Missing on Main Street Read online

  In an average year, at least one baby in town came full term between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve. Many a stuffed stocking depended on the birth of her Holiday Baby. Not this year. Mrs. McCoy wasn’t due until March. She had a habit of baking her babies for two weeks longer than everyone else.

  Flora flicked a pencil across the kitchen table. She hated thinking of her job in monetary terms. Her small hands welcomed life into the world. They gave mothers the opportunity and tools to create their own birth story. Flora delighted in her work. She felt compelled and called to it. Like the midwives of Exodus, she did her utmost to keep mothers and their babies safe. For the joy of service and the rush of witnessing a birth, Flora labored.

  She chewed her bottom lip. Traditionally, this was a peaceful time, a happy time. She could get past this. Footsteps behind her brought her back to the present. The sun peeked through the curtains in her kitchen. In Pottersville, in November, that meant it was ten am. She forced on a happy face before spinning around to greet Eloise.

  “Hey Sugar Bear, how are you doing today?”

  “Whatever!” Flora didn’t realize “whatever” was part of Eloise’s vocabulary. She screened any new shows Elli may have watched. The twelve-year-old skid her slippers toward the refrigerator opened the door, huffed, shut the door, huffed and reopened it.

  “What do you need Elli?” Flora stood ready to help stir up a family-style breakfast. Better late than never.

  “Something to eat! That’s why I’m at the fridge! Duh!”

  What was that? Flora shook her head, confused by the situation. “Let’s try that conversation over again.” Shocked by the snap in her own voice, Flora tried to soothe the situation with a soft smile.

  “Nevermind. I won’t eat.” Attitude abounding Eloise retreated to the laundry room and rummaged through the dryer.

  What is going on with my girl? Flora mentally recalculated the last months, looking for some sign of trauma or some inexcusable offense inflicted on Eloise. None stood out. She scanned the library of parenting and child development books she’d devoured over the years. She searched for warning signs of abuse, visible scars of bullying. Again, nothing. Puberty. It must be.

  Eloise returned from the dryer with a random armful of laundry. “None of these are mine.” She tossed them onto the couch.

  “Well, don’t just leave them there. Pick them up. Put them in a basket. Better yet, fold them and put them away.”

  “They’re not mine!” The preteen set her jaw and stormed around the living room before retreating to her own room.

  It took every morsel of strength for Flora not to hunt down her daughter and demand an excuse for her outburst. She swigged her herbal tea, shocked by its tepid distastefulness. Her stomach roiled and retched. Stupid fudge. Swallowing down acid, Flora took another drink of her tea only to repeat the episode.

  Her plans for the day didn’t include fighting with her daughter. She whispered a prayer for strength and discernment. A shower is what she needed. Steam calmed her burdened shoulders as splatters of soap and water drown out the sounds of her sobs.

  Returning downstairs and feeling refreshed, Flora was greeted by the patter of Eden and Ever smuggling sugary cereal. By the mess on the table, this wasn’t their first helping. Again, she calmed herself and prayed. I will not fight with my children today. She pulled a bowl down and joined the feasting. Two bowls later, with a headache brewing, she hustled all three kids into her GMC and headed to the church building.

  ✽✽✽

  “I used to think sheep were sweet.” Kat massaged her wrist and her neck and the small of her back. “I don’t anymore.”

  Flora measured another first grader and noted the essential details. “Was that the last one?”

  “Yes! Praise God.” The haphazard seamstress stood and stretched. “I don’t see how we’ll get through all these costumes without Lydia, this year?”

  “She sews?”

  “Nope, but she buys the coffee.”

  ✽✽✽

  Lydia awaited her last student of the season. She peered out her window toward the street and waited for Ivy Hooper to walk up her drive. Homeschool mama Lydia had been ecstatic when Joan graduated. Her hard work and the Lord’s everyday mercies had blessed mother and daughter with a beautiful relationship and a mutually evolving education.

  As she taught her daughter, Lydia learned things she’d never heard of in government schools. She had the time to dive deeper into heady studies and practice until she’d mastered her subjects, alongside her only pupil.

