Melissa Foster - Chasing Amanda

“Tunnels?”

“Well, there’s debate about if the tunnels ever really existed at all. Rumor has it they dug tunnels clear through Boyds as a means of trucking their gravel without causing problems on the roads. The roads, they were the big issue back then. I suppose they thought that if they alleviated that worry, then the residents wouldn’t mind them being here. Anyway, they owned seventeen or eighteen hundred acres. Come to think of it, I believe there’s an old abandoned mine shaft in the Black Hill Park area, too. That area used to be called Gold Mine Farm back when the Wicks owned it.”

“Chambers bought all eighteen hundred acres?” she asked.

“Yup, sure did. He put about eight hundred acres into conservation land right away—the Hoyles Mill Conservation Park and Trail? We have him to thank for that. He really saved Boyds, if you ask me. Yup, we’re mighty fortunate that someone like him would come to our little town and be willing to tie up so much capital to preserve the area.”

They walked along in silence, Newton bent down to pick up bits and pieces of debris along the way. They came upon a small grouping of graves. Newton pulled a few weeds and straightened flowers that had been left on the graves. He crouched over a pink headstone, which was unreadable, cracked, and weathered. He looked sad.

“This here is Colonel James A. Boyds’s grave. He was born in Ayrshire, Scotland, December 22, 1823. Died here in Boyds, December 21, 1886.”

Molly crouched down next to Newton and dragged her fingers across the gravestone’s dips and valleys. It was easy for Molly to envision Newton as a younger man, just back from his stint with the army, and wondering how else he might serve his country, his home town

He led Molly up a hill to another group of headstones and stooped by the grave of a child. He ran his hand over the headstone. The sun beat down on them. In the distance, a soft drone of cars from the nearby roads hummed. The headstone bore no name, only dates: 1979-1979.

He tilted his head toward Molly. “There’s no baby here, just a headstone, in memory of a dear friend of mine’s child. Didn’t live more than a few minutes.”

“I’m sorry, Newton.” Molly touched his shoulder, thinking of Amanda’s funeral, which she’d watched from her car across the street—the way Amanda’s mother’s shoulders had hunched and shaken from her sobs, Amanda’s little brother’s spindly arm hanging onto his mother’s dress, thumb in his mouth, and the tiny coffin, perched and ready to be lowered into the ground forever.

Newton turned, and Molly followed him further up the hill to the rear of the cemetery where the grave of Cathy Mall overflowed with photographs, trinkets, flowers, and stuffed animals. A metal frame cradled an eight-by-ten photo of Cathy, standing in that very spot, with her arms reaching toward the sun, or was she reaching for heaven? Newton told Molly that Cathy had been the founder of the preschool, and that when she was told her breast cancer was malignant, she had chosen that particular grave so she could watch over the children. He explained how Cathy had asked that her insurance money be used to build the playground behind Kerr Hall, a church-owned building that was built just behind the church. Molly wondered if children still played at the simple playground with the massive Adventure Park just five minutes away.

Molly’s heart ached for Cathy, wondering if Cathy somehow knew that Kate Plummer had disappeared from the very playground where her dreams for children had come true. The sadness closed in on Molly’s heart, creating a pressure in her chest. She closed her eyes, willing it away, and just as she realized it was not sadness, but the Knowing, she was met by a slow montage of images and smells: A lanky, dark-haired girl, wearing a flowing dress, walking into the cornfield, the stalks split before her, as if she had followed someone. Then she was gone. The powdery fresh smell of her lingered like smoke from a fire. Molly stared straight ahead, the images still playing before her eyes —children, oblivious to the girl’s disappearance, playing, smiling. Adults gathered in a group, talking, completely unaware. Molly had an urge to scream, to run toward the image she’d seen, and warn her, No! Don’t go! But she was rooted to the grassy hill, an onlooker to a past tragedy.

Tracey clutched the new clothes to her chest, her heart beat excitedly. She ran over and gave Mummy a big hug. “I love them!” she exclaimed. “Did you get yourself anything, Mummy?”

“Yup,” Mummy said, and she reached deep into her pockets, then splayed her hand out for Tracey to see.

“What are those for?” she asked, wondering why Mummy thought quarters were a fun gift.

“They’re for our other worship chamber—our deep chamber. We leave them as gifts, and God grants our wishes.” She put them in a pile on the makeshift shelf.

“Deep chamber?” Tracey asked, envisioning the bad spot and growing increasingly anxious.

“The one where my mummy is.” Mummy sat down on a log and reached for Tracey’s hand. “We’ll go there soon,” she said.

Tracey touched her necklace, the best gift of all. The charm rested comfortingly between her two collar bones. She ran her fingers over the chain and smiled. Mummy had told her that she had been such a brave girl, staying in their sleeping place all by herself, that she deserved it. She was going to be good, she’d decided. She would make Mummy proud of her. Mummy told her that it was time to thank God for the things they had. “Tracey,” she said, “remember when I told you that little girls sometimes get sick out in the big world?” “Yes,” Tracey looked up through the fringe of her hair.

“Well, sometimes little girls get sick, and they don’t know it. Sometimes they don’t know until they are too sick and ready to die.” She looked right into Tracey’s eyes and squeezed her hand.

“Why, Mummy? Why does that happen?” Tracey asked in a quivering voice, sure Mummy had been referring to her.

“I don’t know—no one knows—but that’s why we have to keep you away from all of the toxins that are out there. We never know just what will make you sick.” She patted Tracey’s hand with her free hand. Tracey leaned her body against Mummy, scared.

“Okay,” she said, relieved, and silently hoping that she wouldn’t get any of the bad toxins in her when they went outside to the bramble place.

“I’ll take care of you,” Mummy assured her.

“Okay,” Tracey whispered.

“C’mon, Tracey, let’s put on your church dress,” Mummy pulled the dress out of one of the green bags. Tracey was surprised, and happy, to see that it had been freshly washed.

“Do I have to change?” she asked in the least whiney voice that she could muster.

“Today we’re worshiping, and we need to show respect to God. Come on now. It will look pretty with your necklace.”

Tracey felt for the necklace and smiled at the now-familiar feel of it. She took the dress and went to the corner to change her clothes. She had gotten used to changing as quickly as she could, using her arms to cover up her body. She brought her arms across the front of the dress, walked to Mummy, and turned around. Mummy hummed as she zipped Tracey’s dress.

Mummy spoke as they left their room and headed toward the worship chamber, “That my heart may sing to you and not be silent. O Lord, my God, I will give you thanks forever.”

Tracey walked nervously with her arms wrapped tightly around her—the dirt walls intimidated her. She could see the worship chamber up ahead and was happy when Mummy sped up her pace.

Tracey stood quietly in the doorway while Mummy lit the candles. “Come now, Tracey,” she beckoned. “Let’s give thanks to the Lord for keeping us safe.” She patted the ground next to her as she knelt down.