Birthday Girl Read online

  From the ground, Elliott turned his head to see the man hugging both of his children, squeezing them hard, all three of them crying. He rolled over and pushed himself painfully to his feet. His arm and back throbbed like he’d been hit with a bat, but it was the touch of the little girl that had left him dazed. A distant siren brought him to his senses. He hurried to the bench, slung his knapsack across his back, and started to shuffle off.

  “Wait!”

  Elliott turned. The father, his face tearstained, walked toward him. Elliott began to move faster, expecting an angry accusation or reprimand.

  “Please . . . sir,” the man said, holding a hand up. “Thank you. That’s all I wanted to say. Thank you so much. I can’t believe what almost happened. If you hadn’t been there, I would’ve watched—I mean, I shouldn’t have taken my eyes off her for a second. If you hadn’t been there . . . I would’ve never forgiven myself. It’s all my fault. She could’ve . . .” He stopped, choking at the thought.

  The man’s face was grief-stricken, and it was clear he thought he knew what he’d avoided. For a split second, Elliott considered telling him the truth, that the man had no idea how narrowly he had missed a lifetime of self-recrimination and pain. But it would be self-indulgent and cruel and wouldn’t make any difference in the long run, anyway.

  He sighed. “It wasn’t your fault. Nothing happened, which is the way it should be.”

  The man stared as though he couldn’t believe Elliott could speak English. He flushed, then fumbled in a pocket, and for a sickening second Elliott knew the man was going to try and give him money. He held up his palm to turn him down, but a crumpled twenty had been shoved into his hands before he could form the words.

  “Please, just take it,” the man said, choking. “If you hadn’t been here, my life would be . . . I’d be . . .”

  Like me? Elliott looked at him, tired. “Look, just . . . learn from this. Cherish your children. Keep them close. But forgive them, forgive yourself. Help someone else. Live your life.”

  The man started to stammer something else, but Elliott was already moving. He felt the eyes of the street on him. It was time to go. He walked away, leaving the buzz of conversation behind, but unable to ignore the tingling in his arms where he’d cradled the little girl for a few precious seconds. His mind was a riot of emotions.

  The girl’s body was real. Her life was real. As they’d lain on the road, her chest had expanded and contracted as she’d breathed, her heart had beat fast against his breast. The feeling of the train track, cold on his face, passed through his mind, warring with the human warmth of the little girl’s cheek where it had pressed to his, present and alive.

  Alive. Because of him.

  It isn’t enough to be. You have to do. Find purpose by making purpose, by accepting what is offered.

  Something brittle deep inside him snapped and he changed course in midstride, heading for a place where they’d let him use the phone. He had a call to make.

  7

  Charlotte

  It wasn’t the bed that bothered Charlotte (although the mattress had lumps the size of her fist and smelled like damp towels), or even the fact that she had to share it. Like the rest of them, her bedmate, Maggie, was skinny from lack of food and exercise and was small, even for six, so she barely took up any space at all. She cried in her sleep sometimes, but everyone cried here.

  And she wasn’t bothered because the house was dark all the time. Sheets of plywood covered every window, nailed to the outside of the frame, while on the inside, the curtains were pulled tight and tacked to the rotting trim. On the rare occasion sunlight entered the house, it came in slivers formed by warped boards and crooked sills. As long as Sister wasn’t looking, they would let the thin, warm wedges of sun play over their faces. But the darkness didn’t bother her, not anymore.

  What she hated was how quiet the house was, especially at night. There was never an outside noise—not a bird or a car, not the honk of a car horn—and the furnace almost never ran; Sister turned the heat down so low at night that sometimes there was frost on the inside windowsill. But even that would’ve been all right if there’d been something to hear.

  Sometimes she lay so still the blood began to pound in her ears as she tried to catch a sound from the outside. A car. A distant plane. A dog barking down the street. But there was nothing. The silence in the house was so thick that it took on a sound of its own, a low whine that seemed to grow, fade, then begin again.

