Emily, Gone

by Bette Lee Crosby

  Rachel eyed George with a look of alarm. “Maybe you should put Bruno outside. I’m not sure it’s safe to have him in here with the babies. What if he hits one of them with his paw or jumps up on them?”

  “The woman at the ASPCA assured me that he’s gentle as a lamb with children.”

  “Children maybe, but the twins are babies. Our babies!”

  “Don’t worry—I think he just wants to familiarize himself with their smell. Sort of get to know them. I’ll stay here and keep a close eye on him if it makes you feel better.”

  A look of apprehension remained on Rachel’s face, and she kept a tight grip on both babies. As she watched the dog sniffing the edge of the blanket, she hissed, “I’m warning you, Bruno; nothing had better happen to either of these babies!”

  Bruno sat back on his haunches, looked up at her, blinked twice as if he’d understood the message, then went back to sniffing. With the fear of his lunging before she could whisk the infants away lodged in her chest, Rachel kept one eye on the dog and one eye on the babies as she sat and waited.

  Bruno eventually caught Rachel’s scent wrapped around the twins, then he sat with his snout at the feet of the girl. For the remainder of the day Bruno followed along, stopping wherever Rachel stopped, his head raised and eyes alert, his focus moving from one baby to the other and then back again. That evening as the infants were placed each in their own crib, he sat in the corner of the room, his eyes tracking the movement, almost as if he were trying to determine his place in the pack.

  After both babies were asleep, Rachel turned off the overhead, clicked on the carousel night-light, and moved toward the master bedroom. She seemed to disappear into the hallway, but just beyond the doorway she stopped and turned back to keep an eye on Bruno. He stood when she left the room, raised his front paw as if he were ready to follow, but didn’t. He lifted his nose, sniffed the air, then turned back to the cribs. He circled from one to the other, catching the scent, listening for an unfamiliar sound, and, when he seemed satisfied all was as it should be, he settled beneath the girl’s crib with his ears perked and his eyes watchful.

  Rachel gave a sigh of relief and turned toward the bedroom. That night she was up and down a dozen different times; with constantly peeking in to check on Bruno and the two predawn feedings, she barely closed her eyes.

  Their routine was the same on the second night and again on the third, but by the end of the week Rachel had come to understand that Bruno was going to watch over her babies as closely as she herself would. On the fifth night, as she stood in the doorway and watched the dog settle into his spot beneath the girl’s crib, the wall of fear she’d built around herself began to crumble.

  After the twins were sound asleep, she sat on the floor alongside Bruno. With her arm draped across his back and her face level with his, she whispered, “I love these babies more than anything in the world, Bruno. I’m counting on you to help me keep them safe. Protect them from strangers and keep them from harm.”

  As she spoke, the dog sat with his head cocked and his eyes fixed on her face.

  Rachel leaned in and scratched his ear. “You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”

  The dog blinked, then returned to his spot beneath the girl’s crib.

  Although the sky was lit by only a handful of stars, Rachel was certain she could see the glow of a new beginning.

  The following week, Sadie Jenkins stopped by to see the new babies. When she started across the room to take a peek at the girl in Rachel’s arms, Bruno rose up on his haunches. He’d been lying beside the chair, but when Sadie ventured too close, he stood erect, his ears back and a menacing growl rumbling through his throat.

  “It’s okay, Bruno,” Rachel said and patted his head.

  A full two weeks passed before the babies were named. The boy’s name came easily; he’d be called Henry, the same as George’s daddy. Rachel originally wanted to call the girl Helen, after Mama Dixon, but Mama Dixon was staunchly opposed.

  “Helen is such a boring name,” she said. “I’ve never been overly fond of it.”

  She rattled off a number of other suggestions: Charlene after a twice-removed cousin they’d lost track of some thirty years ago, Barbara or Betty because of similarly named movie stars, and Jeannette, because Jeannette Rankin was the first woman to be elected to Congress and, as Mama Dixon reminded them, an inspiration to everyone.

