Gail Martin - Finding Christmas

“It could be,” Benjamin said, rising.

“I feel something special. I believe this year will be different.”

Benjamin’s chest ached from the sadness he felt surrounding them both. He’d adored Mandy and couldn’t imagine the pain Joanne felt as the child’s mother.

He’d done a lot of thinking since they’d last talked, and had questions that he wanted to ask, but he knew she was too sensitive today. He watched her caressing the bedraggled, stuffed dog, his long ears soiled from Mandy’s dragging him with her everywhere, and finally he had to look away or fall apart himself.

Then he mustered courage and spoke. “What makes you think this year is different? You don’t really think Mandy will come through that door, do you?”

Her silence put him on edge.

“Joanne, please, don’t—”

She held up her hand to stop him. “I don’t know why I feel this way, but I’ve never felt that Mandy was totally gone. Gone from me, yes, but not gone. I hear that voice, and it’s her, but she’s not three anymore. She’d be almost six. Reality tells me she’s dead, but I sense she’s alive.”

Benjamin’s heart sank. “She is alive in heaven, Joanne.”

“I know, but I mean…”

Her downcast look made him ache. Yet, common sense told him it could be no other way. He’d asked himself questions, too, about Mandy’s death, but nothing made sense. His attorney’s mind had sorted through the information and he had no doubt that a three-year-old couldn’t have escaped.

The question came to his lips before he could stop himself. “How could Mandy have survived the freezing water of Lake St. Clair, Joanne? We’re talking November.”

Joanne turned toward him, her eyes searching his. “Maybe she wasn’t in the car.”

“She what?”

“I’m not sure she was in the car, Benjamin. That’s the feeling I have.”

He knelt beside her. “Joanne, I didn’t like the details, either, and I know they never found her body, but what you’re thinking is far-fetched.”

“Far-fetched, but not impossible. In my heart, I knew that Greg would never let her in the car without her seat belt fastened.”

“What if Mandy unhooked it? Did you think of that?”

“She’d never unfastened the belt before. I’m not sure she knew how. I think someone else unhooked it. I’ve been thinking about this for the past few days.”

Her admission swam through his mind like a fish avoiding a baited hook. He couldn’t imagine the possibility, but he’d found that fact of the case disturbing, including the child floating through the partially opened window.

“And the window,” Joanne said, as if she had read his mind. “Why would Greg have the window open on a cold November night? The police speculated and dismissed that fact. It’s lived inside me for too long. I think something else happened that night. Before the accident.”

Donna sat on the edge of Connie’s bed and brushed the child’s soft cheek with the back of her hand. “You’re a beautiful young lady—do you know that?”

“Uh-huh. You always tell me I am.”

“Well, you are.” The words almost caught in her throat. “Connie.”

“What?” The girl peeked at her from beneath the blanket she’d drawn up to her nose.

“Do you remember your real mother?” Donna wanted to kick herself for asking, but she’d been plagued by questions and fears that she couldn’t control.

“No.”

Donna had figured the child wouldn’t remember much at her age, but she’d hoped.

“Is Daddy coming home?”

Connie’s voice wavered when she asked. Donna knew the child heard their arguments and her cries of pain when Carl knocked her around. She’d had to cover her bruises with makeup so that Connie wouldn’t see them. “He’s out of town tonight. On business.”

“Good,” she said, her pink lips turning up at the edges.

Connie’s faint smile reflected Donna’s sense of relief. The night alone would give her time to think—and to “snoop,” as Carl called it.

“I love you,” she said, bending over to kiss Connie’s warm cheek before she stood.

“Love you, too.”

Connie’s sleepy voice touched Donna’s ears as she slipped through the doorway.

Donna stood in the hallway to think. Tonight she had time to search for something that would help her learn more about Carl. Ever since she’d found the photo, she’d been sick with confusion and fear.

Carl had said he wouldn’t be home until tomorrow, which would give her time to put the photograph back and see what else he’d hidden down there.

The bulb had always been dim in the closet beneath the stairs, so Donna located the flashlight and carried it with her. Her nerves stood on end like the hairs on a scared cat. Every sound caused her to jump.

At the bottom of the steps she headed back to the door beneath the staircase. She turned on the faint light, then stepped inside. The room appeared to have been a small pantry at one time, but now it held miscellaneous items—luggage, boxes of papers in manila folders and the metal box.

She opened the box again and pulled out more of the photographs. Tonight she had time to study them. The same dark-haired woman appeared in numerous shots. One showed Carl with his arm around her. She had to be his first wife. The child appeared again, and Donna knew she wasn’t Connie. The features were wrong. She dropped the photos back into the envelope and set it on the floor.

Petrified by her thoughts, Donna delved into the metal box, rifling through old receipts, car registrations, and the restraining order envelope. Then she saw another legal-size envelope. She pulled out the document, and her heart stopped. Stella Rose Angelo, Plaintiff. Peter Carl Angelo, Defendant. Divorce papers. Peter again. She’d seen that name used in the restraining order. Donna skimmed the contents. His wife agreed to forgo some of her settlement in trade for his agreement to never see her or their daughter again.

And then she died?

Her hand shook as she stuffed the paper back into the envelope. Her mind spun with questions and fear swept over her. She knew Carl was abusive. He’d treated her badly, but so far, he hadn’t hurt Connie. Would he?

As Donna lifted the documents to place them back in the metal file, she spotted a newspaper clipping near the bottom of the box. Her tremors grew as she reached in to pull out the paper. Fingers fumbling, she unfolded it, and the headline flared before her eyes: “Attorney and Daughter Drown in Lake St. Clair.”

Below the article, Donna saw the grainy photographs—a man and a blond toddler. She gazed at the photo. Donna clasped her face, gasping for air. Black spots peppered her eyes, and an unbearable hum roared in her ears. She lowered her head and clung to the wall, fearing she would faint.

Donna stayed there until she regained control of herself. Then she inched upward, still grasping the closet wall for support. Her breath came in gasps as she scanned the text of the article.

Gregory Fuller and his three-year-old daughter Mandy drowned when Fuller’s car accidentally skidded into Lake St. Clair last night during a snowstorm. Fuller works for the law firm of Saperstein, Fuller, Drake and Welsh.

Donna skimmed the rest of the article with disbelief. Fuller had left his wife, Joanne, behind. Gregory Fuller. The name rang in her ears. Where had she heard it? She lowered her gaze to the envelope at her feet and gaped at the return address: Saperstein, Fuller, Drake and Welsh, Attorneys at Law. The divorce papers.

She eyed the restraining order sent by the same firm, then unfolded the document. The truth struck her. The plaintiff’s attorney was Gregory Fuller. Carl’s wife had hired Fuller to represent her, and a year later he died.