38

Leah

Saturday, November 4th, 1989
Lucy missing 5 weeks, 1 day

The black truck is still behind me. I hit the gas and try to speed away but the truck speeds up, too, and as it’s approaching, I try and make out the license plate number. But just as it’s coming into focus, the truck swerves and makes a U-turn, heading back for Big Woods.

My heart is thundering in my chest as I pull into the police station. I park as far away from the entrance as possible. As I’m walking to the front door, I pass by a huge magnolia tree, the shade of which has killed the grass beneath it. Curled up at the base is a tanned, homeless man smoking a cigarette, his head propped up by an Army green duffel bag. I guess it’s my nerves but for some reason I find myself saying, “Hello!” in a chipper voice and waving at him enthusiastically. He rolls up on one elbow and gives me the peace sign.

I climb the concrete steps and walk inside. My pulse quickens as I approach the front desk, and when I ask to see the sheriff, my voice sounds mousy and small, like someone else’s. The clerk nods and disappears down the hall. I sit down in the corner on a fake leather bench. The cushions have split open and I pick at the cottony-white fibers until Sheriff Greene comes out.

“Leah,” he says, his voice warm and deep. “Want to chat in my office?” He tilts his head in the direction of his office and I follow him down the wood-paneled hall.

His office smells like furniture polish and is neat and tidy. On the wall, I study a row of pictures—one of him in his high school football uniform and one from a family cruise in which he is hugging his tanned, blond wife and two sons. A turquoise globe sits on a corner of his desk next to a crystal paperweight that catches the light from the overhead fluorescents.

The sheriff looks concerned but before he even asks why I’m there I find myself telling him everything—about Big Woods, about the black truck, about Mr. Haines, and about the dreams. He takes notes the whole time I’m talking and when I mention the dreams, he doesn’t break my gaze or look at me like I’m crazy, he just nods his head as if in understanding.

“This Mr. Haines,” he asks. “Did you by chance get the spelling of his name?”

I smile and write it out for him. “Good, that’s great,” he says. “I’ll check it out and if this man is connected at all to Lucy’s disappearance, I will find out.” He leans back in his chair and folds his hands behind his head. “I’ve got another question for you, Leah.”

“Sure, of course,” I say, sitting straighter.

“How did you get out to Big Woods and to the station all by yourself?” My cheeks burn and I dip my head down before stammering, “Umm, well I do have my learner’s permit and my parents—” My throat sticks on the word parents and I look at my watch: 12:05.

“Want me to call them for you?” he offers.

“That’d be great,” I say, sheepishly.

“Tell you what, your house isn’t all that far from here. I trust you can make it home by yourself?” he asks, a trace of a smile warming his face.

I nod yes and stand to leave. Sheriff Greene picks up his phone and cups it in his hand and says, “Drive straight there and I’ll call them and fill them in. And try and smooth things out for you,” he says, adding, “And Leah, please promise me you’ll never go out to Big Woods alone again.” His eyes are searching mine for some kind of compliance, so I nod my head in agreement before heading down the hall.

When I pull in the drive, Mom and Dad are both waiting for me out on the lawn. Mom’s arms are crossed tight across her chest, her face is creased with worry, and as I step out of the truck they both stride over to me and fold me into their arms.

They lead me inside. “You must be starving, sweetie,” Mom says and busies her panicky hands by warming up butter in a skillet to make my favorite lunch, grilled cheese. Dad leans back against the counter, his pale blue eyes searching mine. My stomach grumbles at the smell of the sizzling butter. I keep expecting them both to explode on me, but they tiptoe around me, treating me not like I ran away, but as if I still have a stomach bug. I’m grateful for whatever the sheriff told them.

