When I'm Gone: A Novel (26 page)

CHAPTER 27

Luke returned to the half-empty closet. He’d thought it would be a more rewarding sight, but now it only made him remember his regrets. In his mind he lined them up, one behind the other, filling the empty hangers on the rod.

No, he couldn’t keep going this way. Counting regrets would only lead to new ones. He had to fill the newly emptied space. Lacing his finger through several filled hangers, Luke whisked three work shirts, two pairs of khakis, and one somewhat dusty sweater across the space and put them on the empty rod with a clank.
There, that looks better,
he thought, feeling a little satisfied.

In the corner of the closet, part of the baseboard looked askew. Maybe he’d kicked it during his packing frenzy. Great, another thing to put on his to-do list. With Natalie’s clothes gone, it was easy to examine the damage.

Luke crawled toward the crooked piece of wood. Up close it was easier to see several black scuff marks and slight dents in the drywall above. Holding the baseboard with his fingertips, Luke tried to adjust its position enough to cover the marred wall. It fell off into his hands. He held it, frozen. A long, rectangular opening stared back at him.

What the?
Luke leaned the piece of baseboard against the wall and ran his hand along the jagged edge of the drywall. Immediately his fingers brushed a solid object. Unable to actually see the item, he hoped it was something inorganic he was touching and not the remnants of a mouse nest or something else equally disgusting. Whatever it was, it was defiantly stuck. He pulled down one of his shirts, hanger and all. Ripping open the top button of the faded blue-and-white work shirt, he forced the plastic hanger out through the neckhole. Perfect.

He got down a little lower, now on his stomach, inserting the flat side of the hanger into the opening and swiping it across the edge of the carpet, not letting up when he met resistance. Then, with a swish and thunk, a maroon rectangle about the size of a child’s picture book flew out from the hole in the wall.

Luke picked up the fabric-covered book.
What in the world?
Plastic pages stuck out around the edges, and the binding was cracked on the top and bottom. Flipping the book over to what he thought was the front, Luke stared at the empty cover, and, fingers trembling, he opened the book.

There was no title page, no description of what he was looking at, just a newspaper clipping from the Mallory Witling investigation. Mallory Witling. The name was familiar. Luke searched his memory, trying to figure out where he’d heard that name before. Oh yes, it was when Natalie took a continuing ed class. Maybe a psych class? That’s right—she wrote a paper about this girl. Maybe the scrapbook was part of Natalie’s project.

The date on the article was from nearly twenty years ago, just after senior year of high school. It was cut out of an actual newspaper, not printed off a computer. Strange. Mallory Witling disappeared at three years old without a trace from her home in Lansing. Her parents, Mark and Eva Witling, were begging for any news regarding her disappearance and offering a reward.

The clipping didn’t mean much to him. All Luke knew about the story he learned from an episode of
Dateline
Natalie had forced him to watch as part of her research. Beyond that, Luke could barely remember much about the Witling case, just a few hazy details.

Luke turned the page; another newspaper article. This one was from a week later when the case was upgraded to “missing, presumed dead.” The police found blood all over Mallory’s pillow and bedding, and cadaver dogs detected her scent in Eva Witling’s car. The next page had an article about Eva Witling’s lie detector test. She’d failed it miserably and soon after hired a lawyer. Another article when she was arrested. Page after page of articles followed: when she posted bail, when the husband came to police with evidence pointing to his wife, when they divorced, when the police exhumed the body of the oldest Witling child—Diane, when they performed an autopsy, when the results reported Diane had died of ethylene glycol poisoning. After the first three or four pages, Luke flipped through the rest of the pasted-on clippings just reading the headlines, the pages making a thump with each new turn.

Finally, he reached the last article. The headline read: “LIFE.” Luke, now fully invested in the story of poor little Mallory Witling, read every detail eagerly.

