Still Missing

black.

I woke up alone on the bed, where he must have placed me, my jaw throbbing. My baby's blanket was neatly folded on the pillow next to me.

To this day no one knows my baby's name--not even the cops. I've tried to say it out loud, just to myself, but it stays locked in my throat, in my heart.

When The Freak walked out that door with her body, he took everything left of me with her. She was only four weeks old when she died--or was killed. Four weeks. That's not enough time to have lived. She lived nine times longer in my belly than she did in the world.

I see pictures in magazines of kids the same age she would be now, and I wonder if she'd have looked like them. Would her hair still be dark? What color eyes would she have? Would she have grown up to be a happy or a serious person? I'll never know.

My clearest memory of that night is him sitting at the foot of the bed with her in his arms and I think, Did he do it? Then I think even if it wasn't intentional, he killed her by refusing to get any help for her. It's easier to hate him, easier to blame him. Otherwise I go over and over that night trying to remember how she was lying when I last placed her back in her bed. For a while I'll convince myself that she was on her back and it was my fault because she probably had pneumonia and drowned in mucus. Then I think, no, I must have placed her on her stomach, and I wonder if she smothered while I lay sleeping not five feet from her. I've heard that a woman is supposed to know when her child is in trouble. But I didn't feel anything. Why didn't I feel it, Doc?

SESSION FOURTEEN

Sorry I missed the last couple of sessions, but I really appreciate how understanding you were when I canceled, and I have to say, it sure surprised the shit out of me when you called last week to see how I was doing--didn't know shrinks ever did that. It was nice.

After our last session I needed to retreat for a while. Looks like I finally hit the depression stage--or actually, it hit me. And not with some gentle tap. Nope, that bitch hauled off and knocked me to the ground, then sat on me for good measure. I've never talked about my feelings around my baby's death before--cops just want the facts, and I refuse to discuss it at all with reporters. Most people know not to ask about her, I guess people still have some sensitivity, but once in a while a dumbass reporter steps over the line.

Sometimes I wonder if people don't ask because it doesn't occur to them that I might have loved her. When I'd just got back home and was staying at Mom's, I overheard her and Aunt Val whispering in the kitchen one afternoon. Aunt Val mentioned something about my baby, then Mom said, 'Yes, it's sad she died, but probably for the best in the end.'

It was for the best? I wanted to storm in there and tell her how wrong she was, but I didn't even know where to begin. With the pillow clamped against my ears, I cried myself to sleep.

I feel like a hypocrite, letting everyone believe he killed her and I'm the innocent victim--all the while knowing it's my fault she died. And yes, you and I already talked about this on the phone, and I liked that article you e- mailed me about survivor's guilt. It made sense, but I still thought, How nice for the people this applies to. It doesn't matter how many books or articles I read, I've already tried and convicted myself for not protecting her.

I tried writing my baby a letter like you suggested, but when I got out my note pad and pen, I just sat at my kitchen table and stared at the blank page. After a few minutes, I looked out the window at my plum tree and watched the hummingbirds hover at their feeder, then I stared back at the page. All those thoughts I had about her being a monster when I was first pregnant ate at me--did she feel them in my womb? I tried to focus on my happy memories of life with her and not how she died, but my mind wouldn't cooperate, it just kept going over and over that night. Finally I got up and made myself a cup of tea. The goddamn note pad and pen are still sitting there. 'I'm sorry,' just doesn't seem to cover it.

For the first few days after our last session, I didn't do much but cry. It didn't even take anything in particular to set me off. Emma and I could be walking in the woods and the pain would hit me so hard I'd be doubled over with the sheer force of it. On one of our walks I heard what sounded like a baby crying, but when I whipped around on the trail, I saw it was a baby crow up in a fir tree. Next thing I knew I was lying in the middle of the trail, hands clawing into the dirt, sobbing into the earth, with Emma trying to shove her nose into my neck and wash my face.

As if I could outrun my pain, I sprinted for home, and the feel of my feet thudding against the earth felt right and solid. The jingle of Emma's collar as she ran in front of me brought back memories of us jogging together in the past, another thing I'd forgotten I enjoyed. Now I run every day. I run until my body is coated in sweat and my only thoughts are of my next breath.

Luke called a week after our last session--he used to leave messages asking me to give him a call if I felt like it, but I didn't return them. He stopped leaving the messages but he still called at least once every couple of weeks even though I never picked up the phone. It's been about a month since the last call, just before I saw him with that girl, and I didn't think he'd try again.

When the phone rang, I was down in my laundry room and I had to run around to find the cordless. As soon as I saw his number, my already racing heart hit overdrive, and I almost set the receiver back down in the cradle, but my finger was on the talk button and he was saying, 'Hello?' before I realized what I'd done. Then I didn't realize I hadn't responded until he said, 'Annie?'

'Hey.'

'You answered. I didn't know if you would...' He paused and I knew I should say something, something that sounded friendly, something that said, I'm glad you called.

'I was doing laundry.' Jesus, I might as well have told him I was in the bathroom.

'Did I interrupt?'

'No, I mean yeah, but it's okay. It can wait.'

'I saw you a few weeks ago and I wanted to call then, but I didn't know if you'd want me to.'

'You saw me?'

'You were just leaving the grocery store, I tried to catch up to you but you were moving too fast.' My face burned. Shit, he did see me leave the store.

I waited for him to say something about the girl but when he didn't, I said, 'Really? I didn't notice you. I just stopped to get something in a hurry, but the store didn't have it.'

We were both silent for a few beats, and then he said, 'So what are you doing these days? I keep expecting to see your signs in someone's yard.' I fought the urge to be mean and say the last sign I ever had in someone's lawn was at the open house where I was abducted. I knew he hadn't meant to hurt.

'You might have a long wait.'

'I miss driving by them--your four-leaf clovers always made me smile.' I'd thought I was so clever when I put four-leaf clovers on my signs, business cards, and car door. My logo was, 'Annie O'Sullivan has the luck of the Irish.' Luck was my whole damn marketing campaign. Now, that's irony for you.

'Maybe one day--or maybe I'll do something else.' Like throw myself off a bridge.

'You'll be successful whatever you do, but if you ever get back into it, you'll be right up there again in no time. You were so good at it.'

Not as good as I'd wanted to be, not as good as my mom thought I should have been--the entire time I was in real estate she showed me the ads for every other Realtor in town and asked why I didn't get that listing. And I wasn't as good as Christina, who was one of the main reasons I got into real estate in the first place. After high school I had a series of shitty jobs--waitress, cashier, secretary--but then I got one I liked, working in the back room of a newspaper creating ad layouts. There wasn't any money in it, though, and by the time I was in my later twenties I was tired of being broke. Especially when Christina and Tamara made killer money, which Mom kept pointing out, and hell, I wanted to drive a nice car too.

'I've been seeing a shrink.' Man, first the laundry, now my therapy--all I'd wanted to do was stop talking about real estate.