  “Jeannette’s not bad,” George said, but Rachel shook her head.

  “They’re twins; their names should start with the same letter.”

  “Henrietta, then?”

  “Too much like Henry,” Rachel said. “They may be twins, but we want them both to have a sense of individuality.”

  Any number of other suggestions followed, but each one had some sort of negative attached to it. Hester came too close to the town’s name. Helga was far too stern. Hazel sounded like the nut. Each evening at the dinner table, Mama Dixon offered up several more possibilities, but most of them did not begin with the letter H.

  Weary of having to call the babies “him” and “her,” George said, “Well, they can’t go through life nameless, so I hope you come up with something soon.”

  Rachel was on the far side of the kitchen stacking biscuits in a serving basket, but she caught the word hope, and it stuck in her head. It seemed so promising. It spoke of the future, of good things to come. Her thoughts flashed back to Emmy and the box stored beneath the bed.

  When they had moved to the house on Pecan Street, George carted Emmy’s crib to the Goodwill store; it was too painful a reminder to keep. But Rachel had packed Emmy’s clothes into a box thinking someday there would be another child who would wear them. Now there was, but the word hope signified something born anew, not a child to be dressed in sorrowful memories.

  She carried the biscuits to the table and sat across from Mama Dixon. As they joined hands and listened to George thank the Lord for all they had, her thoughts were elsewhere, bouncing back and forth between the word hope and the box stored beneath the bed.

  That night sleep was impossible to come by. Rachel was still wide awake when she heard the first whimper of a baby ready for the two a.m. feeding. She climbed from the bed, slid her feet into her slippers, and hurried across to the small room. Bruno was again beneath the girl’s crib. He lifted his head, saw Rachel, then went back to his original position with his snout resting on his front paws.

  “Good boy,” she whispered.

  She crossed the room and lifted the boy from his crib. He was always the first to doze off and the first to wake. She changed his diaper, then sat in the rocking chair and held him to her breast. Later, as she lifted him to her shoulder, patting his back and hoping for a burp, the girl began to stir. Afterward, as she fed the girl, Rachel realized it happened this same way most every night. They had already developed patterns, their own individuality.

  It was a long while before the girl fell asleep, and by the time Rachel returned to her own bed, she knew what she had to do.

  The next morning when they sat at the breakfast table, Rachel said, “I’ve decided to call her Hope.”

  “I like it,” George replied.

  Mama Dixon smiled.

  And so the babies were named Henry and Hope, both names culled from something good. Neither of them would ever replace Emmy, but they were individuals who would grow and prosper on their own.

  Two weeks later when the babies went down for their nap, Rachel asked if Mama Dixon could take care of them for a few hours.

  “There’s something I need to do,” she said, “but I’ll be back in time for the next feeding.”

  Rachel closed the bedroom door and pulled the cardboard box from beneath the bed. Other than a few snapshots, these things were all she had left of Emily. Her hands trembled as she opened the box and lifted a tiny pink dress to her nose. Breathing in the familiar baby scent, she could once again see Emily wearing the dress, hear the soft round tones of a babyish chuckle, and feel the
tiny hands clinging to her fingers. She pressed the dress to her chest and held it as tenderly as she’d once held her first child.

  “Oh, Emmy,” she cried. “My dear sweet baby . . .” The words fell away, and there was only the muffled sound of sobbing as she went through the box, lifting the tiny dresses and lace-trimmed shirts to her nose, her fingers touching each thing, seeing it not as a flat, lifeless garment but alive with Emily laughing, reaching up to be held, or dropping a sleepy head onto her shoulder. Each thing had a memory attached to it—coming home from the hospital, a Sunday at church, a stain left by the spill of sweet potatoes, the dozens of times George held her in his arms.

  Pressing her face to the nightie Emmy had worn that last Saturday, Rachel allowed the tears to flow. She sat with her back hunched and her shoulders trembling as the enormity of her grief overwhelmed her. Letting go of Emmy’s things felt like losing an arm or leg; they were part of a life that could never be replaced.

