The Weight of Silence by Heather Gudenkauf
One afternoon, about three weeks before my mother died, she patted the mattress on the hospital bed that we had brought in when we knew that she was going to die. I lowered the metal bar that prevented my mother from falling out of bed and gingerly sat next to her.
“Come closer, Antonia,” she said to me. My mother never called me Toni, it was always Antonia. I moved in closer to her, careful of the tubes that ran into her arm. It was so hard looking at her like that. My beautiful, beautiful mother who always smelled of Chanel before. Now a different smell, sour and old, hung around her. Her hair, once a golden-blond, now was dun-colored and lay lank on her shoulders, her face pale and pinched with pain.
“Antonia, my Antonia,” she whispered. I secretly loved it when she called me that. “I just wanted to tell you a few things, before…before—” She swallowed with great effort. “Before I die,” she finished.
“Mom, don’t say that,” I squeaked and before I knew it the tears were falling. How I hated to cry.
“Antonia, I am going to die, and very soon. I just didn’t get enough time with you,” she sighed. “The boys, they’ll be all right, but you, you I worry about.”
“I’m okay, Mom,” I sniffled, trying not to let her see me cry.
She took my hands in hers and I played with her wedding ring like I did when we were sitting in church when I was little so many years before. The ring spun loosely on her ring finger, she had lost so much weight. Her hands looked as if they belonged to a much older woman, the blue-tinged veins thick and protruding.
“Louis is a nice young man,” she said.
“Yeah, he is,” I agreed.
“Antonia, I won’t be at your wedding…” she started.
“Mom, please don’t say that,” I begged. My nose ran thickly and I had to pull a hand from hers to wipe it. “Please don’t talk like that.”
“I won’t be at your wedding, so I want to tell you a few things about being a wife and a mother.” She waited patiently until my sobs became quiet, wet hitches of breath. “People say that being a mother is the most important job you will ever have. And it is very important. But it is even more important, I believe, to be a wife, a good wife.”
I must have looked at her skeptically, because she started to chuckle at me, but the laughter caused her too much pain.
“I don’t mean you have be a floor mat. That’s not what I mean at all. I mean, who you choose to walk with through life will be the most important decision that you will ever, ever make. You will have your children and you will love them because they are yours and because they will be wonderful. Just like you.” She wrinkled her nose at me and grinned. “But who you marry is a choice. The man you choose should make you happy, encourage you in following your dreams, big ones and little ones.”
“Did Dad do that for you?” I asked. Night was settling in and the shadows made my mother look much softer, much younger, and less like she was dying.
“He did. I had such simple dreams, though. I just wanted to be a wife and mother. That’s all, really. You must remember that, Antonia. In the end, I have had everything that I have ever wanted. My dear, sweet husband and my dear, sweet children. I just wish I had more time with you.” She began crying quietly.
“It’s okay, Mom, it’s okay,” I tried to soothe her. “I’ll remember what you said, I promise.” She nodded and tried to smile, but her pain caused her lips to curl downward. I picked up the book that lay next to her bed.
“How about a little Carson McCullers?” I asked.
“Yes, that would be just fine,” she answered.
I began reading and my mother fell asleep within minutes. For the first time that I could remember, I bent down and kissed her while she slept. Her lips felt thin and papery, but warm. Underneath the odor of disease and the sheer exertion of trying to live, I caught her true scent. And I closed my eyes and willed myself to remember. But I went and forgot, didn’t I? I forgot everything she had told me.
I was sitting in World History class one afternoon, when the principal came to my classroom door. The teacher stopped writing on the chalkboard and he went over to where the principal stood; they whispered with their heads close together for a moment and then both looked in my direction. I remember my chest tightening in fear and thinking to myself, I haven’t had enough time with you yet, Mom, I haven’t had enough time with you, either. I slowly rose from my chair, leaving my books and things behind. I remember Louis following along behind me, gripping my elbow, walking me to his car and driving me home. He stayed with me long into that first terrible night without my mother. We didn’t talk—we didn’t have to—and now I think we had much the same friendship that Calli and Petra have.