I scarf down my grilled cheese and move to the living room. Mom hovers in the doorway, biting her nails. I can tell she has something to say but doesn’t want to say it in front of Dad, so she makes an excuse about folding the laundry and leaves the room. Dad’s got a football game on and I stretch out on the couch next to him and put my cold feet on his warm lap. When I’m sure Mom’s out of earshot, I ask, “Dad, you believe me, don’t you? About the dreams?” His eyes are far off, staring somewhere between the Texas Longhorns football game and the fireplace.

“I don’t know what I believe anymore, baby,” he says, his voice soft and distant, the sturdy knot he’d tied himself back into already beginning to unravel after my stunt this morning.

I roll over on my side and curl up and drift to off to sleep.

I wake to the sound of my parents chopping vegetables. It must be near sunset, because the room is a dark cave with just thin slits of sunlight creeping through the shutters. Mom and Dad are talking in hushed tones and the radio is on, tuned to a classical station.

I step into the dining room and the table is set for dinner so I sink down in my chair. Mom and Dad carry in platters of food and just after we start to eat, Mom clears her throat and sets down her fork and says, “Now that you’ve had some rest, we’d just like to say that we’re not mad at you, Leah. Your father and I are just thankful”—her eyes fill with tears—“that you’re here, back home, safe, with us.” She looks at Dad expectantly, but he just nods quickly and chokes back his own tears.

After supper Mom brings out dessert, the apple pie left over from the picnic, and is just beginning to serve it when the phone rings. Dad wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin and leaps for the phone.

“Spencer residence,” he says, breathless. “Yes, yes, she is … hang on.” He’s standing between the kitchen and the dining room where the wall phone hangs. Mom jumps up and pushes away from the table, but Dad shakes his head. “It’s actually for Leah. It’s the sheriff.”

I take the phone from Dad and step into the kitchen, cradling the phone to my ear.

“Listen, Leah, I’m sorry but I drove out to Mr. Haines’s property this afternoon myself and he checks out. The children you heard were his foster children, and I’m absolutely certain he in no way had anything to do with Lucy’s disappearance.”

“But what about the greenhouse?” I ask, stepping farther into the kitchen until the cord strangles the wall. “Did you investigate that?”

He sighs. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but there was nothing there. I had a look around inside and it’s just an old greenhouse. They don’t even use it anymore. And there’s no trap door, it’s just a big mound of sod with weeds growing over it—the land hasn’t been recently disturbed.”

I slump into the wall, still holding the phone.

“I’m sorry, kiddo, I wish I had more good news,” he says. “Would you mind putting your mom on the line for me?”

“Sure,” I say, my bottom lip quivering. “And thanks for checking it out anyways.”

I walk out of the kitchen and pass the phone to Mom, who’s already standing. She takes it and steps into the kitchen, gently pushing the door shut behind her. I can hear soft murmurs, and I can picture Mom twisting the phone cord around her finger like she does when she’s having a serious conversation.

Later that evening as I’m about to drop into sleep, Mom comes in my room and sits next to me in bed. She’s wearing a lavender cotton nightgown and smells like pink Dove soap. She smooths down my bangs and strokes my hair for a while before saying, in a low voice, “I can’t believe you went out there all by yourself!” She shakes her head as much as a reproach as wonderment.

“But that’s not what I want to talk to you about. Your father and I both know that you’ve been through enough already,” she says, still stroking my hair. “The sheriff, umm … Tommy, well, he suggested,” she says, fumbling around for words. “He thinks that maybe you should go and talk to a counselor. About the dreams, about Lucy, just about everything you’ve been through. Your father and I agree with him. We think it might help, Leah. Just think about it, okay?”

I roll over, turning away from her. I’m silently counting the yellow wildflowers on my wallpaper, fighting back tears. I’m stung that the sheriff doesn’t believe me, that Mom and Dad don’t believe me.

Mom starts to rub my back, and at first, I want to twist away from her, to punish her, but I don’t have the energy. I stare at the wallpaper feeling foolish and betrayed. She rubs in small, soothing circles. My eyelids grow heavy and I fall into a numb sleep.