My Sister is Missing

by Carissa Ann Lynch

  But my stories weren’t good enough, simple as that. They were passed over, and even laughed at by some of my colleagues. I thought bullying was something that only happened in high school, but I quickly learned I was wrong. I couldn’t figure it out at first – the screwed-up lines in my stories, the clutter strewn across my desk, the rumors about me and a male colleague…

  Why were these things happening to me? Was I just that unlikable?

  Near the beginning of the end of my career in journalism, I learned something that shed some light. When my job opened, there was a girl slated for my position. One of my co-worker’s sisters. When she was passed over and I got the job instead, that co-worker and her cronies made it their life goal to force me out. Well, it worked.

  Finally, after less than six months at the paper, my boss told me that I should consider a different career. You don’t really fit in here, he told me. Tears stung my eyes as those words repeated over and over in my mind, remembering that final moment in his office. ‘You just don’t fit, Emily. Your stories are too short, or not thorough enough. You screwed up on “your” and “you’re” the other day. Your piece on the Charleston Circus was a mess. Speaking of messes, your desk is always a wreck. Personally, I’m a little embarrassed for you. Don’t you have a journalism degree?’

  Madeline’s disappearance had pushed my lost job and soon-to-be lost apartment from the forefront of my mind. But now everything came rushing back – each thought, each worry, like a serrated blade sawing straight through my skull.

  I needed a new job, and fast. Sure, I had a thousand dollars in the bank, but if Madi didn’t come back soon, and I had to take care of these children and her bills … it would barely last the month. Oh god.

  The pain in my head was surging now, like an angry, roaring lion clawing from the inside out. I laid my head down on my sister’s desk, willing the pain to go away. Suddenly, there was a small click as my elbow bumped against the mouse pad. The computer screen lit up and I squinted at the white light of her computer screen. Madeline’s screen saver was a pic of her, John, Ben, and Shelley. They were all wearing Mickey Mouse ears on their heads. She never told me they went to Disney World.

  I had missed so much of my sister’s life, and for what? Because I was angry at Dad and afraid of some stupid forest? It seemed so ridiculous now that I was here. If Madi was in some sort of trouble, I could have helped her sooner if I’d just come home…

  My headache forgotten temporarily, I scooted up closer to the screen. I studied the swirl of my sister’s eyes – green with tiny flecks of brownish gold – and I couldn’t pull my own eyes away. I willed her to tell me something, to give me some sort of sign. What happened Madi? Did you run away or did somebody hurt you? What are you hiding?

  My eyes flicked over to John. He was handsome in that country-club, pretty boy sort of way. He had a thinning, brushed over hairstyle, and straight, perfect white teeth. His smile reminded me of that of a used car salesman. It’s always the husband. I don’t know where I heard that. Maybe from some late-night crime TV show or a true crime novel I read. I wasn’t even sure if she was hurt – or worse … but if something bad had happened to Madi, it was most likely at the hands of John. I knew so little about him, but what I did know wasn’t good. He’d cheated on her and had snapped at her when she was on the phone with me. Her co-workers called him grumpy; had he turned up at her work and snapped at her there, too? I should have asked them more questions when I was down there…

  Madi never mentioned any violence or verbal abuse, but of everyone in my sister’s life, John had the best motive to want her gone. Did he run her out of town? Did he … hurt her?

  He had a new, younger girlfriend. Maybe he wanted Madeline out of the way, so he and Starla could move into the house that Madeline inherited from our parents. Maybe there was life insurance to consider. Maybe he wanted the kids all to himself. Or, maybe he just hated her that much, and it was a combination of all three…

  But there was also Albert Tennors to consider. I clicked on the internet and pulled up Google. All it took was typing in his name and ‘Bare Border’ to find him.

  The face of my sister’s jolly, seemingly harmless, neighbor popped up on the screen. I barely recognized him in the photo. His hair was wild, his eyes slanted. He might have been drunk when this picture was taken. His address was listed under his picture, and below that were the words: Sexually Violent Predator. My heart slammed against my chest. Beneath that were his initial arrest date – nearly thirty years ago, but still – and his charge: Rape. There were no other details. I tried to click on his picture to find out more, but nothing happened.

