by Lorena May
Mel leans back in his chair, breathing deeply. “Okay. What have we got? We’ll have to wait for CSI’s findings. They still need DNA and prints from Diane, Shea’s sister, Ben’s parents and his business partner, Moira – the only people that have been in the house, according to the Andersons.”
Darby pulls out her notebook. “I talked to a neighbour who saw a woman running down the street, southward. She had a blousy jacket on – could have had something in it. Her arms were pumping, though, so she wasn’t carrying a baby –and it was raining, so the jacket’s not that unusual . . .”
Mel looks at his notes. “Shortly after eleven o’clock a Mrs. Reinhard who lives six doors north of Anderson’s house saw someone– couldn’t’ tell if it was a man or a woman - in a green trench coat wearing a hood and carrying a bundle. They were walking swiftly northward. But it was raining. Anyone could have been carrying groceries, books . . . whatever close to the chest. She’s sure of the approximate time because she’d just returned from the dentist.” Darcy nods thoughtfully, biting her lower lip. “And a Ms. Jacobs saw a fancy old Lincoln, white and burgundy drive down the street. That’s it,” Mel added.
“I gather she called her husband shortly after noon.” Darcy said as she watched Mel pick up the phone on its first ring. He nods as he listens. “All right. She’s been abducted then. Let’s put out an amber alert.” His eyes are glossy as he rubs his temples. “Ben managed to reach Diane. She’s at her brother’s. There was a medical emergency. She doesn’t have the baby.”
Chapter 7
Shea, September 14, 2018
I realize, now, how much I’d been pinning my hopes on Diane having taken Cassandra somewhere. Now I feel like the bottom has dropped out. We can’t eat. We can’t sleep. I don’t know how many pills I’ve swallowed, desperately seeking an escape, but none comes. Ben is off somewhere now, and it’s a relief. His pacing and hair-tearing presence is like an irritant on an agonizing, raw rash, and he looks at me with suspicious, accusing eyes.
I don’t blame him. I’ve been a terrible mother, focused so much on my own problems that I hardly ever enjoy – nurture – even care for - my own baby. He had such hopes and dreams for us. He works so hard. Too hard. He’s never home. I feel stuck in this house day after day with a colicky baby, and pure drudgery. House-cleaning, feedings, making meals that, more often than not, sit and get cold, never-ending laundry. . .
My neighbour, Diane, and our basement-suite tenant, Kyle, are my only salvation these days.
Diane was on our door-step the day after we moved in. She stood there with buns she’d baked that day. She had twinkling blue eyes, curly red hair, and a round, freckled face. She smiled warmly at me when I answered the door-bell. “Hi! Welcome to the neighbourhood.” Her voice was lilting and pleasant. I invited her in for coffee, and before we knew it two hours had flown by. I’d found a soul-mate. To outsiders, though, we couldn’t be more different.
She works as a banker from home and has three cats that landed on her door-step, one at a time. She took them in. Of course! That’s what she’s like! Diane comes from a happy, middle-class family of four; three brothers and herself, the youngest. At the age of forty she’s beginning to lose hope of ever marrying again. Her greatest desire is to have a child. That’s given me much respite. She loves looking after Cassandra, and does so with such love and tenderness; a natural mother. As I said, we’re very different.
Our tenant, Kyle, contacted us about our basement suite before we’d even had a chance to advertise it. He’d heard from a friend that we had one, and since the friend had rented it from previous owners and the location was close to his office, it was perfect for him.
And he’s perfect for us. He’s thirty-five – just three years older than Ben, and a great friend. He and I have a lot in common. Both of us had loser parents. (He doesn’t even remember his.) Both of us we were raised through the foster system. Raised or shuffled, depending on how you look at it. Kyle likes the same movies that I do; Trainspotting and Pulp Fiction being amongst his favorites. He likes my kind of music; Metallica, Pantera, Iron Maiden, Megadeth. . . Most importantly, he’s non-judgemental. He’s witnessed my lack of caring for Cassandra, my freak-outs and break-downs. And he just comforts me. Tells me I’m okay. Who wouldn’t be totally stressed with a baby that screams like that? and he smiles his warm smile.
