With the detective gone, I breathe in the reality of our current situation, which is . . . shitty. Very, very shitty. Less than an hour ago, we emerged from the woods in an eerie parade of mourning. The search party. Party. Odd name for such a gruesome task. The others were informed in whispers, as if saying it quieter would make it any less true.
It’s her.
Only it wasn’t.
I lied when I said I don’t believe in divorce. I tell myself I’m against it. Constantly. It’s become a mantra I repeat every night before I fall asleep—so that I can fall asleep. I took a vow. Divorce is wrong. I took a vow. Divorce is wrong.
I don’t pray. Haven’t been to church since I made my Confirmation in eleventh grade. I wore my best blue and white plaid button-down from American Eagle with khakis and brown shoes. Gelled my hair and made sure my nails were clean. As if I could get into God’s graces by fooling the priest with my wholesome exterior.
My grandmother was my sponsor. I took the name Michael while she placed a hand on my shoulder at the altar.
“Michael,” the priest said. I don’t remember his name. We called him Father Bald. Father Bald made the sign of the cross on my forehead. “Patron saint of the sick. Of soldiers, doctors, police, and grocers.”
“Grocers?”
“Everyone needs a saint, Jackson,” he said. “Grocers are responsible for our health and nourishment, providing us the food and water with which we survive until Christ is reborn.”
I wanted to say they spent most of the time talking to other cashiers, but he was on a roll. I nodded along, eager to return to the pew until the ceremony ended so I could go home to my PlayStation.
“Michael is a fine name. A noble name. The Archangel Michael escorts the faithful to their heavenly judgment when the hour of their death is upon them. But he’s also a leader, controlling the army of God against Satan’s forces. A true symbol of goodness in the battle against evil. Tell me, Jackson, will you be this leader? Do you plan to embody the same principles as your Catholic namesake?”
“Uh, yes.” What else was I supposed to say? No, I don’t want to fight the Devil? No, I don’t believe in this stuff? Do you know how many versions of the Bible there are? Father Bald, no, I will not fight in God’s army because that doesn’t exist. There’s no golden chariot waiting in the sky to rain down vengeance and justice.
“The word of the Lord.”
“Amen,” I said.
For all the good that word has done for me.
I thought when Jen and I got married, it would be forever—for better or worse, sickness and health, the whole gamut. My parents divorced when I was eleven. Watching them berate and degrade each other, I swore that when and if I found my proverbial soulmate, I’d marry once and make sure I did it right.
Things, shockingly, aren’t quite that simple as an adult. Personalities grow. Needs shift.
The blog was supposed to be an anchor for Jen. An outlet to give her purpose and motivation when she felt like shit and wanted to spend her days lounging in bed with the shades drawn.
I didn’t realize that supporting my wife’s innocent venture would tear my family apart.
I didn’t realize I would stand idly by as my daughter lost her independence one decision at a time. The birthday party was a wake-up call. That should’ve been a day devoted to Abby, but Jen had to take things too far. As usual. She has no self-regulation.
But in the week following the birthday disaster, I thought we’d actually arrived at a compromise. A light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Jen agreed Abby could enroll at the high school for her freshman year if Abby agreed to continue the blog—if she could really commit to pushing “CC and Me” to the next level.
Maybe deep down I knew Jen would never let her enroll. CC Spectacular is more than her career. It’s her life. In its prime, the blog brought in thousands of dollars through endorsements and advertisements. It also shielded Jen from having to take the next step. Gave her an excuse to stay.
Now, she’s stuck. We all are. But unlike me, Jen would be perfectly content to live in this Insta-bubble. She wants Abby to find an agent, segue into film.
Be a star.
“Chloe’s got what it takes,” Jen told me. She’d just booked the mall show with Harold Forest. Hard to think of him as a neighbor, let alone a friend, when our interactions haven’t been friendly since Jen went too far with Willa.
“A lot of people have what it takes. Weren’t you just telling me we’re losing engagement?”