  Tomorrow I would ask Paul more questions about Mr Tennors, I decided. He’d lived next to us our whole lives and never tried to harm us. But what if losing his wife last year made him snap?

  It was hard for me to believe, but then again, I also couldn’t believe my sister would just jump ship and leave town…

  Closing out the sex offender registry, I had another thought. Maybe Madi left a note for me on her computer. I hadn’t seen any written notes, but what if she left it here…?

  I did a quick search of all word files. Unlike my laptop at home, which was full of documents from stories I was working on, Madeline had very little. There were only three documents saved in Word. Two of those were shopping lists and another was a letter to John.

  I opened the letter, instantly feeling guilty, like I was violating Madi’s trust by snooping around on her computer. But what choice did I have at this point?

  The letter was recent, timestamped from only two weeks ago. It was only a couple of paragraphs and then it stopped midsentence, like she’d either been interrupted or given up on the letter completely. It read:

  Dear John,

  No words can explain how I feel right now. I never thought we would be one of those couples. You know, the ones who have to sleep with other people or sneak around to stay happy. I’m usually an observant person, but I had no idea. And for some reason it’s that – the not knowing – that bothers me the most. When you told me about this woman, this Starla … I didn’t know how to respond. I’m sorry for slapping you. That wasn’t right. But I was so hurt. John, how the hell could you do this? Not just to me, but to Ben and Shelley. Do you really think you can make a life with this woman? Is that why you’ve been so distant, so short, with us lately? Do you really think she can keep

  The letter ended after that. An image floated up – my sister, perched in this very chair, her hands shaking with anger as she typed up the letter. She probably didn’t finish it because she broke down in tears. I know I would have.

  The throbbing in my head was coming back, but I tried to push it out of my mind and focus on finding out more. I closed down Word and got back on the internet, pulling up my sister’s search history. ‘Give me something, Madi,’ I whispered.

  But she didn’t. The search had nothing of significance – articles on ADHD and autism. A few articles on what to do if your child was being bullied. I paused at that. Was Ben being bullied at school? It wasn’t hard to imagine. Ben was different than other kids – high-strung, obsessive, anxious. Certain things that seemed easy for Shelley, even though she was five years younger, seemed difficult for Ben.

  Poor Madi. She had so much shit to deal with already, and then she found out John was cheating.

  She was also looking up sites that listed the symptoms of depression. ‘Oh, Madi.’ If I told Paul about this, he would point out that it was even more proof she’d left on her own. Does Madeline own a gun? His words rang out in my mind. I didn’t think she owned one, but I guess it was always possible…

  Besides the articles, there were more hits for Amazon and shopping sites. A lot of visits to Facebook and occasional ones to Instagram.

  I decided to pull up Facebook and try to analyze my sister’s recent posts.

  I typed it in and was surprised to find that Madi was still logged in. She hadn’t posted to her page in weeks, but
she wasn’t a frequent poster anyway. There were two unread messages blinking back at me. For half a second, I felt guilty, but then I remembered why I was doing this. I need to find out where Madi has gone.

  The first unread message was from Misti, the manager I’d met today at Bed and More. Where are you? Why didn’t you come into work today? Your phone is going straight to v-mail. Call me ASAP before Bryan finds out about you missing work! (smiley face).

  Next, I clicked on the other unread message. It was from Jessica Feeler. Even though she looked much older than when I saw her last, I recognized her immediately as my sister’s friend from high school, the same girl that was in the photos with her the other day. My sister, Jessica, and Rhonda Sheckles had been inseparable as teenagers. It shouldn’t surprise me that they kept in touch. When I pulled up the message, I expected something casual, or an update on Jessica’s life, but what I got was one simple, ominous line: You’d better keep your fucking mouth shut.

  Leaning back in the desk chair, I looked at the words until they turned blurry. You’d better keep your fucking mouth shut. If that wasn’t a threat, what was?