After being confronted with Diane’s autopsy, Eva Witling was offered a plea deal. She took the deal and pleaded guilty to both Mallory’s and Diane’s murders. Her attorneys pushed for placement in a mental health facility rather than prison, claiming Eva suffered from Munchausen syndrome by proxy. They claimed that Eva didn’t mean to kill the girls, just make them sick enough to need to go to the hospital. It was the attention she craved, not the illness. Eva testified that both deaths were accidental overdoses rather than premeditated murder.

In the end the judge showed no mercy, stating that repeatedly poisoning her daughters with antifreeze was not an accident. Eva ended up in the state penitentiary serving twenty-to-life, the death penalty off the table only because of her plea deal.

It was a heavy read. Luke flipped through the pages one more time, hoping there would be some kind of hint as to why this one event stuck with his wife and why she hid the scrapbook. Lansing. Not close to Pentwater, but not exactly far away either. Maybe she knew the family. Or maybe she knew the kids that died. He slapped the book closed.

A folded piece of paper fluttered out of one of the pages. It must’ve been hidden behind an article, inside one of the plastic pockets. The paper was folded in thirds, stiff and felt textured between his fingers. Far more expensive than the notebook paper Natalie used for her letters to him. Unsure what to expect, he unfolded the paper, a typed letter, one page long.

Dear Natalie,

It is with heavy heart that I contact you. I’m breaking with agency protocol, but seeing that we’ve never had anything like this happen before, maybe there isn’t protocol for this kind of thing. After your years of service for our organization and the support you’ve given other birth parents during your time with us, I feel like I have no other choice. I have to tell you the truth about what happened to your daughter.

Luke reread the line again. “Your daughter.” The date on the letter was from a month before Will’s birth, the same as the one he’d memorized from the Maranatha envelope, so the daughter wasn’t May. Then he thought of Andy’s daughter, who was supposedly his with Nancy. Or was that child really Natalie’s? Luke kept reading.

When you gave up your daughter eight years ago, you trusted Pastor Neal, Maria, and me to find a safe and loving home for your baby girl. We thought we had. I swear we did everything by the book, followed every step in the process. This family, they’d lost a child to a hereditary illness and, afraid they’d pass that disease on to another biological child, decided to adopt. They passed all the tests and visits and had been on our list for over eighteen months. I felt so right about that family, but I’ve never been so wrong. I feel the weight of that decision every day of my life.

You may have heard of little Mallory Witling, missing, presumed dead. I’m sorry to tell you, Natalie, Mallory was your daughter. I’ve kept a detailed scrapbook of all the significant events in her investigation and court case if you want to know more. The one comfort I can send you is that Eva Witling is in prison. I couldn’t make myself write this letter until I knew that I could give you that small bit of consolation.

I can never speak with you about the contents of this letter. I’m already risking my job by reaching out, and after losing Mallory the way we did, I now see even clearer how important my job is here. I don’t want this to ever happen again. I won’t let it.

I hope to see you and Andy at the convention again this summer, but I’d appreciate it if you kept this information private. I wouldn’t want Andy to worry about his own daughter’s placement. After this unfortunate loss, we’ve made an effort to check in with all our adoptive parents and changed some of our procedures when it comes to child placement.

Wishing you the best,

Christina Stephani

Doing some mental math, Luke counted back years and months. Mallory went missing when she was three years old. The letter was dated a month before Will’s birth. That meant Natalie was only fourteen when her daughter was born. Her first child was born sometime after her freshman year of high school.

Luke dropped the fancy paper; sweat was running down his back. The closet suddenly felt too small, like the walls were pressing in on him, ready to crush him. Leaving everything he’d been working on, Luke scrambled out of the enclosed space, suffocated by the weight of his new knowledge—
this
was Natalie’s secret.

That time in the shed, where they fumbled through the steps of lovemaking while Luke tried to forget his losses in their passion and Natalie tried to comfort him with it—not only was it their first time together but it was also his first time ever. Did they make a baby in that moment of desperation? It was hard to fathom but explained a lot—Andy, Maranatha House, those pictures, her secrets, and definitely why Terry still hated him for knocking up her fourteen-year-old daughter. And Ms. Stephani from Maranatha House, she’d kept a detailed scrapbook about his secret daughter’s disappearance, death investigation, and the court case surrounding it. He’d
known
that woman had more information than she’d let on.

