Finding Laura Page 2

  “Where is she, Robert?”

  The screen door’s spring creaked as Sally held it ajar with her foot. She balanced the tray containing two glasses of lemonade and gingersnap cookies on her hip before releasing the door.

  Robert nodded his gratitude to Sally as she situated the tray on the patio table. She silently acknowledged his gesture before discreetly returning to the kitchen.

  “Robert,” Miranda demanded. “I want to know where Laura is. Where is she?”

  Robert closed his eyes and sucked in a hard breath. This would not be easy. It was never easy. He opened his eyes and posed a question. “Where was Laura the last time you saw her, Miranda?”

  Miranda uttered a tsk. “What kind of question is that? Really?”

  “I’m asking you. Where was she?”

  Miranda rolled her eyes. “She … She was …”

  The painkillers clouded Miranda’s brain. She inspected her hands as if the answer had been scribbled on her palm, like solutions to a cheating student’s exam.

  Robert had anticipated his wife’s perplexed expression and lack of words. He tipped her chin with his finger to maintain direct eye contact before he responded.

  “She’s at Woodhaven, Miranda. You remember that place?”

  Miranda cocked her head. Her bewildered stare indicated Robert’s lunchtime visit would not be a quick one.

  “Wood-hay-ven.” Miranda mulled over the name. “Woodhaven—isn’t that a nursery school? I thought we decided she was too young to go.”

  Robert exhaled a long sigh. The endless riddles tried his patience. He ignored the doctor’s advice and blurted out his response. “Woodhaven is the cemetery.”

  Miranda’s eyes widened. She recoiled into the swing, raising her feet from the cement and tucking them under her.

  “Cemetery? What’s my baby doing there?”

  Miranda’s disorientation sliced Robert’s core each time they had this conversation. Ignoring the raw sting of his private grief, he retold the truth Miranda refused to acknowledge.

  “Laura died last year, Miranda.”

  She violently shook her head as she hugged herself in a determination to make herself smaller, to disappear. Horror flickered then froze in her eyes. Her fists shook—not from anger but from involuntary tremors that set her body shivering. The imaginary gnat had returned with a swarm—buzzing, buzzing in her ear.

  The ice cubes clinked in the glasses as they dissolved into the lemonade. Robert’s heart melted as well. He cleared his throat as if that would stop the burning in his chest. It never did. He watched helplessly as his wife surrendered to a primal grief so devastating that Robert was not sure she would survive this time.

  The swing’s motion shifted abruptly as Miranda jostled from the wooden seat.

  Robert clung to the chain with both hands and leaned away from his wife.

  Miranda sprang up, threw back her head and screamed. She filled her exhausted lungs with a quick breath and screamed longer the second time while pounding her temples.

  Miranda’s anguished howls vibrated through the windowpane, startling Sally.

  Mornings bring fresh starts.

  Every morning was a fresh start for Miranda Melton.

  Chapter 2

  As Dr. Ames had suggested, Robert remained seated and did not rush to comfort his wife despite her horrendous scream. Because of Miranda’s memory loss, Dr. Ames had conferred that each time Robert explained Laura’s disappearance, Miranda learned the news of Laura’s death for the first time.

  Her scream, although loud and long, produced a single tear. The heartbreaking news of losing her daughter depleted her energy. Robbed of her motherhood in a spiraling second, Miranda slumped exhausted onto the porch swing.

  Miranda leaned forward with her head in her lap. The silent drop rolled down her cheek, its journey ending when her skirt’s cotton fabric absorbed the wetness. The faded tear dissolved, collected among the others she had no recollection of shedding.

  Miranda struggled to breathe, to feel. She retreated within her mind’s gray fog. The place of no feelings. No beginnings, no middles, no ends. The numb zone.

  “Miranda?”

  Her absolute stillness that usually followed her wail had always frightened Robert. He feared one day she would withdraw within her shell forever. Days like this, the need to escape the dreadful loss appealed to him too. He could not imagine how devastating it was for Miranda to hear of Laura’s death as if it had just occurred. Miranda’s brain refusing to accept Laura’s death baffled him, but he had been thankful he’d had the time to mourn his daughter’s death throughout the past year.