  For all that the house was quiet, it was the silence of a held breath, a tension that held an expectation of release that never came. Lying in bed, stiff as a board, she would wait for something to happen, knowing that just because it hadn’t yet didn’t mean it wouldn’t, or that it wasn’t torture waiting for it.

  Punishment awaited the first one to make a noise, she was sure. So, if the moldy old sheets brought on a sneeze, she’d pinch her nose and hold it in so tightly that stars would light up in her eyes, careening and crashing in the dark. When she wanted to roll over, she did so in tiny increments so that the springs wouldn’t squeak. On most nights, she would lie on her back, staring at the ceiling and listening to the house breathe and sigh, creak and crack. And, naturally, once everyone had turned in for the night, she wouldn’t have left the bed for anything less than the house burning down.

  Only once—recently—had she been tempted to break her own rule. A wave of cramps had hit her, a feeling like her guts were being pulled out from the bottom up. She’d been seconds away from running for the bathroom, no matter what the punishment, when the pain finally passed, though not without a . . . problem. She’d slid out of bed and did the best she could to clean herself up with some tissues she’d had in her pockets. Instinctively, she’d hidden everything from Sister and the others, although she’d seen Maggie’s little eyes glinting in the dark. That had been a month ago, and she was terrified the feeling would return.

  And tonight was especially a night to be quiet.

  The birthday party had ended in chaos and fear. They’d watched in horror as Charlie had strangely slumped to the kitchen floor. There’d been a frozen moment of shock, then Sister had screeched at them to go to their rooms, screaming and dragging them out of their chairs when they hadn’t moved quickly enough, actually swatting Charlotte when she wouldn’t stop staring from the kitchen doorway. Charlie was just sick. Very sick. Everything was going to be fine.

  She shivered now, thinking about it. Charlie was the oldest and the bravest of them all, always willing to talk back to Sister when she lost her temper and threatened to hurt one of the other kids. Charlotte, wanting to emulate him, had stuck up for Maggie and Buddy when she could, but Sister seemed to have taken a particular dislike to her, and things that Charlie managed to get away with had resulted in slaps and skipped meals and threats of the cellar for her.

  The mutual suffering had only served to bring Charlie and Charlotte together. Without actually talking about it, they’d come to consider themselves the protectors of the others. But there was no way she could do it on her own and, after seeing Charlie lying on the floor, her first thought was, He’s gone. She’d spent hours in bed fearing for him, wondering if Sister would come for her next.

  So, when she heard the first bump, her heart skipped a beat. The bump was a heavy, meaningful sound, one that none of the others in the house would normally dare make. On the other hand, she reasoned, Tina had fallen out of bed once, and Charlie had farted once so loudly that they’d heard it from all the way down the hall. The giggles had been unstoppable, breaking into laughter so long and hard that they’d been in tears, until Sister had run from room to room screaming at them that it was a disgusting thing to do and that if they didn’t go back to sleep she’d punish them, she’d punish them all.

  She hung on for long minutes for another sound, but all was quiet. Despite herself, her eyes began to droop and Maggie’s soft, even breathing beside her began to lull her to sleep.

  Then the hair on her nec
k rose at the sound of a different noise, a sliding, hissing noise like a bag of laundry being dragged across the hardwood floors of the old farmhouse.

  She raised her head off the pillow, straining to hear.

  A grunt was followed by a soft murmuring. She eased out of bed, slipping like a snake from under the covers so that she wouldn’t wake Maggie. Squatting in the total darkness, she ran her hand over the floorboards, so buckled by age and humidity that the seams and splits were easy to tell by touch. Once she knew where she was, she stood and, placing her feet carefully on certain boards she’d long-since memorized, moved toward the door. Going side to side and even backward as needed, she crossed the six steps in a noiseless, slow-motion game of hopscotch.