  Joan‘s absence equaled extra time on her hands and little to do. When Ethan suggested she start a tutoring service, she jumped right in. Her community was small and on the lower end of middle income. She charged low fees and sometimes worked for free.

  Ivy was a pro bono case. She lived between Pottersville and Lewiston. Instead of dropping out of school after passing eighth grade, the state’s required minimum, Ivy opted for independent study. The school district set her up with a laptop and cheap internet access. In her sophomore year, she was struggling to pass the basic exams.

  Ivy’s grandmother, Ms. Annie Belle, searched out help for her youngest family member. She noted Lydia’s business card on the community board at 3 Alarm Coffee and called to negotiate a fee. Lydia never expected such a troublesome yet determined pupil to melt her heart.

  Lydia cared for Ivy, thus the last-minute tutoring session, four days before her big trip. Ivy was late, which wasn’t unusual. Two hours late, however, was. Lydia texted her student. No reply. She called her but flew straight to voicemail. Maybe Ivy was choosing to start her own holiday break earlier than expected? Though, Ivy was usually polite enough to respond to repeated texts.

  Lydia still needed to drive to Lewiston. Her passport appointment was at three. She tried reaching her student once more, with no luck. I’ll swing by Ivy’s house before heading home, she mused before grabbing her purse and driving away.

  ✽✽✽

  Doula documentation was a milestone in each working month. Flora’s ritual gave her peace, perspective, and purpose. Her favorite tea service set before her, its belly full of green tea and honey, centered her attention. Armed with her journal, she set her timer and prayed for focus. She scribed every birth story on selected stationery. Her last baby delivered early Thanksgiving morning. She’d visited Mrs. Hurley once since the birth and tomorrow she’d be returning.

  Mrs. Hurley was a pro. She was the mother of five under the age of five. Her boys, being twins, were the terror of the playground and the basis of many late-night doctor visits. Mrs. Hurley knew the ins and outs of childbirth and nursing. Flora needed only to check-in via texts and phone calls.

  She signed her name to the journal with a calligraphy flourish. She tucked in the USB drive, which contained photos and a medical minute by minute accounting of the delivery. Flora preferred her more poetic point of view of the birth. She gave her mothers both.

  Her children gathered around the table, beside her. Each working on a craft or reading a book. The sliding glass door, flecked in a soft frost, hinted at the chilly winter to come. Ever gazed at the windows and then pleadingly back at his mother. She smiled and sighed. How she loved her family.

  “Okay, you may light the fireplace.” The eleven-year-old leaped to his feet with a whoop and tripped over his man-sized slippers. “Be careful. Do it as your father showed you.”

  The boy, though too excited to contain his giggling, worked to pay proper heed to each step of his task. His sisters watched on. One was impressed. The other was annoyed by his joy. Flora prayed over Eloise. Still, no revelations peaked, just the grace to have patience and continue to press on. She asked for more but contented herself with no fighting. Eloise, however, wanted nothing more than a toe to toe with her mother.

  “How come, he gets to light a fire? A fire, mom! But I can’t even get a Facebook account.”

  Flora shook her head and shrugged. “You want a Facebook account?” This
was news to Flora. She strove to keep her voice soft and lacking condescension. She failed but gave it a great effort.

  “Who doesn’t? All the kids in Youth Group have one. Except me, like I’m some baby.” She slammed her book to the table, causing tea to slosh over the edge of her mother’s china cup. Flora scooted her work to the driest corner of the table.

  “They do?” Flora asked in even calmness. Eloise rolled her eyes with such forcefulness her head circled with them. “First, let’s work on your tone. We can talk this over, but you need to calm your voice.”

  Eloise shoved her chair back and stomped from the room muttering accusations of unloving leadership and an ever-present spirit of meanness, at her mother, without face-to-face combat. Her door slammed before Flora could process the scene.

  Eden, the littlest, selected a new gel pen and interjected wisdom of the ages. “Women, they never just say what they want. They have to make you feel guilty about not figuring it out on your own.” Flora rubbed her neck.

  “You understand, you’re a woman, too? Where did you hear that, anyway?” Mother questioned daughter.

  “Sheesh, everyone knows that.”

  “It’s true, mom,” Echoed Ever from the glow of the freshly kindled fire.