  He patted Miranda’s shoulder and tenderly pulled her to her feet. He studied her stoic expression for a moment before embracing her. Crystal-blue eyes, void of emotion, stared back. He led her up the stairs and to their bedroom, holding her hand while he carried her glass. Setting the lemonade on his nightstand, he motioned for his wife to lie on their bed while he ventured into their bathroom.

  From the medicine cabinet, he removed the antidepressant medication Dr. Ames had prescribed. When he returned, his wife ignored his presence while she stared at the ceiling. Her passive expression revealed nothing of her thoughts. Was she finally remembering, or did she return to the comfort of denial?

  Robert placed the medication next to the lemonade before he closed the blinds and lay next to her. The lingering scent of her Yardley English lavender–scented soap induced a calming effect on him, which only made Robert feel guilty. He sought to comfort her, yet he was at a loss to console her. How could he soothe her heartache when none existed for longer than a few minutes at a time?

  Robert’s recounting Laura’s passing to Miranda reminded him of watching a movie for the umpteenth time. The cast of characters never changed, and although the dialogue was repeated verbatim, its meaning was never absorbed. He prayed for a conclusion, yet none came. Robert grieved not only for the daughter who had died but also for the wife he had lost.

  He offered Miranda the medication, but she refused by closing her eyes. Robert rose from the bed. He covered Miranda with a thin blanket. He leaned, kissed her forehead and whispered, “Rest, honey.”

  Robert descended the staircase, each step heavier than the last. He headed toward the kitchen. When he had been a child, the multitudes of enticing aromas and the oven’s radiating warmth from his grandmother’s kitchen had calmed him. Sally’s kitchen offered him the same serenity in his adulthood.

  Sally had prepared a sandwich and motioned for Robert to sit. “How’s the missus?”

  “Not any better, I’m afraid. Part of me wants her to remember, and part of me is glad she doesn’t.”

  “Nothin’ worse than losin’ a child. If you don’t mind me sayin’ my two cents, it’s just as well she ain’t rememberin’.”

  Sally placed a fresh glass of lemonade on the table as Robert bit into the chicken salad.

  “The doctor says she needs to accept it in order to heal.”

  Sally grunted. “She ain’t ever gonna accept what she done to that poor child. Best for everyone if she don’t recall it. Not hurtin’ nobody lettin’ her pretend the girl’s still here. The toys and clothes are still in Miss Laura’s room for that very reason, ain’t they?”

  Robert pushed away the plate, abandoning half of his sandwich. He wiped his mouth on the cloth napkin and glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get back to the office. Miranda will likely rest until I return.” He rubbed his chin like he always did when he felt overwhelmed. “Remember, I’m just a phone call away.”

  “Yes, sir. I know that.”

  Robert turned the ignition and shifted into gear. His allotted sixty-minute lunch hour had concluded thirty minutes ago, and he faced a twenty-minute drive to reach the office. He hoped—no, prayed—his father was engaged in a luncheon meeting and would not notice Robert’s tardiness. Robert’s optimism faded when he parked alongside his father’s Ford; it disappeared completely when the old man greeted hi
m at the door.

  “Robert, is your wristwatch broken?”

  Robert hung his head. “No, sir. Something happened at home that I had to … Well, Miranda—”

  James interrupted. “Nose to the grindstone!”

  Betty passed the two feuding Meltons and raised the manila file she carried to conceal her grin.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Robert returned to his desk like a chastised child. After an hour of futile attempts to create a slogan or an image for his campaign, Robert craved caffeine to stimulate his imagination. Knowing his father’s watchful eye monitored the hallway for unnecessary breaks, Robert summoned Betty to bring him a cup of coffee. The caffeine eased his headache but did not produce the desired results. Robert sketched stick figures and doodled until five o’clock when quitting time released him from his paternal detention.

  An aroma of beef pot roast greeted Robert as he entered the kitchen. For the second time that day, he thought of his grandmother. Her nurturing spirit was in stark contrast to his father’s strict discipline to be a man after Robert’s mother had died when he had been only eight.