  ‘Or what, Jessica? She needed to keep her mouth shut, or what? Did you hurt my sister?’ I glared at the tiny bubble with her face in it. Finally, I clicked off the message and pulled up Jessica’s profile.

  She didn’t look scary or threatening in her photos. She was married and had a daughter named Chelsi. She still lived in Bare Border, less than two miles from here.

  I’d have to pay good old Jessica a visit soon. And I had to tell Paul about this, too.

  Yawning, I stood up from the chair and stretched. My headache was gone, now replaced with a worried ache in my stomach. Oh, Madeline, where are you?

  Back in her room, I opened and closed drawers and sifted through her closet. Most of John’s clothes were still there. Everything was folded or hung up neatly. Besides the box of photos on her closet floor, there were only shoes, belts, and old magazines in there.

  ‘Nothing in here,’ I murmured, just like Paul did earlier. In truth, I couldn’t blame him for thinking what he did. If I didn’t know my sister better, I’d probably think she’d run off too.

  Remembering the first night, and that goofy trick with the kids under the sink, it crossed my mind that maybe all of this was a prank. No way. Maybe if it was just me, she would do something silly like that. But, again, there was no way she would do that to her kids. There was nothing funny about this, no reason to play games…

  I crawled back into my sister’s bed and slid beneath the covers, my teeth chattering, although I wasn’t cold. The clock on the night stand read 05:13. The sun would be coming up soon, but for now, I needed a little more rest. My body was exhausted from filling in for my sister, and my brain was shot at this point.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  My dreams were mottled and strange – me, sailing through the air, crashing down on a bed of rocks. My head splitting apart, voices bouncing back and forth through the trees…

  When I opened my eyes, I half-expected my head to be pounding again. But I was pain-free, albeit still exhausted from my late-night snooping session on Madeline’s computer.

  Instantly, I remembered the menacing message from Jessica Feeler and the wild look in Mr Tennors’ profile photo on the sex offender registry site.

  Someone was breathing beside me. Expecting Ben, I was pleasantly surprised to see Shelley. She was wide awake, her eyes bright and energetic.

  ‘The sky’s awake, so I’m awake. It’s time to play,’ she crowed, reciting lines from the Disney movie, Frozen.

  ‘What time is it?’ I mumbled, blinking sleep from my eyes. Gone were the days of sleeping in and waking up on my own volition in my apartment.

  ‘I can’t tell time yet, silly. That’s why I need to go to preschool.’

  I glanced over at the clock on the bedside table. It wasn’t even 9 a.m. yet. It felt so early, but then again, when I was working at the Charleston Chronicle, I had to be there at this time every day.

  Ben leapt onto the bed with an ‘oomph’ and Shelley giggled as she bounced up from the bed, like a fluffy piece of popcorn.

  ‘Don’t mind me. I’m just practicing my cannon ball,’ Ben hooted. He stood up and jumped again, his knees barely missing my belly.

  ‘Are you guys excited about starting school tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes!’ Shelley squealed. She was due to start at Frontier Academy, the local pre-school that was located a few buildings over from Ben’s elementary school.

  ‘What about you?’ I asked Ben softly. I thought about the articles on bullying I’d found on the computer.

  Ben’s face confirmed my suspicions. ‘I don’t want to go,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘You know you have to. It’s the law.’ I wasn’t sure if it still was, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘I’ll walk you in. It will be fun, I promise.’

  ‘Okay.’ Ben nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.

  I pushed the covers back and sat up, yawning again. ‘Today is your last day of summer. What should we do?’ Despite what was going on with Madeline, I was determined to keep the kids as mentally healthy as possible. They didn’t need this sort of stress, not at the beginning of the school year, and I couldn’t handle any more of Ben’s meltdowns.

  ‘Can we have a picnic?’ Shelley looked hopeful, her eyes sparkling.

  ‘Sounds good to me. Ben?’ He nodded.

  ‘But not too long, okay? I hate mosquitoes.’ His face was grumpy again.

  ‘We’ll put on some bug spray,’ I suggested. While I got dressed, they did too. Today, Ben was able to get on his shirt and shorts on his own.