Her eyes glimmered, with red carpets or dollar signs, probably both. “True, our numbers haven’t been as promising lately, but something like this will boost us over the top. I’ve got a good feeling about this, Jackson. Chloe has the It Factor. We’ll never forgive ourselves if we let her squander away her talents in a classroom.”
“What if a classroom is what she wants?”
“She’s thirteen, Jackson. And as much as she may want to believe she’s grown, she has no idea what she wants or what’s good for her. We’re the adults here. Us. Start acting like it.”
We try not to fight in front of JJ and Abby, another one of my sticking points. Kids shouldn’t hear their parents arguing. We both say things we don’t mean in the heat of the moment, but it’s the things we do mean that hurt the most. Anger brings out the worst of our truths.
Sometimes, lies are better.
If you ask her when she’s off camera, she’ll tell you we’ve had some zingers. Who doesn’t? Every married couple argues.
Ask Jennifer Cates, Super Mom and Wife Extraordinaire, however, and she’ll tell you we don’t have any major problems. A few spats over silly stuff like leaving the toilet seat up or the correct way to load the dishwasher. She uses lots of buzzwords. Transparency. Honesty. Communication. Mutual respect. How our love flourishes, and yours can, too—as long as you subscribe to her blog for candid relationship advice.
If the birthday party was a wake-up call, the mall show was an air raid siren for the shitstorm to come.
That night, Jen was at the desk in our bedroom. The laptop screen reflected in the lenses of her glasses as she typed merrily along. I read the words over her shoulder, a habit I know she finds annoying but continue to do anyway.
Don’t get me wrong: I wish Chloe didn’t have to go through this ordeal on stage, but what woman doesn’t have an embarrassing story about her first time? Period mishaps are a given. A rite of passage. Who am I to take that from her? She’ll laugh at it the way we all do, looking back on the absurdity of our insecurities. I can’t think of anything that defines a woman more. And that’s what Chloe is now. A woman. She’s in the club.
And really, isn’t it time we stopped being so secretive about our periods? We all get them. Why is there such stigma around them anyway? We whisper the word tampon like we’re summoning demons with blood sacrifices. I mean, look at the audience! How many young girls and women in the crowd laughed at Chloe just to mask their own fear of the very same thing happening to them? I’m not mad, I’m disappointed. I’m angry that we’ve gotten to this point where women tear one another down instead of building one another up. Our bodies are beautiful. Menstruation is natural—something we have no control over.
When I got mine . . .
Two zoomed-in photographs divided her words. The first showed Abby, the horrified look on her face when she saw the blood. The fear of not knowing what was happening or what she should do. I didn’t know Jen had taken that picture.
The second showed the audience. A collection of laughing faces and wide-mouthed ohs of surprise. Phones held in the air capturing the embarrassment.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.
“Spare me the lecture, Jackson. I’ve had more than enough attitude for one day.” The keys clacked away, as oblivious to my concerns as Jen was pretending to be.
“We can’t do this anymore.”
Clack, clack, clack. “We can’t do this anymore, Jen,” she mocked. “Do you ever stop?”
“Do you? Come on. You know you can’t post that.”
“Why?” The clacking increased, a fury of words plopping on the screen.
“Why? You’re a piece of work, you know that?”
Jen finished her sentence, saved her draft, slammed the chair into the desk, and finally faced me. “How many times are we going to have this discussion, Jackson? Huh? You really want to do this? My readers expect honesty. Raw, unfiltered life—a glimpse into motherhood without the glowing Facebook-worthy moments. Stretch marks and tantrums. It would be a glaring mistake to ignore what happened today.”
Always her first defense. “That won’t cut it this time. We’re well past tantrums and playgroups. What you’re doing is harmful, Jen. It’s not right.”
Jen blew past me and grabbed her phone off the charger. Her next move was to show me how much money we have in our bank account. The deposits from my paycheck versus the deposits from “CC and Me.”
Because in Jen’s mind, when personal gratification fails, she can rationalize her behavior with finances. This is about the money. A pissing competition for who contributes most to our family. Whoever has the biggest number next to the dollar sign deserves to have more weight in the decision-making process.
