Chevy Stevens - Still Missing

“So talk to a producer yourself, then.”

“I don’t want to talk to any of them, Mom. Why is that so hard to understand?”

“Jesus, Annie, I just asked a simple question, you don’t have to take my head off.”

“Sorry.” I took a deep breath. “Maybe I do need to get out more. We better talk about something else before I totally lose it.” I forced a laugh. “So how’s your garden doing?”

Two things Mom loves talking about—gardening and cooking. They’re also two things that take a lot of TLC, always a lot easier for my mom to lavish on food and plants than on me.

When I was a kid, I actually remember being jealous of her roses—the way she talked to them, touched them, checked on them all the time, and was so proud when one of them won a ribbon at the local fair. It was bad enough I had a sister who was a prizewinner, not to mention a cousin, but how the hell do you compete with roses ? Sometimes I wondered if it was because she could follow recipes or shape plants and everything turned out the way she wanted—unlike most things in life, especially kids.

She did try to teach me to cook, though, and I wanted to learn—but my lack of any cooking ability was only exceeded by my lack of a green thumb. Hell, I couldn’t even keep a hanging basket alive before the mountain. That all changed there, when spring hit around the middle of April and The Freak started letting me outside to plant a garden.

I was around seven months pregnant the first time, and my eyes felt like they were going to explode with spring’s light and beauty. When I took that first breath of clean mountain air—all I’d smelled in months was wood smoke and cedar walls—my nostrils tingled with the scent of fir trees in the sun, wildflowers, and the moss-covered earth at my feet. I wanted to lie down and grind my face into it. Hell, I wanted to eat it.

If I was farther north or off the island, I figured there’d still be snow, but it was warming up and everything was lush and green in every shade you could imagine—sage, emerald, pine, moss—the air even smelled green. I couldn’t tell if it was comforting to know that I was probably close to home or if that made it worse.

He didn’t let me go very far from the cabin the first time but he couldn’t stop my eyes from exploring. The trees encircling us were so dense I couldn’t see if there were any other mountains around. A few grassy spots showed through the moss carpeting of the clearing, but it was mostly just moss and rock. Must have been hard to drill a septic tank up here, not to mention a well, but I figured we were probably pulling from the river. At the forest’s edge I saw some stumps, so they’d logged up here in the past. I couldn’t see a road, but there had to be an access point close by.

The river was on the right side of the cabin—where the raised garden beds were—and down a bit of a hill. It was a beautiful jade color, and judging by some areas where the current calmed down and the water turned such a dark green it was almost black, it had some deep swimming holes.

From the outside, the cabin looked cute with its shutters and window planter boxes. Two rocking chairs rested side by side on the covered front porch. Maybe a husband and wife had built the cabin together years ago. I wondered about this woman who liked window planter boxes and brought soil in for a garden. I wondered how she’d feel about who was living in the cabin now.

I went into labor while I was gardening. He’d been letting me out—supervised, of course—to water and weed around the vegetables, which were looking great, and I could have spent all day working in the garden. I didn’t even care when he decided I hadn’t done something right and made me do it all over again, since that just meant I could stay out longer. The sensation of digging into cool dirt—which I could still feel through the gloves he made me wear to protect my perfect nails—and the scent of freshly turned earth sure beat being locked in the cabin with him.

I was intrigued by the idea that the tiny seeds I’d planted were growing into carrots, tomatoes, beans, while I was growing my own seed in my belly. Technically it was partly his seed, but I didn’t let myself think about that. I was getting good at not thinking about stuff.

The one thing I could never seem to shut out was my ache for simple, affectionate touch. I never knew how essential it was to my well-being until I didn’t have Emma to snuggle, Luke to cuddle, or even one of my mom’s rare hugs. Affection from Mom always seemed an afterthought on her part, unless it was given as a reward, which always left me feeling manipulated and angry at myself for wanting her warmth so much.

The only time my mom’s touches were given freely was when I was sick and she dragged me everywhere, talking to doctors and pharmacists about each symptom in embarrassing detail, her arm around my shoulder and her small hands pressing against my forehead. I never said anything, I liked it too much. She even slept with me when I was ill, and to this day the scent of Vicks VapoRub reminds me of the warm weight of her small body next to me, which felt reassuring and solid.

Whenever The Freak walked by he’d grab me for a hug, pat my stomach, or run his hand along my back, and he still cuddled me every night. In the beginning his touch disgusted me, but as the months passed I became disconnected enough that sometimes I was able to hug back and feel nothing. Other times, the ache for touch was so strong I’d find myself leaning into his embrace with my eyes shut tight, pretending it was someone I loved, and hating myself for it.

I wondered why his skin didn’t reek of the rot in his soul. Sometimes I’d catch the clean fragrance of the laundry detergent we used—a natural biodegradable brand—on his clothes, and for a few minutes after the shower I could smell the faint scent of soap on his hands and skin, but it would fade quickly. Even when he’d been working, I couldn’t smell the outside world on him—fresh air, grass, pitch, fir needles, anything—let alone sweat. Even scent particles didn’t want to touch him.

Water had to be brought up from the river in a bucket for the garden every day, but I didn’t mind because it was a chance to run my hands through its cool currents and splash my face. It was almost the middle of June, and I figured I had to be close to nine months, but I was so huge I sometimes wondered if I was past due—I didn’t know exactly when I got pregnant, so it was hard to calculate. On this particular day I dragged a big bucket of water up the hill and began to lift it up to pour over the plants, but it was warm out and I’d been working pretty hard, so sweat dripped into my eyes. I set the bucket down to catch my breath.

As I massaged my back with one hand, a cramp crawled across my belly. I ignored it at first and tried to lift the bucket back up. The pain hit again, worse this time. Knowing he’d be pissed if I didn’t finish my chores, I took a deep breath and watered the rest of the garden bed.

When I was done I found him on the porch fixing a board and said, “It’s time.” We went back inside, but not before he checked to make sure the watering was finished. Soon as we walked into the cabin, I felt a whooshing inside me, a weird sensation of something letting go, and then warm fluid poured down my legs, onto the floor.

The Freak had read all those books with me, so he knew what was going to happen, but he looked horrified and froze at the entrance to the cabin. I stood in a puddle with stuff dripping down my legs and waited for him to snap out of it. But as the blood drained from his face, I realized I might be waiting awhile. Even though I was scared to death, I had to calm him down. I needed his help.