But now I wish more than anything that I could hear her scream. I wish more than anything that she was here with us. I hope beyond everything I’ve ever hoped for that she is alive and well. And that they find her. I fall to my knees by her crib and I pray my heart out. It’s not something I do usually, and I’m probably not very good at it. But the earnestness in my begging God is real. Please, God. I’ll do anything. Please bring her back to us.
I’m still on my knees when I hear the back door open and Diane’s voice calling out, “Shea? Shea, are you here?” I scramble to my feet and run down the hall, through the kitchen and there she is. Her face the picture of devastation. She hugs me tightly as I fall into to her, my sobs racking my body. We stand there crying, both of us, rocking back and forth. Finally, we release each other and stand and stare.
“She’s gone?” Diane whispers, her forehead puckering.
I nod, and I’m weeping again. “Yesterday morning. It’s my fault . . .” I pour out the whole story, except for the part where I swallowed some pills and can’t remember what happened. My shame is too great. I can’t even tell my best friend. She listens, nodding, making sympathetic sounds. But she feels helpless. I can tell by the slump of her shoulders. Her sagging face. Quivering chin. And suddenly I feel the need to be alone. I don’t have the energy to speak or be there for anyone. She senses that, and stands to leave.
“Shea, I’m so sorry. My brother was in an accident and I left the house without a thought. But he’s okay and I’m home now. I’ll be there. Just call or come over if you need anything at all.” She leaves and the kitchen empty.
I’m jolted into awareness by the ringing phone. It’s my sister, Alyssa.
“Shea, I’ve just heard the news. Ben called. I’m on my way over.” And she hangs up. I feel my heart thumping dully in my chest, and my head swims. I don’t think I can bear Alyssa right now. I stumble to the couch and curl into a ball. That is where she finds me.
She shakes my shoulder softly. “Shea? Shea, I’m here for you.”
I stare up at her; standing there above me. My big sister. She kneels down to hug me, though it’s foreign to her, and I just feel her sharp angles. She means well, and I murmur, “Thanks, Sis.”
“What do you think happened?” she asks. “Were you here when she disappeared?” I can tell that she’s trying to cover the disapproval in her voice.
“I don’t know. I think I fell asleep. I couldn’t take her screaming, and I sat in the closet,” I mumble, closing my eyes, willing her to leave me alone.
“In the closet?!” She is silent a moment, gathering her wits about her. And then, as if to herself, she murmurs, “Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe it’s God’s way of looking after that little girl.”
I gasp. I feel like she’s stabbed me in the chest, and I’m speechless. But she’s right. My stomach churns, and I feel faint. She’s right. Wherever she is, Cassandra is better off away from me. I just hope I haven’t hurt her.
The back door opens. Tentative foot-steps enter the kitchen. “Shea?” It’s Kyle. Thank God! I open my eyes and watch him enter the living room where my sister now sits back in an arm chair – probably praying – and I lie curled on the couch. A shivering, whimpering mess. He comes and kneels beside me. I feel his strong hands rubbing my back.
He turns to stare at my sister, who finishes her prayer and acknowledges him. “Hello, Kyle. Do you know what happened? Did someone just sneak in and steal a baby while her mother was in the closet?” Her voice drips with sarcasm.
I sense his body stiffening. His face becomes a mask of fury and he leans toward her, lashing out. “You and your FUCKIN
G religion. Your mother-fucking superiority. No wonder Shea has trouble coping sometimes. What have you ever done but condemn her? Put her down.”
Alyssa stands up, chin raised, red-faced. “That’s not fair . . .”
He rises up, threateningly. “Get the fuck out of this house you fucking poisonous hypocrite!” And he moves toward her, looking as if he’ll choke the life out of her. Alyssa swiftly circles around him, marches through the kitchen, down the steps and out the door, slamming it behind her.
He comes to sit beside me. I’m crying, and he softly strokes my cheek, lifting the soggy strands of hair from my face. He looks into my eyes, and I’m strangely mesmerized. His face is so filled with love. Then he speaks, soothingly. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I lost it. But every time you see her you feel bad about yourself. She’s toxic, Shea. She probably doesn’t mean to be, but she’s no good for you.”
