A Keeper's Truth (15 page)

The police
make their way down the steps.

“Extend my
condolences to the
MacKinnen
family,” I yell after
them.

I shut the
door and lean against it, eyes closed, praying to some unknown god that Sonia
was killed quickly and without pain. Somehow, deep inside, I know this is not
the case. Nightmares have given me more than enough experience in the brutal
death department to know what Sonia might have gone through. I shudder at the
thought.

The sound
of muffled voices catches my attention and I open the door.

Officer
Smith stands a few feet from Bryce on my walkway, nodding as Bryce speaks.
Officer
Becale
scribbles in her notebook then reaches
out, a card between two fingers. “Much appreciated, Mr. Waters, we’ll see you
soon,” she says, grinning.

Not having
heard her speak much, I’m caught off guard by her mouse-like voice. Bryce takes
the card. No smile, no charm, all business. Officer
Becale
scurries down the walkway on the heels of Officer Smith, back to the cruiser
parked in the driveway. Halfway there she hesitates to sneak a peek at the man
in black, suddenly crowding my doorway with his presence.

“This is
bad timing,” Bryce says. He’s standing in a strange position, hands behind his
back. He has an uncomfortable, almost tortured expression on his face. This is
the first I’ve seen him since his fight with Thomas. I scrutinize his eyes and
cheekbones, searching for telltale signs of bruising.

“I’m
fine,” he mumbles. He is. I see nothing. “I wanted to . . . I
thought . . .” His breath billows, cloudlike, hovering mid air.
He looks like he’d prefer to be anywhere other than my porch.

This Bryce
baffles me. I’m accustomed to seeing him ooze confidence.

“I can’t
really deal with this right now, Bryce.” I’m not sure where this is headed, but
it’s irrelevant since I’m not in a place to go there with him. My Christmas
wounds are too fresh. “Is something wrong, something more important than a
young woman found dead?”

“Like I
said, this is really bad timing,” he says. “I should go.” He fidgets but
doesn’t move to leave.

“Look,
Bryce—”

“These are
for you.” The movement is instantaneous. One second his hands are tightly
tucked, the next they’re before me, displaying a bouquet of white daisies. I
stare at my favorite flowers. “This feels wrong but I can’t leave without you
seeing them,” he says, extending farther, suggesting I take the flowers.

“These are
stunning, Bryce.” I take the bouquet into my arms. “But I don’t—”

He raises
a hand. “Please,” he says. “I only wanted to say merry Christmas.” He has a way
about him, a talent for melting me. I form a natural, easy smile, and struggle
to recall why I’m upset.

“Thank you
for the flowers,” I say, fingertips dancing over velvet petals. “They’ll look
perfect in the vase Grams gave me.”

Bryce
nods. “I should let you get back to your baking.”

“How do
you know I was baking?”

“Look,
I—I was hoping we could talk soon, possibly over dinner.”

I’m
willing to listen to what Bryce has to say, just not at this moment. “I’m not
sure a date is in my near future, but I will talk to you. You and Thomas. I
just need—”

“I
should’ve given you more time,” he mumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Seriously,
I’m all right. We’ll talk another time. Christmas was rough and this local girl
has been found dead and I—”

“Say no
more.” A forced smile clouds his features. “Another day.” He turns to leave.

“Yes,” I
say. I have questions that need answers. “Another day.”

Darwinism,
which is rooted in the assumption that all existence is matter-based, cannot
account for the most human characteristic of all, consciousness. The human mind
is capable of far more than necessary for mere survival. Why?

Forgotten
History Magazine
: Archeological Finds Baffle Scientists

A
bby sucks
on the curved end of a candy cane patiently waiting for a chance to snatch
another hot chocolate from one of the perky elves in bright red stockings. I
lean on the red and white striped metal pole that claims this very spot as The
North Pole. Kids squeal, on sugar highs. Our boots make sloshing sounds in the
slush while we stand in line, the bus six line. There are a lot of us here and
it’s quite chaotic.

The
teachers of Carlisle Elementary, Ms. Rainer included, were nice enough to plan
this field trip to Elves Village over the holidays, providing good reason to
implement one of my New Year’s resolutions a few hours early. Resolution:
refrain from all mental jabs pertaining Ms. Rainer. I’ve devised this pledge
for two reasons, the first being that the lady really doesn’t deserve my
attitude. She’s chosen a career that requires her to be in the company of
twenty children, seven hours a day, five days a week, and I suppose one would
either need a whole lot of drugs or an upbeat personality to handle that kind
of environment. The second reason is quite simple: Abby adores her.

Somewhere
in this mass of students and parents are Sofia and Bryce, although we haven’t
seen them since this morning when we were placed in separate groups for the
day, sorted by surnames in alphabetical order. We’re shoulder to shoulder, M
through P, exhausted and clammy, awaiting our yellow submarine rides back to
the school. Hot liquid burns my insides and I flap my coat in the cool air.
Abby’s scarf hangs from my coat pocket, rescued from a botched expedition. The
day has been chilly, but beautiful, the sun setting the snow to glimmer. Today
we built snowmen, decorated cookies, doused popsicle-stick ornaments with
sparkle glue, pet the fake reindeer, and climbed the Winter Wonderland jungle
gym. Before calling it a day we visited Mr. and Mrs. Claus, who did a great job
feigning interest in Abby’s dismal recount of Christmas. I was most grateful.

