Emily, Gone

by Bette Lee Crosby

  The thought that this child could be Emily ricocheted through the chambers of Rachel’s heart, and she felt the thump of it against her breastbone. In a voice made more anxious by the years of waiting, she asked, “How old was Lara the first time you saw her?”

  Rachel leaned forward, anticipating the answer.

  Angela pushed farther back, her spine now pressed up against the rough fabric of the chair. “It’s impossible for me to p-pinpoint . . . ,” she stuttered. “Babies change overnight . . .”

  “Was she an infant? A few weeks old? Months?”

  “Months.” Angela pictured Lara’s blue eyes peering out from beneath the poncho Vicki had thrown over her. It was almost eighteen years ago, and yet the memory was as fresh as if it had happened just yesterday. Even now she could recall the haunted look on Vicki’s face. Was this why? Was this the secret she was hiding? With her hands clasped in her lap, fingers locked together so fiercely they appeared bloodless, Angela prayed for it not to be true.

  “Before your sister came to live with you, did she ever send you a picture of Lara as an infant?” Rachel asked. “One of those newborn pictures they take at the hospital?”

  Angela shook her head without saying anything.

  With her face taut, her eyes wide, and her voice more insistent than ever, Rachel asked, “What about a snapshot or a hospital bracelet? Clothing the baby had outgrown? Some souvenir of Lara’s infancy, did she have any of those?”

  Again, Angela shook her head.

  Rachel’s heart seized, and she had to hold herself back from crying out. Suddenly the impossible seemed possible. More than possible. Probable. She’d suspected it the first time she’d looked into Lara’s face.

  Angela lifted her eyes and looked across, her cheeks now wet with tears. “Vicki was different from most people. She was like a dandelion fluff that goes whichever way the wind blows. She didn’t hold on to things or even people. One day she’d be there and the next she’d be gone. When she came to live with us, I hadn’t seen or heard from her for three years. Then all of a sudden there she was, happy and smiling as if she’d never been gone.”

  “Did she have Lara with her then?”

  “Yes. That baby was the one thing she did hold on to. She loved Lara more than I’ve ever known her to love anybody. I used to watch her holding Lara and think, at long last, Vicki’s found something that makes her truly happy.”

  “Don’t you think I felt the same about Emily?” Rachel asked. “When I discovered her crib empty . . .” The despair of all those years was threaded through her words, twisted tight around every syllable and clawing to be set free. She hesitated, then pulled in a deep breath and stiffened her resolve. The growing possibility of finding Emily pushed her past the memories of that horrible night.

  In a voice filled with grit and determination, Rachel asked, “Was your sister at that music festival? Was she the girl who took our baby?”

  The question hung there like the blade of a guillotine, and it was as if Angela had been stripped naked. Her face turned ashen, and her breath became so shallow it could no longer be heard.

  For several moments the silence was so brittle it could have snapped, then the screech of a bird sounded from somewhere outside, and Rachel repeated her question. This time she spoke slower and with greater certainty.

  “Did Vicki steal our baby from her crib?”

  Angela covered her face and gave an anguished cry. “How could I possibly know that?” she said tearfully. “When Vicki came to me, I didn’t ask where she’d been or what she’d done. I didn’t ask . . . God forgive me, I didn’t ask . . .”

  “You didn’t ask . . . ,” Rachel repeated grimly. In the darkest part of her heart she wanted to rail and scream until the truth was ripped open and exposed for what it was, and yet from a place beyond what she felt there was a flicker of compassion. She saw in Angela a grief not unlike what she’d known.

  For several minutes the two women sat there with a valley of silence separating them and the air so heavy it was difficult to breathe.

  Angela finally looked up with a wretched look wrinkling her face. “I honestly don’t know what Vicki did before she came to live with us, but I do know I’ve loved Lara as much as any mother ever loved a child. When she cried, I was the one who held her. When she was sick I sat beside her; I watched over her as any mother would. After my sister died I became Lara’s mother, the same as if I’d given birth to her.”