  Sally hummed a gospel song while she peeled potatoes and carrots at the kitchen sink.

  “Smells wonderful, Sally. Miranda still resting?”

  Sally raised her chin and motioned with her eyes to the second floor. “Believe so, ’cept I been hearin’ her walkin’ around up there.”

  “I’ll check on her.”

  Robert climbed the stairs and paused outside Laura’s room. Miranda’s fixation with Laura’s possessions had reignited. He supposed he should have packed away Laura’s clothing and toys, but he considered the act too final. He believed concealing Laura’s belongings was a betrayal to her memory; a denial his daughter had existed.

  Robert stepped into the nursery. “Hi, honey. What’re you doing?”

  Had she forgotten about Woodhaven since noon?

  Miranda removed a sequin-covered dress from a hanger and placed it upon a pile of party dresses. “Sorting through Laura’s clothes. You know, what to donate, what to keep.”

  Robert rubbed a ruffle between his index finger and thumb of Laura’s dress she had worn on her last birthday. “Might be a good idea to give them all away, dear.”

  Miranda glared at her husband. “Don’t be silly, Robert. What would she wear?”

  Robert clenched his teeth. The Where’s Laura? movie reels spun on sprockets, digging into his temples and ripping away tiny chunks of flesh with each protracting rotation.

  Miranda scooped an armload of dresses into a second pile. “These still fit, which is good, because they’re the most expensive.”

  Robert balked. “Still fit? Laura’s never worn them. The price tags are still attached.”

  “Because they’re new, silly. Is Laura downstairs with Sally? She loves to watch the woman cook, you know.”

  So much for reality therapy, Robert thought. Without answering his wife, he trotted down the stairs to his library filled with scotch. His sanctuary.

  The next scheduled appointment with Dr. Justin Ames had arrived and not too soon enough for Robert. He and Miranda had arrived ten minutes early. As they sat in the reception room, a woman impatiently studied her Timex as a little girl wiggled on her lap.

  The temptation to address the youngster grew too much for Miranda to resist. “What’s your name, honey? You’re so pretty.”

  The girl shied away, hiding her head against her mother’s bosom.

  “Trudy,” the woman answered with a smile. “She’s only shy like this in public. At home, it’s a different story.”

  “She’s four? My Laura’s three.”

  “Four next month.” The woman’s attention diverted to the hallway as a door opened. “There’s Daddy. Time to go,” she said to coax Trudy from her lap. The woman waved goodbye at Miranda before following her husband outdoors.

  “Laura will be four soon, Robert. We must decide on a theme for her party.”

  Before Robert replied, Dr. Ames emerged from the hallway.

  “Come in, come in.” He beckoned the Meltons to follow him. After quickly shaking Robert’s hand, he motioned for the couple to sit.

  The doctor focused his attention on his patient. “How have you been Miranda?”

  “You know, I just saw that cute little Trudy in the waiting room and reminded Robert that Laura will soon turn four. We haven’t decided on a theme for her birthday party yet.”

  Robert’s eye roll indicated to Dr. Ames that Miranda had not made any progress.

  Dr. Ames responded in a matter-of-fact manner. “Miranda, Laura will never be four.”

  “Of course, she will,” Miranda said. She fished a Commander from her purse. After lighting the cigarette, she snapped her lighter shut. “Her birthday’s in two months.”

  Dr. Ames reached for his pen to jot notes while he studied his patient’s reaction. “She’ll never be four. Laura’s age was halted at three.”

  Miranda leaned forward to tap ash into the tray on the doctor’s desk. “She’s growing out of her clothes so fast. Of course, she’ll be four soon. I sorted her clothes just yesterday. Tell him, Robert, didn’t I?”

  Robert shot an awkward glance at the doctor, silently pleading for help. With the doctor’s nod, Robert answered his wife’s question. “You were sorting pink dresses, Miranda. The ones left in her room. Just like the dress—” He paused before looking away from Miranda. “Just like the one we buried her in. She’s at Woodhaven.” With a firmer voice, he added, “Woodhaven.”

  Miranda clutched her husband’s arm. “Woodhaven—the school?”

