Blackberry Winter: A Novel (18 page)

C
LAIRE

I
ducked my head as I stepped out of the elevator at the office the next day, purposely taking the long, winding route through the sea of gray cubicles. It seemed silly to take such extreme measures to avoid my own husband, but after last night’s exchange, I didn’t have the heart, or the strength, to face him. Besides, I’d slept in an empty bed again. I knew he probably had stayed at the hospital with Warren, but still, he hadn’t even called to let me know. Since when had he become the husband who considered coming home optional?

The sun had returned to Seattle, and the warmer weather had Frank particularly agitated. “How’s the story coming?” he asked from the doorway of my cubicle a mere ten seconds after I’d planted my butt in the chair.

I swiveled around to face him. “Good morning to you, too.”

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed,” he said, pointing to the window, “but the snow has
melted
. Before readers forget about the storm entirely, I was kinda hoping to get your story to press. You told me you’d have it to me today, but that’s obviously not going to happen, so maybe I can get it, I dunno, before
Thanksgiving
?” He plucked a gnawed pencil from his shirt pocket and inserted it in his
mouth. He remained the only boss whom I found adorable when he was mad at me.

“Listen, Frank,” I said, folding my arms with deliberation. “You knew this story was going to be a goose chase going into it.”

He put the pencil back in his shirt pocket. “You’re right,” he said. “But I didn’t think it would be such an
epic
goose chase.”

I glanced at my notebook, wishing I had more to show for the past days’ research. “Frank, it’s like someone erased this little boy from history.”

“So you’re saying you don’t have a single lead?” he said with a sigh.

“Well,” I continued, “I found a child’s drawing with the name Eva Morelandsteed written on the back.”

“A child’s drawing?” By the look on his face, I gathered he wasn’t thrilled.

“I think she might be related to the missing boy, somehow. Perhaps a sister, or a friend.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m taking you off the story.”

“What?”

“Claire, you’re my best reporter. I can’t keep you on a story that’s not going to pan out.” He set a file on my desk. “We have a lot of stuff to cover this month.”

I looked at the green file folder begrudgingly. “What is this?”

He spoke to the tabletop. “A press kit for Seattle Cultural Days. I want you to write the promo pieces.”

“You have to be kidding me, Frank,” I said. “An
advertorial
?” Frank knew very well that any self-respecting reporter would rather gouge her eyes out than write ad copy.

“Yes,” he said blankly. “I just got word from advertising. It’s a two-page spread. It needs to run by next week.”

I shook my head. “I can’t believe this.”

He took a step closer. “I’m worried about you, Claire. You haven’t been yourself for a long time.”

I shook my head. “Why would you say that?”

“Well,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “it’s just that you’ve never failed to meet a deadline.”

I ran my fingers through my hair. He was right. I’d feared I’d lost my reporter’s instinct, my edge, and Frank had confirmed it.
What’s happening to me?

I picked up the green folder and opened it. “Don’t worry,” I said, turning to face my computer. “I’ll get this done. Just give me the weekend and I promise you’ll have it on Monday.”

“Claire, listen,” Frank began, “I didn’t mean to hurt you; I was just—”

“It’s fine,” I said stiffly, clenching my fists under my desk. “I’m sorry I let you down. I thought I could write it. I thought I could find that little boy.”

Frank nodded and walked out to the hallway.

A few moments later I heard footsteps approaching. “Knock, knock.” I turned to see Abby at the door, with a big box in her hands. “Morning.”

“Morning,” I said, punctuating the word with an exaggerated sigh.

“Oh, no,” she said. “What is it?”

“I think my career may be over, and Ethan didn’t come home last night,” I replied, unable to take my eyes off the green folder.

“Your career is
not
over,” she said. “You’re one of, if not
the
best reporter on staff. And as far as your husband goes, fill me in.”

I sighed. “Thanks, but I’d rather not talk about it right now. I might lose it. You remember our rule about not crying at work.”

Abby smiled, holding out the box to me. “Here.”

“What is it?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, but it has your name on it. Jenna brought it to my office by mistake.”

