Before She Was Found

Without slowing down, he makes a U-turn and I clutch at the dash to keep myself from sliding across the seat. There is no train in sight. Surely if there was an accident with one of the freight trains that runs through Pitch four times a day, it would have stopped. Unless, of course, the engineer didn’t know that he hit someone. Sam pulls off to the side of the road and punches the hazards with one finger.

“Try and call Max again,” he says and I lift the phone to my ear and this time it goes right to voice mail. “Do you want to go down there?” he asks.

Apprehension, thick as mud, fills my chest. I’ve always known I would never have much money, never have a big house to live in, never have some great job, probably never get married again. And because I’ve expected so little I don’t think I’m asking too much that my kids stay safe. God and I have always had a complicated relationship, but I never held anything against Him. But if something bad happened to Max or Violet all bets are off. I don’t want to find out what’s going on down there. I will my phone to vibrate, but it stays still.

“Go,” I finally say. I’m guessing that we won’t get very close to the scene, anyway, but I have to do whatever I can to find out what’s going on. Sam pulls back onto the highway and he speeds toward the train yard. He doesn’t have to worry about getting pulled over. It looks like every police officer and sheriff’s deputy in Johnson County is parked down there.

In less than three minutes Sam manages to park just a block away from where all the emergency vehicles have converged. Two sheriff’s cars and the police chief’s SUV barricade the only entrance into the train yard where the depot is boarded up and empty boxcars, abandoned years ago, sit. An ambulance is parked a bit off to the side facing the road ready to leave in a hurry. A deputy strides toward us as we approach. He’s young. Tall and broad across the shoulders. His eyes dart left and right as if on the lookout for something or someone. He looks scared. Ill.

“You can’t be here, folks,” he says, trying to usher us back toward the car.

“We heard the sirens, saw the lights,” Sam explains. “What happened? Is everyone okay?”

“Sorry, you can’t be here,” the officer says again. Behind him someone turns on their headlights and the darkened train yard suddenly comes into view to reveal a flurry of activity. A woman wearing running tights and tennis shoes is talking to another officer. With hands tucked inside the sleeves of her sweatshirt she gestures toward the tracks and then rubs at her eyes, leaving behind a streak of red across her face.

“Is that blood?” I ask louder than I intend. Hearing me, the woman looks down at her hands and cries out.

“Ma’am,” the young officer says more sternly, “you need to leave this area.” This is when I see the EMTs come toward us carrying a stretcher to the ambulance. A small body is strapped securely to the stretcher. My breath lodges in my throat. She is shaped like my Violet. Thin with long dark hair that could belong to Violet, too, but the child’s face is nearly unrecognizable. Bloody, swollen, grotesque.

I try to push pass the officer but he steps in front of me and I bounce against his solid form and stumble backward. Sam is quicker than I am and skirts past the cop to get a better look.

“It’s okay, I don’t think it’s Violet,” he calls back to me.

“Are you sure?” I say, wanting so badly to believe him, but Sam hasn’t met my kids yet—how would he know?

“What color is Violet’s hair?” he asks.

“Black.” My heart pounds wildly.

“Then it’s not her. This girl has lighter hair.” I want to cry in relief.

From my spot on the hard-packed dirt I can now see it isn’t Violet. The girl’s ears do not belong to my daughter. The hair I thought at first glance was Violet’s isn’t naturally dark but slick and blackened with blood. This child looks a bit thinner than Violet. Still...there is something familiar about her, but it can’t be. It doesn’t make sense.

Sam comes back to my side and helps me to my feet. My stomach churns. What has happened to this little girl? What could cause this kind of damage? Not a car accident; there are no other vehicles besides the ambulance and the police cars. A fall from a bike? She’s deathly still and I wonder if she’s breathing. She looks like she could have been mauled by a dog or some other large animal. A flap of skin hangs loosely from her cheek and blood bubbles from her lips.

The EMTs lift her into the ambulance and are quickly on their way and the scream of the siren once again shatters the late-night quiet. I watch as it speeds away, the tires kicking up clouds of dust, and wonder how they are going to find out who the injured girl is. I’m just getting ready to ask the cop this question when I realize that everyone else is looking back toward the railroad tracks.

Another small silhouette appears. This time on foot, emerging from the tall winter wheat that fills the field on just the other side of the tracks.

