Little Lovely Things, page 11
“Remember what they told us, hon,” Glen offered. “Eyes on the camera. Keep calm.”
The timbre of his voice warmed Claire. This discovery had created a slight crack in the shell of their grief, brought them back to working together, to moving forward as a couple. Most importantly, it seemed to have tempered Glen’s disposition, which was prone to moody silence since they’d buried Lily.
Claire glanced at a small cosmetic mirror set in place for the anchors. The nervous look on her face perfectly mimicked the feelings churning inside. She had convinced herself that if she did a good job, there would be credible sightings and calls within hours.
Motioned by a man in headphones, they took seats onstage and settled side by side into molded plastic chairs. The backdrop lit up. A computer-generated image of Lake Michigan ebbed and flowed behind them, the waves lifting in a gentle pattern. Music followed. A moisture mustache broke out on Claire’s upper lip. And then the voice of the female host, Jodi, surged through the speakers in an excited tone.
“Goood day, Chicago! You are with us along with our studio audience on Live at Five!”
Applause.
“We have Claire and Glen Rawlings here with us today with an update. This is the family, you will recall”—her voice slowed—“that had their two beautiful children stolen three long months ago.”
The audience simmered to a hush. Jodi’s coiffed blond hair remained impeccable, her green eyes earnest as she spoke into the camera, explaining the events relating to the abduction. When Jodi got to the part about Lily, Claire’s head grew light. She feared she might pass out. Glen took her hand into his own.
“Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings.” Clive, Jodi’s cohost, joined in. “Today we have some new information.” He was a large guy with a surprisingly high voice. “Only a few days ago you learned that your station wagon, the one that was stolen along with your children, was discovered to have been part of an accident.”
A picture of the crumpled Taurus flashed onto the large-screen monitor next to the camera. Claire could see the car and the audience at the same time as her mind involuntarily reconstructed the evil Charcoal Man. She scanned the faces in the audience for sympathy, rage.
“My understanding, Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings, is that since this discovery was made, you’ve worked every phone line, every muscle, to gain more information because you are hopeful…” Clive hesitated for dramatic effect. “Hopeful that your daughter Andrea may still be alive. Can you tell us, Mrs. Rawlings, what leads you to believe this?”
Other than the absence of her daughter’s body, there was nothing. Except that Claire felt Andrea was alive, almost in her very bones. It was as if a ray of what Claire now termed Lily’s light, the one she had seen at the graveside, had returned, lifting her desperation. Her stomach, too, had become tolerable since learning about the Taurus. And they had support today. Detective Hearns and Vicki sat in the third row, a unified army of two. That felt good. Vicki, once again in from California, offered eager eyes. Claire knew all this travel was a strain, and was doubly grateful she’d come.
The detective’s violet blouse accentuated the deep bronze of her skin. As always, Claire kept a read on the detective’s movements, her facial expressions. When she’d delivered the news to Claire and Glen in person at their house, she seemed downright buoyant, even as she urged keeping their expectations from running wild. She now smiled encouragingly.
“Mrs. Rawlings?”
Claire cleared her throat. “There is no evidence of my older daughter at the scene of the accident. She may have escaped. Or been given to”—Claire paused momentarily—“sold to someone else.” A quiet gasp rose from the audience. “We believe she is still alive.”
Jodi took over. “We have someone joining us today, a child psychiatrist from Northwestern University Hospital, Dr. Howard Fisher.”
They had been told an expert would be phoning in, not sharing the stage with them. Somehow, the idea of a child psychiatrist seemed terribly unsettling. This Howard Fisher wrestled onto the stage with a three-footed cane. He was thick and short, grandfatherly. But shadowed by the lights, his deep-set eyes were unreadable. His presence seemed to give lumpy shape to the scarier emotions clamoring inside Claire. She needed positive information, good news.
“Can you tell us your thoughts from a professional perspective, after reviewing the circumstances?” Jodi was referring to Lily’s autopsy report.
Clive looked down at prepared notes. “Weren’t there drugs involved?”
Dr. Fisher’s deep steady voice echoed across the stage. “Aside from a traumatic brain injury—possibly heat stroke—traces of some pretty powerful chemicals were found in the little girl’s body. Lily and most likely her older sister, Andrea”—he paused before continuing—“were exposed to mind-altering drugs, drugs that can effectively erase memory. At least in the short term.”
The audience was riveted. Claire’s eyes flashed over to him, searching for sympathy. But he was either too far away or too focused on the camera to notice. She suddenly despised this man for making a spectacle of her children.
“Please continue, Dr. Fisher.” Jodi’s voice radiated concern.
“From a therapeutic standpoint, there’s something else as well.” He paused and cleared his throat. “According to research, traumatic memories in children have a number of unusual qualities. They are not encoded in a verbal linear narrative as they are in adults. Rather, they may take on the form of vivid sensations and images. These often override memories of cherished events in the past, or even of loved ones.”
“In other words”—Jodi turned to Claire—“if your other daughter is found, she may not know who she is? May not even recognize you?”