Jen cares about material things. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that. She didn’t have little comforts growing up. A paycheck-to-paycheck situation like most of the families in the area. But where’s the line between justification and excuses? There isn’t one person in this world who doesn’t have a story. Am I supposed to dismiss what she’s doing to our family because twenty years ago she was bullied for wearing clothes from Walmart?
She tapped her foot waiting for the page to load. Our checking account. Too predictable. “Here. If you’re so comfortable up there on your high horse, your majesty, why don’t you tell me which one of us is keeping the Scarborough household afloat?”
“Get that out of my face,” I said, slapping her phone to the bed. “That’s not your money. It’s ours. You use us to create your content. We deserve that paycheck just as much as you do. Abby most of all.”
“And she’ll get her share when she turns eighteen.”
“If you don’t spend it all first.”
“Bills, Jackson. Someone has to pay them. It’s not like I’m blowing our savings on St. Barts and a BMW. Your salary doesn’t get us this house. Our cars. JJ’s football and baseball equipment.”
“We could downsize,” I said. Seemed like a practical solution. If we can’t survive within our means, we have to decrease our expenses. Our house is in a prime location. It would sell easily in this market. But I know it’s not a realistic solution to Jen. The word “downsize” equates to poor in her book. Some ingrained fear she has about losing her things.
I might as well have told her we could light ourselves on fire.
“We will do no such thing. I can’t believe you’d even suggest it,” she said, pushing her knuckles into my chest.
“So, you’re willing to sacrifice your daughter for a bigger house? A nicer car? Tell me, Jen, how much is our children’s health and happiness worth to you?”
“What about my needs?” she shouted. “What am I supposed to do without this? It’s all I have. The only thing that’s mine. Something to be other than a mother. Killing the blog would kill me.”
“It’s killing us.”
I’ve been thinking about divorcing her ever since. As soon as the words left my mouth.
Is divorce a sin? I don’t think so, but I’m not about to google the answer. Knowing Jen, she probably tracks my browser history. I imagine her outrage. Tossed between sports updates and porn sites is a stack of IPs on the morality of leaving your spouse.
The thoughts creep in randomly. I’ll be drafting a proposal or sending an email and the glint of my wedding band will stop me midtask.
I take it off at work. The imprint around my finger fades after an hour or two but doesn’t disappear completely.
Today, it’s the only thing on my mind besides Abby.
What would my morning be like if I woke up as a single dad? I’d make the kids breakfast, wave when they got on the bus, and head to work. JJ would go to practice. Abby would too. She’d play basketball or volleyball—maybe both. She’d laugh off any recognition from “CC and Me” and find a group of friends who loved her for who she is. She’d go on dates and have her heart broken, but she’d learn from every experience.
I didn’t think things would escalate. Abby’s gone. A different girl is dead.
The detective is right. Missy Crawford’s hair is a little darker than Abby’s, but the resemblance between them is striking. An intelligent investigator wouldn’t chalk that up to coincidence.
I’m crying. Leaking is more accurate. Water pours from my eyes in rivers. What’s the point in trying to stem the flow? I deserve to drown in salt water.
What kind of father can’t protect his child?
The same father who encouraged his daughter to play along with a blog to avoid an altercation with his wife.
Wife. Another one of those words whose meaning has completely changed in the last twenty-four hours.
Jen looks at me from across the room, the first time we’ve been alone since this morning. The chasm that separates us cracks and stretches.
“So here we are,” she says, the antithesis to the hysterical woman who threw herself on the ground moments ago in a show of despair for the cameras. This woman is composed, shrewd. There’s sadness in her expression, but it’s muted. After all these years she still doesn’t know that I can read her like one of her posts.
I open my mouth and close it again. I’m not ready to ask the real questions yet. “How much of Abby’s disappearance have you recorded?” I ask instead.
That digs at her. I can see the resentment perched in the creases of her brow. She studies me for a second before turning to the stairs. “I’m too tired for this,” she says. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Why didn’t you tell that detective about Abby running off after the mall?”
“She knows now, doesn’t she? Don’t worry about it, Jackson.”
