Not Her Daughter: A Novel Page 12

  Emma was the chaos, and now, in her absence, there was even more. She was like a tiny wrecking ball, knocking down everything in her path just to see how much damage she could get away with.

  Amy decided to take a shower, get dressed, and do some research on polygraphs. Wait for Richard to call and then go down to the station, where she would have to carefully craft the story of mother, daughter, and their complicated life.

  sarah

  after

  Bozeman, Montana wasn’t the kind of place you picked for family vacations or sightseeing. Like all those states clustered together that were an afterthought—Idaho, the Dakotas, Iowa, Nebraska—you’d hear people praise Montana, but no one ever really visited, besides mountain men. Bozeman was a forgotten blip, situated close to the mouth of Wyoming, right above Jefferson. It was one of those cities you didn’t realize you were missing until someone brought you there.

  The first time Ethan told me he owned a lake house, I visualized long weekends, hot baths, and skinny-dipping in crystal blue water.

  “It’s a bit of a drive,” he’d offered casually over tacos.

  “So? I think we take good road trips together.”

  He sucked his juicy fingers, squirted a blob of Sriracha onto his third taco, and tipped back his beer. “Is eleven hours too long?”

  I bristled. “Eleven hours? For a weekend trip? With you? Ugh. Torturous. No way. Not happening.” I took a swig of my own beer and watched his face rearrange into a smile.

  He draped his arms along the back of our booth. “Perfect. When do you want to go?”

  “Next weekend?”

  Next weekend turned into two weekends per month, then three. Weekends became three days, then four, and sometimes the entire week, when our schedules allowed. The lake house wasn’t really even in Bozeman—it was about an hour out and sat close to Fairy Lake, one of the only bodies of water for miles.

  I teased him about the name—that couldn’t be the actual name of a lake, could it?—and he told me that it was the real name, that it was full of fairies, leprechauns, and pots of tiny gold you had to examine with a magnifying glass.

  He’d been traipsing to the house most of his life; once he’d gone into woodworking, he’d gained new inspiration and old wood, carting it back to his shop in a loaded van. When I started tagging along, I’d sketched and created the early designs that had become TACK’s first digital activity books while Ethan foraged for lodgepole pine.

  We made endless pots of coffee, and I would harass him to try just one cup, which he would, before spitting it out, a hot brown stream dribbling down his chin. Instead, he’d fill his mug with water or whiskey and sit beside me in the mornings or early afternoons, so that I’d have someone to drink with.

  The house was a throwback to the 1980s, a time when style was interpretable and interior decorating resulted in many unfortunate pairings. His grandfather had been a rancher and had built the lake house for his wife, Mae, before she’d passed away in 2000. Since then, he’d lived and worked in the cabin before dying from a broken heart. I’d seen the photos of his grandfather in his prime—standing next to sexy cars or on the back of his motorcycle, an arm possessively flung around his wife—and I couldn’t get over the resemblance he and Ethan shared: that same charisma, the identical noses, crooked on the end, the broad shoulders, the tapered torso, the huge calves. They even had matching smiles.

  Much to my surprise, Ethan wouldn’t touch the cabin after his grandfather’s death—wouldn’t change one thing, even—because he wanted to keep his grandfather’s memory intact. I was surprised at the sentimentality, as I could see all the great potential in the high beams and endless square footage—but he refused.

  “It’s not my place. It’s his. He’d want to keep it this way.” There’d been an edge to his voice when I first mentioned it, a protectiveness he’d never quite shown with me.

  I’d met his grandfather a year into our relationship and had come to know him well. We took to each other instantly, often ganging up on Ethan when he was being difficult, staying up late with scotch and cigars, making huge omelets in the morning with buttered toast and coffee thick as fudge.

  Ethan joked that I enjoyed his grandfather more than him; I would insist that Bill was more attractive and would he ever remarry?—to which Bill would clap a warm hand over mine and say, “Only for you, sweetheart. Only for you.”

