But Not Forgotten
“Mommy!” The cry cuts through me like a knife. Turning, I see the young boy, all blue eyes and soft, blond curls, face shimmering with fluid seeping from eyes and nose. He has just realized that all the knees around him belong to strangers. I get down on his level, eye to eye. “What’s your mommy’s name?” I ask in a calm voice. His swimming eyes focus briefly on me, and then resume scanning the area. “Mommy,” he repeats, his voice fading in defeat. I take his sticky hand gently. “What color shirt does your mommy have on?” Slowly he returns his focus to me. A long moment passes, and I’m about to repeat my question, when he answers, “Blue.” Picking up the now dripping child, I carefully dab his face with a tissue from my pocket. “Let’s go find Mommy.” With help from store security, it doesn’t take long. “Mommy” is nearly as teary as her son. I leave them busily sobbing into each other and slip out into the late afternoon sun. Walking to my car, I can still feel the warmth and wetness of the child on my shirt. “Mommy!” I seem to hear in the wind. I start my car and turn up the radio. After supper, Bobo and I head out the back door, round the garden and into the woods. The dog wags his tail, happy to be outside. Today we head west, down toward the river that flows in the distance. Bobo is a whirl of energy, racing ahead, running in circles, sniffing everything, everywhere. We are both looking for a lost scent. I pass my neighbor, Emma. She’s out digging in the bean patch today. She waves and catches Bobo in a hug as he races up to her. I wave back and continue my walk. “Susan?” Emma calls, “You okay?” I nod, reluctantly stopping. “I want to look over by the river.” Emma’s face clouds with concern. “It’s been three years, Susan,” she says carefully. I don’t want to meet her eyes, to see the pity there. “I know it’s been three years. I need to look.” I walk away without further conversation, Bobo bouncing alongside of me. Three years. Three very long years. My daughter Missy would be seven this fall, going into second grade. She should be seven. Should be walking here with me, chatting away, laughing with the sunshine, chasing the butterflies. If it wasn’t for that monster. How do you tell a three year old child there really can be monsters in the world? He moved into our small town a year or so before Missy disappeared. Seemed a quiet type, withdrawn, kept to himself mostly. Worked at the lumber mill. He went missing the same day Missy did. I remember it was a beautiful spring day. Flowers were crowding the hills, bird song filling the air, the sky just calling for admirers to come out and enjoy the day. Walking the path, I kick at a rock. I feel the rage boiling inside me, thinking about it. The panic, the frantic searching, police, dogs, neighbors forming human chains to canvas the town and the nearby lakes. The man showed up again, a day or so later. When questioned, he denied any involvement. A search of his car showed traces of her DNA. Whether from tears or blood I don’t know. I didn’t want to know. I just wanted my child back. I tried to see the man in jail, to talk to him. He hid in the shelter of bars and bricks; wouldn’t meet my eyes in court. The evidence mounted; a past history uncovered. “Tell me where she is!” I pleaded. A week before the trial, the bastard hung himself. “Bastard,” I repeat, under my breath. Bobo pauses, watching me for clues. “Go find her boy.” This has become my mantra. “Go find her.” The light is slowly fading as we round the bend of the river and start the long walk home. The spring floods were higher than normal this year, and the debris is still piled in spots. Part of the river’s course has shifted southward. I’m lost in thoughts when I hear a strange yip. Stopping, I see Bobo standing by a raised mound of earth near the river, covered with branches and flood debris. Bobo is focused totally on the dirt in front of him. I can see him trembling. My legs feel like lead as I walk toward him. I can see the piled earth, the cracks where the flood had shifted the soil. Then I see the small, white bones. Sinking to my knees, I gently reach toward the small remnants of a small hand, the bones held together by gossamer threads of ligaments long dormant. For a moment the world dims, a fog swirls around me, and all I see are those delicate fingers, reaching out to me from far away. Bobo bumps his head against my shoulder, hard. He forces his head under my arm and whines. Hugging him, I’m numb. The wind lifts the hair off my back. “Mommy!” I hear again, faintly. “It’s okay, Missy,” I murmur through my tears, “Mommy’s come to take you home.”