Page 30 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

My breathing changes—short, fast, and uncontrolled. I inhale deeply, trying to even it out and steal a glimpse of him. His eyes are narrowed, staring at the long, dark tunnel ahead of us. There is no light at the end of it.

“She’s been missing for twenty-three years, and it’s highly unlikely she’s just out there living her life. There’s an ounce of me that believes otherwise, but if I knew what happened to her, I’d lose that crumb of hope.”

My eyes feel wet, and I blink until the moisture dries up. Maybe Nicole and Michael are right. It’s best to leave the past in the past because knowing what’s true doesn’t change anything. I drink from the thermos, pushing down whatever it is that feels stuck in my throat. It could be guilt, grief, remorse. It might even be the truth, my body trying to regurgitate it like it’s a poison it needs to rid itself of.

“Mom keeps asking about her too. With the dementia, sometimes she forgets Emma ever went missing. I’ve had to remind her a few times. Watch her grieve that loss over and over.” Lucas shakes his head. “But lately, I lie. Tell her she’s at a friend’s house or out riding her bike. They’re tiny moments of reprieve for her, but I think they’re more for me. She’ll smile and talk about Emma like she’s been here the whole time. Maybe I’m wrong for that.” He shrugs.

“I don’t think you’re wrong. If I could have done the same for my mom, I would have.”

He blows out his cheeks, and it’s my turn to receive a sympathetic look. “Yeah, your dad. I’m really sorry, Beth.”

I don’t say anything because there’s really nothing to say.

“It’s been seven years, right?” he asks. It’s specific, too specific. He clearly knows it’s been that long.

I nod.

Neither of us say anything for nearly a minute. We just walk. Branches sway in the wind. Leaves let go one by one, cascading to the ground, finally accepting their fate. They’ll break down, creating a layer of rot and decay at a tree’s base, which will protect it through the winter—absorbing rainfall and providing nutrients. Even in death, they still have a purpose.

A black cat darts out of the woods ten yards in front of us and stops suddenly, lifting a front paw and craning its neck in our direction. Its yellow eyes glow like fireflies. It continues its route, scurrying into the woods again. A black cat crossed my path the day my dad went missing too. I remember thinking to myself,I should turn back. At least, that’s what people say you’re supposed to do, otherwise, bad luck will find you... and it did.

Lucas finally speaks. “Do you ever wish you knew what happened to your dad?”

“Yeah.” I pause, looking over at him. “It’s the not knowing that kills me. A mixture of hope and grief is toxic, like combining ammonia and bleach. On their own, you can stand it at least for a little while, but together, it’s deadly.”

I quickly look away from him as soon as I utter the worddeadly. The image of Emma’s lifeless body lying down by the creek flashes before my eyes. It’s horrifying. Something I’ll never be able to unsee.

He doesn’t say anything, and I wonder if I said the wrong thing. We cut out of the nature trail through a small clearing that feeds into the Dead End. They call it that because it’s the main road in town, and it just stops like there was no point in going any farther. It’s where this side of the Grove ends. The other side ends on our street, just one mile away.

Asphalt forms a circle large enough for a vehicle to turn around and go back, designed specifically for a school bus. A guardrail wraps around half of it, a warning not to venture past the barricade where the grass and trees grow wild and untamed. As children, adults told us that those who’d gone in there never came back. We didn’t listen though. We used to climb over the guardrail and dare one another to venture farther and farther. Nothing ever happened. We always came back in one piece. But it was here where they found Emma’s bicycle, pink with white tassels hanging from each handlebar. It appeared months after she went missing, like the wild grass and woods had spit it up. Kids stopped crossing the guardrail after that, fearing that the warnings from our parents were true. I know now it was all a lie. All of it.

“I write an email to my dad every week,” I say, and I don’t even know why I mention it. I’ve never told anyone, not even Mom, because I’m embarrassed. It’s like I’m a child too old to still believe in Santa Claus.

“Does it help?” Lucas asks as we head down the main road, back toward our houses.

“I don’t know.”

The Grove is still asleep. Cars sit idle in driveways. Drapes are drawn. Fog lingers over dewy yards. It’s both peaceful and haunting.

“What do you write to him?”

“Stupid stuff really. Basically what I would tell him if he were here. Movies or shows I’m watching, books I’m reading. Things that have happened around me or to me.”

“That’s not stupid. At the very least, it must be cathartic.”

I think Lucas is just being nice. Because who sends over three hundred emails without ever getting a response? My ex would say a crazy person, someone who isn’t grounded in reality, someone frozen in time. And maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m all of those things.

“Yeah, I guess. I like to think he’s reading them even though he’s never replied.”

Lucas nods and drinks from his thermos.

“I sent him one last night, telling him about Mom.” My voice cracks just mentioning her. “If he doesn’t reply, I’ll finally know that he’s gone for good, and I’ll let him go.”

The weight of my words forces my shoulders to drop and my lip to quiver. It’s hard to swallow again, and I feel my eyes filling with tears. I don’t want to cry. But it feels like I have to, like I don’t have a choice in the matter. I read about crying once, when I couldn’t stop after Dad left. I wanted to know why it happens or what the point of it is. What I learned is that no one knows for sure. One theory is that it tells others we’re in pain, triggering a human connection. Emotional tears are thicker, fatty sacks of protein. They fall slowly, clinging to our cheeks, declaring to those around us that we need help, that we cannot cope on our own. And I think that’s where I’m at. It’s where I’ve been for a very long time—stuck, unable to endure, to persist, to live.

Lucas places a hand on my shoulder and turns to face me. He looks into my eyes, but I’m not looking back. I can’t. Those fat emotional tears escape, telling him more than I could ever say with words, but he understands and he pulls me into his chest, resting his chin on my head as he holds me. I sob, my body quaking and trembling against his.

And although I’m falling apart—somehow, I feel whole in his arms.

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