This was Claire’s fear realized, brought to life in words. Beyond death itself, or even—God help her—sexual abuse, the worst thing possible would be that Andrea, when found, would somehow no longer be hers, that her memory and thus all ties to her family had been destroyed. She moved her mouth to speak. Nothing came out.
Glen cut in. “We don’t care if she remembers us right away. We just want our little girl back. We hope to find her quickly. We will look everywhere. The longer this goes on, the slimmer our chances…”
He didn’t finish.
Claire was losing momentum. She could feel it. She needed someone to stand up for her. To announce to the viewers that, at one time, she had been superwoman, managing it all: med school, a happy marriage, and most important, being a really great mom.
Discussion droned on, with the expert forming words that Claire could simply no longer perceive. Finally, Clive looked into the camera.
“This is why it is so important for us all to memorize this little girl’s face.”
Andrea’s picture filled the screen; it was the one Claire had given Jay White. Claire dabbed the corner of one eye, but there were no tears. Not now. The intensity of this public situation was wringing her dry.
Thankfully, Jodi kept her attention on Glen. “Turns out he may have been a transient, a vagabond of some sort. The FBI is still sorting this out—trying to ID him, locate his family.”
“Turns out he might be a transient, a vagabond of some sort.”
Glen focused on the police sketch, now flashing on the monitor, which was in turn replaced by a live shot of Claire. She was stunned by her appearance. That very morning, she and Vicki had gone through a hundred changes of clothes together, trying to get this right.
“How about this one, hon?” Vicki had held up a mauve blouse with mother-of-pearl buttons.
She tried that. And then the olive-green turtleneck after. One by one, her closet emptied of outfits. Nothing looked right. Because Claire no longer looked like herself. The weight loss had drawn her face into something severe and her coloring was sallow. She finally decided on a navy knit sweater. It seemed like a good choice at the time, but now she was concerned it might make her appear harsh to the people at home watching. The very same people who would magically divulge where Andrea was last seen. Thankfully, Claire detected murmurings, small bits of sympathy palpable in the room.
Clive was out among the studio audience, weaving up and down the aisles to field questions. A large man with thick silver hair stood to express support. A retired teacher, he loved kids. “Just wanted to say”—he removed and wiped his glasses—“that I’m sorry for what you’ve been through.”
Claire glanced toward Hearns. She gave a thumbs-up look. Not a hand gesture—that wasn’t Hearns at all. But a look. Claire flushed with appreciation bordering on love for the detective, for the audience. This was something, right? Something good. A woman waved Clive over to her seat along the aisle. She was thick, frumpy. It took an embarrassing minute to lift her heavy body out of the chair. But Claire liked her face. She liked the faces of everyone assembled today. They were going to help her find Andrea.
“If you don’t mind, Mrs. Rawlings, I’d like to know, as a mother, I mean, do you feel any guilt about leaving your girls in the car?”
“Excuse me?” Clive rocked back on his tall man-heels, acting like he was aghast. But he wasn’t. This was good drama.
Claire was stunned. How could this woman, or anyone for that matter, understand the burning guilt that was nibbling her apart piece by tiny piece, in a very literal sense consuming her body. She looked frantically at Glen, who responded with a confused expression of his own. Sensing his hurt, Claire quaked with outrage and leaned forward tightening her voice into a defensive weapon. “That is the most inapprop—”
Glen squeezed her hand, meaning: Stop it, Claire.
“Ma’am…” Glen cleared his throat and squinted a little. He gushed with understanding, diplomacy. “This was no accident. This…this…predator would’ve found a way to get our girls.” His voice dropped lower. “We—I—am convinced of it.”
Claire knew this wasn’t true. Any of it. Glen wanted to strangle this woman but instead chose to manufacture the emotion he needed for their daughter. Claire loved him for that, hated that she couldn’t do it herself. But the worst thing was that this woman’s question had exposed the truth that Glen refused to name, the thing that was driving his swingy moods: this was her fault and they both knew it. Her stomach laddered upward toward her chest, and she feared she might be sick.
Jodi gestured to Clive. “We will be back in one minute.”
A commercial break. The momentary respite her stomach needed to settle back down. A quick signal was given and Dr. Fisher lumbered from the stage and disappeared into the wings. That, too, was a relief. But now Claire found it awkward to sit in silence in front of the naked lights while the audience stared.
“I feel like a salamander,” she murmured under her breath.
“What?” Glen turned to her, barely hiding his exasperation.
She wanted to tell him that if you touch a salamander, the acid from your hands will literally burn it. And she now felt as if she were being touched by a thousand hands.
The cameras flared back up, and urged by a stage manager, the audience started clapping again. It was short and tense. This wasn’t the time for perceived joviality.
C’mon, we need more support here.
Claire scanned the crowd. Hearns was looking down at something. Maybe at her pager? Vicki’s head darted from side to side as if in disbelief. Her hand shot into the air. She’d straighten this situation out.
