by Laura McHugh
“It’s my granddad’s land. There’s a creek, a swimming hole just upstream. It’s spring fed, though, turn you blue right quick.”
I imagined the two of us wading into the frigid water, the breathless shock of biting cold on warm skin, Jack shirtless in the sun. My last summer in town, Jack’s parents had set up a flimsy aboveground pool and invited all the families on our block over for a Fourth of July party. Daddy had stood around the grill, laughing and drinking beer with all the other dads, paying no attention as I played with my friends. Jack and I had floated in the pool while darkness fell around us, and in the moment of anticipation before the fireworks began to crack overhead, he had kissed me on the cheek. I’d always wondered if he meant to kiss me on the lips instead, if he’d miscalculated or lost his courage.
“You still have that pool in your backyard?”
He let out a short laugh and then turned to look at me, a warm flash of recognition in his eyes, as though the shared memory had proven that I was really me, not an impostor in a prairie dress. “Nah,” he said. “It got busted by the end of the summer. I’d pretty much forgot about it. Fun while it lasted, though.”
“I don’t think I’ve been swimming since then.”
“Really? Why not?”
“My mom threw away my swimsuit. She threw out most of my stuff when we moved. Or took it to Salvation Army.” Bitterness welled up at the thought of it. When I found her emptying my closet, I’d tried to tear my things away from her. I screamed that I hated her, and she slapped me so hard I spun around and fell to my knees.
Jack shifted in his seat, rested his hand on the console between us. “When you left,” he said, “it was weird. There were all these garbage bags piled on your driveway, furniture, your TV. I went and looked in the windows and the house was empty. Nobody knew what happened—you just disappeared. Kids at school said your family joined a cult. The first time I drove out this way and saw you by the road—how long had it been, two years? I wanted to talk to you, really talk to you, but I didn’t know what to say. You looked different. And the guys…”
“I know. It’s okay.”
He checked the time on the dashboard and glanced in the rearview mirror. There was nothing to see but trees, dense woods on all sides.
“I know it’s been a while,” I said. “But I still think of us as friends. I like to see you, even if we don’t get to talk or hang out like we used to. It makes me feel almost…normal. Or at least, makes me remember what normal feels like.”
“So what’s the deal with your family, anyway? Do you live on a commune or something?”
“No. It’s just a regular farm.”
“Your clothes…your hair?” He reached out and I imagined him stroking my hair where it hung loose over my shoulder, his fingertips gliding down my arm, but he barely brushed my sleeve before he drew back.
I looked down at my dress, shapeless, utilitarian, ugly. “The church we’re at now, it’s…old-fashioned. And really strict. Women are supposed to act a certain way, dress a certain way, basically do what they’re told.”
“Wow,” he said. “Sounds kinda creepy.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It is. I just have to go along with it till I can leave.”
Jack chewed his lip. His appearance had changed subtly since middle school, the boyish softness now gone from his face, but his mannerisms were the same.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“Sure.”
“Could you help me get out? I was thinking of taking a bus. But I don’t have any money or any way to get to the station.”
He squinted, confused. “You…want me to take you to a bus station and buy you a ticket? Where would you go?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere. I don’t have anyone else to ask.”
The rumble of an approaching engine reached the clearing, and Jack nervously checked the mirror again. “Is somebody coming?” I asked.
He rubbed his palm over his face. “Shit,” he said. “It was stupid. A dare.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My friends. Everett. They wanted me to bring you out here, and…”
“And what?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d come.”
They were getting closer. I heard brush snapping under tires, country music blaring. Anger flared inside me, burning away any fear. I’d been stupid to think that he cared about me after all this time, that someone who wouldn’t even speak to me would suddenly decide to invite me for a ride.
“Jack.”
He threw the Jeep in gear and peeled out, kicking up dead leaves. We swerved around the truck that barreled toward us, Everett laying on the horn. Something smashed into the back of the Jeep and I flinched. Behind us, in the mirror, a punctured beer can danced over the rocks, spraying foam into the air. Jack’s phone kept buzzing as we drove away, but he didn’t answer it. “I wouldn’t have let anybody hurt you,” he said. “It was supposed to be a joke.”
I didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him when he said, Sarabeth, please, or when he let me out at the side of the road and drove off. I started down my driveway and spied Tom across the field, heading toward his house. I hollered his name, but he kept walking, so I chased after him.
“Hey,” I said when I caught up.
“Hey. I was looking for you.” He pushed his shirtsleeves up, but they immediately slid back down his skinny arms. “You okay? Your face is all red.”
“Yeah, I was just…running. What did your grandma say?”
“She’s taking the computer in to get some kind of internet controls installed so she can track every single thing anybody does.”
“Did she call my mother?”
He shrugged. “She didn’t say anything about you. I didn’t want to ask.”
I’d find out soon enough, when I got home.
“I saw you get out of that Jeep,” he said. “Was that Jack?”
“Yeah.”
“Where did you go?”
“Nowhere.” He knew I was lying, and his face pinched up like I’d betrayed him somehow, but I didn’t want to tell him what had happened. He took a couple of steps back and turned around without a word, walking away, leaving me alone on the hill.
