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  Missing Emily:

  Croatian Life Letters

  Jodie Toohey

  Wordsy Woman

  Press

  Copyright © 2015 Jodie Toohey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally.

  Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock

  ISBN: 0692414274

  ISBN-13: 978-0692414279 (Wordsy Woman Press)

  Find out about my other and upcoming titles at jodietoohey.com.

  Get a free copy of Taming the Twisted, my historical fiction novel about Abigail Sinkey who finds herself entangled in abandonment, her parents death, a murder, scandal, and romance after a tornado destroys her town of Camanche, Iowa, on June 3, 1860 at jodietoohey.com/tamingfree.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER one

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  If you liked this book, please consider leaving a 5 or 4 star review at your favorite online bookstore or review site. Thank you! | Find out about my other and upcoming titles at jodietoohey.com. | Get a free copy of Taming the Twisted, my historical fiction novel about Abigail Sinkey who finds herself entangled in abandonment, her parents death, a murder, scandal, and romance after a tornado destroys her town of Camanche, Iowa, on June 3, 1860 at jodietoohey.com/tamingfree.

  FOR KATIE LEA | AND YOU

  SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER one

  Just a box of letters; a box of life-saving letters. I crossed my legs, lifted the lid, and let the dust bunnies fall to the floor. I hadn’t looked at that box in over a year. They were all there: the first short, impersonal letter all the way through to the last birthday card. All of them started the same way: the date with the day of the month first, and then, “Dear Ami.” I put the box in my pile of things to take to college. I tried to continue cleaning my room, an offering of a law school study office for my mom. My mind kept taking me back. I remembered the first of the cataclysmic events causing the sharp turn eventually leading to the life and death decision that brought me here.

  The date is etched in my memory: March 7, 1990. Mom had planned to start law school that year. She and my dad had an agreement; she would support him while he became a doctor and got established, and then she could attend law school. Mom always wanted to be a lawyer. She convinced Dad to let her name all of her children after Latin court terms. She planned, saved, and read everything she could related to the law to stay motivated. Always full of unwelcome surprises, Dad changed these plans. He had been working as a surgical fellow for only a few months when Mom received her acceptance letter to law school in the mail.

  When I came down for dinner that night, there were only three plates on the table.

  “Eating late with Dad again?” I asked.

  “Yes, and I want you kids to go to bed early,” she said. “What? How early? I’m in ...”

  “You don’t have to go to sleep; just stay in your rooms. I’m surprising Daddy with a candlelit fettuccine Alfredo dinner.”

  “His favorite?”

  “Yes. I’m going to share my good news.”

  “Good news?”

  “I got my letter today. I’m going to law school.”

  “Congratulations!” I hugged her.

  Later, I lay in bed reading a book with the door open just enough to hear what was going on downstairs. I listened for the bursts of laughter as my dad congratulated Mom on her achievement, well-deserved after all she’d given up for him. When, for several minutes all I heard was silence, I snuck out and crouched behind the wall in the hallway at the top of the stairs.

  Dad said, “We’ve grown apart. You have nothing to talk about but the kids and the house. We’re not on the same level intellectually anymore. Being a father isn’t ‘me.’ I’m moving in with Nikki.”

  Nikki was his surgical nurse who had just passed her boards.

  He said, “Nikki makes me feel young again and I don’t have to wait to travel because Nikki has already started her career. I don’t want to wait for three years for you to finish law school.”

  They were silent.

  My dad continued, his voice a high-pitched whistle, “I’ll still do what I can to help you through law school. I’ll take the kids every other weekend and a couple of weeks in the summer. I’ll even take them to dinner one evening a week so you can study.”

  Finally, Mom spoke, “So you’re saying being a husband and full- time father is not convenient anymore so you’re quitting?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” Dad choked. “I know, it sounds terrible.”

  I sat immobilized, staring at the wall in front of me. The swirls in the textured paint began to meld together. I couldn’t move even as I heard Dad’s footsteps thud on the carpet-padded stairs.

  “Amicus.” I heard my name as if my dad was on the other side of the play tunnel we played in at the park on Sundays when I was little. “Ami, are you okay?”

  I turned slowly toward the voice. He jumped, startled, like he hadn’t realized I was there.

  He gasped. “You look just like your mother.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant. Mom’s hair was dark brown and fell halfway down her back in soft waves while mine was a dirty, ashy blond that plunged straight like tiny long toothpicks to my shoulders. She was curvy while I forgot to “develop.” Even though I was fourteen at the time, the sides of my torso still made basically straight lines to my feet. Our eyes were blue so I thought maybe that was what he meant.

  Millions of questions bounced around my head, but I could not pull any two words together. I think I may have squeaked a couple of times before Dad briefly rested his hand on the top of my head. He stepped over my legs on his way to their bedroom down the hall. A few minutes later, he came out with the duffle bag he used to take when he was on all-night call at the hospital as a resident, again stepped over me, and went down the stairs. I heard the careful soft click of the front door closing. The house remained still, like it was holding its breath, until the sunlight coming in my parents’ bedroom window stretched into the hallway and Prio woke up, demanding breakfast.

