The Feathered Bone (25 page)

“You used all the hot water.”

I don't reply. Instead, I scoop eggs onto a plate and add a stack of pancakes, handing it off to him as he sits next to Ellie at the counter. He shoves the fliers out of his way and says nothing. I pass him some silverware and pour his coffee, stir in some sugar. He stays silent.

As soon as he finishes his breakfast, he announces, “I'm going to bed. One of us actually works around here.”

“Carl?” He waits as if it's the biggest inconvenience of his life. “It's a hard day. For all of us. Listen, please. Since you've been working the night shift, we do well to cross paths at all. Why don't you call me when you wake up, and I'll come home. Maybe we can do a late lunch before you head back. Talk some things through.”

He grumbles something I can't hear and then closes the bedroom door behind him, not bothering to kiss me good-bye.

Ellie and I continue our morning routine and head out for the day. By the time I turn into the carpool line at the middle school, the cheerleaders are holding spirit signs at the entrance, sharing enthusiastic grins as they try to boost excitement about tonight's big game.

“I still can't believe you're a teenager.” I touch Ellie's long, soft curls and she retracts.

Leaning her head against the passenger-side window, she stares at the cheerleaders, who giggle and wave near our car. “I wonder if Sarah is in school somewhere.” She speaks from a haunted place, as if the weight of the world rests on her tongue.

Second-guessing Carl's insistence on sending her to school today, I inch the car closer to the drop-off point and offer an alternative. “Maybe we should have a mother-daughter day. Spend time together, just the two of us.”

“We're already here. I might as well go.”

I touch her knee. “Ellie?” I wait for her to look my way. “I know I've said this so many times, but you need to know—what happened to Sarah is not your fault.”

She sighs and turns back to stare out the window.

“Remember what all the counselors have said. And your grief group. It's normal to be feeling overwhelmed, even after a year. Especially on days like today, the anniversary. But it's not always this bad, right?”

She doesn't respond.

“Ellie?” I try again to get through. “We may never understand what happened to Sarah. But it had nothing to do with you. And to be honest, I have often wondered . . . what if you had been with Sarah when it happened? What if we were out there looking for you too?”

She turns now and looks me in the eye. Every inch of her is drawn down, depressed. “Don't you get it, Mom? I wish it had been me.”

Her words gnaw at my bones. “Ellie, listen to me. I couldn't make it through a single day if something happened to you. I really don't know how Beth and Preacher manage. I don't have that kind of strength.”

“And I don't have this kind of strength.”

“Oh, Ellie. Honey. You do. You are stronger than you think.”

“No, Mom. I'm not. I hate this. I hate that Sarah's gone. I hate that I'm still here. And I hate that everybody blames me.”

“Nobody blames you, Ellie. Nobody. I assure you.”

“You don't see the way they look at me, Mom. Like it's all my fault.”

“Who looks at you like that? Everybody loves you, Ellie. You have tons of friends. The entire town has supported you. Nobody blames you at all. I promise.” It's time for Ellie to get out of the car, but I'm not ready for her to leave. Not like this.

“Whatever,” she says, opening the door and grabbing her heavy backpack from the floorboard. “I'm staying late for haunted house, remember?”

“Okay, sweetie.” I smile through my worry. “What time should I pick you up? Seven?”

“Seven thirty.” With this she closes the door and makes her way through the crowd. Several girls rush to join her, tucking in at
her side. If only she could feel how loved she really is. I don't know how to help her see that. I pull my car to the side and watch her weave her way through the world, wishing more than anything I could ease her pain.

Chapter 17

B
EFORE
I
HEAD TO THE OFFICE
, I
PULL INTO THE OLD
F
INA STATION
to refill my tank and give Beth a call. Once upon a time we were meeting here as teens, trading cigarettes and wine coolers, chasing Carl and his older friends. Beth served as the designated driver and constant lookout to ensure we wouldn't be caught. Now a long blank space spreads between Beth and me. No matter how many times she and Preacher insist they don't blame me for what happened to Sarah, I blame myself.

She answers on the second ring, and I speak with a soft voice, acknowledging the weight of today's anniversary. “Beth? I've got an eight-thirty client, but I've cleared my schedule for the rest of the day. I'll be heading out with fliers. I just wanted to see if you might want to go with me? Or we can go for a walk? Grab some coffee? Anything you need.”

“Thanks, Amanda.”

There's a pause, and I'm not sure how to fill it. If either of us speaks, we may burst into tears. So we steep in the silence until Beth takes the lead. She tells me their plans for the day include a few television interviews.

“We've just finished the local morning shows. We're trying to keep Sarah's pictures out there so people won't stop looking.”

“I'm glad they're giving you air time.”

“We go in to talk about trafficking. No matter how much we hate it, we've been given this platform. We're trying to make the most of it. Even if it doesn't bring Sarah back to us, maybe we can at least help other missing children.”

I take a deep breath. My lungs fill with the harsh fumes of gasoline.

“You think she's being exploited?”

“It's a possibility,” Beth says. “Preacher's convinced.”

“I'll target the typical hot spots again today. I keep thinking there's something we're not seeing. Something right in front of our eyes.”

“Thanks, Amanda. As soon as we finish up here, we plan to spend the afternoon out at Jay's camp. Just the two of us.”

“I'm sorry, Beth. I'd do anything to fix this. To bring her home.”

As I say the words
fix this
, Carl's criticisms come rushing back, and my hands begin to shake.
What if he's right? What if what they really need is for me to leave them alone?
I set the fuel pump and clasp my hands together. The chemical scent clings to my fingers.