“I will worry about it, Jennifer. That was a stupid thing to do. They’ll think we’re lying.”
She plods up the stairs.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Her response is sealed in the firm slam of the bathroom door. I could go after her, try to apologize or demand the truth, but I don’t. I’m tired of bending.
And I can’t stay here anymore. My legs bop, arms twitch, unable to contain the building energy. With a final glance out the window, I walk upstairs and tap lightly on JJ’s door.
“What?” he asks.
I see him propped on his bed with his back against the wall. He continues to scroll through his phone without looking up. Seems to be the only activity anyone does in this house.
“She hasn’t posted anything,” he says, adjusting the pillow. “Abby, I mean. There’s nothing on her accounts.”
Because she doesn’t have her phone. “Good thought to check, though,” I say.
“I was sure it was her in that tree house. You don’t think it’s weird? That it was Missy up there?”
I shrug, out of responses. “I don’t know.”
“I didn’t realize how much she looked like Abby. And the outfit she was wearing. It was Abby’s pink outfit.”
The thin line of pink fabric flashes through my mind. “A lot of people probably have that set—or a similar one.”
“Uh huh.” The phone drops in his lap. “I guess. I don’t know. This is all so messed up. What do we do now?”
More answers I’m supposed to have. “You should eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Abby wouldn’t want you to go on a hunger strike because you’re worried,” I say. If she were here, she’d probably give him a swift kick to the shins and a noogie for the trouble. JJ, you weirdo, go get a Pop-Tart.
“It doesn’t seem right,” he mumbles.
“I get it.”
“Where’s Mom?”
He nods and returns to scrolling. “I can’t believe she hit me.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I know. Me too.” Yesterday, such an event would’ve been headline news in our house. With Abby gone, however, Jen’s slap has been benched for the immediate future.
“She’s crazy,” he says, still staring at his phone.
“She’s stressed.”
“She grounded me for a week when I popped Lawrence Parsons after he hit me with that curve ball on purpose. But she gets to hit me and walk around like nothing happened? There’s just no consequences for her because she’s stressed?” Venom drips from his words. “We’re stressed and we’re not hitting anyone.”
A canyon of silence sits between us as he taps through his feeds.
“How about I run out and pick up a pizza?” I say, at a loss. “Hunger makes it worse. Pepperoni and mushroom?”
“Abby would love that.” Head low. Shoulders slumped.
“They’ll find her, Jay. Any minute now she could come home.”
“Or she won’t. She could be dead like Missy.”
“Stop; you can’t talk like that. We have to stay positive.”
“Okay, I’m positive she could be dead.” He punches his pillow. Once. Again. Then he chucks it at his headboard and buries his head in his hands.
My stomach hardens. “You can’t blame yourself. This isn’t your fault.”
“You keep saying that, but it’s bullshit.”
“I know it’s hard, but try to relax. I’ll call in a pizza and be back in twenty.”
“I’m going to head next door for a bit to chill with Ry. Find something on Netflix.”
“I don’t know, Jay. Don’t you want to be home in case they find her?”
Huff. “I’ll come back for dinner. Just text me when you get back.”
“All right.” I ruffle his hair like I used to when he was a toddler. He hated haircuts. Screamed any time I came near him with the razor. Jen had to restrain him while I trimmed away the unruly mess. Working carefully through his bucks and shoves, and that “wet noodle” move all kids seem to master. By the end of every epic grooming battle, we were covered in acres of sheared droppings, itchy and damp from tears and drool.
I’m glad he grew out of that fear, but I’d gladly take one of those brawls over today’s series of events.
JJ asks me to close the door on my way out. He doesn’t want to see Jen, and I understand why. I don’t know how they’re going to work through what she did. It’ll be easier if I divorce her.
There it is again.
I hear water running in the master bath. There was a time in our marriage when I would’ve gotten in with her. Pushing her against the wall, kissing her neck, working my lips down her body while she clawed through my hair.
The sadness I get from these memories is enough to push me in the opposite direction. We’re not those people anymore. Maybe we never were.