CHAPTER 13
SARAH, NOW
There was a police cruiser parked in the yard when we arrived at the Jewells’. The sheriff stood beneath a tree, scrolling on his phone and frowning, and Farrow went to join him. I crossed the yard, dew dampening my shoes. A fresh pile of brush had been stacked in the firepit, low flames just beginning to lick up through the branches. Trina stood at the edge of the still-smoldering ashes, squinting at the rising sun, sucking on a cigarette. She wore the same rumpled clothing she’d had on the night before, just like me, and I wondered if she’d gotten any sleep.
“Hey,” Trina said, nodding. She threw her spent cigarette into the fire and cracked her knuckles, one after another, working left to right and then back again. A dry laugh choked out of her throat. “I got up thinking she’d overslept, that she forgot to let the chickens out again. I was fixing to pull her outta bed.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. I wasn’t sure what else to say.
She twisted her hands like she was wringing out a dishrag. A truck rumbled up the drive, but Trina didn’t bother to turn around and look. The sheriff walked over and she didn’t look at him either.
“Dogs are here,” he said.
“They didn’t find nothing yesterday,” Trina said.
He cleared his throat. “These are special dogs. Cadaver dogs.”
“Cadaver?” Trina turned to face him.
“They can detect…remains.”
She stood perfectly still for a moment as the word sank in, and then her face crumpled in anguish. “You’re saying…you think she’s d
ead? You think my daughter is fucking dead?” She doubled over, and the howl that ripped out of her mouth reminded me of a tornado siren, a warning to take cover. The sheriff reached out to her and she yelped and spun away, stumbling into me and unexpectedly grasping me in a fierce embrace, her arms stiff as wire hangers. She reeked of smoke and sweat. I let her sob in my ear until her grip loosened and then helped her to one of the lawn chairs so she could sit down.
“Will you stay with me?” she said, her voice raw.
“Of course.”
She took out a cigarette but didn’t light it. I sat in the chair next to her and we watched as the two dogs and their handlers moved around the yard and through the field to the edge of the woods. They went in and out of the trailer, the main house, the barn and sheds, circled Trina’s truck.
Farrow watched, too, from the other side of the yard, his phone to his ear much of the time. When the dogs finished up, he and the sheriff conferred with the handlers and then finally came to give us the news.
The sheriff shook his head. Trina sucked in a long breath and blew it out through pursed lips.
“Nothing?” she said.
“No. We’ll wrap up here and head out. We’ve got some leads to follow up on, and we’ll keep you posted. Hopefully we’ll have some news real soon.”
Trina got up, lit her cigarette, and went in the house. Farrow and the sheriff huddled for a minute, their voices low, and then they shook hands and the sheriff walked away.
“What about that spot behind the trailer?” I asked. “The loose soil?”
“They worked the dogs over that area pretty thoroughly, and they didn’t mark anything. Looks like a garden patch, most likely, not a fresh dig. Couldn’t push a stick more than a few inches down. Not deep enough to bury a body.”
“So what now?”
“If she’s not here, she’s out there somewhere. Sheriff’s department’s going to conduct more interviews, talk to people. Put out a plea for security footage, deer cameras, doorbell videos, anything from around the time she disappeared. I’ve got some individuals to follow up on from the sex offender registry. But first, I’m going to get you home like I promised. I’d like to make a stop on the way back, though, if it’s okay with you. It’s a bit of a detour.”
“Where?”
“Highway 65. Just south of Branson.”
He really was desperate. It wouldn’t help, but I had promised him that I would do everything I could, and I knew he wouldn’t give up until he had crossed off every last thing.
* * *
—
“Almost there,” Farrow said. “Try closing your eyes. Maybe that’ll spark something.”
I tried, but all it did was make me carsick. I couldn’t tell if the hills and curves felt familiar, couldn’t remember how long we had traveled on the smooth four-lane road as opposed to the two-lane blacktop. I didn’t know if we were on the same route that my abductor had taken that night. I could barely remember anything from that ride, because at the time, I’d been terrified that I was about to die.
“This is it,” he said.
We exited the highway and pulled into the roadside rest stop. It was empty. Farrow parked and we got out into the glaring midday sun. The gravel lot was littered with cigarette butts and the remnants of a shredded tire. A McDonald’s wrapper fluttered in the weeds. It could have been any rest stop along any highway. I felt nothing, no rush of emotion, no connection to the surroundings. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected—a plaque commemorating the spot where Sarabeth Shepherd had been found alive? A rust-colored stain in the dirt where I’d lain bleeding? I realized, then, why it didn’t look familiar. I had never seen this place upright, in full daylight. I’d been on the ground, looking up at the sunrise.
Farrow waited expectantly. “Sorry,” I said.
“Let’s sit with it a minute.” The rotting picnic table swayed back and forth as Farrow sat down on the bench, and I perched gingerly at the edge, watching semis struggle up the steep hill, cars zipping past them. After a while, Farrow let out a sigh. “Nothing?”
I shook my head.