After my mother died I continued to read. Before I went to bed each night I would read a few pages of a book aloud to myself. It took me forever to finish a novel, but it didn’t seem right to me to read silently to myself anymore. Odd, I know. Griff made fun of me when I read children’s books that I would find at garage sales to Ben when he was in my womb. I learned not to do that when he was around, but I loved cradling my huge stomach with one arm while holding a book in the other, reading to my tiny fetus. I firmly believed Ben could hear me in there, rocking back and forth, maybe a tiny little thumb in his mouth. It was much more acceptable reading aloud like that after my children were born. Even now, I read each night to Calli and even Ben, once in a great while, will let me read part of the book he is reading. When Griff is out of town, I will crawl into my bed and read myself a bedtime story until I fall asleep, book in hand.
Louis asked me a few times, after my mother died, if I would read to him, but I was too self-conscious and wouldn’t. He gave up after I told him impatiently not to ask me again. Louis was always there for me, until, of course, I wouldn’t let him be. Even when my father passed away. Griff and I had been married for three years; Louis sent me a sympathy card. I could tell it was from him without even looking at the return address. I had memorized his small, neat printing back when we were in first grade. I never showed the card to Griff, Louis had signed the card Always, Louis and I did not have the energy to try to explain that to Griff.
Sometimes I dream of Louis. Of he and I together as we once were, when we were sixteen. In my dreams we are always in Willow Creek Woods walking hand in hand. I can feel the texture of his palm against mine, the brush of his fingers. Even now, when I think back to these dreams, if I sit completely still I can feel his touch. In my dreams, when Louis kisses me, the rush of air that we exchange into each other’s mouth remains on my tongue hours after I’ve wakened. In the back of my mind, even as I am dreaming, I am saying to myself, You’re married, Antonia, what about your husband? What about Griff? And in my dream I would force myself to pull away from Louis, to sweep away the feel of his touch. I would awaken then, sometimes with Griff next to me, but more often than not with Griff a thousand miles away in Alaska, my skin hot and my brain addled.
Still I could go for days, even weeks, without thinking of Louis. But then I would see his police car parked downtown or I’d see his pretty wife in the grocery store with their little boy situated in the grocery cart, kicking his fat little legs and I’d think, That could be me, that could be my life. Then I’d get disgusted with myself and shut down that corner of my mind for a while. Griff wasn’t always so bad. He didn’t start drinking really hard-core until after Ben was born. And he didn’t hit me for the first time until Ben was three. I don’t even remember what it was that I had done to make him so mad, but he hit me so hard that I didn’t leave the house without sunglasses for a month. He didn’t hit me again for at least a year, but he did get smarter about it. He never hit me in a place where someone would see the marks. But even so, he could be so wonderful. So funny and sweet. And the stories he would tell about his adventures on the pipeline always made me laugh so hard. Even Lou could never make me laugh like that. If only he could stop drinking, things could be so different. No, I know Griff loves me and he’s my husband. He was my c
I need to go and look for Ben now, with or without Louis. I am used to Griff not being around for me. That was one thing that I could count on, Griff not being reliable. I decide I am not coming out of the forest until I have Ben for sure. I’m not confident that Calli is in the woods, but it makes sense that she would be. I will bring her home, too. Mrs. Norland tries to talk me out of leaving, but in the end places several bottles of water into my backpack and gives me a hug. As I loop the backpack through my arms and settle it onto my back I see Martin Gregory trekking his way toward Mrs. Norland’s house.
“Now what?” I wonder and I open the door to meet him halfway.
DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS
I walk Mary Ellen McIntire to the exit, open the door for her and once again the heat of the day nearly takes my breath away. I tell her that I will let her know if she can be of any assistance to the Clark and Gregory families and watch her make her way to her car. She looks defeated, broken, and I wonder if this day will ever end. I see Tucci waving me over to him and I close the door on the oppressive heat outside. “Who was the guy that was brought in a minute ago?” I ask him.
“The tall guy with white hair?” Tucci asks, but continues without waiting for my answer. “That was Charles Wilson, the counselor over at the elementary school. And guess where they picked him up at?” This time Tucci waits for my response.
“Where?” I ask, but think I already know the answer and I feel my stomach clench.
“Willow Creek Woods,” Tucci says, smacking his hand on his desk. “Says he was out walking his dog. But guess what? No dog. Park ranger noticed him roaming around Tanglefoot Trail and called us. Bender and Washburn went out and picked him up.”
“What’s he saying?” I ask.
“Nada. Nothing. He’s lawyered up. The minute the little girls were mentioned, he clammed up,” Tucci says triumphantly. Already he thinks that Wilson is the one who took the girls. Maybe so, but what about Griff?
“Do you think he would talk to me?” I ask Tucci.
“No way. He said he wanted his lawyer, right away. He’s sitting in the conference room waiting for her. We got nothing on him. His lawyer will have him out of here in the next hour.” My phone rings and I sit back in my chair to answer it.
“Louis, it’s Martin. Antonia and I were wondering if you could come over to Mrs. Norland’s home.”
I sit up straight in my chair. “Did something happen?” I ask.
“Nothing you don’t already know about. They found those footprints in Antonia’s backyard, but we want to talk to you about searching for the girls.”
“Martin, a few officers made a sweep of the woods near your home and found nothing. A larger scale search is being planned with dogs and a helicopter,” I say. I consider telling him about Charles Wilson being brought in, but decide against it. I know too little, and I don’t want to get his hopes up for nothing.
“I know. I understand you are doing what you can, but time is passing too quickly. Please come over to Mrs. Norland’s house. We need your help. Please,” Martin pleads.
“I’ll be right over, Martin. Don’t go and do anything until I get there, okay?”
“We’ll be waiting. Please hurry.”
I hang up the phone, not a little bothered that Toni hadn’t been the one to call me. I wonder what it meant. Is she losing faith in me, doubting my abilities as an officer? I hope not. There are few leads. Maybe the school counselor is the guy. Doesn’t feel right, though. Tanglefoot Trail, where he was picked up, is nowhere near the girls’ homes. We still can’t seem to locate Lucky Thompson, the college kid who works at the Mourning Glory. He hadn’t shown up for his afternoon shift at the café. So many questions. My hand rests on the phone’s receiver, and I am debating whether to call my wife. I should have checked in with her by now. I leave the police station without calling her. As I pull away, I switch my radio to F2 so that only Meg, our dispatcher, can hear me.
“Meg, this is for your information only,” I tell her.
“Go ahead,” she responds.
“I’m checking out the woods along Bobcat Trail for our missing girls. I’ll be back in contact shortly.”
“Ten-four.”
ANTONIA
Louis is on his way over. It seems so simple now, for us to just go out into the woods to look for the girls. I don’t plan to come home until I have Ben, Calli and Petra back with us.
“How do you think we can get past the press or the other officers without them knowing where we are going?” Martin asks.
“I don’t know.” That same question has been nagging me, as well. While getting as many people as possible looking for the kids would be a good thing, the idea of a camera following us around did not appeal to me. Besides, I wonder how Calli would react if there were a bunch of strangers in the woods looking for her. I think it would frighten her, that perhaps she would hide, making it much more difficult to find her.
Earlier, I had thought there was no way I would survive this day. A hundred emotions have traveled the course of my body and I am exhausted. But now the day is ending and the less sunlight we have, the more difficult it will be to locate the children. I wish we had set out hours earlier and I find myself resenting Louis and Agent Fitzgerald for snatching precious time away.