I set the box on my desk and reached for the scissors in my drawer to release the tape, which is when I noticed the return address. “Abby, this is from Swedish Hospital.” I felt my heartbeat’s pace quicken. “What could they possibly be sending me?”

I hated that something as simple as the hospital’s logo on the mailing label could create such a visceral response in me. I could hear the beeping of the blood pressure monitor on my arm, see the vivid blue of the curtain in the emergency room, taste the salty tears streaming from my eyes. In an instant, I felt the horror of the accident all over again. I closed my eyes, trying to block the memories, to shut them out, sending them back to the hospital, where I had left them. But when I opened my eyes again, they were there before me, waiting to be confronted.

“Claire,” Abby said quietly, “what is it?”

Anger surged through me as I yanked one flap of cardboard open, then another.
What are they sending me?
They’d called repeatedly for follow-up appointments, but I never returned the messages.
Don’t they know that every call, every damn bill in the mail, is a reminder of my loss? And now this? Can’t they just leave me alone?
An envelope was taped to the inside flap of the box. I tore it open.

I cautiously peered inside the box and pulled out a ribbed gray sweatshirt. It was a mangled mess, ripped at the side by the ambulance driver—a vague memory that came full focus again—with a bloodstain along the sleeve. I remembered the moment I’d purchased it. Ethan and I had gone shopping for maternity clothes at the Gap. I’d strapped on one of those prosthetic stuffed bellies and paraded out of the fitting room, giving him the shock of his life.

“Your stomach!” he exclaimed. “It looks…”

“Huge?” I grinned, lifting up the edge of the sweatshirt to reveal the padding underneath. “Did I fool you?”

“You did,” he said, a bit relieved. “For a second there, I thought we might be having twins.”

That day, I bought the sweatshirt in three colors, several pairs of pants, all with thick, stretchy elastic waistbands, and a black wraparound dress that
Fit Pregnancy
magazine had claimed to be the most flattering look for moms-to-be. I winced at the memory, setting the sweatshirt aside before pulling out a pair of black leggings with a jagged hole in the knee. Underneath were my underwear and sports bra, neatly folded into a bundle.
Why did they even bother returning this stuff? Why couldn’t they just…burn it?
At the bottom of the box lay my running shoes. I had others in my closet, but these had been my favorite pair. Mud-stained, perfectly broken in, they’d traveled with me down miles of rainy Seattle streets, across the finish line of several grueling races, but I couldn’t look at them then. They’d betrayed me.

I tossed the shoes and ragged clothing back into the box, and looked up at Abby. “Is there a Dumpster outside somewhere?”

Abby knelt down next to me. “Claire,” she whispered, “maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to throw all of this away.”

My eyes burned, and I quickly wiped a stray tear from my cheek, annoyed by its presence.

“Oh, honey,” she said. “Come here.” She wrapped her arm around my shoulder, and I leaned against her, breathing in her lavender perfume. “You used to love to run,” she continued. “Why don’t you try again?”

“I can’t,” I said, shaking my head. “I won’t.”

She reached into the box and pulled out my old running shoes. “Just the same,” she said, “let’s keep these. Toss the clothes if you like, but these shoes need to stay.” She tucked them under my desk. “When you’re ready, put them on.”

“I’ll never be ready,” I said.

“You will,” Abby countered. “After my dad died, Mom kept all his clothes in the closet, exactly as he’d left them. They gathered dust for three years before she found the strength to face them again. I was only thirteen, but I remember the day she opened up that old closet and pulled one of the shirts from the hanger. She set it on the bed and lay next to it for a long time, crying, remembering. It took a lot of strength to do that. Strength and
time
. My point is that Mom needed that closure, and if she’d had someone box up his clothes the week after he died like Aunt Pam suggested, she’d never have had the opportunity to face her sadness, to find her own closure. Everyone grieves and heals at her own pace, honey. Give yourself time.”

I stared at the shoes under my desk, wishing, as I had every day since the accident, that I’d stayed home instead of going on that damn jog. “I don’t know, Abby,” I said, looking away from the shoes.

“Trust me,” she replied, closing the flaps of the box and setting it outside. “So, did you find the kid?”

