The Feathered Bone (15 page)

After skipping Sunday school, Beth and I have joined our husbands for the Easter service. Carl and I sit with Ellie midway back, while Beth and Preacher have opted for their regular place on the front pew. With only a few minutes left in the sermon, Preacher whispers into Beth's ear. Whatever he's told her causes her to frown. She's clearly questioning him. But then she softens, as if to grant him approval. With this, he rises and moves to the pulpit to shake Brother Johnson's hand, whispering to him as well. The reverend reacts with befuddlement, and a brief conversation ensues between the two men. Then Preacher takes the podium and delivers his news to the congregation.

“Today is Easter,” he begins. “Many of you have spent the morning hunting eggs, opening chocolate bunnies, posing for photos. These are the kinds of days we look forward to. The special moments when we take notice of all the good in our lives. This year, as you know, Beth and I aren't dyeing eggs or filling baskets. But we take pleasure in seeing you celebrate this holiday with your
loved ones. While we are suffering a great loss in our own lives, we do have many things to be grateful for today. Mainly, we are thankful for each of you. For the support you have shown our family in the last five months, and for the patience you have offered as I've been unable to lead the youth ministry the way I was called to do.”

Preacher turns his attention to Beth and then continues. “Today I realized something. I realized that Beth and I can sit here in this pew and sing the hymns and say the prayers. But our hearts are no longer in it. We're broken. I don't know about Beth, but I can tell you something about me. I've got so little faith left at this point, I don't have enough to share anymore. I've decided to submit my resignation as your youth pastor. We appreciate your prayers as we continue to search for Sarah. Thank you.”

May 2005

“Can you believe it? Last day of sixth grade!” I hand Ellie a handwritten thank-you note with a gift certificate enclosed for one of Baton Rouge's nicest spas. “Be sure to give this to Miss Henderson. She's been so good to you.”

Ellie adds the gift to her backpack. “She's not coming back next year. Did you hear?”

I nod. “This has been hard on everybody. You aren't the only one who blames yourself, Ellie. Miss Henderson feels like it's her fault for taking her class to New Orleans in the first place. I feel like it's my fault for not standing with y'all in line. Gator feels at fault for not getting you all back home safely. Mrs. Beth, for not staying the whole day. The restaurant manager has expressed guilt too. And Jay. He hasn't found her yet.”

Ellie takes this in, and I hope, with all I have in me, that it eases her guilt.

“You going to the end-of-the-year party? With Nate?”

She shakes her head. No matter how much I encourage her, she has withdrawn from nearly all social interactions with her peers.

“Well then, how should we celebrate? Want to get a sno-cone after school? Go swimming? How about a movie? Just the two of us.”

She shrugs. “To be honest, Mom, I'd rather come home and sleep.”

“Are you sure? It's a beautiful day. What if we go shopping?
You need some new summer clothes. Could we go to that Asian restaurant you like? The one with the good spring rolls and sushi?”

“Maybe.” She doesn't completely shut down this idea, so I stick with it.

“Perfect. I'll pick you up at noon for early dismissal, and we'll head straight to lunch and then to the mall.” With this, I give her a hug and send her off to catch the bus. As she climbs the steps, I wave from the driveway, feeling an ache in my bones. No matter how hard I try, I can't give her childhood back to her.

“Morning.” I enter my office in a rush and greet Vivienne. The two of us have shared a practice for the last ten years, and she hasn't aged a bit in that decade. “Can you at least have a bad hair day or something?” I tease. “That's all I'm asking. Some proof of imperfection.”

Viv is toned and tanned, with the trademark Cajun beauty common in Louisiana. In addition to her good looks and petite frame, she carries the Acadian French lilt to her speech and moves through the world with graceful steps. “Oh please,” she says, not looking up from her computer. “You're one to talk.” She finally glances my way. “I'm registering for my first marathon.”

“Of course you are.” I smile.

“Turning forty,” she sighs. “I won't go down without a fight.”

I drop my purse on my desk and head for the electric kettle. I find it already filled. And heating. “Viv, you are so thoughtful!”