“He’s here,” Martin says, seeing Louis through Mrs. Norland’s curtains.
I open the door to let him in even before he can knock.
“Hi,” I say. “Thanks for coming.”
“Sure. Martin sounded urgent.” Louis reaches out to shake Martin’s hand in greeting. Who did that anymore, I wonder. It is so formal, especially in our circumstance.
“We want to go looking for the children,” Martin informs him. “I know that’s not really in the plan that Agent Fitzgerald laid out, but we feel we need to do this.”
Louis listens, showing no reaction.
“It’s going to be dark in a few hours, Louis,” I tell him. “I cannot stand the idea of them being out there in the woods at night. I have to go looking for them.”
“I know what you’re saying. I don’t disagree with you. I just think that we would be able to cover a lot more ground with the organized search tomorrow. We’ll have the search dogs and all the people we could ask for.”
“We can still do all that tomorrow, if we need to.” Impatience fills Martin’s voice. “Right now, Antonia and I are going out looking for them, with you or without you. We’re hoping you will be able to go with us or at least help us avoid the media as we set out.” Martin and I both anxiously await Louis’s decision. He has the same look on his face that he’d get when we were kids. That look of indecision right after I would dare him to do something he knew would either get him in trouble or hurt. In the end, Lou always took the dare.
“All right. Where do you want to start?” Louis asks with a sigh.
Martin looks to me. “I’m not familiar with the forest. I wouldn’t know where to begin looking, I am afraid.”
“Ben said he already tried Willow Wallow and the places on the edge of the woods. Let’s head in deeper right away. How about Old Schoolhouse Path and then Bobcat Trail? Maybe the girls tried to find the school and got lost,” I suggest.
Old Schoolhouse Path is a winding, mostly overgrown trail only recognizable to those who know the woods well. Settled about three miles into the woods is a small one-room schoolhouse, at least one hundred years old. No one knows why someone would choose to build a school in such a remote, difficult place to reach. Some people who had lived at the edge of the forest believed that a small group of settlers had made their home in the woods and as a community had built the school. It was difficult, however, to keep a teacher interested in staying in such an isolated area. So eventually, the people of the wood moved closer into town and abandoned the school made of limestone and oak. The sturdy little school was still standing, but engulfed by weeds. The small windows were broken out and many woodland animals had t
I had taken Ben and Calli there once a few years ago and we had talked of cleaning up the schoolhouse, maybe making a fort out of it, our own personal hiding spot. But it was too far into the woods, the hike too tiring for Calli, and we discarded the idea. Maybe Calli and Petra had decided to find the old school and investigate. This idea was much more comforting a scenario than the one that included Calli’s footprints in the dust. Calli being dragged off somewhere.
“What about the reporters?” Martin asks.
“Could we distract them somehow?” I wonder. “Tell them that there is going to be a press conference at the sheriff’s office, send them there?”
“That’s all fine and good until they get there and there’s no press conference. You don’t want to piss them off, Toni. You may need them later on,” Louis says.
“I think I know what we can do,” Martin remarks. “May I use Mrs. Norland’s telephone?”
“Of course,” I answer. “Who are you calling?”
“Fielda,” he responds. “She was planning on speaking with a reporter from Channel Twelve anyway. I don’t think a few more reporters will matter.”
“I think I know how we can keep the reporters happy for even longer,” Louis adds. “If Fielda wouldn’t mind, I know of someone who wants to help in any way that she can. Mary Ellen McIntire is in town.” Louis looks at us expectantly.
“You mean the lady whose little girl was murdered? You don’t think the same person who did that to her daughter had anything to do with this, do you, Louis?” I ask, my voice cracking.
“I don’t know, Toni. I hope not. It’s different in many ways, but Jenna McIntire was somehow lured from her home and into a wooded area. There’s just enough of a similarity for Agent Fitzgerald to be interested and for the press to be all over this. It will keep the media occupied for a while.”