All the Way Home (26 page)

Rory barely remembers him; he was a quiet, brooding type, usually clad in a plaid flannel shirt or a T-shirt, jeans, work boots, and, in colder weather, one of those tweedy caps with a visor and ear flaps. He wasn’t home a whole lot. He worked the night shift at some plant and spent his days sleeping, which was why Rory and Emily spent most of their days playing in the yard, or over at Rory’s house, and evenings at Emily’s, where there was no one home to care whether they watched R-rated movies on HBO or made a mess of the kitchen baking cookies or brownies.

There were times when Rory felt sorry for Emily, living alone with her father in that big, quiet, shabby old house, and other times when she envied her for the peace and quiet and privacy. Mr. Anghardt never bothered them when they were playing in Emily’s room, the way Rory’s family was always barging in when they played in hers.

Patrick Connolly, with his flaming hair and an Irish temper to match, had been the kind of father who was known to fly off the handle, yelling and throwing things around once in a while, but he would also grab you unexpectedly and give you a bear hug.

Meanwhile, Mr. Anghardt never yelled, but he never seemed to show any warmth toward his daughter, either—at least, not when Rory was around. Once in a while, Emily would show Rory a pretty bracelet or ring, or a new stuffed animal for her collection, saying proudly, “See what Daddy gave me?” She would cling to those tokens of her father’s affection, as though they proved that he loved her—that he didn’t resent her for being born, and killing her mother in the process.

You were so lonely, so desperate to be loved, Emily,
Rory thinks now, looking back with a new perspective on her friend’s unconventional home life.
Just like Molly is now
.

She sighs and hesitates only briefly at the foot of the steps before starting up, dragging her fingers slowly along the polished wooden railing she and Emily used to slide down when her father wasn’t home.

I’ve never had another friend like Emily,
she thinks wistfully, stopping on the landing to look out the small round leaded window that overlooks the well-worn path through the honeysuckle hedge.
I’ve never let another person get that close to me.
It would hurt too much to lose anyone else
.

She reaches the upstairs hall which is dim and high-ceilinged and tunnellike as she remembers, and she walks slowly to the doorway of Emily’s old room. A fresh, fierce wave of pain unexpectedly sweeps over her and she presses a tightly clenched fist against her trembling mouth as she looks around at the crib and the colorful nursery rhyme mural and the basket of toy trucks and cars.

The only thing that is remotely the same about the room is a pile of stuffed animals on the window-seat alcove where Emily used to keep her collection, and the built-in bookshelf beside the closet door, which now holds copies of
Pat the Cat
and
Goodnight Moon
and what looks like the complete works of Beatrix Potter, instead of those Sweet Valley High books Rory and Emily would trade back and forth.

For the first time, Rory allows herself to absorb a profound loss that had somehow gotten swept up into the one that had preceded it and the one that had followed it. Sandwiched between the trauma of Carleen vanishing and the devastation of Daddy’s death, Emily’s disappearance had somehow never hit her with full force . . .

Until now.

Now, she stands sobbing in the doorway of what had once been her best friend’s room. She sees Emily curled up there on the cushioned window seat; Emily, with her sweet, smiling face and her clear, sky-colored eyes and the long, silky blond hair Rory had always coveted.

She hears Emily’s voice saying, “Come on, Rory, let’s play Monopoly—you can be the banker this time,” or, “Look, Rory, see the new ring Daddy bought for me? It’s jade. That’s my birthstone.”

Poor Mr. Anghardt, losing first his wife, then his daughter. He’d been so overwhelmed by his grief that he’d packed up and moved away not long after that horrible summer. Rory thinks about him now; hopes he’s found happiness, wherever he is.

But you haven’t,
she reminds herself.
You never got over losing so many people who were close to you. Why would he? Why would anyone?

Maybe if there were some sense of closure, she realizes suddenly
.
Maybe if she had gone to Daddy’s funeral, or if Carleen and Emily’s bodies had been found, maybe then she would have been able to finish grieving, put it to rest, and go on.

As it is, it’s as though everything’s hanging in limbo—no sense of whether people she loved are alive or dead.

But of course they’re dead
, she tells herself.
Certainly Daddy is, and after all these years with no sign of them, Carleen and Emily must be, too
.

Then again . . .

What if they’re not?

What if Daddy faked his death so he could escape his miserable life here?

What if Carleen ran away?

What if Emily . . 
.

Well, there’s no plausible explanation for what had happened to Emily, or the other two girls who had vanished in Lake Charlotte that summer.

And, Rory tells herself, it’s completely irrational and childish to even go around pretending, for one second, that Carleen or Daddy or Emily might still be alive somewhere.

With a sigh, she turns away from her best friend’s former bedroom, remembering, as she does, what she’s supposed to be doing up here. Looking for a hidden intruder.

That’s about as likely as Daddy walking through the door someday, she tells herself, but for Molly’s sake, she makes her way down the hall and starts opening doors, giving each room a cursory inspection before moving on.

She can only hope that Rebecca Wasner will turn up safe and sound, so Molly won’t spend a lifetime not knowing what happened to her best friend.

That doesn’t change the fact that Molly already lost Carleen and Daddy, just like I did. Or that Molly just discovered—thanks to my big mouth—that Carleen wasn’t her sister and Daddy was’t her father
.