  Robert’s pulse raced. Each beat quickened until he felt his heart would explode. Was this nightmare ever going to end? His temper flared as he shouted in a tone that frightened him. “For God’s sake, Miranda. For the last time, Woodhaven is the cemetery. Laura’s there. She’s been there for a year now.” He crossed his arms and pushed his large frame into the chair with a hard force, raising the front legs from the floor.

  Miranda broke her manicured nail when she crushed her cigarette.

  “She can’t be. You’re lying! Why?” Miranda’s glare searched Robert for an explanation to his outrageous statement. “Why would you lie to me about something terrible like that? Why?” With no response from her husband, she buried her face into her hands and sobbed.

  Robert shrugged as he turned up both palms to Dr. Ames in desperation. He sought an answer, a cure, anything to squelch the endless movie reels. Robert doubted the good doctor kept Chivas Regal in his desk drawer, but he sure could use a sip or two of the miracle liquid now.

  Dr. Ames intervened, using his soothing counseling voice he reserved for explaining concepts to children. “Miranda, some wounds take longer to heal than others. But the healing can’t begin until you acknowledge and accept the fact that your daughter has died. I’m sorry, but that is the truth.”

  Anger replaced Miranda’s sorrow. She jutted her chin and glowered in hatred toward the doctor. She brushed away the beginning of a tear in one stroke and leaned toward his desk. “Don’t you think if my daughter—my only child—died, I would know it?”

  Dr. Ames grinned when defiance replaced Miranda’s confusion. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You’re unable to accept Laura’s death because you haven’t yet accepted the responsibility.”

  Miranda leaned closer and rested her elbow on his desk. “And what responsibility would that be?” Her blue eyes livid with animosity hurled a final dart of disgust at the doctor. “Huh? Tell me.” She slammed her fist on his desk and pointed at him, daring him to respond. “Go ahead.”

  Robert leapt from his chair. “Stop!” He held up his palm, spreading his fingers in a useless barrier to plead with the doctor to remain silent.

  Dr. Ames ignored Robert’s theatrics. He maintained eye contact with his patient, his adversary. He responded with a flat tone. “The responsibility of killing her.”

  The echo of killing her, killing her,
killing her stung Miranda. Her defiance ended as quickly as it had begun. She crumpled into a ball, leaning forward with her head in her lap. Her tears were not silent this time. As she collapsed deep within herself, her uncontrollable wails rang outside the thin walls.

  Robert jumped to his feet. He pointed at his wife while shouting at the psychiatrist. “Well, do something!”

  Dr. Ames stood and calmly poured a glass of water. He set it on his desk before buzzing the intercom to summon his nurse to sit with Miranda. He gestured for Robert to follow him to a conference room.

  Robert patted Miranda on the shoulder and whispered he would return in a moment.

  Within her protective shell, Miranda grieved for her daughter whose disappearance no one would explain without lying.

  The nurse gave Robert a reassuring nod before he followed Dr. Ames down the hallway.

  In the privacy of the conference room, Dr. Ames grinned and clapped his hands. “She’s made a breakthrough today. It’s the first time she’s been told what she’s done.”

  “That’s progress?” Robert scoffed. “My wife sobbing in pain and curled up like she wants to die?”

  “I know it’s hard to watch, but trauma-induced memory emotional recovery, or TIMER as we psychiatrists call it, is our hope of healing patients like your wife.”

  Robert raised an eyebrow. “Your hope? You inflict pain purposely on patients, and you don’t even know if it works?”

  Dr. Ames cleared his throat. “The therapy is in the trial-testing stage now. We’re applying the technique to amnesia patients, such as your wife. Trust me, once we document the results and publish our findings, the theory will become standard practice throughout the world.”

  “I suppose a special interest group, like a pharmaceutical company, has funded this … this research?”

  “Quite the contrary. No special interest groups are behind this remarkable study. That’s what keeps our research uncompromised. It’s a government-funded project, endorsed by President Kennedy himself. Currently a half-million patients languish in mental institutions in this country. The president wants more outpatient therapy and drug treatments available. This is the path of the future. I’m honored to be part of this work, as are my colleagues.”