  Rachel sat with her chin rigid and her lip quivering. “But you never wondered why the baby had no birth certificate? No pictures? No hospital bracelet?”

  Angela had asked herself those same questions. Even now she could recall the edgy way Vicki’s eyes had searched the landscape as they’d driven away from Wynne Bluffs, and how she’d always refused to talk about Lara’s father, how she’d had none of the things a mother usually has—no diaper bag, no bibs, no extra nighties, not even a rattle or a favorite toy. She’d said that Russell Murphy was abusive, but in her letter she’d begged him to forgive her. What crime had he deemed unforgivable? Was it kidnapping?

  The questions that had gone unanswered for so long now stood like giants, challenging the puny lies Angela had chosen to believe. She’d always suspected that Vicki had lied to her, but not until this moment did she realize that she too had lied—to herself.

  When Angela finally spoke, her eyes were downcast, her breath ragged and uneven, her voice weighted with regret and the words little more than a throaty whisper. “Yes, there were times when I wondered about the truth of what Vicki said. I knew she could be irresponsible, that she’d done drugs and occasionally stolen things, but when she came to me with Lara I thought all of that was in the past. She got a job and was a good mother.”

  “A good mother?” Rachel’s words were sharp and tinged with the sound of resentment. “How can you say that when there’s a very real possibility your sister was a kidnapper? A crazy person who stole a sleeping baby from her crib?”

  “You don’t know for sure that she did,” Angela said defensively.

  “And you can’t prove that she didn’t,” Rachel replied. “Can we get in touch with the guy who’s supposedly Lara’s birth father—”

  Angela shook her head. “I’ve tried to find him but no luck.” Each unanswered question led to yet another one, until Angela felt as though her heart would explode. “There’s nothing more I can tell you,” she finally said. “If I knew the details of Lara’s birth I would—”

  Without waiting for her to finish the sentence, Rachel asked, “Really?”

  It was a single word, but it hit home like an ax striking the final blow to a tree that had stood for a lifetime.

  “What would you have me do?” Angela asked.

  “If you believe your daughter is not Emily, then prove Lara’s existence before August of 1971.”

  “How? My sister’s gone, and I don’t have a way of—”

  “We’ll find a way. We’ll find Lara’s father, track down the places he’s lived, call the surrounding hospitals.”

  As she sat listening, Angela felt her heart shriveling, becoming smaller and smaller until it was little more than a grain of sand that could so easily be trampled underfoot.

  “You have two beautiful children,” she said tearfully. “Lara is all we have. We’re her family, her only family. A thing like this will destroy her, destroy all of us. Please don’t—”

  “Don’t?” Rachel’s expression was steely and unyielding. “After eighteen years of wondering what happened to my daughter, how can you possibly think I’d walk away now? I’m well aware of how painful this situation is, and I’m not trying to hurt anyone. That’s why I’m not asking for a paternity test right now. If we find proof that Lara really is your sister’s child, no one will ever know there was a question.”

  “Lara’s not dumb; she’ll know the minute we start—”

  “We won’t tell her what we’re doing. Tomorrow, when the kids go to the lake, we’ll start making
phone calls and see what we can find out. Somebody has to know something about her birth, and if we can’t find it, we’ll hire an investigator who can.”

  Angela’s face had all but collapsed in on itself. Deep ridges lined her forehead and cheeks, and a look of hopelessness had settled into her eyes. “What about Hope? You said she’s seen Lara’s birthmark.”

  “Yes, but I told her it was nothing. She’s promised to keep it a secret. However, later tonight I am going to tell George. He deserves to know; he lived through the same agony I did.”

  Angela wearily pushed herself free of the chair and stood. “When the kids get back, tell Lara I had a headache and went to bed early.” She turned and started toward the staircase, her shoulders stooped and her chin dropped down on her chest.

