The Feathered Bone (36 page)

Part 3

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it.

—J
OHN 1
:5

Chapter 24

October 2007

A
FTER RUNNING A QUICK BRUSH THROUGH MY HAIR AND SLAPPING
on a smudge of Chapstick, I head for Baton Rouge. I am numb as I navigate the congested interstate route I've taken every single workday for nearly a year since Ellie died. Other commuters manage coffee cups and cell phones while they drive. They seem stressed, worried about things that mean nothing to me anymore. I join their Monday-morning crawl all the way to Rod and Reel Realty where I park my fuel-efficient Civic between the rows of oversized four-wheel-drives. Once inside, I get right to work, managing the phone lines as callers hope to find their dream hunting and fishing properties across our bayou state.

Five days a week I enter this glass-walled office and become nothing more than an anonymous voice, directing calls to the agents and listening in as they wheel and deal. I leave them to their reindeer games while I file MLS information, plug each home into the database, and upload photos for online viewing.

The job is low-stress but it keeps my brain busy, and that helps me avoid the constant cognitive cycle, a mind gone mad with trying to reason it all. How one minute I was a doting mother, a faithful wife, and an idealistic social worker who believed wholeheartedly I could make this world a better place. And in a blink, I woke up to
find a cheat as a husband, a child in the grave, and a low-paying job that barely makes my mortgage. I never thought my story would come to this. But here I am, closing myself off behind the glass.

Since Ellie died, sleep has become a challenge; long nights and bad dreams toss and turn me through the lonely hours. Today I can barely stay awake. I answer phones and watch time tick. As soon as the clock signals lunch, I head outside for a dose of fresh air, hoping to walk myself awake.

Usually I avoid the tiny park across the street, all those playful mothers and happy children. But for some reason, today I turn toward the swings.

Sure enough, there's a playgroup having a picnic under the pavilion. Kids run around rambunctiously while their mothers pull grapes and sandwiches from Ziploc bags. One of the moms looks up from a wicker picnic basket to notice her young son climbing the monkey bars. “Wait!” She's on her feet, rushing beneath him, just in case he falls.

That's what mothers do. We promise our children we will be there to catch them, to get them through their weaker moments and build their confidence until they are strong enough to go forth alone.

A child's ball crosses my path, and I grab it before it hits the street. Tossing it back to a girl in braids, I smile and watch her bounce away with her friends. Maybe we should have moved to another state and started over. Maybe I shouldn't have been so set on searching for Sarah. We could have found a brand-new life. We could have focused on healing, not staying stuck in place. Carl never would have met Ashleigh. Ellie would have been a regular kid. We would all be together. As a family.

My lunch break flies by. I spend the rest of the afternoon filing
property information. At the five o'clock mark, I leave the office to find Jay standing by my car. “What's wrong?” I hurry toward him. “Is everybody okay?”

“The gang's all fine. I just got a call. Suicide. Over in Watson. I've been in meetings all day here in town, so I figured since this was on my way, I'd see if you might want to go with me.”

“No, Jay. I can't do that.” I unlock my door.

“It hasn't been long, I know, but you can help this family. You know what they're going through. It makes a difference.” He circles his scant set of keys around his index finger. “Ride with me?”

Viv's words come back to me:
“Healing others is the best way to heal yourself. You help people. It's what you were born to do.”

I look out toward the afternoon traffic and exhale. “Who is it?”

“Young guy. New to town. Left behind a wife. She's not from around here either. Her family hasn't made it in from Georgia yet, so she's got nobody. She really could use your help.”

It's been almost a year. You've seen other survivors come out to the scenes that soon. Even sooner. They do make a difference. If they can do it, you can do it. Be strong, Amanda.

“Okay,” I sigh. “I'll try.”

Jay nods and smiles. Within minutes, we are on our way to the couple's home in Watson. He fills me in on the details. “Twenty-four years old. His wife found him. And the gun.” He switches on his hazards and drives as quickly as he can, especially once he's crossed back into Livingston Parish.

“Kids?”

“None yet. The wife is pregnant.”

