My Temporary Life (24 page)

“
You can come. Just don’t talk to any more kids. I’ll do that,” she says, half-smiling.

“
Have you thought about what you’re going to say to her, what you’re going to do?” I ask.

“
I’ll know when I see her. I’m sure I will. I just need to see her. I need to look at her eyes, and see if she’s happy, Malcolm.” She has an intent look on her face, as though nothing will stop her.

“
We might see your daughter tomorrow, Heather. It’s amazing isn’t it?” I answer, as the very real possibility suddenly dawns on me.

She nods, smiling, then almost breaks into laughter. “I smell liquor. Is it beer? Have you been drinking? Your eyes look glazed over, and your hairs all mussed up.”

All of a sudden, I realize that I probably don’t look myself. “I went to a local tavern, ‘The Woodbine Hotel.’ I mixed with the locals for a while. It’s quite a town you’ve got here.” I purposely slur my words, as I answer her.

“
The Woody Hotel, you’re so funny. We never went anywhere near there. It’s too rough. Are you sure nobody hurt my big city accountant?” She mocks me when she asks, showing off her half dimple.

“
They loved me. I even got a ride home from one of the regulars there. And their stew was delicious.”

“
Oh, that reminds me,” she says pulling a sandwich from each pocket, “Here, have some supper. I picked these up after I left the library.”

I like it. I like the way it feels between us in our room, the room where we share our secret. I know there are things that I don’t know yet, questions that are still unanswered, but I’m not in a police station tonight. I’m with Heather, with my Heather, and tonight I’ll be lying with her, cuddled beside me. So I leave them. I leave all of my questions for another day and just enjoy the way she’s smiling at me, as I take the plastic off of my dinner and eat yet another sandwich.

CHAPTER 24

The library is larger than I imagined. There are a series of small reading rooms that have no doors, each dedicated to a different category of books and one main, larger area. When we walk in, we see a main desk with two librarians, both preoccupied stamping and sorting books. I walk closest to the librarians, smiling, while Heather walks on the other side of me, looking in the other direction, hiding her face. There are two women sitting in the periodical section, reading magazines and a man in one of the far rooms, searching amongst the titles. No one seems to look up as we make our way in opposite directions from each other.

I sit in one of the corner rooms and grab a title from the shelf closest to me as Heather takes her place in the main part of the library with her back to the wall, quickly hiding her head in a large reference book. I open my book to a random page, and read a passage that seems to jump out, ‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’

I close the book to look at the title and realize I’m holding the handbook of ‘Alcoholics Anonymous’. I stifle a laugh, thinking of my excursion the previous day to the local bar, sitting amongst the afternoon drinkers. I wonder if the barman had a copy of this book under his counter along with Michael’s business card.

One of the librarians shuffles by a couple of times, smiling and nodding, as though she wants to be asked a question. I keep my face in the book, reading about alcoholics, and don’t look up, trying to look as though I’m intent on my reading. The other occupants come and go, until there’s only Heather and myself, and one other woman. Heather doesn’t move. She just keeps looking at her book, turning pages sometimes, and occasionally glancing at the clock that hangs on the wall. It’s one o’clock before the door opens, and we hear the sound of excited chattering children, and a voice behind them saying “Shh.”

They come in groups as though they’ve been divided up according to their ages, or perhaps their classes. They’re partnered together, holding hands, smiling, laughing, trying to be quiet. Heather is right; these are older children. The first ones that come in seem to be the oldest ones. They’re like younger versions of young women and men. The girls have the beginnings of makeup on their faces, and the boys have the beginnings of teenage acne. The next group is younger. This is the group that Emily should be in. They’re smaller and don’t have the sullen look that’s already developing in some of the older kids. They hold each other’s hands tightly as though they’ll be lost if they separated.

I settle in my chair, moving a stack of books, trying to see their faces as they spread in different directions. There are two young female teachers, and thankfully no familiar school monitors who might recognize me from my schoolyard mishap. The teachers seem to be spread too thin, trying to look after too many children. They follow after them, showing them where to find their books, all the while trying to make sure they respect the quietness of the library. I watch Heather. She puts her book down, and looks at their faces too, studying them, trying to find a resemblance. All of a sudden her eyes grow wide and she looks over at me as we make the same discovery simultaneously. The children are wearing nametags.

There are different coloured tags and in large black letters their first names are spelled out. The writing seems to be child’s writing, and the colours must group them together, presumably by age or classroom. I can see Heather as she props her book up against a stack of others as though she’s reading. I can see her head move as the children walk by, carrying books, looking amongst the shelves. She’s reading their tags.

I do the same and place my alcoholics book open, facing me, and look in the opposite direction, trying to read their names. I see ‘Justins’ and ‘Jacquies’ and ‘Williams’ and ‘Lynns’. I move in my chair as they walk within reading distance of me, and keep looking at the tags on their chests. I sit up suddenly as I see an ‘E’ on a young girl’s nametag. She has a book in front of her, holding it as though it’s a treasure, hiding the rest of the tag. She smiles shyly at another girl, who sits at a table across from me. They exchange glances for a moment, as though they’re sharing a secret. I keep my eyes on the ‘E’, trying to get a better look. I look at the face of the girl, hoping to see something that will help me to recognize her. Her hair is dark and curly, cut short. Her skin is rich and dark too. I wonder if Michael is of Mediterranean descent. I can’t see a resemblance to Heather. The little girl keeps holding the book over the rest of the tag. I look back at the other girl. She’s a ‘Hannah’. She looks at the first girl with the same cheeky but shy expression as though she’s waiting for her to say something.

