16. Beth

The house is eerily quiet as I slide out of bed and slip into a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants. I don't think I slept more than a few hours last night. And even when I did, I dreamed of Mom and Dad, and those dreams quickly morphed into nightmares I couldn't wake from. The white envelope on the nightstand catches my eye, the one with my name scrawled across it in Mom's handwriting. I want to open it, find out what she had to say, but I can't. The lawyer's words return to me, You should always respect the wishes of the dead. And so, I will.We'll spread her ashes around the property the day after tomorrow, and I'll read it then.

The silver key sits beside the envelope, glinting when the light from the bedside table lamp catches it. There were no rules or last wishes surrounding the lockbox. I could open that at any time but I'm afraid of what I'll find. I'm worried, too, about keeping our family's dark secret. It feels a little easier today, which is concerning. Yesterday I thought I'd spew it all over the place like projectile vomit. Today it's more like heartburn, crawling up my esophagus. Maybe tomorrow it'll sit in my stomach, heavy, like overprocessed food that refuses to be digested.

The front door slams, startling me, and then it's quiet again. I'm sure it's Michael leaving to run errands or to get some work done at a café. I heard Nicole come out of her room sometime in the middle of the night. She rifled through some boxes and cupboards in the kitchen. I'm not sure what she was searching for, but hopefully she didn't steal anything.

I retrieve the key from the bedside table, holding it in front of my eyes, examining it closely, and considering what to do with it. When I can't decide, I slide it between the mattress and the box spring, hiding it not only from myself but also from my siblings. You can never be too careful. It was something my mother used to say, though I'm beginning to think she hadn't followed her own advice.

Out in the kitchen, I pour myself a cup of coffee. Michael made it and, once again, it's too strong, coating my tongue like a thick oil. I don't how he could possibly enjoy it. I glance at the clock on the wall, noting the time. Lucas will be here soon, and I'm both looking forward to it and dreading it. I want to be around him, but I don't know if I can be, not really. Physically, yes. Mentally, I am somewhere else entirely, and I'm not sure I'll ever get back to... here.

The rising sun seeps through the window in the living room, bathing the stacks of boxes with a warm glow. They're spread out all over the floor, some empty, some open, some still sealed. We got through about a third of them, but none of the contents gave us any further insight as to what happened the night of June 15, 1999—except that tape. It sits on top of the VHS/DVD player, exposed and out in the open. Anyone could walk in, pop it into the player, and see a buried truth. I consider hiding it or stowing it away, but I don't have the energy to hide anything else, and maybe I want someone to see it. This secret feels almost too heavy for the three of us to shoulder.

Last night I watched that tape twelve times, searching for a clue, something to tell me what happened before Dad led Mom to Emma's body or what may have occurred after the recording stopped. I thought the more I watched, the more I would be desensitized to it. But I wasn't. Each viewing shocked and rattled me more than the last. I guess there are some things you can't get used to. I noticed something different each time I watched it. Dad's eyes were bloodshot like he had been crying or maybe it was from too much drinking that night. He was never much of a drinker though, a couple beers here or there. Mom's breathing was shallow and uncontrolled. It could have been from running from the house down to the creek or she might have been in the midst of a panic attack. And Emma's hair was caked in blood. Some of it was dry and some of it was wet as though it was still pooling from her head.

Knuckles rap softly against the screen door, and I meet Lucas at the threshold. He's wearing a zip-up hoodie, a baseball cap, and a pair of faded blue jeans. In each hand is a thermos, one purple, one blue. They're the same ones we used when we were teens. His smile reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners of them.

"Morning," Lucas says. His voice is clear, not raspy, so I know he's been up for a while.

He extends the purple thermos to me. It's cold. He remembered. I prefer my coffee iced, but I never drink it that way anymore. Too much work. Too much planning. Too many ice cubes to freeze. I involuntarily smile.

"Cold and black," he adds.

"Just like my heart."

We both laugh... for old time's sake.

"Shall we?" he asks, gesturing.

I nod and together we walk side by side down the porch steps and up the driveway. The air is cool and damp, and the sky is a gray blanket, the sun seeping through its weakest seams. Our steps are in stride, as though they never went out of sync. At the top of the driveway, I briefly look across the street where his childhood home sits. Only it's no longer a home. It's a house. A home has joy, but they were robbed of theirs back in 1999.

"So," Lucas says with a quick glance at me. He tips back his thermos. He used to take his coffee hot with two sugars, and I wonder if he still does. Or maybe he drinks it the same way his wife does. I wonder where she is. Perhaps at their home, waiting for him to return.

"So," I say.