  In the kitchen, I fixed three turkey sandwiches and cut them up into little triangles like Mom used to do. Shelley came into the kitchen while I bagged them up, dragging a raggedy, yellow blanket in her hands. ‘We can use this to eat on!’

  ‘That’s perfect.’ I smiled at her as I tucked the mayonnaise and meat back into the fridge.

  ‘No! I won’t do it!’ Ben was standing in the doorway of the kitchen now; his shoes were on, but they were on the wrong feet.

  ‘Oh, I forgot.’ Shelley stared down at the blanket, her mood deflated.

  ‘Why not, Ben? Shelley has a blanket and I made sandwiches.’

  ‘Not that blanket!’ Ben crossed his arms over his chest and whipped his head back and forth.

  ‘He hates yellow. He won’t touch anything yellow.’

  I didn’t bother asking why not. I could remember my sister telling me something like this – he had nonsensical fears and strange obsessions, sometimes.

  I stared at the bright yellow blanket, a thought taking shape. ‘Is that why your mom painted the Mello Yellow Room?’ From their confused expressions, I realized that Madeline had never called it that in front of them. ‘The guestroom. The one that used to be yellow and now it’s painted pink.’

  Shelley nodded. ‘Yep! Isn’t it pretty? Mom didn’t want to paint it. She even cried a little bit. But Ben was scared to go in it, so she painted over it. She’s going to turn it into a playroom for us, pretty soon.’

  My heart softened. To think, I was ready to yell at her that first night when I saw the paint. Sometimes I could be so selfish.

  Remembering the old blankets upstairs, I said, ‘Don’t worry. I saw a blue blanket that will be perfect for our picnic.’

  I told them to wait in the kitchen and then I climbed the stairs for the second day in a row. Not finding Madeline hurt up here yesterday was a relief.

  As I reached the top step, my thoughts traveled to Paul – that teasing smile of his, the peppery smell of his cologne…

  I entered the room with the school supplies. I’ll have to lay out their clothes tonight and put their supplies in their backpacks, I mentally noted. The thought of it was overwhelming…

  Bending down, I scooped up the blue blanket from the stack I’d noticed last night. Suddenly, a box in the corner caught my eye.

&nb
sp; I walked over to the haphazard pile of old bills and boxes. Most of the boxes were from UPS or the post office. Generally, they looked empty, as though Madi was just saving them in case she needed them later … but one caught my eye. Shoving the rest of the mail aside, I stared at the small cardboard box.

  There was no return address on it, but Madi was the addressee. It wasn’t the box itself that made me freeze – it was the tiny bird sketched on the side of it. Brooding and dark, the bird had a large, morose eye and wild tufts of feathers sprouting from its head.

  Someone had drawn the bird on the side of the package. I’d seen it before, but where? I closed my eyes and tried to focus – something from a cartoon, or something my sister used to draw? Some sort of logo? No, that’s not it. It was an image from my childhood, but I couldn’t place when or where I’d seen it – all I had was this fading spark that screamed: You know what this is, Emily!

  After Jessica’s cryptic message on Facebook last night, I expected to find a threatening letter, or something strange, in the box.

  But it was empty, like all the others. It was just large enough to fit a book inside, or something similar in size.

  ‘Aunt Em, where are you?’ Ben yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Coming!’ I glanced at the box for another moment, noting the postal date was from two weeks ago. It was addressed to my sister. Why did this feel important?

  ‘I’m getting scared!’ Ben shouted, a quiver in his voice.

  Afraid he’d have another tantrum, I dropped the box and ran back downstairs with the blanket tucked under my arm.

  ***

  At first, Ben and Shelley suggested we set up our picnic in the front yard. But, remembering Mr Tennors, I insisted we do it in the back. I spread the blanket out wide and then we took our seats. The weather was perfect. Even the leafy light of the forest looked serene, not menacing like the other day.

  The blanket was smaller than it looked folded up, and our knees were touching each other as we ate our sandwiches from paper plates on our laps.