As the girl with the ‘E’ passes me by, I whisper to her, trying not to attract any attention, “What are you reading? Is that a good book?”

I just need her to lower the book, let it drop so that I can see the rest of her tag, but instead she holds it firmly against her body, even tighter, and whispers back. “I can’t talk to you. I don’t know you.”

I quickly look around at the teachers, who both have their backs to me, helping other children. There are kids everywhere now, and I’ve lost sight of Heather. I want the little girl to drop the book so that I can see her tag, but she won’t. I try smiling. I try to do the same cheeky smile that she exchanged with her friend. I forget for a moment my visit to the police station, my time in the school grounds. I sit back in my chair, giving her space and try a harmless question. “What’s the name of the book? That’s all I want to know.”

She steps away from me, and lets out a small shriek, still holding the book close to her, “I told you. I’m not allowed to talk to people that I don’t know.”

To my surprise, the shouting actually starts away from me, at the front desk, and it all happens very quickly. The librarian is standing now, on tiptoes, looking around the library and yelling at the teachers. “We have a problem here. Miss Thompson, quickly, we have a problem.”

The teachers are scanning the children, looking around, mentally doing a head count. The librarian keeps talking, quickly, as though she can’t believe what has happened. “We have a problem. She’s gone. The girl-she’s gone. They just walked out. I didn’t notice. It looked so natural. They’re gone.” She’s pointing outside now, panicking, but is still rooted to her position behind the desk, waiting for the teachers to take control.

My girl with the ‘E’ retreats to her friends table, still clutching the book over her tag, watching me carefully. The other children seem to automatically find each other, while the teachers’ panicked voices tell them to ‘partner up, stay with your partners and don’t move.’ I try to find Heather, but there’s too much movement, too much confusion. The other librarian is talking into the phone now, asking someone to come quickly, and saying what I don’t want to hear, “A little girl, she’s been taken.”

One of the teachers runs out the front door, as the other one walks from table to table, looking at faces and nametags, trying to see who’s missing. I still don’t understand. I still don’t know what happened. I sit for a moment before realizing that the phone call was probably to the police, and that this is the last place that I probably should be. I get up and take a last glance at the little girl in the table behind me, as she clings to her friend, still hiding her tag. I walk past the tables filled with children, trying to look normal, trying not to look suspicious, as they sit firmly holding the hands of their partners.

Heather’s table is empty except for a stack of books where she’s been sitting. I quickly walk from small room to small room, then back to the main area, before I realize that she isn’t here. I have to get out of the library. I pass the teacher who’s still inside, as she frantically holds a little boy who’s crying and I say to her, “I’ll go look. I’ll help you.”

The teacher nods, thanking me for my help. I’m almost at the main door when the first little girl comes running forward. “He tried to touch me. He tried to talk to me.”

She has left the book on the table, and her name tag is in plain view. ‘Ella’ stands behind her teacher, pointing accusingly at me.

I make my way past the main desk to the door, as the librarian puts her arm on mine, trying to restrain me. “The police are coming. You should wait here. They’ll have questions for you.”

I can see the teacher’s lips moving, but I can’t hear her words. I panic now too. The children are talking, some of them are crying, some shouting. It all sounds like one big noise. I shake loose from the librarian’s grip and get to the door. I swing it open and make my way through. As the door closes behind me, there is a little voice from one of the children saying, “Where’s Emily? Is it Emily who’s gone?”

The cold, blustery air hits me hard and I remember that my jacket is hanging on the back of the chair, inside the library. I quickly look up and down the street, but the rental car is gone. The other teacher is coming towards me, her arms open, desperation in her eyes. “I can’t see anybody. There’s nobody here. Who would do this?”

I start to tell her that I’ll look farther down the street just as the first teacher comes running out. “Don’t let him leave. He touched Ella. Try to stop him.”

I turn away from them, and start running, before realizing that I’m running in the direction of the sound of sirens. Quickly, I cross the street and run the other way, without looking back. My breathing is short and panicked as I try to think and run at the same time. I need to get somewhere that I can regroup, to try and figure out what just happened. I run to the end of a street and duck down an alley, all the while thinking that Heather will be just around the corner. I know that there’s an explanation. There has to be. I want to see her sitting there, waiting. There has to be something that will make sense of it all.

I’m in a parking lot and keep running. I run until the sounds of the sirens get fainter, and the buildings become fewer. I run until the shops and offices of the town became houses, and I run until the houses became fields and farms. I hear dogs barking, but don’t look to see if they’re close. I just run until I can’t hear the sirens anymore.

There’s a broken-down section of a fence, and I try to jump over it but my tired legs trip and I fall. I can’t move any farther. I see an old barn and make my way over to it. The fields around me are empty. I collapse behind the barn and try to breathe. My shirt is covered in sweat. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, and realize how wet it is. I shiver as the cold air hit my warm skin. I try to stand up and realize that I’ve ripped my pants on the fence and cut my leg. I reach down to touch it, wiping at the blood on my knee with the back of my hand. I put my weight on my leg, thankful that I’m not limping and look around, trying to get my bearings.

All I can see are fields past the barn, and a farmhouse, off in the distance. Some of the fields have dilapidated old fences around them and look like they’re in need of repair. My wet shirt clings to me, and the cold wind makes my whole body shiver. I hold my sides to stop the shivering, as I make my way to the front of the barn, and squeeze through an old door that’s jammed halfway open. Inside there are several empty sacks from the feed and bales of hay. I pick one up and then, finding a nail sticking out of the wall I rip a slit in it. Removing my wet shirt, I put the sack over my head, holding the dry material against my cold skin. I marvel at how ingenious I’m being, standing there, in the freezing cold.