  At that moment, everything changed, but at the same time, nothing changed. Life seemed to become more mechanical. I didn’t really notice Dad not living with us anymore; he had been gone so much during medical school, his residency, and fellowship, he was hardly there anyway. My mom still took care of our house and us. She took us to school, fixed our lunches, read Prio picture books before bed, and helped Forti plan the perfect item to take to show and tell. She still asked me how my day was when I got home from school,
but she seemed to stop caring about the answers. I was the oldest, so I guess they thought I understood the nuances and struggles inherent in a marriage and in its ending. I suppose it was partly my fault. Forti and Prio constantly demanded Mom’s time and I saw how this frustrated her.

  One night, I decided I would talk to Mom about still going to law school. I loaded the dishwasher after dinner. Mom sat at the kitchen table, leaning on her elbows. She looked like she was about to fall asleep. Forti and Prio giggled as they wrestled in the living room.

  “I’ll get Forti and Prio to bed if you want,” I said.

  “What?” Her head fell toward the table and then she snapped up. “Oh, no, that’s okay. Prio needs a bath.”

  “I can give Prio his bath.”

  She stood up. “Actually, that would be great.” She gave me a slight wave as she shuffled away.

  I finally got Prio bathed and tucked in. I made sure Forti was in bed and approached Mom’s bedroom. She was face-down on her bed in her clothes, snoring. I tried again the next night, only to find her lying on her bed crying into her pillow. After that, I decided the best way to help was to be easy, so I retreated to the shadows, doing everything I could to avoid drawing attention.

  Our early 1980s two-story house became devoid of hope, no longer working or planning for the day it would become something great. Over the summer, the weeds quickly suffocated the brilliant colors of impatiens, petunias, and whatever newest blooming perennial Mom planted last fall in the flower beds in front of our windows in her annual, hopeless attempt to sustain life in something other than impatiens and petunias. Even during the severe dry summer of 1988, she stopped everything to go out at dusk to water her flowers, the only time it was allowed by the city. That summer, though not as dry as ’88, did not provide enough water to sustain the flowers, so they withered and died. The only bright spot became Saturday nights.

  I anxiously waited for every Saturday. That’s when I got to babysit my cousin, Emily, while Aunt Shari and Uncle Matt went out for dinner. I started to babysit Emily when she was a baby. Before Dad left, just Mom and I would go to Aunt Shari’s house on Sunday afternoons when he wasn’t working so Aunt Shari could have some “adult female conversation” and I could look after and play with baby Emily. Mom convinced Dad that Aunt Shari needed us without the distraction of Forti and Prio. Most of the time, Uncle Matt went to our house to watch sports with Dad. Forti and Prio never complained and seemed happy when we returned, so we never asked if they had actually spent time with my dad or if they just played in their rooms. I asked my mom once what they did when Uncle Matt came over, and she said as long as the house was in one piece and nothing was broken, she didn’t care. As long as it didn’t take me away from time with Emily, I didn’t care either. After Dad moved out, on Sunday afternoons I was with him at his house or he was spending “quality time” with Nikki so he couldn’t keep Forti and Prio.

  All four of us tried to visit Aunt Shari once. Mom and Aunt Shari drank coffee at the dining room table. I held Emily and tried to keep Forti and Prio occupied with a video. Every time Aunt Shari opened her mouth, either Forti or Prio summoned my mom.

  “I want to hold Emmy,” Prio said.

  “Sit on the couch and I will put her in your arms.” I showed him how to hold his arms like a cradle and laid Emily in them. She squirmed.

  “Hold still,” he whispered.

  “You’re not doing it right,” Forti said. “Look at her. She doesn’t like it. It’s my turn.” Forti pulled Emily’s bare foot toward her.

  “Forti, stop it. You’re hurting her!” Emily started to scream. Big tears flowed down her cheeks and it broke my heart.

  I picked her up and hugged her to my chest. “Now look what you did.”

  “What is going on here?” Mom, with Aunt Shari close behind, walked in from the dining room. Forti and Prio pointed at and talked over each other.

  Aunt Shari kneeled down in front of Forti and Prio on the couch. “Emily is getting bigger and she doesn’t like to be held as much anymore.”

  “Ami gets to hold her,” Forti said.

  “Ami and Emily have a special bond, I guess,” Aunt Shari said.

  “I’m sorry, Shari. Maybe we will have to plan our visits when Don can take care of the little ones,” Mom said.

  “But, Mom.” A lump started to form in my throat. “When will I get to see her?” I kissed Emily’s forehead. “I’ll miss her too much.”

  “I have an idea,” Aunt Shari said. “Matt and I need to spend more time together. And since Emily is over six months old, I’ll feel more comfortable leaving her with a babysitter. Maybe we can plan a regular date night and Ami can babysit.”

  So I took a babysitting class and started to babysit Emily every Saturday night.