  “I’ll love you forever,” she sobbed. “No one can ever replace you. Not now, not a thousand years from now. As long as I’m alive, you’ll be alive inside me.”

  With tears streaming down her cheeks, she folded each garment and lowered it back into the box.

  As she closed the flap, a sigh riddled with heartache and pain came from her throat.

  “I hate to do this,” she whispered tearfully, “but I have to. Your sister and brother deserve lives of their own, and the only way I can give it to them is by letting go of these painful memories.”

  She held her hand to the box and solemnly whispered a final goodbye. “I pray you have a good family, Emmy, a mama who dries your tears, fills your tummy, and loves you as I do. Hopes and prayers are the only things I can now give you, but I will forever hold in my heart the wish that you will one day know how much you were loved.”

  That afternoon, as the twins slept, Rachel carried the box to Goodwill and left it. As she came from the store, tears overflowed her eyes. Days afterward, she had to keep reminding herself that the things she had given away were only things. The part of Emmy she could hold on to forever was still with her, locked inside her heart.

  SCHOOL DAYS

  Fairlawn, 1976

  Almost overnight Lara went from being a toddler to becoming a little girl with thoughts and opinions of her own. While Angela saw bits of Vicki in the child’s blue eyes and blonde hair, her personality was nothing like that of her mother. Vicki had been a rambunctious child with little interest in books or studying; Lara was just the opposite.

  By the time she was three she’d learned to read and was content to sit for hours leafing through the pages of a book. When a new word popped up, she’d come running into the kitchen with the book in hand.

  “Mama, what’s this?” she’d ask and point to a word like hippopotamus or elephant.

  When things like that happened, Angela shook her head laughingly and wondered how in the world Lara came by such traits.

  Eager as she was to learn new things, the child often followed her mama from room to room with an endless string of questions.

  “Why does a zebra have stripes?” she’d ask. “Why is the sky blue? Where does the rainbow go when it disappears?”

  Once those questions were answered, they’d be followed by a dozen more.

  As Angela marveled at Lara’s inquisitiveness, she inevitably thought of the letter hidden in the drawer. She couldn’t help but speculate what Murphy might be like. Studious? Smart? Was it possible Lara was more like her father than mother? That thought came and went like a thief in the night. Curious though Angela might be, she was not willing to take a chance on Russ Murphy looking to reclaim his daughter.

  For three years, Vicki’s letter remained in the drawer. Out of sight, hidden away, but always there, always tempting Angela to peek inside the secret life of her sister.

  Right from the start Angela had slid into the role of being a mom as easily as she would a comfy dress or a pair of slippers. For the first year or two she kept in touch with her girlfriends from the diner, but little by little the Saturday afternoons of shopping sprees and cocktail lunches gave way to backyard cookouts and planned playdates. Before long her closest friends were neighborhood women with children Lara’s age.

  Kimberly Melrose was just such a friend. She had three youngsters, twin boys going into the sixth grade and Brianna, a girl close to Lara’s age. The summer after Lara turned three, Angela and Kimberly spent almost every afternoon at the lake. They’d pack a picnic lunch and set off early in the morning. After lunch, the two little girls napped in the shade of a beach umbrella while the older boys romped in the water. The two mamas sat in side-by-side folding chairs watching over the girls and chatting. The week before Labor Day, they were in the midst of talking through plans for a neighborhood barbecue when Angela looked over with a sad smile.

  “It’s been a great summer,” she said. “I’m going to miss our time together when you go back to work.”

  “It’s unavoidable,” Kimberly replied. “Calvin loves coaching, but it doesn’t pay all that much, and the boys are already talking about going to the University of Kentucky. Besides, the truth is that I enjoy working at the school. I can keep an eye on the boys without their knowing it.”

  “When Kenny first suggested I be a stay-at-home mom, I thought I’d miss working, but I don’t. Lara is growing up so quickly that I’m afraid if I look away for even a moment, I’ll miss an important part of her life, and I don’t want to do that.”