  “Jesus, help me.” Flora didn’t bother to keep her words to herself. It would take heavenly forces to sort the drama out. And Flora hated drama. “A quiet word turns away wrath. But what holds back insanity?”

  “You can’t argue with crazy,” Eden quipped.

  “Or mothers,” Ever snatched his book from the table and returned to the light of the fireplace. Flora needed to handle these outbursts before her whole family’s retorts drove her to her wit’s end.

  She stuffed the last of her raisin treat into her mouth, silencing the frustration, and regretted it. Flora charged up the stairs and knelt before her toilet, forgetting to lift the lid. Vomit splattered all over the bathroom.

  “You made mom puke!” Eden sang and ran around the master bedroom, chanting and skipping.

  “Use some of that amazing energy and get me a clean towel. Please?” Flora sat sticky and stinky, stomach acid burning her knuckles. Stress did strange things to her, so did confrontation. Ever tossed a fresh, white, decorative towel past his mother’s head and straight into a pile of bile. Flora sobbed and started her shower. Mrs. Hurley would have to wait one more day for her paperwork.

  Kevin returned from work to a blackened hearth, a complete absence of firewood, two children watching Veggie Tales, one daughter lying at the foot of the master bed, and his wife heaped atop her pillows with a washrag on her neck. The smell of peppermint, ginger, and black licorice invaded every corner of the house. The essential oil kit was open on the bedside table.

  “I did this.” Eloise whimpered.

  “You did not.” Flora’s gentle words did little to ease the tension as she caressed her daughter’s arm.

  “How long has she been in bed?” Kevin squeezed his daughter’s shoulder and patted her neck.

  “A while. We had a fight, and she barfed. She hasn’t been up since.”

  “I’ll take over. Go on downstairs. Get your brother and sister a snack. We’ll figure out dinner later.” The girl left. Kevin sat beside his wife. “A fight?”

  “Ha! It was an attack against an unarmed civilian.” She rolled toward Kevin and rested her head on his knee. “I don’t know what’s happening with her. But the pressure is giving me migraines.”

  “I thought we got rid of those.”

  “Me, too. I tried to get up several times. Only to get dizzy and nauseous.”

  Kevin re-situated the cool rag and brushed a comforting hand through Flora’s dark blonde curls. He admired a silver thread. He liked Flora’s gray strands. He called them “victory streaks.” Flora, herself, was less impressed by them but appreciated her husband’s ability to make her feel beautiful. “Should I do anything about Elli, tonight?”

  Careful not to induce spinning, Flora shook her head. “Just let it go, for now. She’s remorseful and has been looking after me all afternoon. Just pray for her and for me. I can’t be a weakling when she needs me the most.”

  “On it boss. Before I go, what was the fight about?”

  “She wants a Facebook account.”

  Kevin laughed as he kissed his wife. He pulled a sheet up to her chin, switched the light off, and headed toward the living room. There was still a family to feed.

  CHAPTER 3

  Her calendar was a brain dump minefield. Appointment stickers overlapped and sharpies covered them, only Kat deciphered the insanity. Even her mind rebelled against the cluttered days and events to come. The first official Christmas Pageant meeting had plagued her waking hours for weeks. After the craft store debacle, the whole thing sprouted darkening undertones. She almost heard the warnings of a nefarious pipe organ every time she thought about Christmas.

  “Sam, Jess, where are you guys?” Keys in hand, she stalked up and down the stairs hunting her reluctant children.

  The garage door peeked open, revealing a sheepish Sam. “Mom, you already sent us to the car.”

  “Did you grab your backpacks?” Down she fell, pivoting on her injury without thought, and crashing onto the couch. Sam rushed to his mother. “I’m fine. I’m fine. Just a ding dong. Let’s go.”

  Fifteen minutes early, Kat waited outside the fellowship hall. Bailey Family Fellowship Christian Church was never desperate for activities or club meeting.

  The B.F.F. quilting club tucked away their thread and hoops. It would be a while before they exited the room. Kat’s nervous shifting drew Sister Jacqui’s attention. Jacqui was the head of the Quilting Club, the Caring Crocheter’s club, and the Muffins for the New Mother’s Ministry. Jacqui handed off a square to her partner in crime, Sister Rene, and hustled in Kat’s direction.

