No Coming Back (3 page)

But the toppled tree isn’t the focus of our attention.

Something is caught up within the bare roots. Something that the eye recognizes as foreign. It isn’t immediately noticeable—it’s the same general gray color as its surroundings and blurred by snow—but the more I look, the more it takes shape.

And the more defined it becomes, the more I realize exactly what it is I am staring at.

I hear Krauss mutter “
that’s different
” as I get out my cell phone and snap a photo before Hanks can say otherwise.

Chapter Two

W
e all harbor secrets. Some are so dark even light doesn’t intrude. Living, breathing, walking saints are rare on the ground. People lie, cheat, steal, kill. Most of the time their indiscretions go undetected or overlooked. Sometimes the past catches up and demands a hearing.

“This is a bad idea,” Krauss insists as she pulls the Interceptor against the curb. “I’m telling you, Jake, we should wait on all the facts to come in before jumping to conclusions. Let me take you home instead. Sleep on it. Things always look different in the daylight and with a clear head.”

She means well, but I’m too energized to consider resting.

Krauss and I are back in sleepy Harper, outside a smallish house at the end of a quiet lane. We haven’t shared more than a handful of words on our way back to town. She knows I was never big on fruitless conversation, and has left me to stew in my silence. Quite rightly, she senses my unease and I sense it’s making her uneasy, too.

“Please, Jake. Reconsider.”

A salted front walk connects the street to the house. Shoveled snow piled high on either side. It’s the same scene repeated outside every home in Harper.

This is Ned and Nancy Luckman’s place: a two-floor, brick-and-wood construction that backs onto the Harper golf course. Like the rest of its neighbors, the house is deep in darkness, and doesn’t look like it’s changed much since my leaving. But the stark reality is, everything changes. Sometimes it’s slow, gradual, evolving or decaying over years and decades, so slow that we barely notice. Sometimes it’s abrupt and things are never the same again.

The last time I sat here like this was with another girl, Jenna Luckman. Making promises that would never be fulfilled. I owe it to her to keep this one.

I open the door and climb out. “Thanks for the ride, Kim.”

Krauss leans across the seat. “At least let me tag along. For emotional support.”

She wants to, desperately. But the hard line of my mouth is answer enough. Krauss is protective, always was, but this is my responsibility.

“I’ll call you,” she shouts as I close the door.

I give her a wave and she drives away. Then I draw a deep breath and roll the tension from my shoulders.

I must look a mess. Sleep-deprived, unshaven, clothes that went out of fashion years ago. I have no idea what kind of reception I am about to receive, if any at all. People are quick to say that time heals all wounds, but it’s a lie. Anyone who has lived through trauma or tragedy will attest that time is no solace. Time is a sentence on the soul, stretching out the pain.

I stamp slush from my boots, straighten my hat. There’s a thrumming in my ribcage, like a frightened bird is trapped inside and
trying
to peck its way to freedom. I’ve been here before, lingering at this very threshold, feeling equally nervous, equally useless. But this time I won’t be taking a girl to the movies and hoping for a kiss.

I pull off a glove and press the doorbell, let it ring for long seconds.

For a moment I am seventeen again, conscious of my gawky appearance and anxious about introducing myself to
the parents
for the first time. My mouth is bone dry and my feet won’t keep still. I am not the most popular kid at school. I don’t stand out in any particular class. I don’t play quarterback for the football team. I won’t be picked as valedictorian. I don’t shine like my brother. I am your average Joe—Mr. Unexceptional—destined to do well but never to excel. I’m not sure her parents have plans on settling for second or even third best.

Maybe it’s a good thing they never had to.

A light comes on inside the house. I lift my finger from the buzzer. Heavy feet sound on creaking wood, a man’s voice cussing as he fumbles with the locks. The door swings inward and I come face to face with a ghost.

The Ned Luckman of my memory is in his forties, with a chunky physique sandblasted from years of hard outside labor. A broad smile in a happy face. A husband, a father. Someone with everything to live for. But the man standing before me now is a weathered husk. A leathery face with a frosting of white stubble on a loose jawline. Sunken eyes under a heavy brow. He must be in his sixties but he looks ten years older than that. He wears a quilted robe over thick pajamas, and a slightly irritated expression.