  “I was that way with the twins. I didn’t go back to work until they started kindergarten.” She gave a soft chuckle. “By then I was more than ready for getting out of the house. Girls are a lot easier than boys, that’s for certain.”

  “What about Brianna? Who takes care of her while you’re working?”

  “Calvin’s mom. She loves doing it.”

  “Well, if you’re ever in a bind and need another babysitter, I’m available.”

  “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  At the time the offer was little more than a passing conversation, but two years later Kimberly took her up on it. That year January roared through Kentucky with a vengeance. Halfway through the month an ice storm hit Fairlawn and made the walkways so slick they were treacherous. Three days later the ground was topped by several inches of snow, and the temperature never rose above twenty-two degrees. For two days the schools remained closed, but on the third day when they reopened, Kimberly had to work.

  “No problem,” Calvin’s mama said. “It’s only a few blocks; I’ll bundle up and be there the same time as usual.”

  Kimberly offered to bring Brianna over, but Calvin’s mama said it wasn’t necessary. Instead she pulled on a wool scarf and rubber boots and started out. Halfway down the block, her foot slid out from under her, and she went down. Heloise Macintosh, who was standing alongside her front window, saw it happen and said the crack of poor Mrs. Melrose’s head hitting the pavement was something she hoped to never hear again.

  “Blood everywhere,” was how she explained it to the police after the ambulance had carted Mrs. Melrose away.

  Grace Melrose died that night, and when Kimberly returned to work a week later, Angela became Brianna’s new babysitter. Five mornings a week Kimberly dropped Brianna off at Angela’s house, and the two girls spent the day together.

  A year later, Brianna and Lara were slated to enter kindergarten together, but it almost didn’t happen. On registration day Angela showed up to enroll Lara. She was ready with the vaccination papers, but when the registrar asked for Lara’s birth certificate, Angela was at a loss.

  “I don’t have one,” she said. “Lara is my sister’s child, and we adopted her after her mama’s death.”

  The registrar gave a stiff smile. “Well then, we can use the adoption papers.”

  Angela feared something like this might happen, but she’d hoped to squeeze through with just the vaccination papers. She stood there stammering an apology about not having the
m when Kimberly happened by and caught wind of what was being said. She tapped the registrar on the shoulder. “You can take your break now, Sylvia,” she said. “I’ll sit in for you.”

  Kimberly finished Lara’s registration. She checked the box allotted for birth certificate verification, scribbled her initials in the margin, then closed the file.

  “How can I ever thank you?” Angela said gratefully.

  Kimberly winked. “You already have.”

  Two days later Angela again thought of the letter hidden away in the drawer. A thousand times she’d wondered why she bothered to save it; now she knew. She had to learn more about Lara’s life—the life she had before Vicki brought her to live in Fairlawn.

  To obtain a birth certificate Angela was going to need the answers to certain questions, and Russ Murphy was the one person who could provide those answers.

  LIFE ON PECAN STREET

  Hesterville, 1978

  Early on Rachel had expected Hope to be a reminder of Emily, but it turned out to be Henry. His eyes remained as blue as they were the day he was born, and when she held him to her breast, she could see the peach fuzz turning lighter and starting to curl. At six months, if she had set those two babies side by side, she would have found it difficult to tell one from the other. They were almost identical, from the white-blond hair right down to the butterfly birthmark on their backs. The only difference was that Henry’s birthmark was higher up, close to his shoulder, whereas Emily’s had been just above her waist.

  By the time they were nine months old, Hope’s eyes had turned brown, and her hair had taken on a color somewhere between the gold of Rachel’s and the brown of George’s. Sun-streaked, Mama Dixon called it, the same as hers had been before it was peppered with silver.

  In a few short years, the twins went from infants to toddlers. Their babble turned into an unending stream of questions, high chairs were carted off to the attic and forgotten, youth beds replaced cribs, and Rachel found time enough to help out at the library.