Read The Feathered Bone Online
Authors: Julie Cantrell
The Feathered Bone (12 page)
I stare at the notepad, my scribbles a jumble of scratches. No matter how hard I try, I only see emptiness. Blank space. Loss. But as Ellie stirs, I manage to write my first gratitude.
1. Ellie (my whole world)
From there, the items come one at a time, dragging slowly across the page.
2. Carl (fifteen years of marriage, more good than bad)
3. Friends (Beth, Preacher, Raelynn, Jay, plus Viv, the perfect business partner)
4. Our health (and insurance coverage for Ellie's therapy)
5. Our home (and our land where we plan to build)
6. Our church (and the support they have offered since The Day)
7. Our community (and the support they have offered since The Day)
8. Our jobs (especially the flexibility that allows me to be a wife and mom)
9. Finances that meet our basic needs (food, shelter, health care, communication)
10. Faith (fragile as it is now)
As I read back through my list, I am able to exhale for the first time in a month. Despite the gaping holes where Sarah and Mom once belonged, I still have much to be grateful for. Many people would trade places with me if they could. Right now. Today.
I lift my eyes.
Thanks, Mom.
With Ellie back asleep, I ease my way from the sofa and out to the porch where I call across the yard for Carl. He comes around the corner, and I smile. “Happy Thanksgiving. You plan to take a day of rest?”
My husband doesn't bother answering. We both know he never stops working. But he does give me a quick peck, his lips salty from sweat.
“We weren't going to celebrate this year, but maybe it'll do us good to have Thanksgiving dinner. Keep tradition for Ellie's sake. Just something small. What do you think?”
“Sure.”
“I'll run to the store before they close. We'll keep it simple. Just the three of us.”
“Okay.” It's clear he's not listening. He's probably calculating dimensions in his head, counting the number of two-by-fours he'll need to finish the shed.
“How about we just go with a chicken? Sweet potato casserole. Maybe asparagus, pecan pie. Any requests?”
“That works for me.”
“Carl?” I wait for him to connect. “I love you.”
He gives me a second kiss and says, “Love you too.”
Hello Sparrow,
Can you hear me? I hear you singing. And tapping my window. Are you trying to tell me something? Stay with me, please. I'm listening.
Love,
Sarah
Hello Sparrow,
The Lady gave me notebooks and a pen. She said I have to “keep them hid real good.” Then she pinched my mouth and warned me not to tell The Man.
That's what I call them. The Lady and The Man. The Man is mean. I don't know why he is doing this to me.
Keep singing, please. I'm listening.
Love,
Sarah
Hello Sparrow,
I know my letters are stupid. I shouldn't write to a bird, but you're the only one here I can talk to.
Can you find Mom and Pop? Tell them I want to come home. And I'm sorry.
Thank you, Sparrow.
Sarah
(The Man calls me Holly. My real name is Sarah.)
Hello Sparrow,
Today is Thanksgiving. I've been here almost a month. It feels longer. Sometimes I can't remember things. So I'm going to write about my real life. The one I'll go back to someday.
In my real life, I make a Gratitude List. So does Ellie. That's what our moms call it.
Things I Am Thankful For:
1. My sparrow (that's you)
2. My notebooks
3. My pen
4. Turkey and mashed potatoes (even though they were cold)
5. The Man didn't come see me today
6. The Lady is nice sometimes
7. I don't have to stay in the box anymore
8. I am still alive
9. God is with me (I think) I know
Saturday, December 18, 2004
As we pull into the first truck stop, I gather our supplies. I carry a tote bag filled with fliers and magnets, staplers and pushpins, tape and markers. It's been a month and a half since Sarah went missing, and this has become our standard action pack. We've gotten this process down to a precise method, and we attack it as if it's a jobâthe most important task of our lives: finding Sarah.
Preacher, with his giant heart, walks the darkened section of the back lot, knocking on doors of tractor-trailers, holding out hope that one of these men will have his daughter. A couple truckers have wired Christmas wreaths to the front grills of their cabs, and this particular gas station has carols playing over the speakers. A happy voice croons, “It's the most wonderful time of the year.” I squeeze my hand into a fist around the bag's handles, trying to reduce my rage. It's as if the Fates are taunting us, laughing at our pain.