  We’d gotten the call late in the night, as with most bad news, when his grandfather passed. He was fit as a fiddle, no heart issues, no medication. It seemed he’d just decided one night, after a heart-healthy dinner and a drink, that he’d had enough. He’d gone to sleep and just hadn’t woken up. I’d never seen Ethan so distraught; no amount of insisting he was with Mae, that he chose this, that he was still with us, would help.

  The cabin was left to Ethan in the will, which, in my book, meant he could do whatever he wanted—however we wanted. Instead, he treated it like a relic, not wanting to tarnish a single memory, move a single photograph, or improve a single light fixture.

  After Bill’s death, I felt like an intruder inside a museum. Ethan would snap if I dropped something on the carpet or left a dirty towel on top of the washing machine. Our easy work sessions became loaded, our conversations tinged with sarcasm.

  The weekend visits became shorter; the happy times less frequent; the inspiration all but dried up. But I still loved Bozeman and what it represented. I still loved Fairy Lake, the strong coffee, and the memory of Bill, tucked into every room or Bozeman story. I kept the house close to my vest, hoping one day I’d return, with Ethan.

  * * *

  Almost twelve hours after we’d started, the familiar crunch of leaves flattened under the tires, the smash of gravel beneath dirty rubber. I loved that sound—a signal, really—that the day’s drive was over. On the weekends Ethan’s grandfather vacated for us to use the cabin, I used to throw Ethan a hazy smile under the canopy of trees, as we mashed lips and teeth and stripped off our clothes, often before we’d even unlocked the front door.

  I’d turned off my phone four hours in. I couldn’t be trusted not to call everyone I knew. The AMBER Alert had to be out by now. I was sure it was infiltrating the surrounding cities, social media, and news outlets with as much speed and importance as a charged political campaign. She was a child from a decent community. I understood how these things worked, how certain preferences went to certain children. As one-sided as those preferences were, I knew the authorities would do whatever it took to find her.

  My hands danced on the wheel. Every time I’d ever received an AMBER Alert on my phone or seen some tragic kidnapping story on the news, I would flip it off in disgust, thanking God I didn’t have children just so I would never have to worry about them being snatched. I’d heard unbelievable cases of kids disappearing from shopping carts, from car seats, from bedrooms in the middle of the night. It was a strange and scary time to be a kid.

  I sifted through the memories of my own childhood, thinking of all the opportunities someone would have had to take me. How I’d trusted the world, how my dad had trusted the world, how I’d let myself in our house after school and then hit the pavement post-homework, walking blocks and blocks to who knows where, ducking into ragged backyards with three-legged dogs and creepy men propped up in lawn chairs.

  I peeked in the rearview and watched Emma’s chest rise and fall beneath the buckles of the brand-new Graco Highback TurboBooster seat. I’d had to read the directions four times and checked and double-checked that it was installed correctly. Friends of Brad’s had lost their four-year-old recently when their car was rear-ended by a Jeep. Everyone walked away but the boy, who was killed instantly due to an improper car seat installation. What would I do if something happened to Emma on my watch?

  I killed the headlights and sat in the early morning light, the rows of trees hiding us. Emma’s chortled snores filled the silence. A prick of worry knitted my spine. Were kids supposed to snore? What if she had an underlying
condition that hadn’t yet been detected? What if she needed medication? What if she had an accident and I had to take her to the hospital?

  I exited the car, wincing as I gave it a firm push closed, but Emma didn’t budge. We’d driven straight through the night after the trip to Walmart, with only one stop, in a seedy gas station bathroom. Emma had been asleep for most of the ride, leaving me with nothing but my anxious, riddled thoughts.

  I jogged to the side garage door, sliding my fingers into the dirt until I found the key box. I popped it open, and there it was: safety. The must of the garage was a welcome memory. How many times had we come through this garage, laden with cheap groceries to make pizzas and Toll House cookies before binging by the fire?