I breathe deeply. He’s right, but, “She practically raised me. She loves me,” I mutter half-heartedly.
“She raised you to feel like a loser. She only loves the hold she has over you.” His voice is firm now, willing me to understand. And I do.
He lifts me to rest against his chest. I feel his big, strong heart pumping. His arms encircle me, and I know I’m protected and safe. He kisses my forehead, and his lips are soft and pliant. He kisses the tears from around my eyes.
I can’t help but feel badly about Alyssa, though. I should have stood up for her. He doesn’t know what she’s done for me.
Chapter 8
Alyssa and Shea, 2010
Huddled against the head-board, Alyssa’s brows furrowed in her effort to concentrate amidst the noise of foster-brothers fighting, a woman screaming and the television blaring. She grit her teeth and reread the sentence she was trying to drum into her head. “A republic is run by elected representatives and is ruled by set laws . . . ”.
Suddenly the bedroom door banged open.
“Shea!” Alyssa looked up from her books at her sister. Shea slunk into the room, shoulders hunched, arms bunched around a small bundle. “What are you doing?”
Shea looked at her through glazed, dilated eyes. “Don’t take him away from me,” she whimpered, holding her treasure tighter. It yipped, and a little head poked out of the jacket it was wrapped in. Dashing through the bedroom Shea carried it to the balcony outside.
Dropping her book onto the bed, Alyssa rose to run after her sister. She took a deep breath, stopping for a moment to gather her self-control. Shea was high again. And now she had a puppy. How on Earth did she think she’d sneak that by their foster-parents for any length of time? She didn’t think. That was the problem. Gritting her teeth, Alyssa followed her younger sister to the upper deck that stood across the hall from their bedroom.
Shea held the puppy before her, head flung back in ecstasy, trilling nonsense to her new-found pet. As Alyssa watched, she became more and more high-spirited, holding the puppy aloft, swinging it, laughing and singing. And then she moved to hold the puppy high up over the deck railing. “We’ll flyyyyyyy!” she yelled.
“Shea! No!” Alyssa sprung, managing with one arm to grab the little fellow under his belly. With the other she pushed her sister back, away from the edge of the balcony.
Shea fell back onto the floor, legs sprawled, laughing. “Alyssa, my puppy and I want to fly!” and she laughed; a bone-chilling, raucous laugh. The puppy, a fluffy little brown and white animal, squealed, jumping from Alyssa’s hands. Without a backward glance he ran through the balcony door into the house.
It wasn’t the only time Alyssa had to save her sister and the innocents she harmed in her drug-addled path.
Chapter 9
Moira and Ben, September 14, 2018
“Ben, you shouldn’t be here.” Moira looked at Ben as he shuffled through files, his face ashen, shoulders curled over his chest. She could almost see the muscles jumping under his skin. “Go home and get some rest.” She rose to pull a chair up to his desk, sitting with her upper arms resting on it to lean forward.
He turned and sat in his own chair, holding his head in his hands a moment before looking at her. “It’s worse there,” he muttered faintly. “Maybe here I can get my mind off things.”
“Wanna talk about it?” she asked, leaning closer, aware that a little cleavage was showing.
“No.” He shook his head, sullenly. “How could someone just come in and take a baby with her mother right there?” The muscles in his neck corded as he stared into Moira’s sympathetic eyes.
“Did she say what she was doing?” Moira asked.
Ben hesitated. “She took some pills, I think, and couldn’t take Cassandra’s screaming. She says she was hiding in the closet.”
Moira tilted her head, looking at him wide-eyed. “Really? Hiding in the closet?”
Ben exhaled slowly. “I know. It’s hard to fathom.”
Moira leaned closer yet. “Do you think maybe she did something to the baby? Could it have been her?”
“No.” Ben was quick to answer. “She suffers from post-partum depression. You know that. But she wouldn’t hurt Cassandra.”