He says this as he pulls up to a well-maintained home off a quaint country lane. Deputies have already draped yellow-and-black crime scene tape across the shaded driveway, and a female
officer stands guard at the front door. She greets me by name and steps aside to let me in. I've become far too familiar with this scenario. With this despair.
Stay here, Amanda. Be present.

Jay and one of his investigators work the scene, snapping photos and taking notes in collaboration with the coroner. Within minutes, funeral home workers are carrying the man's remains down the hall, zipped tightly closed in the plastic body bag, while others in the room pretend it isn't happening.

I take my time, looking for the young woman who was reportedly the first to find her husband's body. The living room and kitchen are filled with unpacked boxes, fresh from the move. Folks are gathered, whispering. I assume them to be curious neighbors, probably some church members or coworkers. I don't see anyone with the familiar haunting half-dead stare of a suicide survivor. These people are talking quietly, shaking their heads and making assumptions about the events leading up to the act. But no one is pale or in shock. No one here seems to have left the world of the living.

I ease my way toward the minister, and he seems relieved to see me. We know each other from past calls.

“I'm glad you're here,” he says. “We can't get her to respond. Maybe you can help.”

I follow the humble pastor into a back bedroom, where a woman is lying on the floor of her closet. Her long hair covers her face in loose tangles. She wears a substantial diamond wedding ring on her left hand. She is dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, but both feet are bare. Her face is tucked tight against her swollen belly, her unborn child likely kicking inside, and her hands are held against the crown of her head, covering her ears. She is doing all she can to disappear. I know this strategy.

With a soft, calm voice, I call her name. She doesn't answer.

The minister shakes his head and says, “We've tried everything. She won't respond.”

“Any family members here?”

“They're on their way. She's pregnant, you know?”

I nod. “When is she due?”

“February.”

This draws a moan from the closet as the woman begins to rock back and forth. I count in my head. She's about five months along. Maybe the child will give her reason to live.

I've been on calls with Jay many times, but not since Ellie took her own life. Not since I wrapped my hands around my own ears and sobbed, wanting death to take me away. But now that I know this walk, I begin by taking off my official social worker hat and being present as nothing more than a survivor. I show my own scars, something my license would never allow.

“My daughter committed suicide,” I say softly. “Almost a year ago. She was barely fourteen. I was alone when I found her.”

She may not hear what I'm saying, but I trust the right words will find their way to her at the right time. That's all I can do.

“The night she died, I was home with her. I walked into her room. She was on her bed. Just lying there. She used a gun too.” I continue, detail after detail, letting her know that not only do I care, but I understand. I've been there. I'm still there.

When I say, “She was my only child,” the woman stops rocking and moaning and pulls her hands away from her head. As she looks at me, I say, “You will get through this. I promise. I'm here to help you. Lots of people are here to help you.”

She reaches for my hand. I repeat this message in various ways, again and again. It finally begins to sink in. Twenty minutes later,
she crawls out of the closet and leans against the bedroom wall, her arms curled tight around her belly. Her eyes connect with mine, as if I'm all she has to believe in anymore.

“Stay with me,” she says. The fact that I'm still here, that I somehow survived my daughter's suicide, is enough to get her to the next inhale.

Monday, October 29, 2007

Today's The Day, the third anniversary of Sarah's disappearance and one year after Ellie's suicide. This year, instead of helping Beth search for Sarah, I have come to my daughter's grave. I am here to focus on her life, not her death.

I still haven't ordered her marker. Instead, I placed a cement bench near her grave. It's a quiet spot beneath the oak. A place for me to examine my emotional shoe box, confront the piles of pain.

I set down a thermos of tea and begin to flip through photographs I've brought with me. They show Ellie through the years, from the moment she was born, wrapped in a striped cotton blanket
at my breast, to a red-cheeked toddler at dance lessons, wearing a sequined costume and shiny tap shoes, then tutus and ballet slippers. Sarah is beside her in nearly every pose. Photos show them earning Girl Scout badges, pitching a tent at church camp, singing in the choir. With each page, memories surface, and I become more and more convinced that we gave our daughter a good life. A happy life. A life with love.