I turn to the stairs and head for the kitchen. The forensics team has set up small tents around the area of the fence at the bottom of the yard. Floodlights block most of the view, but I see shadows of the people collecting samples.
I have to get out of here. Grabbing the keys from the hook, I scratch a quick note on a pink Post-it and leave it on the corner of the counter.
Going for pizza. JJ’s at Ryan’s. Be back soon.
Good. Keep going.
I take the side door into the garage and bump into Officer Welsh. “Jesus,” I say, startled. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were still here.”
She bites her thumbnail and quickly wipes her hand on the side of her pants. “Ah, sorry. I used to be a smoker but can’t exactly do that with a baby at home, you know? Replacing one bad habit with another. Anyway, yeah, Detective Stone asked me to hang around in case a ransom demand is made in the next few hours. She wants someone ready to intercept, which would normally be one of the guys from digital forensics, but they’ve got their hands full right now.”
“Going somewhere?” she asks.
“Um, pizza.” I feel my face flush at the word. I wonder if she thinks I’m a terrible father. Going out for food when my daughter’s missing.
“Phone on you?” she asks.
“Of course.”
“Keep the volume on max.”
I click the slim button and show her the blackened sound bars. “Done.”
“See you soon, Mr. Scarborough,” she says but she locks on my face like she’s not ready to dismiss me just yet.
“Something else on your mind, Officer Welsh?”
She brings her fingers to her mouth, then jerks them away when she realizes what she’s doing. “I know this isn’t exactly my place,” Welsh begins, pulling out her phone. “But I’m a new mother myself. I can’t imagine how this feels for you.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I’m also a subscriber. I’ve followed ‘CC and Me’ since a month before my little girl was born.”
“Well, we appreciate your support. Abby will be happy to hear.”
“However.” Welsh holds up a hand like I’ve missed her point. “After the press conference, we really don’t need to give the public any more reason to get involved. It gets messy. People can get hurt. You might want to encourage Mrs. Cates—Scarborough—not to post any more details about the investigation without discussing it with Detective Stone first.”
I feel like I was clubbed upside the head. “I’m sorry?”
Welsh rotates the phone to me. The most recent “CC and Me” article loads. There’s a picture of our house surrounded by reporters and police. Beneath that is an announcement of sorts. Jennifer Cates, concerned mother of Chloe Cates, listing the specifics around her disappearance and asking for the public’s help in finding Chloe.
A picture of the woods.
And of Missy Crawford. Her face runs parallel to Abby’s latest headshot with the caption: Missy v Chloe. Possible serial abductor/MURDERER on the LOOSE??
My fists clench. “When did this go up?”
“About ten minutes ago,” she says. She looks guilty. Like she did something wrong by ratting on my wife. “There was other stuff before this but mostly what Stone covered in her statement.” A pause. “We haven’t even received confirmation that it is Missy Crawford yet. They have to ID the body. If they see this before Homicide is able to notify them . . .”
Guess that all-important shower played second fiddle to the likes.
“We don’t want to start a panic,” Welsh says, and sticks the phone in her pocket. “A girl is dead. Her family deserves privacy. And respect.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
She nods, clearly relieved the talk is over and I didn’t attack her for being the one to tell me. What good does it do to shoot the messenger? Welsh isn’t the one using her daughter’s disappearance as a money-grab.
I hop in the car and smack the garage door opener. Bruce Springsteen floods the speakers and drowns out my thoughts. For one incredible second, our family is happy, Abby is safe, and I’m lost in the melody, dreaming of running and highways and far-off destinations.
Fucking Bruce.
The cluster of reporters surrounds me as soon as I reach the bottom of the driveway. Puppet hands producing microphones and recorders. Pouncing, hoping I’ll roll down the window for an impromptu chat.
Any comment on the girl in the tree house . . .
Have any demands . . .
Mr. Cates, was your daughter depressed or . . .
Do you think Chloe’s dead . . .
I’d kill for an ounce of anonymity.
I check the clock on the dash, grimace against the weight of passing time, and pray I’m not too late.