Page 143 of When There Was You
I see a flash of anger, pity, sorrow. Maybe regret. “I’m calling the police,” he says as he strides away.
My head falls into my hands, muffling my heaving sobs. Panic and remorse twist my guts anew. A cavern of despair forms, one that seems black, cold, and bottomless.
Police arrive to investigate,take statements, and determine the next course of action. It’s been one hour since Emmy disappeared. One hour for Butch and his parents to conduct a cursory, property-wide search. One hour to for me to become wracked with fear, grief, and self-loathing.
I can’t stand to witness Butch’s stark anguish.
I can’t stop blaming myself.
I can’t help but think of my sister, drowned before we could even develop a friendship. Drowning my entire family in the process.
Now I’m drowning too.
The obvious suspect is Darlene. A stranger could also have forced Emmy into a car and driven away, the irony being that Emmy’s biological motherisa stranger to her. At minimum, Darlene remains a person of interest and police issue an all-points bulletin for her 1970 pale yellow Plymouth Valiant, which Butch describes in detail. He doesn’t remember the full license plate number but provides a partial, and the state: Illinois.
Butch excels under pressure: giving officers a recent school picture of Emmy, answering every question from her age, eye color, and height to the birthmark above her right elbow. We describe what clothes she wore, the brand of sneakers.
I provide a comprehensive statement, explaining how aviolent gastrointestinal attack prevented me from going after Emmy or witnessing what caused her disappearance. The officer seemed concerned, said I looked white as a sheet. I’m still shaky and weak and can barely keep water down but I’m not thinking about me. Only Emmy—and Butch.
A search ensues. The sergeant, a personal family friend, explains most missing kids are off playing somewhere or they’ve wandered over to a friend’s or neighbor’s house. But we know, the way you sometimes do at the bone-deep level, that Emmy is not playing, hiding or lost.
She was taken.
Family, friends, and neighbors arrive to look for her across the massive acreage where the Hamiltons live and canvass the entire neighborhood. The community grapevine works its magic, spreading the word and putting everyone on alert. The Hamiltons are well known and respected in these parts, and one of their own has gone missing. The whole town rallies, doing whatever they can to aid in the search.
Even mired in numbing heartache, I’m awed.
But as the sun sets on this horrific day, Emmy remains missing.
Neighbors drop off food and flashlights.
No one can bring themselves to stop searching. To admit defeat. To do…nothing.
The search is more for us now.
Even weak and nauseous, I continue walking, looking, hoping. The image of her tiara sticks like a thorn in my mind. Emmy would never leave that behind. Was there a struggle? Did Darlene harm her? Is she hurting her now?
Eventually, with heavy limbs and even heavier hearts, we trudge home. People are exhausted—mentally and physically. It’s in the hands of law enforcement now. Between the new computer technology at their disposal and the APB they issued, we pray the police locate Emmy quickly.
Butch and I haven’t spoken in hours. There isn’t anythingto say. I’m devoid of comforting words. None can or will fix this anyway.
I’m waiting for him to break things off for good, to demand I leave. At the very least, to blame my incompetence, rail about my inability to do the most important task at hand—safeguard his child.
A real mother would do that.
Sixty-Eight
Butch’s sobs awaken me. We’re on the couch; neither of us could stomach getting into bed or even think of sleeping. My eyes snap open and swing to him. He’s slumped over his knees, his broad shoulders heaving.
My heart breaks anew.
Something in my chest squeezes at seeing a big, strong man like Butch so shredded, powerless...vulnerable.
Crawling behind him, I wrap my body around his and hold him close. His massive frame shakes as he weeps, wracked with that bottomless, consuming grief and pain.
He doesn’t push me away, an encouraging sign. I remain, anchoring him, reminding himI’m here. I love you. I’m sorry.
Fresh tears spring from my own eyes, rolling down my cheeks and splashing onto his shirt. I tenderly kiss his back.