  “Uh, oh. She’s not wearing her happy face.” Kat jumped. Her own anxiousness distracting her, she had not heard Flora’s approach.

  “Definitely not.”

  The double doors pushed open propelling Sister Jacqui into her prey. “Have you been taking fabric from the craft closet?”

  Way to sugarcoat it. Kat admired Sister Jacqui’s directness, she despised small talk. The handicrafter’s frankness was legend throughout Pottersville. It was a wonder to witness but not a thrill to receive.

  “No. You left donations on the stage. Just as we agreed.”

  “Thanks for them.” Always trying to diffuse any negativity before a situation arose; Flora interjected with a smile which both women ignored.

  “Well, I don’t know.” Sister Jacqui tapped her foot near Kat’s healing toes. “We’re missing two quilts. Finished ones at that.”

  “Have you checked with the Compassion Crew? Deacon Andrew and Aimee were looking for blankets for the youth mission.”

  Jacqui waved an arthritic hand at the suggestion. “I already gave them theirs. We’re a week away from the Senior Center Christmas. There are ten new residents. We need ten new quilts. There are only 8 in the closet.”

  “I know nothing about that. I keep our families away from any of the other rooms as best as I can. And I only take what you’ve given me.” The foot-tapping intensified. “I realize they’re a lot of work. But couldn’t you just replace the missing ones? What are you working on right now?”

  The sound oozing from the seamstress’ mouth concerned her listeners. Was the woman choking or just that disgusted with Kat’s suggestion? It was impossible to tell.

  “We don’t just piece together our quilts! We plan them for each individual. We pray over them, and each woman contributes her particular skills on each finished product. These quilts we’re working on now are for spring. They do not have the appropriate color schemes nor batting for winter months.”

  “I haven’t seen any wayward quilts. What do they look like? Just in case I stumble upon one.”

  “Mr. Patterson’s is mainly green. With a flying geese pattern.”

  “There are
geese on his quilt?”

  “Don’t be stupid. Flying geese is the pattern in which the fabrics are blocked. The main color theme is green. The prints are buck silhouettes and pine trees. Mrs. Brewster’s quilt is pale pinks and blues with a crossword puzzle fabric.”

  “I’ll do what I can. I’m busy myself. But I’ll keep on watch.” Sister Jacqui sniffed, smiled, and sauntered toward her awaiting club members, leaving the doors to the fellowship hall swinging in her wake.

  “Prayer time, and then we go inside.” Flora clapped and guided all five children into the nearest Sunday school room.

  ✽✽✽

  Lydia set out to answer a random inner nudging. She needed to check on her favorite student before leaving the country. Seeing Ivy would set her mind at ease and allow her to travel without worry hovering over her heart.

  Once at the run-down house, Lydia rang the bell, knocked on the screen, and peeked through the window. There was no sign of Ivy Hooper. Even Ivy’s little pink car was absent from the street.

  Crumpled beer cans littered the porch swing. An eerie sense of worry hollowed her stomach. The sensation amplified when she spotted a midnight blue Honda patrolling the block. She waited through five rotations, heartbeat increasing with each pass. Though she was running late for the pageant panel, she couldn’t make her body move from the porch.

  However, on the sixth turn, Lydia saw the driver slow, in front of Ivy’s house. When he hit the corner, she launched off the steps, jetted to her car and raced as quickly as possible to the highway. Paranoia knotted at her shoulders as she drove like a crazed teenager back to her sleepy hometown.

  ✽✽✽

  Christmas pageant discussions were docile, but there had been years where they had instigated near uprisings. They kept children out of the planning and political side of Christmas. Kat wished the same was true for her.

  When Pastor Dean asked for volunteers, three Sundays in a row, with no responses, Kat decided to step in. Thad disagreed with the choice but only halfheartedly.

  “What would Christmas in Honey Pot be without a Pageant?” He pondered aloud one night as the couple snuggled on the couch to enjoy a police drama. Kat had boosted herself up on dark chocolate and Christmas cheer before walking into Pastor Dean’s office.