Again my heart nearly stops.

It’s Violet.

She is moving toward us as if in slow motion. Eyes unfocused, unseeing. The front of her white T-shirt blooms red. Her hands look like they’ve been steeped in blood. Something tumbles from her fingers and lands on the dirt at her feet.

“Oh, my God,” I breathe. “She’s bleeding! Call another ambulance!”

It feels like forever until I finally reach her. I sweep her up in my arms and run my eyes over her, searching for the source of all the blood. “Help her!” I cry, laying her gently on the ground. “Please,” I plead. “What happened?” I ask Violet. “Who did this?”

Suddenly I know exactly who the other girl is. Violet’s best friend, Cora Landry. I feel arms pulling me backward and hear Sam telling me to let them do their work. Violet’s lips move but I can’t quite make out what she says.

Dr. Madeline Gideon

September 14, 2018

Every doctor has a case that haunts them. A patient that runs through your thoughts while you sip your morning coffee, that tags along during rounds and therapy sessions. The case that sits shoulder to shoulder with you during the quiet moments and slides between the sheets with you at night and whispers in your ear, You could have done more. You could have done better.

For me, that case is the girl in the train yard. She’s how I measure time. Before and after.

Disorder—easy enough to define, right? A state of confusion. A disturbance that affects the function of the mind or body. Obsessive compulsive disorder, anxiety, ADHD, eating disorder, autism spectrum disorder, schizophrenia, mood disorder, posttraumatic stress disorder. And hundreds more.

Every day, through a combination of talk, behavioral and pharmaceutical therapies, my primary goal was to provide an organized clinical experience to my patients in the evaluation, diagnosis and treatment of children, adolescents and their families.

In the twenty-odd years I had walked the halls of Grayling Children’s Hospital, first as a medical student and then as a psychiatrist, I’d seen it all. I’ve seen children who compulsively eat dirt or paint chips or sharp tacks, and emaciated sixteen-year-olds who refuse to eat anything at all. I’ve counseled children who have been neglected, beaten and sexually abused.

If it sounds like I say this with pride, I must admit that I do. Psychiatrists are scientists, after all. We are fascinated by the brain and all its intricacies. It’s not uncommon for us—in closed circles, of course—to refer to a patient by their diagnosis. I’ve got my mood dysregulation at nine and my trichotillomania at ten.

We talk this way, as if the disorders are our own. It’s challenging, at times, to remain detached, to always approach each case with a clinical, dispassionate eye. We work with children, after all. It’s easy to become enamored with the idea of playing God. Desperate parents at a loss in how to help their child who is in pain. Mental anguish is just as excruciating as physical pain, if not more.

The girl in the train yard. According to the referring doctor it was a simple case. I imagined meeting with the child once or twice. I would listen to her story. Certainly scary and traumatic, but not the worst I’ve encountered. I would nod my head in all the right spots and ask questions about what happened in the train yard. But not too pointed that she would shut down and not feel comfortable talking to me.

I would instruct the parents on what to look for in their daughter in the coming weeks: intrusive thoughts, avoidance, negative moods, anxiety. I would tell them to seek follow-up professional care for her if any of these symptoms persisted.

I wasn’t worried. I was intrigued. As I learned more I became more invested, more absorbed. Three twelve-year-old girls walk into a train yard and two come out unscathed. What doctor wouldn’t be fascinated?

I often wonder what would have happened if Dr. Soto had called another psychiatrist. Perhaps the end results would have been different. But I picked up the phone and I made the long walk down to the emergency room.

Case #92-10945

Excerpt from the Journal of Cora E. Landry

Sept. 9, 2017

Well, volleyball lasted all of four days. I knew I would suck but I figured some of the other girls would be just as bad as me and we’d just end up on the B team. No such luck. There is no B team and I actually am the worst player.

Of course Jordyn is also on the team and really good. I swear she kept serving the ball right at me and I couldn’t bump a single one. This happened like eight times in a row. At first the girls on my team were really encouraging and said, “It’s okay, Cora, you can do it!” and “Shake it off!” But after a while it was pretty clear I couldn’t do it, so they stopped saying anything.

