Chapter 68
Sixty-Eight
B utch’s sobs awaken me. We’re on the couch; neither of us could stomach getting into bed or even think of sleeping. My eyes snap open and swing to him. He’s slumped over his knees, his broad shoulders heaving.
My heart breaks anew.
Something in my chest squeezes at seeing a big, strong man like Butch so shredded, powerless...vulnerable.
Crawling behind him, I wrap my body around his and hold him close. His massive frame shakes as he weeps, wracked with that bottomless, consuming grief and pain.
He doesn’t push me away, an encouraging sign. I remain, anchoring him, reminding him I’m here. I love you. I’m sorry .
Fresh tears spring from my own eyes, rolling down my cheeks and splashing onto his shirt. I tenderly kiss his back.
His anguished cries hang in the air, each another blow to my bruised heart. Hemi lumbers to all fours and rests his head on his Butch’s thigh.
I rub Butch’s back in slow, smooth strokes, over and over.
I’m here. I love you. I’m sorry .
Slowly, his sobs cease, his breaths shuddering as they normalize .
It’s dark outside, impossible to guess the time, but not yet near dawn.
My brain screams questions for which there are no answers.
Have the police found Emmy? Has anyone spotted her from the photos we provided?
From the community search team? From the flyers getting made and distributed?
Where was she taken? Is she hurt? Hungry?
Scared? Is she with Darlene? What if they can’t find her?
What more can we do?
Butch stands. “I’m going to get some water,” he says hoarsely. “Want some?”
“I’ll get it for you,” I offer.
He waves me off and walks toward the kitchen. I hear him open a drawer, shake what sounds like pain relievers from a bottle, and use the sink. He returns with two glasses, setting them down on the coffee table.
I take a few token sips.
He reclines on the sofa, silently beckoning to me to join him. He cradles me against him, and I sag as his arm closes around my chest. We remain wordless, but his breath floating past my ear provides the proof of life I need—and a smidgeon of hope.
Then again, hope is dangerous.
We don’t leave the cabin—hoping, praying, waiting for the phone to ring with news that Emmy’s been found. The absence of her little footsteps, giggles, and tea parties attended by stuffed animals surround us like ghosts.
Gus, Jerri, and Liz cycle through at intervals, bringing food we barely touch, offering hugs, and fighting tears. No one knows what to say in these circumstances. No words exist in the English language to provide solace for this atrocity.
We turn on the television…but find it depressing, no t distracting. The silence without it deafens. How can quiet be so loud?
Butch relieves some of his stress by pummeling the punching bag in the garage. Splitting more wood and stacking it high for wintertime. Throwing a tennis ball for Hemi to chase. During those times, I stand vigil by the phone.
There is nothing more agonizing than sitting around, idle and helpless, knowing Emmy is out there…scared, in trouble, worse. And yet we are relegated to it, chained here, impotent.