With tiles scattered about its perimeter, my Scrabble board still sits on the table untouched, as if waiting for closure.
And while I think I might never find it, Rachel Bachton’s family finally has the closure they’ve been seeking since they opted to go to the farmers’ market that morning—the morning Rachel was kidnapped.
I watched her reunion with her family from afar, just like everyone else. There was a parade of celebration, but she wasn’t in it. There were statements to the press, but she didn’t make them. Her parents have spoken on the news, and while they mention her slow reintegration process, and its successes, the world has yet to see her smile, hear her voice, or feel her contentment.
But whatever name she’s going by—Rachel, Alana, Chatham—I’m confident when I say that I do know her . . . possibly better than anyone. I memorized her smile long ago, and I can see it if I close my eyes and concentrate.
The police still have the tiles that used to occupy this game board. They’re in an evidence locker somewhere, bearing the fingerprints of Chatham Claiborne/Rachel Bachton. Maybe someday the police will bring them back. I’ve already decided that if they do, I’m going to shellac them together, make them as permanent as the clay relief Chatham designed and created, which still hangs in the art showcase at Sugar Creek High, like a memorial.
Chatham Claiborne was here.
I pull new Scrabble tiles from the sea of overturned squares and lay out sixteen of them one by one:
CHATHAM CLAIBORNE
I wonder when, exactly, Chatham realized who she was. If she’d known the moment she saw Savannah at the rave, if she’d pieced things together slowly, or if it all came flooding back like a tidal wave at the caboose or at Damien’s cabin.
It all happened, more or less, the way I’d sorted things out during my run along the beach. When Goudy cracked, and admitted Damien Wick was his cousin—kinfolk is the word he used—and that Damien had helped secure a girl to replace the foster girl Wayne had killed in a fit of rage, the trial was over within a week. The police department gave me some bogus award I’m pretty sure they invented, and publicly thanked me for my part in bringing Rachel Bachton home. Rosie was so proud, and so happy, that she kissed Hinkley square on the mouth. Maggie Lee and Miss Lina were over-the-moon happy for me, too.
But just as I told the cops, I didn’t do anything but love Chatham Claiborne. She chose to trust me with her memories. She chose to share with me details of her life, of her body . . . details that ultimately saved her. She’s the real hero here, not me.
My phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Savannah: Saw her today. She’s good.
Savannah texts every now and then, from her bunk at Winston Hall for Teens in a suburb, just south of Sugar Creek. Aiden hears from her more often than I do—I think they’re secretly getting it on—but that’s no surprise. I knew he’d like her. He’s even taking her to winter formal next month.
But Savannah assures me that Chatham is adjusting to life as Rachel. I imagine the transition was much like the confluence at which Alana Goudy’s remains were uncovered—choppy at the intersection, but finding a new, unique current once the waters blended and calmed.
We’re all like river rocks at the bottom of that confluence. We all bear the marks of the waters that wear us down, but it’s also the waters that contour and smooth our exteriors. It’s the turbulence that makes us what we are, inside and out.
And so the Bachton family blinked out of the media eye as abruptly as it emerged twelve years ago, a testament to the saying life goes on.
The Sugar Creek Cavaliers lost in the second round of state football playoffs, but the appropriate statement was made. College coaches abound; they all know we’re a budding force no one wants to fuck with. College is no longer a pipe dream for me, but an eventuality I look forward to.
I’ve texted Chatham, but she doesn’t reply. Detective Hinkley recently told me Chatham has a new phone, and a new number, so I shouldn’t read into it, that she’d get in touch with me when she’s ready. He delivered a letter I wrote her months ago, and another one I wrote last week. But so far, she hasn’t replied. I try to understand, try to remember what the cops tell me: give her time.
But how much time is enough time?
How much time does she need to reconcile her life before with life now?
Do I even fit into her life now?
I push a few Scrabble tiles out of line:
CHATH_ _ CLA_BORNE
AMI
I AM
I suspect she’s making a clean break from the chaos she knew when she was with me, and I can’t say I blame her.
_ _ _TH_ _ C_A_BO_N_
CHAAMLIRE
I AM RACHEL
But still . . . I hope she remembers that whatever her name is, or was, I’m part of her, just as she’s part of me.
“Oh my God,” I whisper as I look down at the board.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
CHATHAM CLAIBORNE
I AM RACHEL BACHTON
. . . Because even if she wasn’t ready to tell me her name, she’s always known, on some level, who she is. You don’t need to know your name to know who you are.