailing behind, then pulled onto a narrow two-lane road that meandered westward toward Arkansas.

  Although he’d had little sleep for the past three days, Murphy was alert and on watch for any sign of trouble: a car following behind, a roadblock stationed around the next bend, a policeman eyeing them with a suspicious gaze. He zipped through towns that were barely a wide spot in the road, ignoring Vicki’s suggestion they pull over and have a b
ite to eat.

  “There’re a few candy bars in the bag,” he said. “Grab one of those.”

  “But I’m thirsty and want a Pepsi.”

  “You’ll have to wait. When we find a place to stay the night, I’ll get you a Pepsi and something to eat.”

  She stopping playing with the baby and turned with a puzzled expression. “We’ve already passed a dozen motels; what was wrong with them?”

  “I’m looking for someplace special,” he said and continued driving.

  It was early afternoon when he saw the sign welcoming them to Arkansas. Shortly after they passed through Mound City, he spotted a sign saying HIDEAWAY CABINS—NEXT TURNOFF.

  THE HIDEAWAY

  The cabins were just as their name implied, hidden away behind an overgrown stand of oaks. Murph turned in and thumped along the dirt road until he came to the clearing. Three cars were parked alongside the cabin marked OFFICE, but other than that the place looked deserted. He parked on the far side of the clearing, climbed out, and headed for the office. The campground looked mostly empty as he crossed over.

  Perfect, he thought.

  “Eight dollars a night; checkout is noon,” the clerk said and gave a toothy smile.

  Murph registered as Mr. and Mrs. Russell with no mention of the baby.

  “My wife’s a light sleeper, so if the cabin in the back is available, we’d like that one,” he said.

  The clerk handed him the key marked 10. “No problem. How long you staying?”

  “Two, maybe three days.”

  As the words left his mouth Murphy realized the thought of them hanging on to that baby for two or three days was crazy. Insane. He had to do something right away. Today if possible. Convincing Vicki to give up the baby wasn’t going to be easy; he knew that. It would be like trying to pry a cub from the mama bear, but it had to be done.

  Walking back to the car, he tried to pull his thoughts together, but the words he’d planned to use now seemed blurred and mismatched. They made little or no sense and were certainly not a convincing argument. Too tired, he told himself. I’ll grab a few hours’ sleep and then . . .

  Once inside the cabin, he latched the door and fell onto the bed. Vicki gave the baby another bottle and changed her, then she too climbed into bed. They slept that way for nearly three hours: Murph on one side of the bed, Vicki on the other, and Emmy snug in the center.

  The sky had grown dusky by the time he went in search of food. When he returned with a paper sack of hamburgers, french fries, and milkshakes, a newspaper was tucked under his arm.

  Later on, when Vicki was gone from his life, Murph would remember that night and how, as he leafed through the Gazette, she’d spread the blanket on the floor and spent the evening playing with the baby. In his haste to get out of the store he’d forgotten a spoon, so she’d scooped bits of strained banana onto her fingertip and laughed as the baby hungrily sucked it down.

  She’d looked up at him with a smile that would forever be printed on his heart and said, “See how wonderful it is to be a family?”

  For that fractional moment of time, he’d agreed.

  When Murph woke the next morning, Vicki was sitting in the chair with the baby in her lap.

  “I made a list,” she said and smiled.

  “A list of what?”

  “Things we’ll need for Lara.”

  Murph winced as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

  “We can’t keep this baby,” he said. “She’s not Lara, and you know it. Lara died, remember?”

  Her smile faded, and a row of ridges rose on her forehead.

  “Liar!” she snapped. “That’s what you’d like me to believe!”

  He heard the denial rising in her voice, just as it had all those months ago. With a twitch of sadness pulling at the corners of his mouth, he shook his head slowly.

  “We saw her, Vicki, don’t you remember? We went to the cemetery; it was raining. Remember, we left roses for her?”

  “No!” she shouted. “I don’t know who that was, but it wasn’t Lara!”

  A crackle of tension bristled through the air, and the baby wailed.

  “Now see what you’ve done!” She lifted the baby onto her shoulder and glared at him with her brows pinched tight. “Lara’s upset because of the way you’re acting!”

  She snatched up the list she’d made and threw it at him. “If you won’t go get the things Lara needs, then give me the car keys and we’ll go!”

  Murphy knew the “we” she was talking about included the baby. He couldn’t let that happen.

  “I’ll go,” he said wearily, then scooped the list from the floor and walked out the door.

  After he left the motel, Murphy drove around for almost an hour just trying to clear the thoughts racing through his mind. There was no good solution, only a bunch of bad options, each worse than the other. During the month following Lara’s death he’d feared he would lose Vicki too. She’d stopped eating, stopped laughing, and almost stopped living.