  I crossed the tidy garage and unlocked the interior door. The mudroom was the same, the linoleum a dingy yellow, worn by time and footsteps. I rounded the corner and stepped onto the carpet, which was designed to look like hardwood floors. When I thought of Ethan’s grandfather, in the early eighties, laying this carpet, thinking what a good find it was because it looked like hardwood—but it was carpet!—it melted my heart. What a good man he’d been. I missed the way he’d set up board games and activities for our longer visits. How he’d sit and ask me about city life. How he’d always join me for coffee or let me pick his brain over my newest digital book.

  I moved to the bathroom. The carpet was thick, beige, and moldy around the standup shower, an old running argument. I’d begged Ethan to consider changing this one feature because it was unsanitary. Please, just change the carpet! Your grandfather won’t mind!

  I’d get out of the shower, my feet damp on the soggy carpet, and I’d bitch and moan about never feeling clean. The pressure wasn’t right. The water was soft, which left my hair feeling oily, no matter how many times I rinsed. At night, we’d get into the Sleep Number bed, which was studded with dog fur from Ethan’s uncle, who let his big mutts sleep in the bed when they visited twice a year. We’d have blowout arguments about buying new sheets, because no matter how many times we washed them, the small, stiff dog hairs would latch on to our skin.

  I moved into the main room, the kitchen on the left, the lofted living room on the right. I always marveled at the big beams suspended from the ceiling, dissecting the room at beautiful, woodsy angles. I used to joke with Ethan about climbing up there and swinging around like monkeys on vines.

  Not a thing had changed. Not one piece of furniture. Not a single dish towel or utensil. There were the same few books lining the bookcases, the same board games dusty and worn on a spare shelf, the same rocking chair with the ancient pillows, the threadbare couch, the old-school TV and round table and chairs. There was a bedroom upstairs with two twin beds and a small bathroom, and a finished basement with a bar, a living room, and another, windowless bedroom.

  After making sure we were indeed the only intruders here—Ethan never visited the cabin at the start of summer—I hurried back to the car. Emma was still asleep, her tender snore rattling the silence.

  I unloaded our bags, unbuckled Emma, scooped her into my arms, and carried her inside. Her head dropped to the crook of my neck, her legs heavy around my hips. I laid her in the middle of the king bed in the master bedroom, removing her shoes and tucking her in. The blackout shades were drawn, which pitched the room in utter darkness, despite it being daylight. I unpacked the night-light I’d bought and plugged it in near the foot of the bed.

  Once our bags were in the front hall, I checked on her again before pulling the door shut and moving to the living room. My stomach growled. We’d have to get food today. I looked in the cabinets for anything edible and saw a jar of peanut butter. I checked the expiration date, opened it, and plunged a spoon into the oily mix. I sucked the spoon dry, wiped my hands, pulled my computer from my bag, and sat down. I needed to know what the world was saying about Emma, but I was scared.

  I used to think no one could ever get away with kidnapping a child in this technologically advanced age. How could they? But I was soon realizing, in some ways, it was easier. You knew where the authorities were looking, who their lead suspects were, if they had something or nothing, if the parents looked hopeful or resigned in their press conference videos. The investigation was available—evidence was searchable. Nothing was private anymore.

  I took a breath and attempted to log online. Normally, I’d be able to connect instantly, the password having been the same for the last decade. I tried and retried with no luck. Who could I call? Ethan? The thought was preposterous. I stood, rummaged again in the cabinet in search of coffee, and found an old bag. I sniffed it, filled the coffeepot with water, and shook some grounds into a crinkled filter. I pulled my phone from my pocket and turned it back on, walking to the living room and pausing outside of the master bedroom. I fired off a few texts to Brad, Madison, and Lisa: Feeling a bit better from the flu, but I’m going to stay with my dad awhile. He’s not doing so well. Will connect tomorrow. Once the coffee was brewed, I returned to the living room with my oversize mug, pulled up Safari, and typed in “Emma Townsend”—Emma finally told me her last name—and “AMBER Alert.”