But a petite woman with a generous face beat her to Clive’s attention. “This is such a terribly sad story. It just breaks my heart. I’ve been watching, you know, following along since August. You’re in my prayers. I take care of little ones and…”
Clive pulled the mic back. He engaged another person and then went on to someone, and then someone else after that. But Claire had faded, was almost dizzy. She felt she could tell what these women were thinking, could easily read it in their tight, little expressions. What kind of mother would’ve done this?
Jodi cut in. “So sorry, but time is close to up. One last statement from our parents?”
It was Glen who had the final word, bringing the discussion home with a plea.
“Please help us. Find our Andrea. Her fifth birthday is in two months. We’d like to celebrate it with her at home.”
Claire’s heart swelled at how Glen was able to do this—talk about Andrea in the present tense with no hesitation.
Glen continued, “She has the most beautiful brown eyes and”—his voice wavered, then strengthened—“we will look forever, as long as it takes, to find our daughter. Anywhere…in the world… We just want her back.”
Andrea’s picture and the hotline number came up on the monitor. Try as she might, Claire couldn’t muster tears. Not public ones. Hers were rough-edged, internal, grinding through her very bones.
Claire turned to Detective Hearns for support, but her chair was empty. A small panic ignited inside. Probably someone else’s emergency. Silly Claire. That woman was busy. There were other people in the world with problems, other crimes to be solved.
With the show concluded, Vicki met her backstage. “You did great,” she said, but her eyes suggested otherwise.
“Where’s Detective Hearns?”
“Dunno. She got a message. Said it was urgent and left.” Vicki glanced at her wristwatch with a worried look. “Sorry, hon, I have to stop in at Troy’s mother’s. I promised. I’ll be home later. Hopefully before the bad weather.”
Claire hugged her sister, grateful for her presence. “Be safe, Vicki.”
Glen came out of the bathroom, his expression granite, eyes averted. They walked to the parking garage without a word.
In the car, he finally spoke.
“What the hell, Claire? You almost went off on that person in the audience. I mean, I’m always the one picking up the pieces. And…”
“What?”
He pulled his hair from his forehead and then slammed the gearshift into Drive. “Nothing.”
“Glen. Can you just say it?” Claire felt herself wilting. “Can you just say that you blame me?”
He didn’t reply. Yet his face rippled with tightened muscles. Claire waited until they were on the highway to bridge this gulf between them, to break through the terrible tension. “Glen. Andrea is…”
“Don’t say it. I already know. Out there somewhere. We just have to find her. The goddamn thing is this: I’ve looked into private detectives. International ones. They cost money, Claire. A lot.” His voice deepened with controlled rage. “My salary doesn’t come close to covering such a thing. It barely makes the house payment. You need to finish med school. You could be done in, what, half a year? Then we’d have some leverage. I asked at the bank. We can get loans until then—but only if you’re back in the program. We’ll be buried otherwise, Claire. Buried alive financially.”
What was he talking about? Return to work? How was that even possible? Of course, she knew they were facing an avalanche of debt. Med school tuition was equivalent to buying three new BMWs a year. For four or five years. It was beyond imagining when they had signed for the loans. But at the time, they could easily guarantee that they’d pay them off, no worries. Unless, the loan officer had chuckled, some untoward disaster or act of God occurred.
However, what Glen was asking felt inconceivable. What Glen didn’t say was that Claire owed him this. She locked her jaw and made a promise to herself. She didn’t care how much Glen pushed; she wouldn’t go back. Not until Andrea was found. Otherwise, it would be as if she were abandoning her girls a second time. She kept silent, with her eyes on the road.
Two exits down, they were forced into a detour and ended up going the wrong way when they got back on the highway. By that time, rush hour was gumming up the roadways and the storm Vicki mentioned was kicking into gear.
Once in their neighborhood, Glen brought the car to a crawl among drifts rising like bread dough. Cones of light from the streetlamps were shaggy with falling snow. Andrea could be out in this somewhere. Please God, Claire prayed, keep her warm. They managed their way into the house and sealed themselves in. There was no talk of dinner. Claire only remembered to feed Gretchie when she found her licking plates in the open dishwasher. The boxer looked up with generous coin purses for eyes, as if to say, I’ll be okay.
Butkus was a different story. He cackled angrily and shuffled along his perch, demonstrating his displeasure at their return.
Just as Glen switched on the TV, headlights danced across their picture window. Claire rubbed a spot of condensation and peeked through the pane expecting to see Vicki’s rental car. But a different vehicle materialized through the strobing precipitation.
“Glen. It’s Detective Hearns.”
Claire watched her husband as he met the detective at the door. He would, she knew, be trying to read her expression quickly, trying to discern the reason she was in their house, off duty, in this weather. Hearns entered crackling with snow and cold, her mood subdued.
“I wanted to tell you something we just learned. In person. Maybe we should all sit down.”
The detective half crouched awkwardly in a swivel chair, an old piece of furniture donated by Glen’s parents. Gretchie had claimed it recently after they’d somehow misplaced her dog bed. Hearns’s face went from solemn to distressed. Claire and Glen waited on the couch. Catatonic.