I tried, I really did. I even dove for one of Jordyn’s serves and ended up twisting my ankle. It didn’t really hurt but I started crying. Why do I do that? The coach told me to go get a drink of water and sit out until my ankle started feeling better. I sat on the sidelines the rest of practice. Afterward, when we were changing our shoes, everyone told Jordyn how good she was. No one said anything to me, not even to ask me how my ankle was.

I told my mom and dad that I got hurt and didn’t think I’d be able to play anymore. Of course my dad was like, “You can’t quit! Landrys aren’t quitters. You’ll be fine!” and I had to go to practice the next day. And the next. And the next.

Then it was like I had a target on me. Jordyn wasn’t the only one serving the ball right at my head. EVERYONE started trying to serve or spike the ball at me. Even the ones who are nearly as bad as I am. It was so obvious. Even Gemma, who is normally nice, got this mean look on her face just before she served. I swear she glared right at me and aimed. At that point I didn’t even try. I just stood there and the ball hit me on the shoulder. Everyone laughed. Except the coach and I bet that’s because she’s paid not to laugh at the kids.

When I got in the car after practice my mom asked me how it went. I told her that I wasn’t going back. “You can’t quit,” she said and I started crying and I couldn’t stop. When we got home my mom tried to get me to tell her what was wrong but I couldn’t. It was so embarrassing. I finally told her that I hurt my ankle again and I might have sprained it or maybe even broke it.

She got me an ice pack and told me that she’d make an appointment with the doctor. Obviously, the doctor didn’t find anything wrong with my ankle but he did say that I should take a few weeks off from playing.

At school today Jordyn asked me why I hadn’t been at practice and I told her that the doctor said I couldn’t play anymore and she said that was too bad. She said it in a way that I thought she really meant it. She was so nice that for a second I actually considered going back to practice and trying again.

Gabe and I haven’t had much of a chance to talk since school started. He sits with his friends at lunch and we don’t sit by each other in social studies but he says hi to me in the hallway and my stomach does a flip every single time.

Guess what! A new girl showed up at school today. I can’t remember the last time someone actually moved to Pitch. Usually people move away from here. Or die of old age. My best friend since kindergarten moved to Illinois last year when her dad got a new job. Ellie’s mom said that Pitch was a dying town and I guess she’s right. Once the packing plant closed down lots of families left but no one who I liked as much as Ellie.

Ellie and I wrote letters and emailed back and forth for a while but then I guess she’s made new friends that keep her pretty busy. I haven’t heard from her since summer. I miss her so much that my stomach hurts. It’s so hard to go from having someone you can talk to about anything to having absolutely no one to hang out with.

After Ellie left, the world suddenly became very quiet. I can go days without anyone my age speaking to me. I told my mom that it would be much easier to keep in touch with Ellie if I had my own cell phone so we could at least text back and forth. Of course my mom said no. My parents think that I’m too young for one. Check back in when you’re fifteen, my dad said. I told him that by then everyone will have forgotten that I exist, so never mind.

The new girl’s name is Violet and she has pretty black hair and is from New Mexico. Jordyn said that her grandma saved Violet and her mom and brother when their engine exploded outside of town. She said they were standing in the dark on the side of the road when her grandma pulled up next to them in her truck. They all piled into the front cab and Mrs. Petit drove them into town and dropped them off at the Do Pull Inn.

I don’t know if I believe Jordyn. She doesn’t always tell the truth. I guess Violet and her family are going to stay because Violet says that her mom got a job at the gas station and they rented a house on Hickory Street.

I felt kind of sad after she told me that. Violet seems nice but my mom will never let me go over to her house. Hickory Street is where my sister, Kendall, and her best friend, Emery, say the meth heads live. I asked Emery how she could possibly know that and she told me to get a good look at their teeth. Without trying to be too obvious, I tried to see Violet’s teeth and they seemed just fine to me. Emery told me to check again in a few months. It takes time for enamel to turn to mush.

Not to brag, but we live in a pretty nice house. It’s made of brick that my mom says is salmon-colored. I think it looks more pinkish but whatever. I have my own bedroom and we have a rec room in the basement where we keep the foosball table, the karaoke machine and the Xbox. We have a huge trampoline in the backyard with a net around it so no one falls off and breaks their neck.

