Even Now

  “Some things are explainable by science, but some things simply can’t be figured out. One such phenomenon that defies scientific understanding is the truth that talent and interests are often passed on from one generation to another. For instance, a person with a talent for writing might well have a child with a similar talent . . . ”

  The article was dry, poorly written, and made up of unbroken small print. She closed it down and stared at the welcome screen. She needed to get going. Her grandma hated when she drove home in the snow, and a storm was forecast for that night. She was about to push her chair back, but she couldn’t resist. Her hands found the keyboard again. Every few days she checked, the way she had always done. Because mothers didn’t just disappear, did they? Her grandmother had told her the story, at least the basics of it. Emily was sick in the hospital and her mother was given bad information — information that might’ve convinced her Emily was dead. Probably frightened and confused, maybe devastated over the loss of her little girl, her mother had most likely left for California to find Emily’s father. Whatever had driven her, she’d left without saying good-bye. To anyone.

  In a familiar rush of letters, she typed, L-a-u-r-e-n A-n-d-e-r-s-o-n, and hit the search button. Another list of websites appeared, but a quick scan of the first page told her there was nothing new. The number of sites was the same as last time. Every one of them was a site she’d already checked.

  Next she tried her dad’s name: S-h-a-n-e G-a-l-e-n-t-e-r. But the same thing was true; nothing had been added on the Web under his name, either.

  “What are you looking for?” Ms. Parker came up behind her.

  Emily shut down the list and closed out of the Internet. She turned wide eyes to her teacher. “Something for another feature. I want to do a comparison of culture and expenses between college life in Chicago and Los Angeles.”

  She gave a nod of her head. “Sounds interesting. You might need more of a local angle, a stronger hook.” She looked at her watch. “But for tonight, how about getting home. Snow’s coming soon. I want to lock up.”

  Emily was out of the chair and gathering her things before Ms. Parker walked away. She didn’t grab a full breath until she was outside in the car. Why did it matter so much that she found her mom and dad? They had moved on with their lives, and apparently never looked back. She would follow their lead.

  Still . . .

  Where had this deep longing come from, to leave the Midwest and live in Southern California? She knew the answer, of course. Knew the region held more draw than sunshine and strong newspapers. It was the place her grandparents always talked about, the place where they thought her mom and dad lived.

  Snow began falling, and the clouds overhead grew dark and threatening. Emily didn’t mind. She was only twenty minutes from home. A storm didn’t frighten her. Funny, how peace was so much a part of how she was raised. Her grandparents explained early on that life wouldn’t always go the way she wanted it to. But still she could have peace if she understood that God was in control, that He was there for her no matter what was happening around her.

  That’s why it was strange when — once in awhile — she would come home and find her grandparents huddled together at the dining room table, deep in conversation. At times like that, they looked anything but peaceful. It happened again just a week ago, when she came home. As she walked through the door, her grandparents stopped whatever conversation they were having. She still remembered the strange way they’d acted that day.

  “Emily.” Her grandma stood up, came to her, and hugged her. “We weren’t expecting you until later.”

  “Journalism let out early.” She drew back and set her purse and books on the kitchen table. “Did I interrupt anything?”

  “No.” Her grandpa was a successful businessman; even now when he was pushing sixty years old, he was a sharp dresser, a man known throughout Wheaton for his power and influence. But wither he’d always had a soft side. He held out his hand to her and she went to him, taking hold of it.

  She bent down and kissed him on the cheek. “It’s quiet in here.” She gave him a hesitant smile. “You sure you weren’t talking about something private?”

  For the quickest instant, her grand parents looked at each other, as if to question whether they should go into detail about whatever they’d been discussing. But her grandfather only cleared his throat and gave the dining room table a light slap with his open palm. “Dinner. That’s what we’re talking about. What we can fix for our young college student, home for the weekend.”

  Their explanations didn’t fool her. They never did. She could only guess that they were talking about the one thing they never brought up in her presence: the search for their daughter, Emily’s mother. Emily knew they were still looking for her. Every now and then Emily would bring in the mail and see a bill from a private investigator, or a return letter from a congress man’s office in California. But their only conversation about Emily’s mother was centered on the happier times, the days when she was growing up.

  “Your mother colored just like that, with eighteen shades of green in a single tree,” her grandma told her when she was little. And as she grew older, “Your mother had a bicycle like that one, shiny red with streamers flying from the handlebars.”

  From everything she could determine, her grandparents had been on close terms with their daughter. That’s why it didn’t make sense that her mother would leave in the weeks after she was born. There were so many missing pieces, there always had been. Through the years she had asked her grandparents whenever she felt driven to understand the past better.

  Of course, sometimes she dealt with the loneliness all by herself. Too many nights to count she would smile at her grandparents as they kissed her good night and prayed with her. But when they left her room, she would roll onto her side and stare at the open door, wishing just once that her mom would walk through it. She had a picture in her mind of what her mother would look like, the way her eyes would light up when she saw Emily, the tender smile she’d have. Sometimes her imagination would be so vivid she’d actually imagine her mother walking through the door, taking a seat on the edge of her bed, and smoothing her hair.

