‘Yeah, they’re doing okay.’
I can’t tell whether he’s telling the truth or lying to protect me, and I’m not sure which is better. I mean, I’m glad they’re okay. Obviously. But it doesn’t take the sting out of it; I’m their youngest daughter, I’m missing and they’re ‘doing okay’.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.
‘Nothing, I just …’ I trail off because I don’t know how to reply. He won’t understand why I’d want my family to fall apart, even a little.
Chapter Twenty-One
18 Days Missing
Adaline Archer
It’s your birthday today. I was there the day you were born – did you know that? Dad picked me up from Nan’s and drove me to meet you. I ran into the hospital room, so excited because for weeks I’d been told when I met my new little sister, she’d have a present for me. I refused to hold you until I got my promised gift. It was a Sylvanian Family: white rabbits with brown-tipped ears – a mummy, a daddy and two little girls. The first girl I named Ada and the second I named Kimberly in honour of my very favourite Pink Power Ranger. Mum and Dad tried to coerce me to rename her after you, but I stood my ground.
You were only seven hours old when Mum put you – pink and screaming – into my arms. You were so small. I ran a finger down your soft cheek. You stopped crying then and made all these contented, gurgly noises instead. This is my first, truly clear memory. It’s like my life started the day you were born.
On the way home, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Before we’d even got inside, Kimberly was renamed Elodie. I took her to bed every night and fell asleep rubbing her soft ears, which reminded me so much of your soft cheek.
I never told you that, did I? Why didn’t I ever tell you that? It would’ve been weird to pop out with that memory over a roast dinner at Mum and Dad’s, wouldn’t it? No one blurts out heartfelt stories around a mouthful of Maris Pipers. And you always think there’s more time. Another afternoon, another text, another family party, another quiet moment in my kitchen.
Anyway, it’s easier to write it all down now, not knowing if you’ll ever read it, than it was to talk frankly then, knowing you’d hear it. I’m starting to understand why you love to write. There’s something freeing about taking all those swirly thoughts from your head and storing them elsewhere. When you put pen to paper you can say whatever you like, however you like, and there’s no one to judge. I could write all my darkest thoughts down on this sheet and burn it afterwards and no one would know. It’s a freedom I’ve never felt before.
On the way to Mum and Dad’s today, I drove past your house again. Below the police tape were dozens of bouquets of flowers and cards, from strangers or friends and family, I don’t know. It reminded me of those lamp-posts you walk by where someone has clearly crashed their car and died. I had to pull over, take a minute. Dozens of people from the lantern release shared videos of their starry ascent, dozens more shared videos of our dad and undercover police chasing a suspect. You’ve gone viral. It’s good. It means we’re more likely to find you … but find you how? In what state? Looking at these flowers, it’s like you’re dead, Elodie. Are you dead?
You’re probably dead.
There are even more flowers and cards at Mum and Dad’s. Mum has stacked all the envelopes on the coffee table. When I reached out and took one, she moved so fast to snatch it from my hand, she almost dropped her tea. ‘They’re not yours, Ada,’ she scolded. ‘They’re for Elodie. She’ll want to read them when she’s back from her trip.’
Without a word, Dad got up from the sofa and left the room. Tea undrunk. Mum didn’t even flinch as he closed the door behind him with a bit more force than was needed.
I think he’ll leave her if she doesn’t snap out of it.
I stared at our mother and, for the first time in my adult life, felt like a scared little girl, wondering who to call when your parents have mentally checked out.
‘Mum,’ I said gently. ‘You know Elodie isn’t on a trip.’
Her chin jutted out in the way it always does when she feels attacked, just like that Christmas she had her friend knit us those itchy, puke-green jumpers and we refused to put them on.
‘The way we found her bedroom … the glass, the blood,’ I said. Mum closed her eyes and I think if she could’ve, she’d have stoppered her ears too. ‘If she’d gone away on holiday, today of all days, she’d have called us,’ I ventured. ‘It’s her birthday.’
Her eyes snapped open. ‘I know it’s her birthday. It was me in the hospital. It was me in labour for eleven hours. I know it’s her bloody birthday. Don’t you think I know?’
I stiffened. Forget eggshells, El, I was walking through a minefield and if I wasn’t very careful, I was going to get blown apart. ‘The investigators want to find her, but they need your help. Yours and Dad’s. If you agree to do the appeal with the media, and we get Elodie’s story out there, we have a better chance of bringing her home.’
‘Her story,’ repeated Mum angrily. ‘And what is her story? Does anyone know?’
I sighed. I couldn’t help it. She’s so … exasperating.
She slammed her cup down onto the coffee table, tea sloshing over the rim and splashing onto your cards. Ones you’ll never read if you’re dead. ‘Don’t you sigh at me, Adaline,’ she seethed. ‘This isn’t some fucking event for you to organise.’ I couldn’t believe she swore. Mum never swears. I was so shocked by her language, I barely noticed her getting up. ‘You don’t understand what it’s like. How can you? You don’t have children. You’re not a mother.’
Not a mother.
How could she?
Not a mother. Not important. Not worthy. That’s what she meant. And she knows. She knows what I went through with the false pregnancy. She knows how long Ethan and I had been trying to conceive and failed every month. I could not believe she’d just said what she had just said.
I stood up. ‘I’ve got to go.’
Mum didn’t stop me. I got out of there as fast as I could.
To distract myself from my hurt and seething anger, I cleaned my house while I blared Britney Spears’ first album Baby One More Time because no one can feel down listening to bubble-gum pop.
Ethan was working late again – he arrived home just before 9 p.m. It’s amazing really, his ability to take off his jacket and his shoes without once looking up from his phone. Amazing also how he can be forever attached to his phone without answering a single one of my messages.
‘Dinner’s cold so I put it in the oven for you. Again.’