  Each week, Saturday night could not come fast enough. After Dad left, I didn’t feel like hanging out with Krissa or my other friends anymore. After a while, they stopped calling me, and then they stopped inviting me to their birthday parties. But I didn’t care because I would rather spend time in my bed listening to music and Saturday nights with Emily. The only person I really would’ve wanted to hear from was Larry Benson and I knew there was no way that would happen.

  When Emily was a newborn, I held her for hours, watching her sleep and feeding her when she woke up. When she got a little older, I talked to her to make her smile and laugh. When she could sit up, I taught her to play patty cake, and when she started to crawl, I crawled right behind her. I knew she loved me; she was the only one whose love I never questioned. When I arrived to start babysitting after she was walking, she would run over the hardwood floors, dragging her pink baby blanket behind, her face lit up with a smile, brown hair a wild mess, squealing. I would crouch down, open my arms as wide as I could, and as soon as she got close enough, clamp them tight around her little body, lift her, and twirl in circles. It was the music and Emily that kept me sane.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tears fell into the dust, creating mud puddles under the bed. I leaned back against the mattress and pulled the box of Nada’s letters back into my lap. I remembered that date as well: February 13, 1991.

  It was the day before Valentine’s Day, and rather than anticipating a fabulous romantic date, I was in ninth grade English class. Most of my classmates would say they were stuck in ninth grade English class, but if I couldn’t be with Emily, I would rather be at school. At school, I could temporarily forget the darkness at home; I could lose myself in studying and getting good grades.

  I anticipated another assignment at which I could excel when my teacher waved a stack of jaggedly cut copy-machine copied paper in the air. “I will be giving each of you a piece of paper with a name and address.”

  The boys in the class snickered. I looked up. Two large puddles of sweat flanked each of Mrs. Abernathy’s armpits.

  Camanche High’s thermostat was governed randomly, neither by the calendar nor the temperature. It was cold and windy as it often was in mid-February, but it was easily 80° in the windowless classroom.

  As Mrs. Abernathy handed out the identities of our new pen pals, I stared at the blank page. I wrote, “Dear,” left a few spaces, indented, and rested the tip of my pen on the paper. I started to move it to create a letter, but stopped. Finally, Mrs. Abernathy placed a piece of paper face-down on the corner of the desk. I snatched it up and flipped it over.

  “Who did you get?” Krissa tapped my back with the eraser of her pencil from her desk right behind mine. “What’s your country?”

  Krissa and I had hardly spoken to each other in weeks. I twisted in the chair. “It says Crow at ti ya, Yugoslavia.”

  “Crow-at-ti-ya? Where’s that?”

  I muttered, “I don’t know.” Geography was never a good subject for me. I held the paper in the air to get my teacher’s attention.

  “Yes, Amicus, do you have a question?”

  “Where is Crow-at-ti-ya?”

  “Crow-eh-ti-who?”

  I spread the p
aper taut between both hands and pointed the printed side toward Mrs. Abernathy. She hunched over and walked toward me, her hands clasped behind her back. Her long, black hair hung down in twisted strings from behind her ears and dangled toward the floor. She pushed the sweat from her forehead back into her hairline and squinted. “That’s not Crow-at-ti-ya, it’s pronounced Crow-eh-shuh.”

  “Croatia,” I whispered.

  Mrs. Abernathy grabbed a rubber band from under Andy Marlin’s desk across the aisle from me and twisted it around her hair. She missed a few pieces and looked like she’d just been captured after running away from the police. The boys snickered again.

  “Does anyone else have any questions?”

  “Where’s Paraguay?” Marcus Reynolds blurted, his hands clenching under his desk. He winked at me. I couldn’t decide if he was making fun of me or trying to make me feel better.

  “I’ll tell you what.” Mrs. Abernathy plopped down in her wooden rolling desk chair. She pushed her shirt sleeves into her armpits. She guzzled half of the bottle of water sitting on the corner of her desk and held its sweaty plastic to her neck. She pulled her beach ball-sized cardboard globe from the other corner of her desk, blew the dust from the North Pole, and sat it in front of her. “Anyone who wants to see where their pen pal’s country is located, or has any other questions, raise your hand.”

  At least half the hands in the class shot up in the air. Apparently, I was not the only one who had trouble with geography.

  “Sit down.” Mrs. Abernathy sighed. “Put your hands down. Let’s try this again. Now listen very carefully.” She sucked in deep. “Do not move until I say, ‘go.’ If you want me to show you where your pen pal’s country is on the globe, raise one hand in the air.”

  Aaron Barrington was the class clown. His hand sprouted straight up.

  Mrs. Abernathy said, “Mr. Barrington. I did not say ‘go.’”

  A few of the girls’ giggles puffed out through their hands clasped over their mouths and Aaron slunk back into his seat, pretending remorse, “Sorry, Mrs. Abernathy.”

  “As I was saying, raise one hand in the air and hold it stiff like a flag pole.” Mrs. Abernathy used to teach kindergarten. “I will call your name to come to my desk. While you wait for me to call your name, begin writing your letters.” Mrs. Abernathy took another big drag from her water bottle. “Okay.” She hesitated. “Go.”