  The sliding and murmuring had continued, growing louder as whatever or whoever it was began to pass by her door. She froze, however, as the sound stopped. Risking the noise, she took two long steps back to the bed and vaulted under the covers just as a soft, persistent, mechanical clicking told her the doorknob to their bedroom door was being turned. She squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face in the crook of her elbow, pretending sleep. Her cheek was pressed against the sheets, and the smell of mold and dust was strong, tickling her nose.

  The door stopped, open a mere sliver. It stayed that way for a long, bloated moment; then, through cracked lids, she watched as a dull light played over her face and body, flicked to Maggie’s, then away. The knob turned again in a slow-motion cycle. She smothered a gasp as a sharp clack told her the latch hadn’t caught. After a long pause, the hissing sound continued.

  Heart pounding, she was slithering out of bed once more when Maggie rolled over and mumbled her name. The name Sister had given her.

  “Charlotte?”

  “Shh. I just have to go to the bathroom,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

  Maggie mumbled, then went quiet, leaving her to pad back to the door and run her fingers along the frame to explore the opening. Unlatched, the door had swung open about an inch.

  The sliding sound had stopped again, but was replaced by soft, rhythmic thuds. She put her eye to the slim gap and looked out. It was still pitch-black, but the same soft, muddy light that had examined her was bobbing up and down on the steps in time to the thumps. With her heart in her throat, she pushed the door wider yet again, just enough to squeeze through. Thinking catlike thoughts, she slipped to the edge of the staircase, pushed her face into the gap between the spindles of the banister, and looked down.

  Sister was descending the stairs backward so she could drag a large bundle, something long, wrapped in a blanket, and heavy enough that she was having trouble even lifting it. She held a tiny flashlight between her teeth, and the light, though dim, put the lines and wrinkles of her face in sharp relief: the puckered skin of her brow, the deep lines carved to either side of her mouth.

  Sister paused, leaning against the wall, then set to again, hauling her burden backward down the steps. It was difficult, obviously, and not helped by the fact that she was trying to keep the blanket wound tight around the bundle. She was nearly to the first floor when she stumbled slightly and sat down heavily on the last step with a curse.

  Sister lost her grip on the bundle and snatched at it desperately.

  Charlotte covered her mouth and scrambled back to her room, slipping into bed, unable to stop shaking and crying.

  He really is gone, she thought. And I’m next.

  8

  Dave

  Out of habit, Detective Dave Cargill of DC’s Metropolitan Police Department Youth and Family Services division ran a hand over his balding head, then stopped ruefully. It had been a full head of hair when he’d started this job twenty years before and had thinned incrementally, pulled out over many nights just like this one.

  It was 8:32, hours past quitting time for normal people, and reports were due by 9:00. He had two down and five to go, a record of procrastination even for him. The bull pen was empty except for Fracasso and Carter talking hockey, trading jabs over the cubicle wall.

  “Hey, Dave, how ’bout those Caps?” Fracasso said, trying to suck him into the conversation. His partner, born and bred in south Philly, bled black and orange. “You going to win the Cup again this year?”

  Hearing the air quotes around the word “win,” Dave grunted and held up a middle finger without looking away from his screen, eliciting a laugh from Fracasso. To his relief, they went back to harassing each other about NHL standings and Corsi ratings. At forty-three, Dave had a single life uncomplicated by a wife or children—he was still undecided on the merits of family—and he wanted to reap the rewards of being alone: if he got the reports done, he could get home, park himself in his easy chair, and watch bad television.

  So, when the phone rang, he didn’t bother to look at the face of his department-issued cell phone; he simply fished it out of his pocket as he read the last sentence on his computer screen.

  “Youth and Family Services. Cargill,” he said absently into the mouthpiece.

  “Dave?” His name was a bug’s squeak from the distance.

  “Yeah?” He put it up to his ear. “Who is this?”

  “Elliott.”

  “Elliott who?”

  “Nash. Elliott Nash.”

  “Elliott? My god.” He almost dropped his phone. “How are you? Are you . . .”

  “Sober? Yes.” There was a pause. “I spoke with Amy Scowcroft.”

  “Yeah?”

  “She said you sent her to me.”