Any other year we'd be at Beth and Preacher's house, enjoying their famous Christmas decorations alongside hundreds of locals. But this year their holiday lights are boxed away, their yard remains dark. Their living room is without a tree, and no stockings hang from their mantel. Our church youth group is celebrating the holidays without their annual bonfire, and families will have to drive to Baton Rouge to visit Santa.
Tonight, as Preacher talks to truckers, Beth and I make our
way beneath the light of the Exxon sign, seeking out the station attendant to explain our search. Most of these people know us by now. Even the new hires tend to cooperate. Who would tell someone they can't hang up fliers about a missing child? But regardless of how polite and sympathetic the employees are, they never have the information we need. No one has claimed to know Sarah. No one has brought her home.
“The news coverage is dying down, Amanda. People are forgetting all about her.” Beth tapes another flier to a window while I hand one to a couple passing by.
I don't know what to say. Beth is right. Two months have passed and most people have moved on with their lives, especially now that Christmas has everyone so busy. The media buzz is gone, and the school superintendent suspended the weekend caravans to New Orleans, explaining, “Following the advice of legal consultants and with the discontinuation of organized searches by law enforcement, we can no longer provide transportation at the expense of the district. We are still committed, as individuals, to finding Sarah, and we will continue to support the Broussard family in every possible way.” Soon after the school's announcement, the churches canceled their caravans too.
“Has Jay found any more information about that woman? The one in the photos?” I ask this as we make our way back to Beth's car.
“Nothing you haven't heard. Bridgette Gallatino. She's got a criminal history. But nobody can find her.”
“Yeah, Jay mentioned something about drug charges, robbery, andâ”
“I know.” Beth interrupts before I say “prostitution.” “They've got undercover guys looking for her too, butâ” She stops midsentence and then begins again. “I don't know, Amanda. How hard
can it be to find somebody like that? I don't understand why no one has seen her. Or Sarah. It's as if they've both vanished. Up in smoke. Either people aren't paying attention, or they're afraid to get involved. Or they . . .”
Her lip quivers, and she bites back tears.
I give her a hug. “Beth, listen. We're going to find her. If she really did leave the café with that lady, at least she's got a young woman with her. That's a good thing. Someone to mother her. She's probably taking care of Sarah right now, watching over her.” I try to convince myself this is a reasonable possibility.
“I can't understand. Forgive me, Amanda, but why weren't you there? With them? In line? I'm not blaming you. I just need to know. Why'd you leave them? It's not like you.” Beth begins to cry, repeating, “I don't understand.”
With each heart-wrenching syllable, my denial gives way. I lost Sarah. I lost my best friend's daughter. I lost my daughter's best friend. I turned my back when I was supposed to be on guard. I am the one responsible for all of this. And no matter how hard I try, I can't fix it. Sarah is gone.
Hello Sparrow,
It's Christmas Eve! The Lady brought me some math work-books and a new pen. She found them at a garage sale. She's got short blond hair now and she wears big sunglasses when she goes anywhere. She wants me to do my schoolwork so I won't end up like her. I never thought I'd be happy to do math!
Hello Sparrow,
Last night I heard firecrackers. The room turned colors, so I bet they were pretty. We always pop them for New Year's Eve and Fourth of July. I write my name with sparklers. Ellie likes Roman candles. Nate likes Black Cats and bottle rockets. Those hurt my ears.
I hope the noise didn't scare you. It sounded like bombs. Mom used to say, “Don't be scared. Then you can see how pretty they are.”
That's what I'm trying to do now. I'm trying not to be
scared here, so I can find something pretty about this place. You know what I found that's pretty? You!
Hello Sparrow,
When I was in the box, I could only
hear
you. I didn't know what kind of bird you were. I thought you might be a sparrow because my grandmother taught me birds. Plus, the palm reader had that sparrow. And her bird sang a song like yours.
Are you the same sparrow I held that day? Did you come to get your feather back? I still have it. I've been guarding it, just like the palm reader told me to do.
I like it when you sing to me. Like my grandmother used to say, “Softly sings the sparrow.”
Hello Sparrow,
The Man doesn't make me stay in the box at all anymore. So now I can see every time you come to the window. It's the best part of my day. The pretty part.
He did put a chain on my ankle, so I can't reach the window or door.
Fly to Mom and Pop, please. Tell them I love them. And I miss them. Tell them I'm sorry I went with The Lady at the café. Tell them I want to come home.