Luke tried to remember the dark-haired girl from the fuzzy newspaper picture. Did she look like May? He hadn’t taken a second glance at the smiling girl in the picture, hadn’t looked to see what his first child even looked like. He might not know what it felt like when Mallory kicked inside Natalie’s stomach or what color her eyes were when she was born, but he could at least try to make out the shape of her smile, the texture of her hair. Luke dashed across the worn patch of carpet flattened by the door and retrieved the scrapbook.

Settling back down into his spot by the bed, he flipped through the pages again. This time slowly, deliberately. When he got to the first picture of Mallory, he held it out at arm’s length. She looked a lot like Will when he was little, darker features, with Natalie’s bright eyes. Why did he have to add this beautiful little girl to the list of people he’d lost in his life? Why hadn’t Natalie let him mourn
with
her instead of leaving him to learn of their daughter on his own? And one question this discovery didn’t answer was who Neal, professor or pastor, really was.

CHAPTER 28

“Daddy,” Clayton whispered, pulling at Luke’s eyelid. “Daaaaddy,” he sang. “Daddy. It’s my birthday! Wake up! Wake
up
!”

Luke squinted up at the face of a smiling four-year-old. Well, almost four-year-old.

“Sorry, bud, not today. Your birthday is Friday.” Luke tugged up two of Clayton’s fingers, wondering how they were already sticky. “Two. That’s two more days.”

“Oh man!” Clayton flopped on the bed. If he were a cartoon character, “Oh man!” would be his new catchphrase. “It will never get here.”

“Two more sleeps, that’s it. Don’t worry; it will be here before you know it.” Luke rubbed the top of Clayton’s spiky hair. He wrapped his arms around his back and slung him over in a tackle/bear hug combo. When he held his kids in his arms, Luke could feel how much they’d grown in the past six weeks. It was bittersweet to see their faces; he’d missed them more than he could even realize, but every change he noticed reminded him that he never got to see Mallory grow up.

He thought back to getting that first glimpse of his kids at the airport. Terry had taken it upon herself to cut both May’s and Clayton’s hair while they were in Florida. Clayton’s was buzzed so short that his white-blond stubble made him look bald. May’s hair was bobbed above her bronzed shoulders; the long strand of hair she usually nibbled on was gone. Occasionally she’d grab for it when she got nervous, like when they first stepped into the family greeting area after landing. Luke watched as May passed the security guard, tugged at the hair near her ear like she was urging it to grow.

Terry had dressed the kids in nice clothes for the airplane, as though they were flying in the 1950s, when dressing up on a plane had been the norm. The boys, tan and handsome, looked a little silly in their button-up shirts and dress slacks, surrounded by casual passengers wearing yoga pants and jeans.

But not May. She looked like a flower in the middle of a garden choked with weeds. Her hair was smooth for once, even after a long flight, the blue flowers on her dress flapping with each step. His eyes burned when she glanced up and caught him staring at her. A bright smile spilled across her face. She dropped the worn Disney princess duffel she’d had slung over one shoulder and went into a full sprint before jumping into his arms.

He never should’ve let them go for so long. The house needed children.

“Show me how big you are,” Luke said, encouraging Clayton. “You go get yourself dressed, and then we can see what Terry is making that smells so yummy.” Luke sniffed the air. He hadn’t planned on Terry’s extended visit, not sure if he was ready to confront her about the secret she’d shared with Natalie. Then again, maybe she didn’t know that Natalie’s baby was Mallory Witling. If she didn’t know her first grandchild was dead, Luke did not want to be the one to tell her. He was starting to understand why Natalie found secrets easier than the truth.

Funny thing, Terry never asked if she could stay. She proclaimed her new departure date, went to the ticket counter, and made her new reservations, all without consulting Luke. He wondered if the real reason she stayed was because she couldn’t bear to let the kids go. Or maybe she couldn’t bear to let them go to him.