The last time I saw Ned we were still on speaking terms, but I have no way of knowing how time, my absence, or the influence of others might have altered his feelings toward me. I remember he was good friends with Lars, and I know Lars is a master manipulator.

“Hello Ned,” I say before he can place my face. “It’s me: Jake.”

“Jake?” The word leaks from his mouth like his last dying breath. There is a scent of stale alcohol on it that hasn’t come from mouthwash.

“I know it’s the middle of the night and this is a complete surprise, and I’m sorry for turning up uninvited like this. I was planning on visiting you and Nancy tomorrow, but something came up tonight and it couldn’t wait. I have some urgent news. I think you need to hear it. Can I come in?”

“Jake Olson?” His mind fumbles around in the dark for a few seconds before realization dawns. Then his rheumy eyes widen, as though he’s witnessed a miracle. “By the love of sweet Jesus, is this really you standing here?”

I pull off my hat. “In the flesh.”

My worry is unfounded; Ned steps out onto the porch, his bare feet on the freezing timbers, and throws his arms around me, hugs me tight. Hugs me like a father should hug his son. Not that I’d know. The embrace is unexpected, but I reciprocate. I have not hugged another man in eighteen years, though many have tried. Ned feels like a bag of sticks, frailer than any man should feel—as brittle as someone who has visited hell and can speak of it.

“Thank God,” he breathes stale booze against my neck. “We never thought we’d see you again.” He squeezes me some more, all of it weakly. I go with it. If he feels my cool tension it doesn’t dilute the warmth of his greeting.

When we disengage I see tears in the corners of his eyes.

“Jake, I can’t believe it’s actually you. It’s a miracle. When did you get back?”

“Just tonight.”

“Tonight? And you came straight over here?” His face is an odd picture of joy. I’m not sure I want to be responsible for it; after all, I am the bearer of bad tidings.

“Bless you, Jake.” He steps back inside the house and flaps a hand. “Don’t just stand there. Come in, come in. I’ll fix us both a drink and you can tell me everything. Hurry; it’s cold enough to freeze piss out here.”

No matter how many prayers we perform or deals with the devil we make, our past is woven into the fabric of time and cannot be undone.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” Ned murmurs again as I follow him into a cozy living room. He turns on lights and asks for my coat. He switches on one of those halogen heaters and points it in my direction. The orange glow burns into my retinas. “It’s a pity Nancy won’t be able to join us, though. She’d be thrilled to see you.”

“She isn’t here?”

“She’s upstairs, sleeping like a baby. It’s virtually impossible to wake her once she’s had that pill of hers. Gives you an excuse to come again tomorrow, like you say. Now make yourself comfortable there, Jake, while I get those drinks.”

I settle on the edge of the couch as he pads over to a liquor cabinet in the corner. He rattles out a pair of tumblers and a whisky
bottle
.

“I’m sorry it’s so late,” I say again.

“Ah, don’t worry about it.” He comes over and hands me a whisky. The glass is half full and enough to put me out like a light. “I’m at that point in my life where I sleep better during the daylight hours anyway. Cheers.” He chinks his glass against mine, tips his head back and downs a mouthful. “Jeez, that hits the spot, don’t it?” He drops into the couch next to me. “So, Jake, you’re back.”

“I am.”

“Of course, I want to hear everything, in your own time, when you’re ready. I know it’s been tough and I don’t want to rush you any. Maybe you can come over for dinner once you’re settled back in?”

“I’d like that.”

“Great. Nancy will be over the moon. It’ll give her something to focus on. A bit of hope, you know? In the meantime, what’s this urgent news of yours?”

My throat tightens even before I start to speak, as though there’s a noose being drawn around it. Quietly, measuredly, I tell him about my ride up to The Falls with Kimberly Krauss. As he listens, his head nods slightly, eyes growing larger as my account reaches its climax. Finally, I get out my phone and show him the picture. He puts on his reading glasses and takes the phone in his bony hands.

