Chevy Stevens - Still Missing

I wanted to say something, anything, to make him stop, but I couldn’t make my mouth form words. Finally I held her blanket up in the air, thrust it toward his retreating back, and choked out, “ Cold—she’s cold.”

He stopped, then came back and stood in front of me. He took the blanket but just stared at it in his hand, his expression unreadable. I reached for my baby, eyes pleading. His gaze met mine and for a moment I thought I saw something cross his face, a slight hesitation, but in the next second his eyes darkened and his face grew hard. He brought the blanket up to cover her head.

I began to scream.

He was headed out the door. I leapt off the bed, but it was too late.

My fingernails clawed, desperately, uselessly, at the door. I kicked it and threw myself at it until I couldn’t lift my bruised body off the floor. Finally, I lay with my cheek against the door and screamed her secret name until my throat was raw.

He was gone for about two days. I don’t know how long I spent pressed against the door, screaming and begging for him to bring her back. I bloodied my fingers, destroyed every one of my nails scrabbling at the door without managing to make even a mark on it. Eventually I made my way back to the bed and cried until there were no tears left inside me.

In a pathetic bid to buy time against the pain, my mind tried to reason out what had happened and make sense of it, but all I could think was that it was my fault she died—I’d fallen asleep. Had she cried? I was so in tune with her every sound, surely I’d have heard her. Or was I just so exhausted I slept right through? It was my fault, all my fault, I should have woken up and checked on her during the night.

When he opened the door, I was sitting up in the bed with my back against the wall. I wouldn’t have cared if he’d killed me right then. But when he strolled toward me I realized he was holding something in his arms and my heart lifted. She was still alive! He handed the bundle to me. It was her blanket, only her blanket.

I hurled myself at The Freak’s chest and hammered on it. With every blow, I repeated, “ You sick fuck, you sick fuck, you sick fuck!” He gripped the upper part of my arms, lifted me up, and held me away from him. Like a demented alley cat I clawed at the air.

“Where is she?” Spit flew from my mouth. “Tell me right now, you bastard. What did you do with her? ”

He actually looked confused as he said, “But I brought you her—”

“You brought me a blanket. A blanket? You think that’s going to replace my daughter? You idiot!” Hysterical giggles bubbled through my lips and turned to laughter.

He let go of my arms, my feet hit the floor with a thud, and I staggered forward. Before I was able to regain my balance, his arm cocked back and his fist slammed into my jaw. As the floor rushed toward me, the room turned 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?

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.