  “I love you, Emily. I always have,” she’d say.

  But when her imagination let up even for an instant, the image disappeared.

  There were other times — times at the park with her grandparents, when she saw a young couple with their children, and for a moment she’d pretend the couple was her parents. She’d think what it would belike to run up to them and take their hands and hug them.

  “Emily,” her father might say. “We’ve been looking all our lives for you. Now you’re finally where you belong.”

  The older she got, the less she pretended that way, but still she kept a picture in her mind, the way her parents might look now. Sometimes she encountered something that it seemed only a mom or a dad could help her with. On those days she’d wait until it was time for bed, then hold quiet, one-sided conversations with them. Usually her hushed whispers turned into prayers, requests spoken to God, begging Him to bring them back, to reconnect them somehow.

  “I know my mom was young,” Emily once told her grandparents when she was seventeen. “But why didn’t she check to see if I was alive? She wanted to find my dad, right?”

  “Right.” Her grandmother was folding laundry. She set a towel down on the sofa beside her and looked up at Emily. “But honey, don’t think she had any doubts. I really think she thought you were dead.”

  “Yeah.” Emily folded her arms across her middle, warding off the hurt inside. “But wouldn’t she have stayed just in case? In case I was still alive?”

  “I don’t know.” Her grandma sounded sad and tired. “She was desperate to find your father. She wanted to find him more than she wanted anything.”

  “Anything?” The answer stabbed through her soul. “Even me?”

  Her grandmother reached out and took careful hold of her hand. “Not you, swe
etheart. She wanted you. That’s why I’m sure she must’ve had incorrect information about you.”

  Emily thought for a minute. “Well . . . maybe we should go to California and find her.”

  “We’ve tried.” Grandma smiled, but her eyes stayed flat. “Believe me, Emily, we’ve done everything we know to do. The only way we’re going to find your mother again is if God gives us a miracle.”

  Now Emily stared at the road ahead of her. The snow was heavier than before. Two miles and she’d be home, ready to sleep in her own bed and cuddle up with her grandparents for a couple of movie nights. She didn’t have a boyfriend, and most of her friends were spending Christmas break with their families. Emily was glad for the time that lay ahead. With soccer practice every day, her first semester of college was tougher than she’d expected, and she and her grandparents hadn’t had much time together.

  She took the exit leading to her house and thought again about what her grandmother had said two years ago. It would take a miracle. Fine. She gripped the steering wheel. If it took a miracle, then that’s what she’d keep praying for. Because more often lately she couldn’t get through a day without thinking of her mom and dad and what had happened to them. Had her mother found him? If so, did they marry and start a new family? Was it possible she had brothers or sisters out west? And if her mom and dad hadn’t found each other, were they happy?

  And then there was the hardest truth of all. The truth that threatened to tear at the center of everything peaceful about her life and faith and future. The truth that always brought the sting of tears to her eyes. If her grandma was right then there was no point wondering about when she might come back or what type of life she was living.

  If her mother thought she was dead, then by now the truth was painfully clear.

  She wasn’t coming back. Not ever.

  THIRTEEN

  Angela had been looking forward to this day since the semester started. She’d decorated the house and opened the seasonal storage boxes so the ornaments were ready to go on the tree. The red felt Advent calendar hung on the wall, all the numbered hand-sewn ornaments ready to be placed on it — even those that should’ve been up by now.

  This would be a very special Christmas. Special and sad, for reasons they didn’t want to tell Emily. Not just yet. The news would mar the season, and Angela didn’t want that. She wanted one last Christmas celebrated the special way they’d celebrated it every year since Emily was a little girl. Bill had his favorite Mitch Miller CD in the player and a kettle of hot cinnamon apple cider was simmering on the stove. Time enough for sad announcements and changes later.

  For now, all they needed was Emily.

  She heard the front door open and the cheerful voice of her granddaughter rang through the house. Her delightful, precious granddaughter. “Hi! I’m home.”

  “Emily!” She gave the garland a last nudge and hurried toward the front door. When she rounded the corner, her granddaughter flew into her arms before she could take another step.

  “It’s so good to be home!” She circled her arms around Angela and kissed her cheek. “I finished my finals.” She pulled back and grinned. “I even finished my feature on the soccer coach.”

  Angela looped her arm through Emily’s and led her into the kitchen. “How do you think you did?”

  “Good.” She raised her brow a bit. “I guess the first semester is always hard, but I think my grades’ll be up there. A’s and B’s for the most part.” She winced. “Maybe a C in biology and Algebra II.”

  “That’s okay.” She smiled. “With your sports and your work at the school paper, I think a few C’s are to be expected. First semester of high school was hard too, remember?”

  “Do I.” She gave her a dizzying look as she took a seat on one of the bar stools and leaned her elbows on the counter. “In ninth grade I wasn’t sure if I’d make it to graduation.”

  “Your gold tassel took a few of your teachers by surprise.” Angela chuckled as she reached into the cupboard and pulled out three mugs. “But not us, honey. We knew you could doit.”

