68

Sylvia

I’m in my station wagon, driving through town, headed for the post office. It’s so cold out that even with my heater blasting, the car is an ice box, my cheeks red from the chill. Before I left the house, I wrapped the diary with the letter in brown packing paper, covered it with stamps, and addressed it to Sheriff Greene, care of the Longview Police Department.

I pull into the post office parking lot and ease up to the blue drop box, the legs of which are wrapped in red and silver tinsel. I roll my window down. Wind punches me in the face and I drop the package down the shoot; it lands with a dull thud. I take a deep breath. I hope I’m doing the right thing.

The drive to Starrville passes in a quick blur—my mind swirling with thoughts of Leah and Lucy, about what I’m about to step into—and before I know it, I’m turning down the bumpy country lane that leads to the church.

I slow the car. My breath is quick and shallow, my palms sweaty with fear. I arrive at the church and see just a few cars parked out front. In the front lawn there is a handpainted wooden sign that reads, CHRISTMAS PROGRAM: SUNRISE SERVICE 7 A.M. & REGULAR SERVICE 11 A.M.

It’s 8:35 a.m. I pull to the curb and park under a hulking oak tree. The front doors to the church are open, but it looks empty. The congregation has already filtered out into the gray light. I scan the remaining crowd for Owen but don’t see him. There are just a few kids monkeying around on the chipped and weathered swing set, their parents chatting on the sidewalk as they play.

My heart is thudding in my chest but I open the car door and head down the cracked, weed-choked sidewalk. My eyes fixate on the cellar door, which is next to the church, separated by a path, but I walk past it. I want to have a peek inside the church first.

I step into the musty sanctuary and walk casually up the center aisle. The hymnals are all neatly tucked in place along the backs of the wooden church pews, and there are just a few church bulletins scattered about, papering the floor.

When I reach the pulpit, I turn in front of it and head down a dimly lit hallway that leads to the church offices. I’m jumpy and feel like at every turn I’m going to run into Owen.

It seems that I’m alone, though.

I stop outside a broom closet, and for some reason my hand is drawn to the knob. Shaking, I twist it and fling open the door. A dirty mop is resting in a bucket of gray water and the shelves are lined with cleaning supplies. I’m starting to feel silly. But when I close the door, a short, prim woman with a matronly, squat face is on the other side and my breath catches.

“Help you with somethin’, ma’am?” she asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” I say, the lie pouring out of me with no effort. “I’m looking for my mother.”

Her thin, dark eyebrows knit together in confusion, but I stammer out the words before she has too much time to think. “As you can imagine, she is quite old. She lives in the nursing home, just there in town, and I was supposed to come and visit her this morning for Christmas. And well,” I say, wringing my hands dramatically, “I was late. And with all the chaos of the holiday, and all the visitors in the lobby, she slipped out before anybody noticed.”

“Oh dear,” she said, sucking in a quick breath. “By all means have a look around. But I haven’t seen her, and in fact, I’m the only one here. Well, me and the Reverend. But he just slipped out back, actually, headed for home.”

Goose bumps line my arms and I feel like I’m going to be sick. I crane my head around hers to look out the warbled glass of the back door, but I don’t see Owen.

“I’m going to look outside now, thank you,” I say and step around her and walk toward the back door. I push it open and climb down a small flight of stairs covered in dingy outdoor carpet. I scan the grounds for Owen but I don’t see him anywhere. He must already be gone.

“Mother? Mother?” I call out to the edge of the woods, just in case the woman is listening to me.

I walk over to the cellar and kneel down next to the door. There’s a rusted lock on it, but it’s not latched. I can feel the woman’s eyes on me, and when I turn back to the church, I see her move past a window. Now she’s coming out the back door and is heading toward me.

I get on my feet and smooth back my hair. “I know this must look ridiculous,” I say, smiling, “but I’d like to have a look in the cellar. Mother can get awful turned around sometimes.”

The woman’s eyes trail to the cellar door. She pauses for a second too long, and my blood turns cold. She looks at me and narrows her eyes. Sweat beads on my upper lip. “I know this is silly,” I say, my voice small and raspy, “but it really would make me feel better if I could just check the cellar.”

The woman stands there parked, her spotted, wrinkled hand on her hip, but what can she say? She looks down at the cellar and nods with permission, walks over to it, and removes the lock. I feel like she is going to continue hovering over me, but when she opens the white buckled doors, the smell of rotting flesh hits us both in the face and she grabs her stomach and says, “Must be a dead rat. I’ll leave you to it.” She turns and walks away.