We file
onto the buses, Abby plopping beside a plump boy with white-blond curls and
ice-blue eyes. Abby stares at him, enthralled. The boy blushes, adding another
dimension of color to his face. We’re bundled in snowsuits, boots, scarves,
hats, and mittens—great for a cold day, but not for an overpopulated bus.
I loosen my scarf and scan the crowd for familiar faces. I notice Bryce is on
the bus to the left of us, nestled beside a heavy-set woman in a bright-orange
parka. Sofia is sitting on Bryce’s lap. For the first time I notice how alike
Bryce and Sofia look. Same dark hair, same shaped eyes and lips. They are more
alike than Thomas and Sofia. How did I not realize they were related before?

Thomas
called this morning. He and Sofia had just returned from Belize and he wanted
to talk, but I was running out the door and hadn’t figured out what I wanted to
say to him, so I said we’d talk later. He got snippy when I said we were on our
way to the school for the field trip. He was mad that I’d changed my mind and
decided to go. Once I got to the school and saw Bryce with Sofia, the pieces
fit and I knew why Thomas had given me attitude. He must have agreed to let
Bryce bring Sofia because he thought I wouldn’t be here.

In fact,
several pieces fell into place. The day of the fall fair, when Thomas saw Bryce
standing behind me, maybe that look wasn’t just jealousy. I think Thomas was
shocked to see Bryce at the fair at all. I mean, why would he be there without
his niece, who was supposedly home sick? I bet Thomas didn’t know Bryce had
volunteered and would come without Sofia. Did Thomas pull the plug on Bryce’s
day with Sofia when he heard I’d decided to take Abby to the fair? Was Thomas
playing the game long before I imagined?

The lies
just keep piling up, burying Thomas deep. Who the hell does he think he is?

A second
wave of people crowds the bus, forcing me to make room. I shuffle down the
aisle, trying desperately to protect the paper bag containing Abby’s
masterpieces. The bus moves, heading to the main road, and I rise to my toes,
hoping to catch a glimpse of Abby honing her flirting skills. All I can see is
the fluorescent puff crowning her ear warmers as it bounces with the potholes.

Close to
the school a toddler tugs my scarf. “
Whath
doth a new
year mean?” he says between missing teeth.

I explain
until the bus stops. We’re back in the school parking lot.

“Abby,
wait outside the bus for me,” I yell around bodies.

People are
gathering loose pieces of clothing, peering out windows to locate their cars in
the parking lot, chatting with their kids. It takes forever to get off the damn
bus, and when I do I search for Abby’s lime green parka and a head of red
curls.

I don’t
see either.

I stroll
around the buses, calling, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

After the
second lap I freak.

“Abigail
Morgan, this isn’t funny. Where are you?”

I turn in
circles, searching, inspecting anyone wearing green. I sprint across the
parking lot, dodging cars blocking my path to Magic Carpet. When I get there, I
don’t see Abby. A line of vehicles exits the parking lot. I run from child to
child and car to car, bordering on hysteria, pushing people out of my way, no
regard for pleasantries.

“Abby!” I
run another lap around all three buses, pausing periodically to inspect the
underbelly for hide-and-seek participants. There is no sign of her.

Climbing
back onto bus six, I search under the seats, calling Abby’s name. She’s
nowhere. “Abby!” My scream reverberates through the empty bus. Horrific thoughts
bombard my head, visions too gruesome to absorb. I cover my mouth, my stomach
threatening to explode.

I leap
from the bus to run to the next one but stumble forward, falling into Ms.
Bubbly. She flies sideways into a garbage can, shocked, and maybe hurt. I
should care but I don’t.

Fuck
resolutions.

“Abby!”

“Mrs.
Morgan.” Ms. Bubbly says, righting herself. “What’s got you all worked up?”

I lower my
head between my knees and suck a mouthful of air. The oxygen slows the
spinning, enough for coherent thought. “I can’t find Abby. I’m an awful mother.
I’ve lost her. I’ve lost her!”

“Your
daughter was on bus six, Mrs. Morgan, she wasn’t left behind.”

“Abby was
at the front of the bus and I was stuck at the back. She got off without me,
and disappeared.”

“Well, she
must be around here somewhere.”

“I’ve
searched everywhere,” I say, breathing heavy. I might pass out.

Mrs.
Bubbly peeks around the bus, tapping a headlight with her knuckles. “Maybe
she’s hiding.” She climbs the stairs of bus six, calling out to Abby.

“I’ve
already looked there. She’s not on the bus.”

My heart
is beating a mile a minute. I’m trying to think straight but can’t. I’ve lost
my scarf and gloves in the heat of the hunt. Where is my phone? I
gotta
call the police! I dig through coat pockets for my
cell but only find car keys. The car. I left my cell charging on the passenger
seat of Magic Carpet.