“I know! I’ll wear my pirate shirt!” Clayton wiggled across the half-slept-on bed.

“That’s fine,” Luke shouted after him, even though this would be the third day in a row for that shirt. He’d let Terry deal with it. “Make sure to put on new undies.” Clayton slammed the bedroom door behind him, muffling Luke’s last request.

He listened to the staccato of Clayton’s footsteps fading into the other room. When Clayton’s door clicked shut, Luke let out a breath, the smile melting from his face. It was easier when he was alone—no one to pretend for. At least there was one reason to be happy Terry stayed—he couldn’t let himself go when she was around. So now it was only in his bedroom and occasionally in the car when Luke could indulge his craziness. Like how he drove past Annie’s house every day, looking for lights, watching for signs of movement, estimating the amount of time since the grass had been cut.

Today, while he was at work, Terry was going to take Clayton in for a doctor’s appointment, giving May the opportunity she’d been waiting for—Jessie time. They hadn’t seen Jessie since the day before the kids left. Six weeks was a long time to not see someone after seeing them daily for six months.

Luke hefted himself out of bed. His shins yelled at him, still angry from the run he’d forced on himself the day before. He’d never been much of a runner, just the mile at school and the bases when he played on the softball team at work. He’d always kept in shape with the punching bag in the basement and a set of weights, but he’d felt jittery lately, uncomfortable in his own skin. Though hitting something had always been enough of a release, now it seemed to compound his anger rather than release it. Then one night while he was working out, hitting the bag rhythmically, Luke remembered how free Annie looked when she ran. He wanted to feel free. Apparently a precursor to feeling free was feeling sore for a few weeks first.

Luke tugged at his boxers, loose from the running or maybe because he hadn’t eaten well or much when the kids were away. His clothes were starting to sag on his body. Limping across the room, he headed for his closet before remembering it was empty. It still felt wrong to go into that place, so he’d made a pile of clothes in the corner by a window. Most were clean despite being creased with wrinkles. On the top of the pile was the pair of slacks he’d worn to work the day before, belt still threaded through the loops, only wrinkled down one leg. They would have to do.

A hesitant knock came from the front door before Jessie walked through it like she belonged there. It had taken her a few months to be willing to barge into their house unannounced, but Luke had insisted she do away with the formality of knocking. He’d been trying to get her to call him Luke instead of Mr. Richardson for the same amount of time, but with fewer results.

“Hey, Jessie, come on in.” Luke was bent over his workbag, making sure he had all the proposals he’d brought home to review. May must not have heard the door, or else she would’ve been up in Jessie’s face before she got two feet past the threshold. “It is so good to see you again. I hope you had a nice summer.” He stood up and got a good look at her.

She was wearing a dark-blue
Mama Mia!
T-shirt
cinched at the waist, with a navy skirt covered in white polka dots and a pair of white flats. In all her time babysitting, Luke had never seen the same shirt twice. It almost made him tempted to go to a show.

She’d left her backpack at home today, and it was strange to see her without it. Instead, she wore a purse about the size of a note card slung over one shoulder. She looked tired and her face was a little puffy, and compared to his suntanned children, her skin was as pale as if it was the middle of winter, not the end of summer. Her clothes looked the same, but there was
something
off. Luke stood, hands full of proposals in plastic covers, but too preoccupied with this new version of Jessie to keep reviewing them.

“Summer was boring, as always.” She laughed weakly.

“Did you take in any good shows? I heard
The Lion King
was in Chicago last month. Did you go?”

Jessie removed her shoes, using her toes to slip them off. “Nope, not this time.”

“What? I thought you never missed a chance to see the hottest shows from Broadway.” Luke loved to tease Jessie about her obsession with pretty much anything Broadway. “Do you need a raise? I’d gladly donate to any travel fund.”

“Ha, no, I was busy . . . interviewing. I couldn’t take the time.”

“You’re already working too hard, and you haven’t even started your job yet.” Luke shook his head in mock disappointment. “I don’t know if I can support this.”

Jessie forced a smile. Her lips, blanched white; the thin red cracks at the corners of her mouth; and the dark circles under her eyes made him worry.