  Drugs seemed the easiest answer. First it was painkillers, then after that . . .

  He pictured himself rolling a joint, taking a puff, then handing it to her. After a second or third hit, the agony etched on her face softened, and they sat on the sofa sharing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

  Back then the carefree easiness it brought seemed a good thing; now he wasn’t so sure. It was one thing for him to get high; after Vietnam, he’d needed it. She didn’t. Her thoughts were of making love, not war; that was, until the night of Lara’s birth.

  Early in the day she had started worrying that the baby wasn’t moving. That night the pains began, and before daybreak the baby came—stillborn. The child she’d carried for seven months never took a breath.

  For her, the loss of that baby was as devastating as the loss of his arm. Overnight they became two broken people living a patched life, finding moments of pleasure only in the oblivion of a high.

  Over time the emptiness of Vicki’s stomach grew into a cloak of sorrow that she wore night and day. There were ups and downs, but the ups came in soaring highs and fits of frenetic laughter. The downs were long days of sobbing into a tearstained pillow. In all those months, not once had Murphy seen her with the look of serenity she now had.

  The endless sorrow, the need for drugs, it was because of the baby. Now she was unaware of the wrong she’d done; the only thing she felt was the baby in her arms.

  Could he do it? Could he take this second child away from her, knowing that this time it would be an even greater tragedy?

  Although he’d searched his mind a thousand times, he had no answer. He didn’t know if her heart was strong enough to withstand the stress. Vicki was born with congenital heart disease and had nearly died giving birth. The doctor warned her not to try again.

  If she couldn’t live through another birth, could she live through another loss?

  There were countless reasons for him to turn a blind eye and allow her to keep the baby, but an even greater number argued he should do the sane thing: leave the child in a place where she could be found and returned to her parents.

  Sound as the logic was, he knew Vicki would never agree to that. She’d already convinced herself this child was her baby.

  Murph was a million miles from finding an answer when he spotted a luncheonette by the side of the road and pulled in. The place was empty except for the gray-haired waitress behind the counter.

  Before he was seated, she called out, “Coffee?”

  He nodded and climbed onto the stool.

  She set a cup in front of him and filled it with the steaming black liquid. “We got day-old Danish, fifty cents.”

  He shook his head. “No, thanks.”

  After a few more attempts at conversation, she moved off, and Murphy picked up the Arkansas Gazette lying at the end of the counter. The front page had pictures of a sinkhole that had opened up in a town called Milton but no mention of a kidnapping. He went through the newspaper front to back,
but there was not one word about the music festival, Hesterville, or a missing baby.

  If no one was out there searching for the baby, it might be safe to stay in the cabin.

  For a short while.

  Given a momentary sense of freedom, Murphy drove into town, parked on a side street, and went in search of a store where he could buy the things on Vicki’s list. It was a stroke of luck that he spotted the thrift store on the corner.

  Once inside he discovered there was only one clerk at the checkout counter. He ducked his head, gave a nod, and hurried past her. He was then free to roam the aisles, picking and choosing without having to explain.

  He grabbed a carry basket and began the search. Tossing in a small silver spoon, a pair of rompers, a few nightgowns, and a teddy bear that was missing one eye, he reasoned buying these things did not mean they were keeping the baby; it simply meant she would be cared for and comfortable until he could come up with a plan. He’d seen the glow motherhood brought to Vicki’s face, and yet he had to believe that after a few days she’d acknowledge the reality of the situation and agree to give the baby back.

  It was like Christmas morning when Murphy returned to the cabin with the things he’d bought at the thrift shop. The smile on Vicki’s face was happier than it would have been if he’d handed her a stack of gift-wrapped boxes from Saks Fifth Avenue. She reached into the brown paper bag and pulled the clothes out one at a time, oohing and aahing over everything, holding tiny shirts and dresses aloft to judge the size or admire the design.

  When she came upon a white baby gown with lace edging, she squealed with delight. Even though the baby was napping peacefully, she lifted her up and pulled the nightgown over her head.

  “Beautiful!” she exclaimed. “Absolutely beautiful!”

  Dancing around with the baby in her arms, she turned to Murph. “Daddy, isn’t our little Lara the prettiest girl in the world?”

  He nodded and gave a tight-lipped smile.

  With her blonde curls and huge blue eyes, the baby was beautiful, but she was not Lara. Murphy could feel the weight of this knowledge growing heavier with each passing moment. As he sat there watching Vicki twirl happily around the room, he knew this couldn’t last. Today, tomorrow, next week, or possibly even next year, somebody, somewhere, would discover who the child was. Then what? Jail for him. For her jail or perhaps an asylum. Either way the baby would be gone, and quite probably Vicki’s freedom for the remaining days of her life. She was too delicate; she’d never survive such an ordeal.