Lost And Found

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Words no parent should ever hear, “Your daughter didn’t make it,” played over and over in Maggie’s head as a cold drizzle deepened the sorrow in her bones. Gray sky battled for space between the puffy clouds.

Black. Everyone conformed. All were shrouded in this drab dress code, which, of course, only emphasized the emptiness infiltrating every pore of the day. For the moment, Maggie had no tears left; but nothing could wipe away the searing pain churning inside her, knotting her stomach one moment, twisting the muscles in her neck and back—then turning them into blocks of ice the next.

Maggie sighed and tilted her head. The white and gold etched coffin her daughter lay in really was beautiful. Pink roses cascaded over the sides like a shrine. A moment of clarity swooped in and intensified the agony. Lily would have loved pink.

Five. She was only five years old, a baby still. That number was engraved into Maggie’s every waking thought. The unseen cruelty of God. The hand of fate. How Maggie hated God at that moment. What did I do to you? She’d screamed those words over and over with her fist raised in damning condemnation. She hated everyone. Even the damn minister, who went on and on, preaching his sanctimonious bullshit; but no more than she loathed herself.

“We must trust in God. It’s God’s will.”

Screw you, you self-righteous prick. Her mind was disconnected. Even the strong squeeze on her left arm didn’t process right away. She looked down, her heavy head swimming from the tranquilizer the emergency room doctor had prescribed. Who was touching her? Ah, yes, her brother John, the one she rarely saw and had nothing in common with; but here he stood, concern for her carved into his face and his stare. Or maybe it was malevolence. After all, what kind of mother allowed her child to wander out into the road? She looked away, unable to take any more blame. She’d heard enough from Richard.

Every motion she made was reactive, numb, drugged. Her mind felt plugged, each one of her senses grating like a rusty piston, catching and then starting again. Her nerves were all over the map, shaking her thin grip on reality. Did she say something? She couldn’t remember. John was blocking her view. She couldn’t see Lily and was rocked by a lofty wave, igniting her panic. She couldn’t remember how to breathe, so she fought for air. What was that sound?

Grief was screaming—but who was making that sound? People crowded around her. She couldn’t see Lily, only Richard on the ground, weeping beside the coffin. John put his face in front of her, and his mouth moved like that of a marionette, but no sound came forth. Then, in the blink of an eye, she swayed as the darkness surrounded her. Did someone turn out the lights?