The Feathered Bone (32 page)

“Ellie didn't want to go to school today.” I pour Viv a cup of coffee and fix my tea. Then I move to her desk and deliver the caffeine.

She smiles. Accepts. “First day jitters?”

“I'm worried it's more than that. I know it's been nearly two years, but honestly, she hasn't ever come back from all of this with Sarah. And with Carl leaving. It's been too much. I'm afraid I'm losing her.”

“Therapy helping?”

I shake my head. “Not really. We've tried everyone I know. Brother Johnson too. And teen groups. I think it's such a unique situation. No one else can really understand what she's going through. Most of the kids in her group are there because of drugs, alcohol. Or self-harm. Some have been abused. Some even have criminal records. Ellie's not them.”

“I can see that.”

“It's kind of like, one day she's a happy teen, joking with her friends, blowing us away onstage, or hanging out at parties. The next day she's dealing with survivor's guilt again, struggling to see the point of anything. That's how she was this morning. It scares me when she starts thinking like that. Like there's no point to staying alive anymore.”

“Did the antidepressants help?” Viv sips her coffee.

“Not really. They numbed her grief, but they numbed everything else too. Turned her into a zombie. Everything alive in her just kind of disappeared.”

“Maybe the wrong dose? Wrong prescription?”

“Tried a few. Psychiatrist said we may want to go without. At least until her head can clear. I'm hoping our new 5K training can get her balanced again. It's no marathon or anything . . .”

I smile at Viv, and she thanks me for cheering her across the finish line on her fortieth birthday.

“. . . but I'm running with her every evening. It's been good for both of us.” I blow on my tea to cool it and finally take a sip.

“I guess I can't help thinking that if Carl was home . . . if our family was intact . . . then maybe she would feel a little more protected or something. She must not even feel safe at home now—the one place she should never be afraid.”

“Have you met with an attorney yet? About the divorce?”

“Oh, Viv. Come on.” I blow on my tea again, then stir it with a spoon, adding a little lemon. “Let's get happy. You still dating that fireman? Mr. Hottie?”

She laughs. “So corny.”

“That's me!” I head to my office and she follows.

“Seriously, Amanda. If Carl's really going through with this divorce thing, you need to be careful. I'm sorry, but I have to ask. He can't touch the business account, can he?”

I take a seat and she does too.

“No worries. I'm sure the business is off-limits.”

“That's what the attorney says?”

“Well, I haven't actually talked to an attorney, but Carl's name isn't on this account. So it's safe. Don't worry. He wouldn't do that anyway.”

Viv gives me a look of disbelief. “You have got to see an attorney, Amanda. Please. I don't put anything past Carl at this point. I hate to sound cold, but I have to protect our clinic. This is my business too. He's already opened his own accounts, transferred money without asking you. If you don't call a lawyer, I will.”

“Honestly, Viv, I just keep thinking he'll wake up. He can't seriously want to marry that girl. She's young enough to be his daughter. She was four years old the day we said our vows.”

“See why I don't put anything past him?” She sits back now, settling into the plush chair. “What makes you think he's really going to change, Amanda? Has he given you
any
indication of that? In any way at all?”

I rearrange papers on my desk and lock my purse in the bottom drawer. “I don't know. Yeah. He still says he wants to come back. And that he loves me. This just isn't like him. If I can give him enough time.”

“Time?” Viv scoffs. “He moved out nearly a year ago.”

“Yeah, but he's moved back in a few times since then.”

“For what, a week? Two at most?”

“I know.” We both turn our attention out the window, where my first client is parking her car in the lot. “It's not the typical situation, Viv. This whole thing with Sarah. It's been really hard on all of us. I still can't seem to get past it. My mind is never fully with Carl. I'm a million miles away most days, reliving it all, trying to find the clue we aren't seeing. And before that I was taking care of Mom through all her treatments. Hospice. Then her death. I wasn't the wife I needed to be.”

“I don't feel sorry for Carl. You've always been there for him, for everything he needed. And he left you at a time when you needed him most. Not okay.”

I grab the file for my nine o'clock session. “It isn't that simple, Viv. I left him too. Maybe not physically. But mentally, emotionally. It's not all that different really. What's important is that we have Ellie. And she needs us to be together. I have to believe it will all work out. So I'm sorry, but I'm not meeting with an attorney. I'm trying, with all I have in me, to save my family. That's all I can do.”

“My blazing-hot fireman has a friend, you know.” She stands and lifts her eyebrows as if she's waiting for an answer.

I shoo her out of my office, rolling my eyes.

“He's divorced. No kids. Wife simply wanted more money. Left him for a surgeon in Baton Rouge.”

“I've got a new client. Need to get a few things together.” I close the door, ignoring her prompts about the fireman.

“Don't forget,” she hollers through the door. “Getting my hair done after lunch. Lock up when you go to carpool. If you have any
trouble, call 911! He's a first responder.” Her laughter follows her trail as she goes to begin her day.

Sunday, October 29, 2006

It's been two years since Sarah disappeared, and I've spent another anniversary of The Day looking for answers. The digital numbers glow red from my nightstand: 10:07 p.m. Another day in which I have not been able to give Beth, Preacher, or Ellie what we all need most—Sarah.