  A new window appeared with a list of hyperlinks, only two of them about her. I clicked on the top article and scanned the report. I had caused this. This article and subsequent search were my fault. I tried to come to terms with the gravity of the situation as reality sunk in.

  LONGVIEW—An AMBER Alert has been issued for a 5-year-old girl who has been missing from her Longview home since Thursday night.

  Emma Townsend was last seen around 6 p.m. Thursday at 1232 Cranston Drive.

  Police say Emma was playing in her backyard after school and disappeared sometime that evening.

  Authorities activated a CodeRED notification in the surrounding neighborhoods and asked for Washington State Patrol’s help in searching the area.

  Read more on KLTV.com.

  I read the article again, trying to decipher the next official move. It was early—less than twenty-four hours since she’d been gone—and there was no more information on the case: no leads, no suspects. How careful had I been? How easy would it be to find us?

  I pondered as I swallowed the last of my coffee. I had no connection to Emma; no reason to take her—

  “Sarah?”

  I jumped and dropped my phone, the heavy coffee mug almost slipping from my grip. I set it down and walked around the couch to kneel in front of a very sleepy Emma.

  “Hi, sweetie. Do you need anything? Do you need to pee?”

  She nodded and shoved her knuckles into her eyes, attempting to rub the sleep out like an infant.

  I re-pocketed my phone, my heart thudding in my ears. “Would you like to get into pajamas?”

  Emma looked at the sunlight streaming in through the windows. “But it’s day.”

  “That’s okay. Pajamas are fun for day sometimes.”

  She yawned and moved to the bathroom, her hair in one fuzzy knot at the back of her head. She wiped at herself clumsily before flushing the toilet and then stood on her tiptoes to wash her hands.

  “Let’s brush your teeth too.”

  I went to one of the plastic bags and removed her new purple toothbrush and toothpaste.

  “I can do it.” She took them from me and expertly squeezed out a small amount of paste and worked it over her teeth in a gentle but effective manner.

  “You’re a great teeth brusher,” I said. She looked at me and smiled, her teeth frosty. The skin of her cheek bulged below her eye. “Does your cheek still hurt? Do you want some more ice?”

  She shook her head no and then we took off her new outfit, the collar getting hung around her neck. I took those few seconds to check her skin for bruises, as though looking for ticks or shifty moles. I hadn’t had time in Walmart’s dressing room, but now we weren’t rushed. It was hard to see in the dim bathroom light, but the bruises were there, scattered up and down her legs like rocks, a few shaped like fingers on her torso and upper arms.

  “Ho
w’d you get all of these bruises?”

  She looked down at her legs, as though just seeing them for the first time. “I don’t know. Maybe school?”

  “And these?” I pointed to her torso and arms.

  She shrugged again and looked down.

  “Emma, honey, did your mom give you these?” I lightly touched the bruises.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Emma, look. This is just for me to know, so I can make sure you don’t get any more bruises. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Her voice was small, but I could sense it: she trusted me. “I think Mommy gave me those. She squeezes hard sometimes. Too hard.”

  “Yeah? I bet that doesn’t feel good, does it?”

  “No.”

  Here was the patchwork of bruises, bared for the world to see. Here was this innocent little girl, real, warm, safe, and confessing. She touched her cheek and dropped her fingers.

  “Emma, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. I promise. Do you believe me?”

  “Yes.” She yawned again, and I helped her into a set of PAW Patrol pajamas. Her pant leg got tangled, and she had to jump up and down to set the fabric loose, her hands balanced on my shoulders. She laughed and gripped my neck, her cool, minty breath moving across my cheek. I took the opportunity to give her a hug, and she squeezed me back.

  I released her and we walked into the living room. Emma stared at the unfamiliar surroundings. She sat on the edge of the worn couch, with its scratchy fabric, and crossed her legs. “My grandmother had a house like this.”

  “Oh, really?” I collapsed in the rocking chair across from her, pushing my feet to begin the sway. She looked so much older than five—those eyes telling me something I couldn’t quite comprehend.

  “Did you like going there?”