  As she watched Lara’s mother disappear up the staircase, Rachel saw a reflection of herself. Angela’s brokenness was the same brokenness she had carried in her heart all those years, and yet, like herself, Angela had done nothing to be deserving of it.

  Rachel remained there for a long while, trying to hold on to the certainty that Lara was in fact Emily. She placed her open palm on her stomach, remembering the feel of Emily’s tiny heart beating inside her. She’d known, almost known, the minute she’d looked into Lara’s face. George had predicted she would know and she had.

  You have a mother’s heart. When you see our daughter you’ll know it’s her no matter how many years have passed.

  For the first time in almost eighteen years, Rachel could feel the hole in her heart starting to mend. There was work to do. Angela would try to prove Lara was Vicki’s child, but Rachel had no doubt the child was Emily.

  This time when the tears came, they were ones of happiness.

  It was beginning to seem as if the miracle she’d prayed for had come to pass.

  REMEMBERING VICKI

  Once the bedroom door was closed, Angela gave way to the tears she’d tried to hold back. Were it possible, she would grab Lara, run away, and disappear into nothingness, but it was too late for that. Rachel knew their names, she knew they were headed for Daytona, and she’d seen Lara. Rachel was a mother on a mission and not someone who would give up. The only thing Angela could do now was search for some particle of truth hidden in the mess Vicki had left behind.

  The questions Rachel raised were not without merit; Angela knew that. She’d asked herself the same questions a dozen times over. Each time she’d swept her doubts under the rug and moved on. She’d taken Vicki at her word, but was it because she believed it to be true? Or simply because it was what she wanted to believe?

  For a long while she stood at the window looking out into the night, watching the sky fade from steel blue to black with nothing but a thin ribbon of pink to indicate the sun had been there. In time, even that narrow trace of pink vanished. The disappearing sun was like Vicki; it left nothing behind, no trace of light to prove it had once been there. Searching through the dark void of things unknown, Angela tried to recall a name, a place, a clue that would unlock the secret Vicki carried to her grave.

  The memory of their talking about her pregnancy was there—Angela could readily call that to mind—but there was never a mention of a doctor or hospital. Nor was there any mention of the delivery, whether it had been easy or hard. And what about Murphy? Had he rushed her to the hospital, or did she go alone? All those pieces that were normally part and parcel of a birth were missing. Were they too painful to speak of? Or did Vicki have no memories of those things because they never happened to her?

  Angela thought back to the day they’d met at the shopping center. Why the shopping center? Why not the apartment? Was she trying to disappear without a trace? And if so, why? She claimed to be running from an abusive boyfriend, but then why write and beg for his forgiveness? What unforgivable deed had she done?

  Angela stood there for a long while, tears streaming down her face and her heart feeling as though it had been ripped loose of its mooring. She wanted to scream, to beat her fists against the wall and tear her hair out, but it would solve nothing. What she had to do was find the answers to Rachel’s questions. The problem was that each answer only led to another question, and for so many years she’d turned a blind eye to them.

  If Lara were Vicki’s child, then where were the missing pieces of her early life—the first pair of booties that a mother saves forever? The hospital bracelet? Her birth certificate? The handful of things Vicki had brought were old and worn, too old to belong to a new baby, more like clothes that had been passed down from one child to the next and then the next after that. Even the stroller looked ancient. Thrift-shop ancient.

  Thoughts began slamming into one another: Vicki in the car, her hair blowing loose, her hand on the radio knob, the music blasting. A cardboard box of clothes. A man who’d apparently waited for her to return. The cautious turn of her head as they drove through Wynne Bluffs. The orange wristband. Hesterville Music Festival, August 1971. She had been at the festival. She loved music and loved a good time. Yes, she was wild and unpredictable but never mean or malicious. She’d never once broken into a stranger’s house, and she’d never steal another woman’s baby. Why would she?

  The why. That was the big question. It was possible, even likely, Vicki would steal a tube of lipstick or a few bucks from their daddy’s wallet, but what reason would she have for stealing a baby?

