Chevy Stevens - Still Missing

I have no way to honor my baby—no grave, no memorial. The local church wanted to put up a headstone for her, but I said no because I knew journalists and people obsessed with morbid crap would be out there taking pictures. I’ve made myself her cemetery. That’s why it stung when Mom said I wanted to be miserable. A lot of truth to that.

When Luke called again the other night, I found myself laughing for a few seconds when I told him Emma had fallen in the water on our walk. I stopped myself right away, but it was out there, my laugh was out there. And I felt ashamed, like I’d let my baby down by feeling even one moment of carefree enjoyment. Her life was taken away and with it her chance to smile, laugh, or feel, so if I laugh and smile, then I’m betraying her.

I should be celebrating that I didn’t sleep in the closet once last week—that talk we had about acknowledging when I’m feeling paranoid but not reacting to it might’ve had something to do with it. Even though I couldn’t resist checking the front and back doors to make sure they were locked last night, I managed not to check all the windows by reminding myself that none of them had been opened after I’d inspected them during the day. It was the first night since I’ve been home that I’ve been able to skip part of my bedtime ritual.

The peeing thing has gotten better and better—the yoga tapes you gave me helped a ton with that. Most days I can go when I need to and without even having to do any of the breathing exercises or repeat my mantras.

Like I said, I should feel proud of my progress, and I am, but that just adds another layer of guilt. Healing feels a lot like leaving my daughter behind, and I already did that once.

Well, I thought about your suggestion, Doc, and I’m not sold. I know no one is actually trying to harm me, it’s all in my head, so making a list of anyone who might want to seems goofy as all get-out. Tell you what I will do, though. The next time I’m feeling paranoid, I’ll make a mental list, and when I can’t think of a single name to put on it I’ll feel like a dumbass, which beats feeling paranoid.

The blue scarf you’re wearing looks great with your eyes, by the way. You’re pretty stylish for an older woman, you know, with your black turtlenecks and long fitted skirts. A classy look—no, streamlined. Like you don’t have time for bullshit, even when it comes to your clothes. I’ve always tended to dress conservatively, the exact opposite of Mom’s style—Hollywood House wife. But Christina, who was my personal shopping guru, had been trying to coax me out into the light before I was abducted.

Poor girl wasn’t having much luck with me, though. I generally avoided shopping, especially in the fancy stores she liked. My favorite suit was the result of an accidental walking-by-the-store-window-I-have-to-have-it moment. If there was an event I had to go to, I just headed over to Christina’s house. She’d bounce around, ripping things out of her closet, draping me with scarves and necklaces, telling me how pretty I looked in this dress or that color. She loved doing it and I loved having someone decide for me.

She was really generous with her hand-me-downs, too—Christina got bored with clothes the week after she bought them—and a lot of my wardrobe was made up of her cast-offs. That’s why I still can’t figure out why I got so pissed at her for trying to give me clothes when I got back from the mountain.

When I found out Mom had gotten rid of all my clothes, I loaded up at the Goodwill. Man, you should have seen the look on Mom’s face when she saw the oversized jogging suits and sweatpants I brought home. I didn’t care what color anything was, it just had to be soft and warm-looking, the baggier the better.

Running around up there in all those girlie dresses The Freak liked made me feel so exposed. One thing you can say for the way I dress now: nobody’s tempted to look underneath.

Luke called Sunday morning and asked if I wanted to get together and take the dogs for a walk. The first word out of my mouth was No! Before I could soften my reply with a reason—believable or otherwise—he launched into a rundown on something going on at the restaurant.

The thought of seeing him again terrified me. What if he tried to touch me and I pulled back again? I couldn’t stand to see that hurt look in his eyes a third time. What if he didn’t try to touch me? Would that mean he didn’t care anymore? Now that I’d said no I wondered if he’d suggest a walk again—I wasn’t sure if I’d feel any braver next time but I knew I didn’t want him to stop asking. When I did finally drag my butt outside to take Emma for a walk I couldn’t stop thinking about Luke and wondering what it would have been like if he was with me.

The next morning, instead of camouflaging myself with yet another shapeless jogging suit, I carried up from the basement the box of clothes Christina had dropped off on my doorstep months ago. I didn’t realize until I checked out the faded jeans and sage-colored sweater in a mirror how long it had been since I’d looked in one.

It’s not like I’d put on a slinky dress—the jeans were a relaxed fit and the sweater wasn’t tight—but I couldn’t remember the last time I chose something because I liked the color, or put on anything even hinting at curves. For a second, staring in the mirror at the stranger wearing Christina’s clothes, I almost saw the shadow of the girl I used to be, and it freaked me out so much I wanted to tear off all the clothes. But Emma—anxious for her morning walk—whined at my heels, and I left them on. I don’t care what she looks like, and she doesn’t care what I look like.

Emma stayed at my mom’s while I was missing—definitely not my first choice and it sure wouldn’t have been Emma’s. Later, I found out Luke and a couple of my friends offered to take her but my mom said no. When I asked her why she took Emma, she said, “What was I supposed to do with her? Can you imagine what people would’ve said if I’d given her away?”

Poor dog got so excited when she first saw me she started dribbling pee—she’s never done that, even as a puppy—and shaking so hard I thought she was having a seizure. When I squatted down to hug her, she shoved her head into my chest and whined for the longest time, telling me all her woes. And she had a right to complain. For one thing, she was tied up to the Japanese maple tree in Mom’s backyard, and Emma had never been tied up in her life. Mom said she’d been digging in her garden beds. No doubt—she probably thought she’d landed in dog hell and was trying to dig her way out.

Judging by Emma’s long toenails, the last year of her life had mostly been spent tied to that tree. Her fur was matted and her beautiful glossy eyes were dull. On the porch I found a bag of food—the cheapest crap you could buy—and it smelled moldy.

This dog used to sleep with me every night and I walked her two, sometimes three times a day. She had every dog toy and treat ever manufactured, the softest bed in case she got too hot to sleep with me, and I planned my workdays so she never had to be alone for too long.

Furious at the way she’d been treated, I wanted to say something, but I’d just come back, and if being around people was like crawling uphill through mud, then talking to Mom was like crawling uphill wearing a heavy backpack. Besides, what could I have said? “Hey, Mom, next time I’m abducted you don’t get my dog”?

After I finally got back to my place Emma preferred being outside, but it only took a couple of days for her to remember the good life and she’s probably on my couch drooling all over the cushions right now. Her fur is back to shiny gold and her eyes are once again full of life. She’s not the same dog as before, though. She stays a lot closer to me on walks than she used to, and if she does forge ahead, she comes back every few minutes to check on me.