Last year, after we got the trampoline, lots of my classmates came over to try it out but that stopped once school started again and it got colder. Kendall says it’s because I’m weird and if I tried harder I’d have friends.

In social studies class we sit in pods and Mr. Dover pulled an empty desk from the corner and added it to my group so Violet would have somewhere to sit. She didn’t say much, just sort of watched everyone.

At one point, when Mr. Dover said that we were going to take the ITP tomorrow and it was a very important test that the Department of Education makes every student take to see if we could make it to college, I thought Violet was going to start crying. Violet told me that she hasn’t been to school much in the last couple of months because of the move and all.

I whispered to her not to worry, that it wasn’t that big of a deal. That all teachers seemed to talk about anymore was “college and career readiness.” I made air quotes with my fingers and Violet smiled. I was hoping that Violet would sit next to me during lunch but Jordyn got to her first. Oh, well, maybe tomorrow.

I ended up sitting next to Joy Willard, which is okay. One thing I like about my school is that they don’t let people get away with saving seats or telling people that you can’t sit next to them. If Mrs. Morris, the lady who supervises the lunchroom, sees you don’t have anyone to sit next to she’ll send you to a specific spot. I swear she’s got this superpower that kicks in the minute you carry your tray from the food line. She sees you desperately looking around the cafeteria for a place to sit and then she swoops in and points. “No arguing, Landry,” she’ll say. “Sit there and start eating. This isn’t Perkins, you know.” Even the jerks don’t talk back.

Then at lunch I felt something hit me in the back. I turned to see what it was and I saw a tater tot on the floor behind where I was sitting. I turned back around and it happened four more times. Plop, plop, plop, plop. The last tater tot landed in my hair and stuck there. I pulled it out and turned around to see who was throwing them. Jordyn and some other girls were sitting at the table behind me and were trying not to laugh. I know it was her. Violet was just staring down at her lunch tray like she didn’t see what happened. At least she wasn’t laughing.

When I got home and took off my shirt there were four dark spots on the back. Like four greasy bullet holes. I don’t know why Jordyn’s being so mean to me. I’ve never done anything to her. Ever.

At least I have just about every class with Violet. Everything but math and home base, which is what they used to call homeroom in elementary school. My mom is the school secretary at the elementary school I went to last year. It’s kind of weird not being in the same building together anymore, but I’m glad. I would never tell my mom that, though. She keeps saying things like, “Don’t you miss seeing me every day, Cora?”

I really don’t miss it. I never realized how awkward it was having my mom around all the time. She knew every move I made. Let me tell you, the school secretary knows everything and I mean everything.

Last year I found out that my second grade teacher was having an affair with the gym teacher. Of course, my mom didn’t come right out and tell me this; I overheard her telling my dad. I also learned that Mr. Simon, the custodian, had brain cancer and that Darren Moer, a kid in my class, had lice again for the third time. Needless to say, having a mom as the school secretary had its perks, but it feels kind of freeing knowing that she’s a few miles away and can’t peek in the classroom at any point during the day just to see how I’m doing.

After the last bell rang I started turning my combination lock—56 left, 13 right, 2 left—when Tabitha came up behind me and reached over and spun the lock in the wrong direction, screwing everything up. I started over and then Charlotte did the same thing. My mom was waiting outside for me and I knew she would be mad at me for taking so long. I tried to open my locker for the third time and Jordyn came up and messed me up all over again.

I leaned my head against the locker door and tried not to cry, then I heard Gabe say, “Real mature, Jordyn.” And like it always does when I see Gabe, my stomach flipped. Gabe was sticking up for me!

“We’re just joking around,” Jordyn said. “You’re not mad, are you, Cora?” Jordyn asked in this fakey voice. I shook my head even though I felt like slapping her. “See?” Jordyn said, looking at Gabe all innocent.

“Here, let me help,” Gabe said. “What’s your combo?” The last thing I needed was having Jordyn know my locker combination so I waited until Jordyn left before I told him the numbers. Gabe opened my locker and said, “Just ignore her. Jordyn can be such a bitch sometimes. See you tomorrow.”

My face was burning up I was blushing so hard. Jordyn and some of the other girls might not like me but Gabe does. I grabbed my book bag, shut my locker, and that’s when I saw Mr. Dover watching me from his classroom doorway. My stomach flipped over again, but not in a good way.