There are only three houses on this road. Ours, the Harpers', and Charles Gallagher's. Ever since my dad disappeared, I got the feeling this dead-end street was cursed, given what happened to each family that lived on it. At the stop sign, Lucas takes a sharp right. He's clearly avoiding the park. His jaw clenches and doesn't relax until we turn left on another road, leaving the park behind us.

The Grove is quiet. Even the birds don't sing and chirp today. Houses in this town are, for the most part, modest-sized. Many are ranch style with large yards and tall trees sprinkled throughout. It's like any other unincorporated community you couldn't find on a map. It's just a place you're either born in or you stumble upon and wonder, Who could live here? as you pass through.

"Is your wife joining you?" I ask. It comes out meek and awkward, and I immediately regret the question. I remember seeing his wedding photos on my Facebook feed, and although they were beautiful, I cried over them. I mourned a future he and I could have had if things happened otherwise, and then I deleted my account. I didn't have much to share with the world anyway and seeing others happy just made me sadder.

He looks over at me, gauging my expression. "No, we divorced two years ago." His face remains neutral like he's neither happy nor sad about it.

"I'm sorry," I say, and I think I mean it.

"Nothing to be sorry about. We just wanted different things, and I'm sorry about yours too."

I nod and press my lips together. I'd assumed Lucas knew about my divorce. My mom would have told his mom back when it happened. I never heard from him though, not that I expected to. We tread carefully down North Road. It's steep and our feet carry us faster than we intend. Growing up, this was the place to ride your bike because it felt like you were flying, a moment of magic for a child. The entrance to the nature trail is at the bottom of the hill, and I assume that's where Lucas is leading me. Because that was our spot.

"What did you want?" I ask.

"It's not what I wanted. It's what I didn't want."

I steal a glance, taking in his sharp jawline covered in stubble and those lips. I remember them being soft and warm. "And what didn't you want?"

"Kids," he says, matter-of-factly.

I take a sip from my thermos, unsure of how to respond. I don't remember thinking about having kids before I had one. I was only nineteen when I got pregnant with Marissa. I became a mom before I ever had a chance to consider what I wanted. But now I couldn't imagine not being one. Although our relationship is strained, and my daughter is living on the other side of the world, she and I will always be connected. It's a bond that can never be severed, for the love between a mother and her child is infinite. I still feel my mom's love even though she's gone and even after learning what she did to Emma. Our arms brush against one another. I swallow hard, pushing the dark secret down again.

We enter the nature trail, which is like a tunnel cut through woods, an old railroad track without the tracks. The ground is a mix of dirt, grass, and small rocks. Large trees on either side arch over it, creating a canopy. There's a stream off to one side—but it's dried up in most areas. Nothing lasts forever. The silence between us stretches so long that I figure the subject of kids will be changed, but then Lucas continues.

"After seeing what my mother and father went through when Emma disappeared, I just couldn't. My father didn't survive it, and my mom... I watched her die over and over again. Not in the literal sense, in the real sense." He pauses, glancing over at me. "Feeling dead while your body still walks this earth is far worse than being dead."

He doesn't have to explain what he means because I know.

"The day she went missing, the police kept saying the first forty-eight hours are the most critical, and then it came and went, and they never mentioned it again. My mother died at the one-month mark, the one year, and every year since. Maybe it's the cynic in me, but I figured if I didn't have kids, I couldn't lose them."

I give him a sympathetic look. It's easy to become a cynic when you live in a cynical world, where best intentions are not true intentions, where trust feels more like a religion—not one you practice, just one you go along with in case there is a God in the end.

"Do you ever wish you knew what happened to her... Emma, I mean?" I can't look at him when I ask the question.

"No. Because I know she's dead," he says matter-of-factly.

My breathing changes—short, fast, and uncontrolled. I inhale deeply, trying to even it out and steal a glimpse of him. His eyes are narrowed, staring at the long, dark tunnel ahead of us. There is no light at the end of it.

"She's been missing for twenty-three years, and it's highly unlikely she's just out there living her life. There's an ounce of me that believes otherwise, but if I knew what happened to her, I'd lose that crumb of hope."

My eyes feel wet, and I blink until the moisture dries up. Maybe Nicole and Michael are right. It's best to leave the past in the past because knowing what's true doesn't change anything. I drink from the thermos, pushing down whatever it is that feels stuck in my throat. It could be guilt, grief, remorse. It might even be the truth, my body trying to regurgitate it like it's a poison it needs to rid itself of.

"Mom keeps asking about her too. With the dementia, sometimes she forgets Emma ever went missing. I've had to remind her a few times. Watch her grieve that loss over and over." Lucas shakes his head. "But lately, I lie. Tell her she's at a friend's house or out riding her bike. They're tiny moments of reprieve for her, but I think they're more for me. She'll smile and talk about Emma like she's been here the whole time. Maybe I'm wrong for that." He shrugs.