  “Why, Vicki?” she sobbed. “Why?”

  She thought of Kenny. She needed him more than ever, but she couldn’t call on him—not now, not after he’d warned her about having the car serviced and sticking to the major highways. She’d listened to Vicki, who’d lied, but she hadn’t listened to Kenny, whose advice would have prevented this terrible disaster.

  “Dear God,” she moaned. “What have I done?”

  Angela stood at the window until she saw the lights of George’s car turning into the driveway, then changed into her nightgown and climbed into bed. She knew Lara would come into the room to say good night as she always did. Normally it was something she welcomed but not tonight. Not when her eyes were red and so obviously teary.

  When the kids banged through the back door, she heard the sounds of their voices, shrill and lighthearted, then George’s voice, deeper but sounding happy. A short while later there was a flurry of footsteps on the staircase and the sound of laughter. Then in the room next to hers, a door opened and closed. Lara was back.

  She heard the soft shuffle of bare feet across the wooden floor, then the quiet closing of another door and the sound of water from the bathroom faucet. Lara, brushing her teeth. Angela knew the routine by heart; she’d lived with it for all these years.

  A few minutes later there was a soft tapping at the door, and Lara eased it open.

  “Mom,” she whispered. “Are you asleep?”

  Angela kept her eyes closed and did not move.

  Lara waited for a few moments, then closed the door and returned to her own room.

  When she was gone, Angela buried her face in the pillow and sobbed. It was a terrible thing not to answer your child’s call, but the possibility that Lara was Rachel’s stolen baby already had a stranglehold on her heart.

  THE SEARCH FOR TRUTH

  Rachel waited until they were in the privacy of their bedroom and then told George of all that had happened. As she spoke, he stood there with his mouth hanging open and a look of disbelief stretched across his face. She’d thought he’d be as deliriously happy as she was, but if so, he certainly didn’t show it. The first thing he asked was whether or not she’d told the twins.

  “I know you feel really certain she’s Emily,” he said. “But you’ve felt almost as sure on a number of other occasions.”

  “This is different! There’s the birthmark, and Angela even admitted she’d never seen Lara as an infant.”

  “Remember, Hope is the only one who’s seen that birthmark. You haven’t. Also, Angela claims she and her sister were estranged for three years. A lot can happen in that time. Once s
he starts making phone calls, she just might come up with proof that Vicki actually is Lara’s birth mother.”

  Rachel’s smile faded. “Are you deliberately trying to discourage me? I’m happy; can’t you be happy with me?”

  Even though she’d turned away with her eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened into a pencil-thin line, George crossed the room and took her in his arms.

  “I’m not trying to spoil your moment of happiness; I’m trying to protect you from the heartbreak of disappointment, just in case this doesn’t turn out the way you want it to.”

  “But, George, you always said that when I saw Emily I’d know her, and I did. I felt it that first day. It’s been at least ten years since I looked at a child and thought, She could be Emily, but that’s exactly what I thought the minute I saw Lara.”

  “Yet you didn’t say anything then—why was that?”

  “Because I thought I was just being foolish. I figured our house is the last place in the world Emily’s kidnapper . . .” Rachel’s words fell away as she watched a look of concern settle on George’s face.

  “I want Lara to be Emily as much as you do,” he said. “She’s a beautiful young lady and everything we hoped our Emmy would be, but for the past eighteen years she’s been Angela’s daughter. Don’t lose sight of that. Angela’s the mother Lara has known all her life, and she loves her, the same way the twins love you.”

  When Rachel’s eyes filled with tears, he eased her head onto his shoulder. “If you believe she’s Emily, Rachel, keep right on believing. That way you’ll want the best for her no matter what happens.”

  She pulled back and looked up at him. “What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I’d want—”

  “If we find out Lara actually is Emily, she probably won’t be happy about it. She might even feel resentful. We see her as the daughter we’ve loved all these years, but to her we’re nothing but strangers.”