I set my alarm early for tomorrow morning, having packed my schedule with clients to make up for today's search. Then I head across the hall to give Ellie one more kiss good night. She rolls her eyes and says, “Mom, seriously?”

“I know, I know,” I tell her. “You're getting too old for this. But I'm going to steal as many kisses as I can, as long as you'll let me.” I brush her hair from her shoulders and pull her into a hug before planting a final kiss on top of her head. She smells like jasmine bubble bath, one of the birthday gifts we gave her in September when she turned fourteen.

“I loved going through the haunted house rehearsal tonight. It's a lot scarier than I thought it'd be. So much fun!”

“We messed up. You'd think we'd know how to do it. Three years of the same old thing.”

“Seemed perfect to me. Thanks for letting me come.”

She stares at the ceiling and doesn't respond.

“How'd you get all that makeup off? I could barely recognize you, especially with the black lights. You were glowing.”

“It wasn't hard.” She's obviously in no mood for chitchat, so I tuck her in beneath her bright new turquoise comforter, another birthday gift she received as I helped her redecorate with a more mature theme. The pastel décor was no longer cutting it. I switch off the overhead light, but she keeps the lamp on to read.

“Still obsessed with John Green?” I ask as she leans to pull
Looking for Alaska
from her bedside shelf.

“He's my favorite.” She settles against her pillow and opens the book. “Mom?” She catches me watching her, thinking how thankful I am that she wasn't kidnapped along with Sarah that day.

She shifts for emphasis and repeats, “Mom?” This time, a genuine question. “I know I'm supposed to believe she's coming back. That we'll find her. But I don't believe that anymore. Dad might be right. What if Sarah's gone for good?”

I listen, wishing I had answers.

“In a way, I kind of think I might be gone for good too. None of us came back from New Orleans, did we? We all got lost that day.”

“I know it feels that way sometimes, honey. But we're here. And Sarah is too. Somewhere. It's only a matter of time before we find her. I believe that.”

She gives me the saddest look I've ever seen. A long, deep stare, as if I'll never understand anything.

“I love you, Ellie. From the sky to the mud.” It's what she used to say when she was little. “I wouldn't change one single thing about you. And even if you weren't my daughter, I'd think you were the coolest person I've ever known.”

“I love you more.” She says this as if she's never told me before. As if it's the last time she'll ever say it.

I close her door, grateful to have her home. Safe.

After finishing the supper dishes, I settle into bed alone and listen to the evening news. On my dresser, the divorce papers sit waiting for ink, but I still can't bring myself to sign them. No matter how long Carl is gone, I can't get used to this empty bed.

As the anchorman breaks for a commercial, I hit Mute and turn my attention to the Baton Rouge
Advocate
, which still waits wrapped in a rubber band from the daily delivery. I've just popped the elastic beyond the paper edge when I hear a strange sound from Ellie's room. Almost as if she has kicked an empty cardboard box. As soon as I hear it, a fire spreads through my veins and I know. Somehow I know she has done no such thing.

I drop the paper on my bed and run to Ellie's room, calling her name. I open her door. My knees buckle. My voice scrapes across tense vocal folds, barely catching wind. “Ellie! No!”

My daughter is still in bed, but she has changed positions since I tucked her in. Her limp legs now dangle across the side of the mattress, and blood soaks the fabric. Carl's hunting shotgun leans against her chest, one of the few things he left behind and the one thing I begged him to take.

For a split second, Ellie seems to be smiling. Some part of my brain wants to believe it is a cruel joke. That she's poured ketchup on her sheets and is testing out a costume for the haunted house fund-raiser. That has to be the explanation. “Ellie,” I say sternly. “Sit up. It's not funny.” I can't bring myself to step closer.

I try to get my bearings, looking across the room to anchor myself to some specific place and time. Splattered around her newly painted walls, splashed across her favorite pen-and-ink sketches, and caught between the woven carpet fibers are tiny pieces of my daughter's brilliant brain, bloody strands of her beautiful brown
curls. Her entire life, shattered into fragments, breaking all the promises we made—that we would always be here for each other, no matter the pain.

“Ellie!” I scream now, falling against her bed, grabbing her arm.
Girls don't use guns. Especially Ellie. She hated guns. This isn't how this happens. This can't be real.

The smell of death consumes me, its ancient, acrid attack burning a hole right through me. “No. No! No, no, no . . .” My daughter, my beautiful, beloved daughter.

Somehow I will myself to call Carl. My fingers are numb and I can't feel the phone. I move to use the landline, but even with the larger buttons it takes four tries before I'm able to dial the right number. He answers by saying my name with hostility, aggravated I am bothering him.

“Carl . . .” I can barely talk. “It's Ellie.”

“What? What's wrong with Ellie?” His tone shifts to concern. “Where are you?”

“Home. Come, Carl, hurry.”

“Is she okay?”

“No. Please hurry.” These are the only words I can form. My brain refuses to shape facts into sentences. Saying the sounds would make death real. And more than anything, I don't want it to be real.

“What happened, Amanda? Tell me!”

Carl needs more. I owe him that.

“She . . . shot . . . your gun.” I can't do it. I can't tell my husband our daughter is dead.

“Is she alive, Amanda? Tell me, is Ellie alive?”

“No.”