"I don't think you're wrong. If I could have done the same for my mom, I would have."

He blows out his cheeks, and it's my turn to receive a sympathetic look. "Yeah, your dad. I'm really sorry, Beth."

I don't say anything because there's really nothing to say.

"It's been seven years, right?" he asks. It's specific, too specific. He clearly knows it's been that long.

I nod.

Neither of us say anything for nearly a minute. We just walk. Branches sway in the wind. Leaves let go one by one, cascading to the ground, finally accepting their fate. They'll break down, creating a layer of rot and decay at a tree's base, which will protect it through the winter—absorbing rainfall and providing nutrients. Even in death, they still have a purpose.

A black cat darts out of the woods ten yards in front of us and stops suddenly, lifting a front paw and craning its neck in our direction. Its yellow eyes glow like fireflies. It continues its route, scurrying into the woods again. A black cat crossed my path the day my dad went missing too. I remember thinking to myself, I should turn back. At least, that's what people say you're supposed to do, otherwise, bad luck will find you... and it did.

Lucas finally speaks. "Do you ever wish you knew what happened to your dad?"

"Yeah." I pause, looking over at him. "It's the not knowing that kills me. A mixture of hope and grief is toxic, like combining ammonia and bleach. On their own, you can stand it at least for a little while, but together, it's deadly."

I quickly look away from him as soon as I utter the word deadly. The image of Emma's lifeless body lying down by the creek flashes before my eyes. It's horrifying. Something I'll never be able to unsee.

He doesn't say anything, and I wonder if I said the wrong thing. We cut out of the nature trail through a small clearing that feeds into the Dead End. They call it that because it's the main road in town, and it just stops like there was no point in going any farther. It's where this side of the Grove ends. The other side ends on our street, just one mile away.

Asphalt forms a circle large enough for a vehicle to turn around and go back, designed specifically for a school bus. A guardrail wraps around half of it, a warning not to venture past the barricade where the grass and trees grow wild and untamed. As children, adults told us that those who'd gone in there never came back. We didn't listen though. We used to climb over the guardrail and dare one another to venture farther and farther. Nothing ever happened. We always came back in one piece. But it was here where they found Emma's bicycle, pink with white tassels hanging from each handlebar. It appeared months after she went missing, like the wild grass and woods had spit it up. Kids stopped crossing the guardrail after that, fearing that the warnings from our parents were true. I know now it was all a lie. All of it.

"I write an email to my dad every week," I say, and I don't even know why I mention it. I've never told anyone, not even Mom, because I'm embarrassed. It's like I'm a child too old to still believe in Santa Claus.

"Does it help?" Lucas asks as we head down the main road, back toward our houses.

"I don't know."

The Grove is still asleep. Cars sit idle in driveways. Drapes are drawn. Fog lingers over dewy yards. It's both peaceful and haunting.

"What do you write to him?"

"Stupid stuff really. Basically what I would tell him if he were here. Movies or shows I'm watching, books I'm reading. Things that have happened around me or to me."

"That's not stupid. At the very least, it must be cathartic."

I think Lucas is just being nice. Because who sends over three hundred emails without ever getting a response? My ex would say a crazy person, someone who isn't grounded in reality, someone frozen in time. And maybe he's right. Maybe I'm all of those things.

"Yeah, I guess. I like to think he's reading them even though he's never replied."

Lucas nods and drinks from his thermos.

"I sent him one last night, telling him about Mom." My voice cracks just mentioning her. "If he doesn't reply, I'll finally know that he's gone for good, and I'll let him go."

The weight of my words forces my shoulders to drop and my lip to quiver. It's hard to swallow again, and I feel my eyes filling with tears. I don't want to cry. But it feels like I have to, like I don't have a choice in the matter. I read about crying once, when I couldn't stop after Dad left. I wanted to know why it happens or what the point of it is. What I learned is that no one knows for sure. One theory is that it tells others we're in pain, triggering a human connection. Emotional tears are thicker, fatty sacks of protein. They fall slowly, clinging to our cheeks, declaring to those around us that we need help, that we cannot cope on our own. And I think that's where I'm at. It's where I've been for a very long time—stuck, unable to endure, to persist, to live.

Lucas places a hand on my shoulder and turns to face me. He looks into my eyes, but I'm not looking back. I can't. Those fat emotional tears escape, telling him more than I could ever say with words, but he understands and he pulls me into his chest, resting his chin on my head as he holds me. I sob, my body quaking and trembling against his.

And although I'm falling apart—somehow, I feel whole in his arms.

That is why we cry.