The image of tangled tree roots burns away its pixels. The
camera
quality isn’t great and there’s no pinch-zoom on the burner. But there’s no mistaking the human skull and rack of bones poking out of the snow and soil. It looks like a child’s marionette, carved from bleached wood, broken and left outside in the wintertime. Pale roots protrude through every gap and every crack, stitching it all together. No signs of any clothing or flesh. Maybe some hair. It’s hard to say for sure.

It’s definitely a human skeleton.

“It’s Jenna,” I say over a dry tongue.

A wave of guilt washes suddenly over me. All at once I’m
thinking
maybe Krauss is right, that this is an impulsive move and I shouldn’t be here, doing this to these people at this unholy hour. On our way back to town, while I was beating myself up, convinced that I was seeing Jenna’s skeleton in those roots, she’d told me to wait on the official ID, that until it came back I had no rock-solid proof that the remains were even Jenna’s, and that to inform the Luckmans they were, without the forensic confirmation, was
arrogant
at best and downright insensitive at worst.

But something inside me feels a connection. I can’t ignore it.

Ned is unmoving, hypnotized by the image and petrified by my words.

Things could have played out very differently.

I imagine sitting here under changed circumstances.
Sharing
anecdotes over whisky with my jolly father-in-law. Showing interest in his carpentry projects while we set the world to right.
It’s how we bond.
The lighthearted conversation between Nancy and my wife wanders through from the kitchen, riding on the back of delicious cooking smells. They could be sisters, happy hens clucking over their brood. Farther still, the joyous squeals of mischievous children can be heard in the yard as they chase the dog with a hose, slipping and sliding on the soft summer grass. Then Jenna appears in the doorway, radiant as ever, and my heart quakes. This is what happiness feels like. And I have no right
feeling
it.

“Are they sure it’s her, Jake?”

The killer question. I feel my cheeks flush. “My understanding is they’ll need to run tests. Confirm the ID, for sure.”

“But they do think it’s her, right?”

“They didn’t say outright. But I’m convinced.”

“Sweet Jesus,” he breathes.

I avoid mentioning anything about DNA sampling, crosschecks, the Luckmans being exposed to difficult questions, maybe from the media, definitely the opening up of old wounds, another agonizing funeral, the whole cartwheeling circus coming back to town.

He hands back the phone, as though it’s contaminated with something deadly. “Her disappearance hit us hard. But we were hopeful, in the early days, you know? The lack of a body kept it from being real. Stopped it from being final. We thought she’d turn up someday alive, out of the blue. But she never did. I guess deep down we always knew this day might come. But it doesn’t make it any less shocking when it does.” He lets out a long, tremulous sigh and rubs shaky hands over his grizzled chin.

There are a lot of unspoken words in that breath. A mouthful of
should-haves
and
didn’t-dos
. I’ve had plenty of my own, swallowed them down or spat them out against unsympathetic walls.

I reach out and touch his arm. “Ned, I’m sorry.”

“Ah, forget about it, Jake; it’s not your fault. Sure, things have been difficult. No parent should lose their child, you know? But you get used to the loss after a while. Of course, you never really move on. You just learn to live with it. God knows there are people
suffering
far worse in the world than us.” He closes his eyes and drains the rest of the whisky.

Ned Luckman is a good man and I feel for him. I’m unsure if he’s drowning his sorrows or celebrating their conclusion. His whole outlook on life changed with the disappearance of his daughter. He’s spent years in limbo, holding a candle. My news has poured ice water on that flame. It doesn’t bring closure, I realize; it removes his purpose.

He reaches for a framed photograph on a side table and brings it into his lap, nursing it.

I catch a glimpse of a blonde-haired girl wearing a Harper
Bobcats
jersey. In her hands are blue-and-white cheerleader
pompoms
, with the half-filled bleachers of Harper High ascending in the background behind her. Players practicing. There’s a big grin lighting up her face. She is full of life and the focus of every male eye in the stadium. No idea of her fate and what was to come less than a month later.