“No. Frank took me off the story.” I pointed to the file of information for the ad copy I had been assigned. “I’m now writing the special advertising section for next week.”

Abby frowned. “No, he didn’t.” She knew as well as I that getting an ad copy assignment was the equivalent of being grounded.

“Yes, he did.”

“Maybe I can talk to him,” she offered.

“I wouldn’t bother,” I said. “He had the
look
.”

Abby folded her arms. “Well, I think you should continue your research anyway. Surprise him with a draft. I don’t think you should quit this story, Claire.”

“But Frank doesn’t want it,” I said, shrugging. “Even if I did turn something in, it would be too late. The snow’s melted. Everyone’s moved on. I think I lost this one.”

“No,” she said. “You didn’t lose it. You’ve only scratched the surface.” Her eyes narrowed. “Listen, honey, I’ve seen you work on hundreds of stories, and never has one gotten under your skin like this little boy’s. Write it. Even if it’s only for you. Besides, I want to know what happened.”

“I do too,” I said, before pulling my notebook from my bag and setting it on top of the green folder. “Yes,” I said, with more assurance in my voice. “I’ll finish this story.”

“Good girl,” she said.

I glanced at the running shoes under my desk and then back at Abby. “You know what’s funny?” I picked up the letter from the hospital. “That name, Morelandsteed. It’s the same name on the back of a child’s drawing I found.”

She grinned. “You think there’s some connection?”

I shrugged. “That would be a pretty crazy coincidence,” I said, my reporter’s curiosity piqued. “But it’s an unusual name. Who knows?”

“Follow up on it,” she said, nodding and turning to the door. “I’m here till six if you need me.”

“Thanks,” I replied, looking back to my computer screen, where I keyed in the hospital’s URL. Once I found the general number, I picked up the phone.

“Yes, hi,” I said to the hospital operator. “I’m trying to reach an employee by the name of Katie Morelandsteed.”

“Just a moment,” the woman replied.

“This is Katie,” chirped a voice a few seconds later.

“Uh, hi, Katie, this is Claire Aldridge, from the
Seattle Herald
. I mean, well, here’s the thing. You sent me a package recently. A box of—”

“Yes,
Claire
,” she said. “Of course. I hope you don’t mind that we mailed the box to your workplace. For some reason we didn’t have your home address on file. And, well, anyway, we’ve been trying to reach you for some time. You might think it strange for us to send you all your clothes from the accident, but we’ve found that acknowledging the remnants of a tragedy can really help our patients heal, and help them—”

“Yes,” I said, cutting her off, “it’s fine. I’m actually calling about something else. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but you don’t, by chance, happen to be related to a woman named Eva Morelandsteed? It’s a shot in the dark, really; I—”

“Well, actually, yes,” she said. “I have a great-aunt named Eva.”

My jaw dropped. “Really?”

“Yeah, she lives in Seattle, right by Pike Place. She’s in her
eighties, but you’d never know it. Aunt Eva’s as sharp as a whip. Wait, how is it that you know her?”

“It’s sort of a long story,” I said. “I’m working on an article, and I found something with her name on it from a long time ago. I hoped to contact her.”

“Sure,” Katie said. “I have her phone number in my cell phone. Let me pull it up for you. She was a librarian for decades, so she’s always supportive of research. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

A few moments later, I scrawled the number down on a scrap of paper. “Thank you, Katie.”

“Of course.”

I hung up the phone and then punched the numbers in quickly. The phone rang once, twice, three times.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Morelandsteed? Eva Morelandsteed?”

“This is she.”

“Hi,” I said, clearing my throat. “My name is Claire Aldridge. I’m a reporter with the
Seattle Herald
. I apologize for bothering you, but your niece, Katie, gave me your phone number, and, well, I’m working on a story about the storm that hit Seattle in May of 1933, and I came across some information about a little boy named Daniel Ray.” I paused, waiting for Eva’s response, but the line was quiet. “Ms. Morelandsteed? Are you still there?”

“Yes,” she said. “You’ll have to forgive me. I haven’t heard that name in a very long time.”