“Brought you some new kinds of tea too.” She taps her keyboard. “In the cabinet.”

“You didn't.” I pull a box from the shelf where she's stashed three new cartons.

“They were in the clearance bin at Carter's. Apparently you're the only person who drinks that stuff.”

I laugh and opt for something new, Oolong Pomegranate. “Want a cup?”

She declines, so I pour her some Community Coffee instead.

“I'm taking off early, don't forget. It's Ellie's last day of school, and we're going to celebrate.”

“How's she doing?” She gives me her full attention as I bring her coffee.

“Honestly, I don't know, Viv. I'm still worried. All she wants to do is sleep. She's stopped hanging out with friends. She sits in her room listening to music and drawing. Just her and Beanie.”

“How's Carl handling that?”

“Oh, you know Carl. He's not the kind to talk about things. He thinks she's fine. And I'm overreacting.”

“Do you think you're overreacting?” She looks at me now as if I'm her client.

“No.” I hold my mug in two hands, and the steam rises between us.

“Trust your gut, Amanda. You know a lot more about this stuff than Carl does.”

“Maybe so, but that's the problem. He thinks I try to diagnose everybody. That I want to send everyone to counseling.”

“What's wrong with that?” She laughs.

“Forty, huh?” I bow, pretending to worship her beauty. “I'm thirty-five and wish I looked half as good as you do. I honestly can't understand how you manage to stay single.”

“I'm waiting for The One,” she says with a smile. “I won't settle for less.”

“But he won't stop. You don't understand.” My client is shaking, wiping her eyes with a crumpled Kleenex that hangs in shreds from her hand. “I had to call 911. I had to run. He was going to kill me this time.”

“Tell me what happened.” I keep my voice calm, steady, and offer no judgment, although pieces of me want to rush from my office and nail her husband to the wall. Mrs. Evans is all of five feet tall and ninety-five pounds after a holiday feast. There's nothing about her that feels threatening, not her soft voice or her kind eyes or her fragile frame. For any man to use violence against her reflects the worst form of cowardice, in my opinion. It's hard for me not to tell her what I'm thinking. But I don't. I listen.

“He came home in a rage again. I was taking a nap because I'd been running a fever, just a little cold turned bad, but I never do that. I never sleep during the day. Only Monday, I did. And he came home early, and the kids were outside playing like they always do. They're old enough, you know. And I woke up with him carrying on about how lazy I am. He was screaming and shouting, going off about how he's out working and I'm home sleeping. Before I knew it he had broken everything in our den. Everything. Glass everywhere. Throwing everything he could reach. Throwing it right at me.”

“He was throwing things at you?”

“Everything. Yes. The vases, the pictures. Everything he could grab. I was on the couch, just sitting there, covering my head, trying not to move.”

“Did he throw his stuff too? Break anything important to him?”

She pauses. Considers. “You know? Now that I think about it,
he broke everything around him except his guitar. It was hanging right there on the wall. He never touched it. It's got marks all over it, from glass and wood flying up and scratching it. But you're right. He didn't break his guitar.”

I nod. “So he was more in control than you think?”

She takes this in. Then continues. “I know it sounds crazy. But I knew if I as much as looked him in the eye, I was dead.”

“Can you tell me more about that? How you knew?”

“It's hard to explain. But I've never felt anything like that before. It was a bad feeling. A very bad feeling. You ever see those TV shows, about lions and stuff over there in Africa?”

I nod.

“Well, you can see it in their eyes, you know? Those zebras or whatever they're stalking, they know they're about to die. The lion is in kill mode, and they're the prey, and there's nothing they can do about it. But they run anyway, because what else can they do? Well, I was the zebra. Only I knew I couldn't outrun him. So I sat there real still, and I let him throw his fit. And I thought to myself,
I'm not going to look at him, or cry, or make a sound. I'm going to stay still and pray.
And that's what I did. I prayed.
God, I've got babies. They're right outside playing. They need me. And they need their daddy too. So please, God. Don't let him do anything crazy. Don't let him hurt me. Keep us safe. All of us.
”