  Dave paused. “I did.”

  “You want to tell me why?”

  “Because you can read insane and perverted and criminal behavior like you’re psychic. If there’s anyone who could take the pieces of her case and put them together, it’s you.”

  “That doesn’t really answer my question. I don’t work with you anymore. I don’t work, period. So why now?”

  “We’re off the case. It’s closed and cold.”

  “You’re off a lot of cases. Why her? Why me?”

  Dave tapped the pencil on his desk, watched it bounce. He sighed. “I don’t know, Elliott. She’s in pain. There’s no one to help. The dad is a deadbeat and out of the picture. No family to speak of. She’s lived off her savings the whole time, is this close to being on the street . . .” He trailed off, embarrassed. “She needs help.”

  “Help with what, Dave? Every statistic out there says her daughter is dead or being pimped out somewhere a million miles away. Either way, she’s gone. And you knew that when you gave her my name.”

  Dave considered how much to reveal, then said, “When we first started working together, I told you I was a foster kid. I didn’t tell you more because I don’t like talking about it. It was not a good life. No, it was hell. I bounced from home to home. They were rough years, shit years. And what I came from was . . . worse.” He paused. “Look, I know what it’s like to be little and lonely and scared. It’s why I work where I do, why I do what I do. If there’s a chance, no matter how small, for Amy Scowcroft to find her daughter, I want her to have it.”

  “Even if that chance is a washed-up psychologist living on the streets?”

  “You were the best at decoding criminals that I ever worked with, Elliott,” Dave said. “You’re smart, compassionate, skilled. If anyone can help her find Lacey, now that we’re out of it, it’s you.”

  “What if I don’t want to help her, Dave? What if I’m tired of helping? Tired of being needed? What if I’m just . . . tired?”

  A long silence filled the line. The guys on the other side of the room yelled Dave’s name, pantomimed lifting a beer. He shook his head and sketched a wave as they left.

  Finally, he said, “I spoke to Sister Madeline.”

  “Sister Madeline, my monitor.”

  Dave threw the pencil across the room. “Goddamn it, she checks on you because she cares. Like I care. And she told me about . . . how you . . .”

  “You’re doing what we used to call ‘avoidance coping,’” Elliott s
aid. “You can say it. I tried to kill myself.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “Getting into psychotherapy now, Dave?” Elliott gave a dry, humorless laugh. “I don’t recommend it. It’ll ruin your day.”

  “Elliott, what’s going on?”

  “I can’t hear her anymore, Dave. I can’t hear Cee Cee. And she’s the whole reason I’ve been sticking around.”

  “It’s been eight years, man. There’s got to be more to life than just hanging on. If you could find—”

  “Dave,” Elliott interrupted. “I’m going to do it. I’m going to help Amy Scowcroft find her daughter.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she know that?”

  “Not yet. I wanted to get straight with you, talk it out, understand your motives. Hell, understand mine.” Elliott coughed. “You’re right. I’ve got to find something else, find another reason for being alive. At least for now.”

  Dave exhaled. Thank you.

  “But,” Elliott continued, “you have to come clean.”

  He swallowed. “About what?”

  “About the other reason you picked me to help her.”

  “What other reason?”

  “Come on, Dave. If we don’t find Amy’s daughter, who better than a bereaved parent—who happens to be a psychologist—to help another bereaved parent. Am I right?”

  It was what he admired and loathed about Elliott, Dave thought. He was almost always right. “If anyone can find Amy’s daughter, it’s you. But, I’ve seen a lot of Laceys, and there’s a big gap between ‘can’ and ‘will.’ So . . . yes. If things turn out badly, it would be good if Amy didn’t have to face that reality cold.”

  “I can help her cope,” Elliott said. “But I’m not exactly the poster boy for successful grief management.”

  “Just give it a shot. Help her, help yourself.” Hell, help me. Let me feel better about myself. Old feelings of guilt washed over him. “I guess I should warn you, though. She’s got some . . . odd ideas about how to go about finding her daughter.”