Now there’s something that’ll screw a person up royally
.

Molly, she thinks desolately, doesn’t have a chance.

“O
www!” Michelle winces at the pressure on her belly as the ultrasound technician presses the transducer down hard beneath her navel.

“Sorry . . . I just need to get a better look at the placenta before we call it quits,” the woman says, her eyes intently focused on the screen beside the table where Michelle is lying, uncomfortably flat on her back, with her stomach sticking out and slicked with a film of gel.

In the darkness of the small room, the screen glows with the image of the fetus curled up inside her womb. Moments ago, the technician had showed Michelle the reassuring sight of the baby’s small heart beating rapidly, and the dark blob that she’s fairly sure is the baby’s testicles, which means the first test was right and it’s going to be another boy.

“Does the placenta look all right?’ Michelle asks the woman anxiously, as the transducer glides across her belly, then probes again.

“Mmm” is all the woman says.

She already told Michelle she can only perform the test, not discuss the results. That’s for the doctor to do. But every time the woman rapidly presses the buttons on her keyboard to freeze the image on the screen and zero in on some part of the baby, Michelle wonders what she’s doing, what she’s found; whether anything is terribly wrong.

And the whole time, her worry about the baby mingles with her fear over Ozzie’s safety. They came to get her for the test moments after Lou left.

“Can you please have my husband meet me downstairs?” she called to the woman at the nurses’ station, who had promised to send Lou right down.

But he still hasn’t arrived.

The ultrasound technician freezes the screen, zooms in, and prints another image.

Was that the baby’s brain?

What’s wrong with the baby?

Where’s Lou?

Is Ozzie all right?

Just when Michelle thinks
I can’t stand another second of this,
there’s a knock on the door.

“Yes?” calls the woman, looking up expectantly from her keyboard.

The door opens and Lou’s face appears in the shaft of light from the corridor. “I’m her husband,” he says.

Michelle struggles to raise herself on her elbows. “Lou! Is Ozzie—”

“He’s fine,” Lou says. “They were playing outside.”

“Lie back,” the technician says.

Lou comes to stand beside the table, peering at the screen. “Is the baby—”

“I don’t know,” Michelle tells him, torn between relief that one son is safe and fear that the other is in trouble
.
She reaches up to find Lou’s hand and squeezes it.

“Well, what does the test show?” Lou asks, looking from her to the technician.

“The doctor will discuss the results with you upstairs
.
”

“Can’t you just tell us what you see?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” the woman says, not unkindly, but in a tone that suggests she’d rather they didn’t pursue the matter.

Michelle knows that it’s her job, that she must have done hundreds, thousands, of these exams, and that it’s against the rules for her to reveal the results and she’s not going to start now. Still, she finds herself suddenly filled with loathing for the ultrasound technician, with her perfect pageboy and her flawless makeup and her slender build and her manicured, polished nails tapping on the keyboard.

“Please lie back,” she tells Michelle again, this time more firmly than before.

I hate you,
Michelle thinks irrationally in response.

But she lowers her head and shoulders onto the table again.

As the transducer moves once more over her belly, Lou squeezes her hand and his eyes meet hers.

He offers what Michelle knows is supposed to be a reassuring smile and comes across as anything but.

Michelle squeezes her eyes shut.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

“D
o This Little Piggy, Molly!” Ozzie commands, waving his bare toes in her face as she bends past him to turn off the water pouring into the tub.

“Not tonight, Ozzie.”

“Pwease, Molly?”

“Not tonight.”

She wearily braces herself for a tantrum, but, surprisingly, he cooperates as she lifts his naked, chubby little body into the bath and hands him his
Sesame Street
tugboat.

“Good boy, Ozzie,” she says, patting his head, then reaching for the washcloth.

Good girl, Molly!

Carleen’s voice unexpectedly echoes back through the years.

“
You didn’t even cry when that shampoo got into your eyes. You’re so brave! Now turn around so I can finish washing your legs and feet
.”

Carleen used to give her baths. She used to do This Little Piggy, and read stories to her, and take her to the playground at Point Cedar Park down the street . . .

The playground?

A thought rushes into Molly’s head, then flits right out again before she can grasp it.

There’s something about being at the playground with Carleen.

Something she should be aware of.

She closes her eyes, probing her distant memory, but whatever it is that she should remember is as elusive as a fleck of shell in a pool of slippery egg white.

Frustrated, she begins to dunk the washcloth into the water and wet Ozzie’s hair.

Carleen used to use a cup to wet mine,
she remembers suddenly.
You have so much hair, Molly . . . it takes forever to get it all wet.

Her hair is thick and curly, like Rory’s. But it’s dark, like Carleen’s.

Well, she was my mother.

My mother.

My mommy, giving her baby a bath.

Ozzie blinks and rubs his eyes as she grows careless with the washcloth and water splashes into his face.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie,” Molly says. “Are you all right?”

“Yup. Water in Molly’s eyes, too,” Ozzie observes, pointing.

“Right. That’s just water.”

She wipes at the tears spilling over, wondering if there’s ever going to be another day in her life that she won’t spend fighting off sobs.