I run for
the car like it’s a lighthouse in a storm, throw the door open, and lunge for
my cell.

I’m
begging my phone to hurry, to turn on faster, when Mrs. Bubbly rushes to my car
out of breath. “Maybe Abby went home,” she says. “You live walking distance,
don’t you?”

For a
second I think that’s it, Abby’s walked home. How many times did I wander away
from my mother when I was a kid? I need to get home. She’s there, safe and
sound. Then I shake my head clear.

“Abby’s
never walked home by herself.”

Ms. Rainer
takes a hold of the car door. “You’d be surprised what a five-year-old can do,”
she says. “They get a taste for independence and make decisions adults find
rash.”

I study
her, desperation clawing my gut. But for the teachers and parents searching the
buses for Abby, the parking lot is almost empty.

“I’m
calling the police.”

My phone
finally comes to life. It beeps. There is a message, left a minute ago, titled
Abby
.
Someone’s found Abby! Please tell me she’s somewhere safe. Please! The phone
trembles in my hand as I listen to the message.

“Tess.
Bryce here. I got your number from Karen. Look, ah . . . I’m
hoping you know this . . . Abby’s at my place playing with
Sofia. Abby said she asked for permission, but now I’m not so sure.” His voice
wavers. “Anyway, she’s here. And if by chance you didn’t know that
she . . . I’m sorry. I’ll call you again in a few minutes if I
don’t hear from you first. Or come by whenever you wish.”

I grip the
steering wheel for support. Bryce took Abby. He took her. He took her!

But Abby
is safe. She lied about asking permission. She’s safe.

I turn and
stumble from the car, landing on all fours beside Ms. Bubbly’s boots, where I
puke, candy sprinkles and all.

The drive
to
the estate is a blur. I only know that I’m here
and relief floods every vein. Abby is somewhere on the other side of this door.
Before I even knock the door swings open.

“You!” I
thrust a fisted hand at Bryce’s chest.

Bryce
braces the doorframe. “I’m so sorry,” he says.

I storm
past him into the foyer. “Abby, where are you?”

“She’s
upstairs with Sofia,” says Bryce. “Nanna, my housekeeper, is watching them
play. Look, you’re obviously upset and—”

“Upset?
Upset? You have no idea how fucking upset I am!”

I prod his
shoulder, pushing him backwards. He doesn’t say a word. I cup my face. It’s
hot, flushed. My coat has disappeared. I should be cold but adrenaline has me
heated to a sweat.

Bryce
inhales deeply then releases it in a dramatic whoosh.

“Abby and
Sofia told me they asked you for permission to come play here,” he says. “Abby
claimed you said yes. I looked for you, but when I didn’t see you I figured
you’d already gone home.” I just stare at him, trying to envision this scenario
while making a willful effort to calm my nerves. “I didn’t think anything of it
until we got here. I bought Sofia a dollhouse and the kid’s ran upstairs to
play. I went to check on them and overheard them talking. Sofia was teaching Abby
to say the word permission in French. Only then did it dawn on me that you
might not have understood what she said if she asked you in French. Or that she
might not have asked you at all.” He stops for a moment, catching his breath.
“I called you immediately and left a message.”

He reaches
out to me and I back up, banging into the wall. He flinches, his hand dropping
to his side. “You have no idea how sorry I am.”

“Abby . . .”

“Abby is
fine. Come in and relax a moment.” He motions for me to lead the way inside. “I
don’t think you should drive in this state.”

I don’t
move. I hear the faint sounds of children laughing but fury has a hold of my
muscles.

“I know
it’s no excuse,” says Bryce, “but I am new at this play-date thing. Sofia said
her father lets her play with Abby all the time, so I thought it was okay. She
begged to have Abby over to see her new dollhouse. You should see it. It’s
cute. It’s got windows and these little wooden shutters that open and close,
and a doorbell that chimes.”

I stare at
him.

“She was
beside herself with excitement, and I got caught in the moment, totally losing
my wits.”

He
attempts to take my hand but I pull away.

“I’m
sorry,” he says. “I never meant to scare you.”

“I should
have you arrested.”

Bryce just
looks away, obviously crushed.

I’m
wrapped like a mental patient in a straitjacket, arms clinging to my chest,
hands in fists so tight my knuckles are white. How appropriate.
I draw a
gust of air then hesitate for a moment, counting to ten.

Okay, I
have control, I think. I lead the way into the kitchen, bypassing Bryce’s hand
still floating midair.

“I need to
speak to Abby,” I say. The oven’s heat reaches out to touch me as I pass. The
smell of roasting poultry fills the room, but short of a dirty pot soaking in
the sink, the kitchen is spotless.

“Of
course.” Bryce attempts to draw my eyes. “May I suggest you take a moment
first? You could blow any minute.”

I glare at
him, rage bubbling to the surface.

“See,” he
says, my instant indignation proving his point.

“You took
my daughter.”