“Uh, so . . .” He didn’t want to be nosy, but she didn’t look well. “When do you start your job, Miss Fraga?” Luke used her “teacher name.” She’d used Luke as a reference when she was job hunting. About a month ago she called with good news—she’d landed a job at a local elementary school. She promised she’d still be available for the kids, but Luke knew there was no way she could keep up with that kind of schedule, not as a first-year teacher. He’d already started to make other plans. Once Terry left, Clayton would be in the preschool’s extended-day program, May in the afterschool program, and Will, well, Will was old enough to fly solo when he wasn’t going to cross-country.

“Actually, I didn’t end up taking that job,” she said, letting her purse drop to the floor like the phone-size bag was too heavy to bear. “And my last name’s not actually Fraga. That was just the name I used at school. I thought Natalie would’ve . . . told you.” Jessie wavered, breaths coming faster. She was going to vomit or pass out; Luke wasn’t sure which. “Whoa, dizzy.” She covered her eyes, like that would make the room stop spinning.

“Jessie.” Luke took a half step forward. “I think you need to sit down.”

“My name . . .” she continued, her words slurring, her body tilting from side to side.

Luke dropped the reports he’d been sorting through and caught her by the forearms before she fell headfirst into the banister.

“Jessie?” May called from upstairs. She must’ve heard Luke’s feet hit the floor as he jumped the six feet to catch her.

“May, get my phone!” Luke shouted. Jessie’s eyes rolled around, and she muttered under her breath. He couldn’t make it out. “Jessie.” He patted her face, not sure if this was something like low blood sugar, which Will sometimes suffered from, or if this was something more serious—something that had to do with the medical alert bracelet on her arm. “Jessie,” he called again.

“Call my dad,” Jessie mumbled, half-conscious. She held up her wrist before her eyes rolled back in her head, unresponsive. Phone in hand at the top of the stairs, May screamed.

“Jessie!” May stumbled down the stairs, sounding like a herd of elephants instead of one child.

“What is going on?” Terry shouted from the kitchen. But when she reached the foyer and took in Jessie passed out across Luke’s lap, she covered her mouth, her own scream nearly as shrill as May’s.

“May, give me the phone.” He held out his hand, anxious to get someone on the line that could tell him what to do, how to help Jessie, who was unconscious and breathing in a frighteningly labored manner. May passed him the phone, and Luke dialed the digits. As almost an afterthought, he turned over her arm and read her bracelet to be ready for the 9-1-1 operator’s questions. Her arm was limp like a sleeping baby, but nothing about Jessie was peaceful at that moment. Luke scanned her alert bracelet as the phone rang against his ear.

J
ESSIE
T
OWNSEND

C
HRONIC
K
IDNEY
D
ISEASE

A
LLERGY
: P
ENICILLIN

ICE: N
EAL
T
OWNSEND
734-555-4673

Townsend? Luke read through the bracelet again. It couldn’t be . . . right?

“Farmington Hills 9-1-1, what’s the emergency?” a female voice asked through the phone.

Jessie is Neal’s daughter.
The thought pounded in his mind like a battering ram. He opened his mouth to talk to the operator, but no sound came out. He swallowed and tried again. Nothing. He couldn’t get his brain to focus on anything else.
Jessie is Dr. Neal’s daughter.

“Dad!” May squealed, now kneeling next to Jessie’s lifeless form. “Help her. She can’t die, Daddy. She can’t.”

“Hello?” The voice called out again. “Did you have an emergency?”

Jessie’s back arched and she began to shake, the convulsions slamming her against his knee and the floor over and over. This was Jessie. He had to
do
something.

“Yes, my babysitter passed out. Uh, she has some kind of kidney disease. She’s shaking; I think it’s a seizure.” Luke had to almost shout over May’s pleading and Terry’s sobs. Will stood back by the hall to the kitchen, trying to hide Clayton behind his legs, his face mute with shock. “Send an ambulance, please,” Luke begged, not caring in that moment whose daughter she was.