Moira stood and strode to Ben’s side. Gently she guided his head to rest against her ample breast. Poor guy! Placing her hands on his shoulders, she kneaded the tight muscles. “Honey, you don’t know what she might do. Should she really be in charge of a tiny baby?”
She felt his shoulders shaking beneath her hands. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Oh, Ben.” Her voice dripped compassion. She leaned her face into his neck, her arms wrapped around his firm chest. Breathing in his lemony scent, she rubbed the taut muscles of his chest, sliding her hands downward to rest on his pelvic muscle for just a moment. “Things will work out,” she whispered.
Chapter 10
Shea, September 14, 2018
Kyle murmurs as he looks at me, his eyes filled with tears. “Shea, you are not the person your sister sees. Her opinion’s skewed by her holier-than-thou attitude. Don’t let her bring you down.”
Suddenly, we hear a knocking at the front door. A voice calls out. “It’s Darby Greer, Mrs. Anderson. May I come in?”
With one final stroke of his hand on my cheek, Kyle gently lays me down again, and walks to the door. Darby greets him, giving him the once-over, and comes to crouch beside me. “Are you okay, Shea?” she asks. I like that she calls me by my first name.
I scramble to sit up. “Yes. Sorry. I have some bad times, but I’m okay.”
She looks at Kyle. “Can I speak to Shea alone?” she asks. He nods and leaves.
She looks at me with her big, dark eyes as if to see inside my head. “We haven’t found out a lot.” She hesitates, as if hoping I’ll add something. But I don’t. “A neighbour saw a jogger with a blonde pony-tail and a big jacket running by your house yesterday morning. Any idea who that may have been?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Someone wearing a large, green trench coat, carrying a bundle walked by. Do you know of anyone with a coat like that?” Her eyes bore into me.
I think, hoping to conjure a picture of someone in my head. I can’t. “No.”
“And someone saw an old-style cream and burgundy Lincoln on the street. Does that sound at all familiar to you?”
I shake my head. I’ve never seen a car like that in the neighbourhood.
She moves to sit beside me. Strokes my arm. “I know you’re under a terrible amount of stress. Can you remember what Cassandra was wearing the last time you saw her?”
“She had on a pink velour sleeper,” I say, exhaling as I think of her little body plopping on the mattress where I heaved her. I see her tiny arms flung out to the sides. “And she wore a silver bracelet with ‘Cassandra’ engraved on it.”
“That’s good.” Darby nods approvingly. As if I’ve done something really great. I feel a little rush of pleasure at her approval, I must admit.
“Can you remember back that morning? She was crying and colicky . . . You fed
her . . . at what time?”
Is this a trap? I feel the old, familiar wrenching of my gut. “I fed her at about 9:00, and she fell asleep for a little while. Then, when she woke up crying I tried to feed her again, but she wouldn’t take any more.”
Darby purses her lips in thought, her eyes narrowed. “So . . . was that when you went to sit in the closet?” Her voice is even, non-threatening.
I feel empty. I haven’t the energy for deception. I don’t care what happens to me. “Yes,” I say.
“Anything else happen to upset you?” she asks, looking at me through sympathetic eyes.
I stare at her, stony-faced. “I held her like this.” I indicate my arms stretched out before me. “And I felt like shaking her. She was screaming and screaming this high-pitched scream.” Darby says nothing, just continues looking at me. “But I didn’t shake her. I just kind of vibrated. And then I threw her onto her mattress.” I gesture. “But it was only a little fling. A few inches.” My voice is breaking. I feel the tears coursing down my cheeks. Darby wraps her arms around me, and holds me for a moment.
“I don’t have a baby,” she says, “but I can only imagine. I don’t know how you do it.” She walks back to the chair where Alyssa sat. She leans forward, hands propped on her thighs and speaks in a low voice; one that makes me feel we’re in this together somehow. “Shea, what happened between 9:00 when you tried to feed Cassandra and shortly after noon when you called your husband?”
I take a deep breath and feel my insides shaking. I look her in the eye. “I don’t know.”
“Did you take anything to help with the stress?” she asks.
“Yes. I took some of the pills the doctor gave me.”