The Feathered Bone (23 page)

Beth touches a photo of her own daughter. Portrayed in color against the wall of Katrina's missing. “Here we are. But where is Sarah? It's been nearly a year.”

“We'll find her, Beth. Her photo is everywhere.”

“You saw those shelters. So many people coming and going. You know as well as I do, Sarah could be anywhere. Lost. Scared—”

I interrupt. “And all those people are taking time to look at the photo boards. They're paying attention. This is good.”

After a long sigh, Beth lifts her shoulders and slides the laundry basket across the counter. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

With that, we head to my car and spend the rest of the day driving from shelter to shelter, looking for Sarah. Never mentioning that tomorrow is September 8, the day both our girls were born thirteen years ago.

Thursday, September 8, 2005

I bend to light thirteen turquoise candles, each one tall, twisted, and thin, as Carl and I sing “Happy Birthday” to Ellie. Carl records her on video as she closes her eyes and makes a silent wish. Her candles light the dining room, lining the wall with shadows as she leans over the heart-shaped cake and blows. One by one the tiny
lights give way and darkness descends. I hurry to flip the switch, brightening the room to serve slices of her favorite dessert: butter cake with chocolate-marshmallow icing, a gooey recipe from my own childhood birthdays.

We are keeping the party small and quiet this year. The mutual understanding is that we'll have a big bash when we find Sarah. Until then, we use every candle to wish her home to us.

Adding a second scoop of Blue Bell ice cream to her plate, Ellie shows signs of youth again. “Homemade Vanilla. Yum!” Then she turns her attention to the pile of presents. I've wrapped each one with sparkling papers, bright curly ribbons, and oversized bows, but there's one gift I've kept tucked under the table, saving it as a final surprise.

Before she can finish her cake, she's already tearing into her gifts. I take over the video camera as she opens a new iPod nano, jumping and squealing with delight. It's the first time I've seen her this happy since The Day
.
Hope is seeding.

She thumbs through the playlists. “Weezer!” A few seconds later, “The White Stripes! Ohmigosh! Feist! This is awesome!” I've spent hours compiling her favorite artists, and it's a hit.

After she has opened a few more gifts, taking time to comment on each new outfit and piece of jewelry, Carl pulls the final present from beneath the table and passes it to Ellie. I work the camera.

She rips ribbons from the box and lifts the lid. “What is this?” She sets out a stack of videos, each housed in a plastic shell, organized and labeled according to date.

“We hired a guy to transfer our home movies to DVDs,” I explain. It may be too sentimental, but I hope watching hours of happy family footage will help heal us all, remind us of the good times. “I was thinking we could have a family movie night.”

Ellie smiles at the camera, hiding her new set of braces with one of the DVDs. “O-kay.” She pronounces it as if she's unsure, adding a little teenage angst.

“Don't look at me. This was your mom's idea.” Carl holds his hands up, clearing himself from the bad gift. But then he turns and puts his arm around me. When I lift my chin, he kisses me for the first time in days. Just a quick brush of the lips, but still it's something. My body reacts.

I turn off the camera and return my focus to Ellie. “Oh, come on. It'll be fun. Grab your quilt. I'll make popcorn. We'll settle in early tonight.” I begin to clear the dishes and ask her to choose a disc.

She sorts through the stack, shouting over my stream of water. “Disney or Destin?”

“Hmm . . . both sound good to me.”

With this, Ellie bounds down the hall in search of her favorite blanket, a patchwork quilt my mother made for her when she was little. Carl sets up the DVD player while I finish the last of the cleanup. We meet in the living room where Ellie curls into the corner of the sofa. I sit near her. Carl finds his La-Z-Boy and hits Play. The memories begin.

I adjust my own blanket as a six-year-old Ellie skips across the screen singing “Oh! Susanna, don't you cry for me.” Carl is in the background building her swing set.

Next, the three of us are on the beach in Destin. Ellie beams in Carl's arms. He protects her from the ocean's forceful churn, turning his back against every wave, jumping as Ellie squeals with delight. “We've had the best vacations.”

“Every one of them,” Carl says. Then he smiles at me, and for a moment I see the Carl I fell in love with. The teenage boy who danced with me in a field at midnight, our song playing from his
car door speakers. The young man in a hard hat who spun me through the air when he got his first real paycheck. The new father who cut Ellie's umbilical cord and ran through the hospital shouting, “It's a girl!”

With every white-capped wave on-screen, all the love comes washing back over me. And I see my husband as I first saw him. Strong. Steady. Stable. That was before life got complicated. We were good together as long as we stayed on the surface. But eventually couples have to navigate deeper waters, far away from the shallows.

I fear we've lost sight of shore. We've been drifting for years, farther out into the deep, dealing with a series of undertows and storms. Mom's illness, then her death. Carl's career frustrations and the fractured relationships in his own family. Financial pressures and the stress of owning the clinic. Sarah and the immeasurable grief. We can't catch our breath.

The film skips to another scene, a bit later in time. We are on vacation in Colorado, renting horses for a trail ride. Ellie waves to the camera. She's wearing two French braids and Western boots. “The white one,” she says, pointing to the youngest, most skittish horse of the lot.

“You always have been drawn to animals.” I give her leg a gentle pat.

She keeps watching the TV, but smiles. When the guide straps the saddle for her, the young-voiced Ellie argues her case. “Indians don't use saddles.”

The trail guide sets her straight. “Rules are rules. Even I use a saddle.”

Carl, still a young father, gives his daughter a wink and helps her climb into the stirrups. He holds the reins, but she thinks she's
leading the feisty mare all by herself. By the end of the trail, the guide has been worn down enough to give Ellie a chance at bareback. She rides the steadiest paint through a field of flowers as the guide keeps one hand in the mane.

“I always wanted to live in the mountains,” Ellie says from the sofa. “And have a horse.”

“We still plan to get you a horse.” I look to Carl, but he says nothing about building the new house. It's been months since we discussed it, and with so much focus on finding Sarah, it's been the last thing on my mind.

“A white one!” Ellie imitates her six-year-old voice. She's giggling!

The next DVD shows her older, at church camp, taking a brave leap from the high dive. Then riding her bike with no hands. Backflips on the trampoline. A long series of cartwheels across the length of the yard. She stands at the end, dizzy, spinning back down to the ground with pigtails and a belly full of laughs.

“You were fearless. Remember when you climbed the tree at school and the principal had to call 911? The firemen got you down. Wish we had that on video!”

Ellie laughs. “I was only afraid of people. As long as I didn't have to talk to anybody, I was fine.”

“That's why I'm surprised you love theater so much. Painting the backdrops is one thing, but I never thought you'd want to be onstage, talking in front of everybody. You're a natural.”

“Yeah, but onstage I don't have to be me.”

By midnight Ellie and I are both still awake, but Carl is snoring in his oversized chair. We've watched hours of recordings, drawing us through laughter and tears. At times Sarah would appear on film, laughing and dancing alongside Ellie as if she were right here with us. In those moments we would all grow silent. In other
times, the innocence of Ellie's childhood would return to a scene on-screen, and we would exhale with relief.

If only it could be that easy. Hit a button. Go back to good.