Melissa Foster: Chasing Amanda

Cole quickly glanced up at her, “No time this morning. I was running late, remember?” He fiddled with her bandage, his face grew concerned, “What did you say about a girl?”

Molly told Cole about Tracey’s disappearance. “I met her parents today and helped with the search. That’s how I cut my palm.”

“Yeah, your palm,” he said with a sigh, as he inspected her hand. “You could use a stitch or two.”

Molly snatched back her hand, “What? No! I don’t need a stitch or two. It’ll be just fine!” Molly was petrified of needles—any needles, whether they were aimed at her or anyone else. “Don’t you remember when Erik hit his head on the counter and needed stitches? I nearly passed out at the sight of the needle!” she exclaimed. She’d had to leave the room, and still felt guilty for not being strong enough to be there for him when he’d needed her—neither then, nor for the two years after Amanda’s death. “I don’t think so.” She stubbornly shook her head.

“Honey, look at the gash! How did you do this?” Cole stood, right hand on his hip, left hand running through his hair—the familiar nervous movement that had toyed with Molly’s heart for the past twenty-one years.

“I tripped over a log,” she said sheepishly, wrapping her hand back up. She stood and snuggled into the familiarity of him. The smell of his aftershave faded into the unique smell of strength, of man , after a long day’s work. I love your smell , she thought. His once-lanky arms and skinny chest, now full and muscular, held her tight. She wished the last few hours had never happened, that she’d open her eyes and realize it was all a bad dream.

“Mol, are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

She pulled back from him and looked up. The concern in his eyes did her in, and tears that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding poured down her cheeks.

“Oh, Mol,” he pulled her close again, caressing the back of her hair. “It’s not Amanda, baby. It’s not her. You’re okay.”

“It’s like reliving my worst nightmare,” Molly said, although that wasn’t really the truth. Her worst nightmare would have been if it were Erik that was missing. She thanked God that Tracey was not her own child and was sure that there was some sort of sin woven into that type of thought—taking comfort that someone else’s pain was not her own.

Cole gently reminded Molly of her coping mechanisms and that this child was not Amanda. “Mol, it’s probably not safe for you to be involved in the search. The police don’t even know if the abductor is a serial killer, rapist, or something even worse.”

Molly knew what Cole really meant but was too kind to say: It wasn’t safe because Molly might not be able to control her own emotions. She turned away.

Cole tried to lighten the mood, joking with Molly about how she was still making up for lost time with Erik, and still slightly over-protective of him. “Didn’t you call him a few nights ago because you had a bad dream about him?” He kissed her cheek and headed into the family room.

Molly watched Cole leave the room, annoyed with his ease in pushing aside the significance of Tracey’s disappearance. She took a deep breath, told herself to let it go, and hurried into her den, where she sent an email from her Civic Association account to the residents of Boyds about the search for Tracey. She chided herself for not checking her email sooner—there were already three messages about Tracey’s disappearance.

Five minutes later, she dished the spaghetti onto plates, then went into the family room and ran her hand lightly across Cole’s shoulder, “Come on, dinner’s ready.” The feel of him sent a tingle through her body, reminding her of how lost she’d been in his arms the evening before. With Erik away at college, they’d rekindled their sensuality like love-sick teenagers.

“I’m coming.” He sauntered into the kitchen and sat at the table, “So, what else?” He picked up his fork and looked at Molly, “I assume you’re not going to get a stitch, right?”

Molly pursed her lips into a crooked smile and tilted her head in answer. “What do you mean, ‘What else?’?”

“There’s more to this. It seems so…” he hesitated, running his hand through his hair and looking away. Molly waited, nervously. She knew where he was headed. “It’s Amanda, isn’t it?”

Molly twirled her spaghetti and stared intently into the little chunks of tomato in the sauce. Anytime she appeared worried or showed the littlest bit of apprehension in her confidence, Cole drew a connection to Amanda. She hated hearing the accusation in his words but knew she could not divulge the truth. The guilt ate at her so deeply it burned. “I just had a feeling, that’s all.” She couldn’t tell him about the pressure as she had entered the woods or the visions that had engulfed her while she was running. Cole had never fully believed that she experienced visions, and she worried about how he’d immediately categorize her, as he had with her visions of Amanda, like a patient. As a physician, he believed in facts, tangible data—not paranormal episodes.

“Is that all? Nothing else?” he asked.

“No,” she said, swallowing the desire to tell him everything. The need to keep her thoughts to herself saddened her. “I need to call Erik.” She abruptly got up from the table, set her full plate onto the counter, and left the kitchen before the truth could escape.

“Of course you do.”

Molly heard the rustle of the newspaper and the clank of fork to plate behind her.

Upstairs, Molly paced, her desire to call Erik forgotten, replaced with frustration. She knew Cole was right, her emotions were at risk. Her mind retraced the steps of the search, circling back to Hannah’s actions, whose quick retreat nagged at her. She pushed the curtains to the side and looked out the window into the evening at the sunset. Staring into the vast woods beyond her yard, she realized that Stealth and Trigger’s disappearance provided the perfect excuse for her to get out and investigate.

Her heartbeat picked up momentum as she grabbed her flashlight and notepad and stuffed them into her printed fabric backpack. I’ll do this for Amanda, she thought. She threw the duffle over her shoulder and crept downstairs. Hearing the television in the family room, she circled around and grabbed her car keys off of the entrance table. “Honey,” she called out, “I’m going to look for Stealth and Trigger.” As an afterthought, she grabbed their leashes from the hook and hurried out the door.

Cole heard the door shut and worried about what his wife wasn’t telling him. He remembered the morning of October 12, nine years earlier.

Molly had been sleeping fitfully toward the morning hours. When she’d finally awakened, she’d been scared and shaking. She’d anxiously relayed a dream she’d had of the little girl she’d seen in a parking lot days before. In the dream, the child screamed and cried, frenzied with terror. He had told her that it was her subconscious working overtime, and he’d gone on with his day. The next morning, she had again been tossing and turning. When she’d awakened, she’d stared straight ahead, tears streamed from her eyes. As if in a trance, she’d described her nightmare, the searing pain that ripped through the little girl’s body, the stale smell of alcohol and sweat pouring off of the man’s body as he climbed off of the damaged child, the knife being drawn from its sheath, glistening as it plunged through the air and into the child’s chest. Again, he’d rationalized. It was just her subconscious fears—she’d seen a stressful scene between father and daughter, and her mind had run with it.

He had gone about his morning routine, and Molly had been furious, accusing him of not caring, not believing in her. It wasn’t until two hours later, when he’d picked up the newspaper and seen the headline, “Body of Amanda Curtis Found,” that finally, after all of those years of his wife professing that she had some strange type of sixth sense, he pondered, truly considered, the possibility that she was empowered, or hindered, with some sort of ESP that he could not comprehend.