“Hey, it’s okay. It was worth a shot.” He pointed to a billboard in the distance that read, heads up! lambert’s cafe, home of throwed rolls. “You hungry?”
“Starving. The last thing I ate was that Mr. Goodbar.”
“Well, I guess I owe you a big lunch.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We’ll totally be even after that.” He shook his head, a smile emerging, maybe the first real smile I’d seen from him.
When we arrived at Lambert’s, there was already a line of people waiting to get in. As soon as we were seated, Farrow got a call and excused himself, leaving me alone to study the menu. All the food was country homestyle. Chicken gizzards, hog jowls, beans with fried bologna, black-eyed peas. The warm, yeasty scent of baking bread took me right back to the Darlings’ kitchen. I hadn’t been in touch with them since I’d left. I wondered if Sylvie was baking for them now, if my absence had forced my sister to take my place. I imagined Sylvie doing all the things that I had done—smiling when she didn’t feel like it, working the farm stand in a stifling, cumbersome dress, scrubbing laundry until her fingers cracked and bled, lying in our upstairs bedroom with its bare walls and empty shelves, wracked with desperation, awaiting her inevitable wedding. I remembered the suffocating feeling of powerlessness when I realized that my life was not my own, that someone else was pulling the strings, and that same feeling, later, when I awoke to a blindfold.
I pulled up the map on my phone to see where we were, scrolled across the wide green swaths of wilderness, the crooked blue fingers of rivers and creeks and endless unmarked acres that could swallow you whole. We weren’t far from Wisteria.
Farrow returned in time for the waitress to take our orders, and she brought our iced tea in enormous plastic mugs. A teenage boy wheeled out a cart full of steaming rolls and started chucking them at people. One whizzed past me, bounced off the table, and fell to the floor.
“Seriously?” I said.
Farrow smirked. “Didn’t you read the sign? It’s the home of throwed rolls.” He snatched one out of the air and handed it to me. It was larger than my fist and slick with melted butter.
“That phone call,” he said. “I was able to confirm that Abby’s mother was registered for last year’s Winter Meeting, so I’m going to pursue that angle, see where it leads.”
“Great.”
“You looking forward to getting back? Sleeping in your own bed?”
“Actually, I think I’m going to pack when I get home,” I said. “I’ve decided to go to my sister’s wedding.”
“In Wisteria? What changed your mind?”
“I didn’t know if I could do it,” I said. “Go back there. But I was thinking about Sylvie, and you and your sister. I don’t know whether she wants my help, but I don’t want to regret that I didn’t try.”
“Good luck,” he said. “However it turns out, I think you’ll be glad you went.” The waitress deposited a tub of butter on the table and Farrow pushed it toward me. “Go ahead. While the roll’s still hot.”
“You want half?”
He started to say no, but I gave him half anyway. “Thanks,” he said. “And…a word of advice. I know you pay attention to your surroundings and take precautions, but just…stay aware. I’m well acquainted with the Clayton County offender map. So many red dots it looks like a case of the measles.”
“I’ll keep my eyes and ears open,” I said. “If I come across any useful information, I’ll let you know.”
“I’d appreciate it,” he said. “I know I promised I’d leave you alone after this, but I’d like for you to stay in touch, if you don’t mind, especially while you’re in Wisteria. You can call me anytime if you need anything, if something comes up. I’ve got contacts in the Arkansas Highway Patrol.”
<
br /> Our food arrived, my tray heaped with meat loaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, beans, sliced peaches, stewed tomatoes, fried okra, more than a person could hope to eat in one sitting. Farrow’s chicken-fried steak was served in an enormous skillet, still sizzling, with a side of okra and a mound of macaroni the size of a human brain. Hunger made my mouth water, but my stomach felt off. It was the sort of meal my family used to have on Sundays after church, a labor-intensive bounty after a week of bread and beans. I never cooked food like this now that I didn’t have to, now that I ate alone.
As I watched Farrow dig into his skillet, I realized that this was the first time a man had taken me out to a restaurant. It was one of the things at the top of my teenage wish list along with getting my ears pierced at a mall. In all the times I had fantasized about it, I’d imagined going to Dairy Queen with Noah Blackburn, or eating at Olive Garden with Jack on our way to prom. I never would have guessed that the first time would be anything like this.
Farrow tore a paper towel from the roll we’d been given in place of napkins and handed it to me before taking one for himself. “What’s wrong?” he said.
“Nothing. It’s a dumb thing even to be thinking about right now.”
“What is it?”
“Just—there’re lots of things I haven’t done. That I wasn’t allowed to do, growing up. So I’d build up this idea of what it would be like when I finally got to do it. Like going out to eat with someone. I always thought it would be on a date.”
“Oh.” He grimaced. “So this is the first time?”
“Yeah. This is it.”
He put his hand over his mouth.
“Are you laughing?”
“No. It’s not funny.” He tried to maintain a sympathetic expression but couldn’t keep a straight face. “Nothing’s funny about this whole situation—I’m just thinking this must be your nightmare version of a first date.”
“Not a total nightmare,” I said. “The food’s good, at least.”
“I’m so sorry.” He gave up trying to hold in his laughter, and I rolled my eyes.