  She looked around. “Where’s Papa?”

  “Upstairs.” Angela was careful to keep her expression steady. “He’s been a little tired lately. He thought he’d get a short nap before dinner.” She handed Emily a mug of steaming cider. “Here. Be careful, it’s hot.”

  “Thanks.” She held it in both hands and breathed it in. “This is so great.” Her eyes took in the adjacent family room, where Angela had most of the decorations up. “All I did was walk through the door and already it feels like Christmas.” She took a small sip of her cider. “Is Papa okay?”

  “He’ll feel better later. That reminds me!” Angela could feel her eyes light up. “He’s taken the next two weeks off. He’s never done that around the holidays.”

  “Two weeks?” Emily set her cup down. “That’s great!”

  “I know.” She gave a sideways shake of her head. “The board told him it was time he took a break. He’ll be off through New Year’s Day.” She didn’t add that he might be home even longer. Again, that could come later.

  They shared their drinks, humming along to Mitch Miller when the conversation slowed. Angela checked the oven and the meatloaf and baked potatoes she had inside. “Dinner’ll be ready in half an hour.”

  “Perfect.” Emily drank the last of her cider. “I’m going to freshen up. I’ll be back down in a little bit.” She flashed a quick smile and took light running steps around the corner into the entryway. She left behind a trail of her things — her duffel bag and backpack and purse. But that was Emily. Loving and friendly, but not the neatest person. Much the way Lauren had been when she was —

  No. Angela promised herself that this Christmas — with the news about Bill — she wouldn’t spend countless hours thinking about Lauren. It was simply more than she could bear. Still . . . with Emily back home it was impossible not to think about the daughter she’d lost, the one who was always only a sad thought away. She checked the dishwasher. The dishes were clean. Time to unload. She put away a row of glasses and then her mind started to drift. How different she was with Emily compared to her days of raising Lauren. With Lauren, everything needed to be perfect. An A minus in algebra meant a brief lecture on the importance of pulling grades up and the necessity of going for the best possible mark. A few scattered items on her bedroom floor, and Angela would’ve cut out her phone privileges for an entire week.

  It was petty and ridiculous how she’d treated Lauren, and all for appearances. So they’d look like the perfect family. Nice house, powerful job, an orderly, intelligent, high-achieving daughter. Just the way she and Bill had always known their lives would play out. But of course, all their plans backfired when they lost Lauren.

  Things were entirely different with Emily.

  She and Bill prayed with their granddaughter and took her to church. They talked and went on walks around their Wheaton neighborhood and laughed at old movies. Back when Lauren expressed an interesting dance, Angela and Bill signed her up for four classes.

  “She’s good, she has natural rhythm,” Bill said after her first lesson. “We need to be serious about this, help her reach the top. She might be a prima ballerina one day.”

  Lauren was five at the time.

  When Emily showed an interest in soccer, Angela and Bill signed her up, bought her a pink soccer bag, and cheered at her games. Win or lose, they took her out for lunch afterward and didn’t talk about the sport again until her next practice session. In the process, she developed a love for the game that went beyond anything Lauren had felt for dance or piano or debate team — the things they’d pushed her toward.

  Angela finished her drink and set the cup in the dishwasher. Their attitude toward Emily was different in other ways too. They understood now how fragile life could be. Never had they dreamed they’d go nineteen years without seeing Lauren. If Emily had come home with hair dyed green or a piercing through her eyebrow or a desire for drugs, if she??
?d come home pregnant by a boy she loved more than life itself, Angela and Bill would never have manipulated her life, the way they did with Lauren. They would’ve held on to her until love brought her back around again.

  Angela shook her head. What irony! The mistakes they’d made with Lauren had taught them how to truly parent. And those lessons allowed Emily the best possible life. Lauren’s little girl was grounded in her faith, she had a deep love for the Lord and for Bill and her. She’d never done anything more rebellious than stay on the phone too long once in awhile on a school night. Angela drew a deep breath. Emily’s future seemed good as gold. She would become a writer — one of the best — and she would go into the world bright and beautiful and sure of herself.

  Lauren would’ve been so proud of her.

  She heard the sound of Emily bounding down the stairs. “No soccer practice for two weeks! Isn’t that great?”

  “Longer than that, right? The season’s over.” The CD had stopped playing, so she drifted into the family room and started Alabama’s Christmas, another of Bill’s favorites.

  “College soccer’s a little different.” Emily made a face. “We’ll be conditioning again, doing scrimmages as soon as the field thaws out. Until then we’ll be in the weight room.”

  The music started, filling the air with the gentle sounds of Christmas, Christmas the way they’d lived it and celebrated it since moving to Wheaton. “How’s tomorrow sound for getting the tree?”

  “At the farm?” Emily’s voice held an excitement reserved for the season. But as she made her way back to the kitchen counter and sat back on the bar stool, she looked distracted.

  “As always.” Angela followed her and took the spot next to her. “Rain, snow, or sun. You know your papa.”

  “The cutting is the best part.” She brought her hands to her face. “My fingers always smell like pinesap for a week.”