“We don't blame you, Amanda. We really don't. It's . . . it's all too hard.” Her sigh lasts longer than any I've ever heard. For the first time since The Day, I sense she is losing her final bit of faith.

We end the call, and I cap my tank just as Jay pulls his truck to the opposite side of my pump. He smiles and exits the cab. “You still fill up at the Fina? Who does that?”

“Too sentimental for my own good.”

“Yep. Loyal to a fault.” He laughs. “Where are you headed?”

“Work.” We talk around fumes as cars rush by. “Just one client. Then off to post more fliers. It's been a year. Today.”

“I know,” he says. “You holding up?”

“Ehhh. What choice do we have?”

“Right.”

I move to his side of the pump. “How did you get through those days, when we all relied on you to be the strong one?”

“Somebody's got to do it.” He shines his trademark grin, a bit of a crooked hook to the right corner, with the kind of perfect white teeth that make every girl dream of being kissed.

“I'm serious. It has to get to you.”

“Of course it does, Gloopy. Just don't tell anybody.” Another smile. As Raelynn likes to say, Prince Charming has nothing on this man. But I'm not one of the many who fall for that charm. I'm his friend. He can't butter his way through truth with me.

“Jay,” I challenge.

“Gloopy.” He slides his credit card into the machine, selects his fuel, and begins to pump.

“Get real.”

He pulls back a second before lowering his guard. “Okay. Truth is, I learned it the hard way. Right after I was elected. One of the worst things I ever had to do. I had gone out to a wreck scene. One of my deputies was killed. Remember?”

I nod. I do.

“I had just hired him. He wasn't on duty when it happened, but still. I felt responsible. Having to go to his house and tell his wife. She was standing there, pregnant, holding another kid on her hip. All of twenty-two years old.”

“Horrible.”

“It was.” He returns his debit card to his wallet and leans against his truck. It's shiny clean, with a fresh coat of wax.

He doesn't mention his own similar heartache. I can still picture Jay's beautiful blond fiancée, Riley. She was a girl he'd met in
college. He'd brought her home a couple times from Lafayette, once to announce their engagement. Her death was awful. Those invitations all stamped and ready to mail, strewn across the highway from the crash. There's no doubt, delivering that kind of news to his deputy's wife brought it all to the surface for him. But I don't mention Riley. And neither does he.

“So I figured I sure wasn't going to last long in this job like that. I had to learn right then and there. When it starts to get the best of me, I walk away. Separate from it. If I need to cry, I go off and cry. And then I come back and take charge again.”

He opens up to me and I listen. In all my years counseling families, I've never heard a man be so honest about his emotions. Not here in Livingston Parish, where boys are taught to be solid, tough, almost brutal. And yet here's the strongest man in all of LP telling me he cries. And he owns it.

“It's like my grandfather always said, somebody's got to be the leader. That's what I was hired to be. But how am I supposed to help anybody if I'm a wreck myself? Simple as that.”

I enter my office and move straight to the calendar. I've got all of ten minutes before Mrs. Hosh arrives. It's been years since her son's suicide, and she's finally scheduled her first official appointment. She begged to come today, and I couldn't dare tell her I was taking the day off.

As she enters, I stand to greet her, hoping I can give her what she's come to find.

“I'm not sure why I'm here,” she says, nervously fidgeting with
her purse as I offer her a seat. She stays on the edge, straight-backed and guarded.

“It's scary the first time. Everyone feels that way. What can I get for you? Water? Tea?”

She accepts a cup of cold water from the Kentwood tank and begins to ease herself against the back of the upholstered chair, one of the few pieces I took from Mom's house after she died. At Carl's insistence, I left the rest behind for the new tenants. No easy thing for me to do.

“So how does this work?” she asks.

“Well, in all my years as a therapist, with all those families, I've learned I'm not here to give people advice. I'm here to listen.”

There's a pause here. Then she says, “I was hoping you would have something to say. And I could listen.” She laughs nervously and fidgets with her hands.

I take a seat in the chair next to her. “I do have a few tricks I can teach you. Might help you cope with the pain.”

“Yes.” She relaxes a bit and takes a sip of water. “That's what I need. It's been nearly five years, and I still have what you would call panic attacks. I fall apart at random times, when something brings it all back to me. A smell. Something I see. It's crazy. I think I'm going crazy.”

“You're not going crazy. You're dealing with a terrible tragedy. Losing a child—that's one of the hardest things anyone could experience. The fact that you're sitting here with me today proves how incredibly strong you are.”

She sighs. Spins the paper cup in her hands.

I stand and grab a cardboard shoe box from my shelf, pulling it to my desk. “Some of my clients have found this helpful.” I give her
the empty box, and she sets her water down on the end table. “They like to think of it as a tool.”

She opens the lid but says nothing, so I explain this as a way to compartmentalize her pain.

“I'm not sure I understand.” She closes the box and sets it in her lap.

“Well, sometimes it helps to move through the steps. Are you willing to give it a try?”

She shrugs, eyeing the box suspiciously. “Okay.”

“What is hurting you most? Right now? The first thing that comes to mind?” I give her time.

“Today is his birthday. Ryan. He would be twenty-three.” She doesn't cry when she says this. It's as if she's telling me what to get from the grocery store or what size shirt to order.

“This must be a very difficult day for you.”

She doesn't nod or say a word. The answer is in her eyes.

On an index card, I write,
It's hard to deal with certain days like birthdays, holidays, and anniversaries.
Then I hand her the paper. “Go ahead and put this in the box.”