Read Online Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) by Castillo Linda - Free Book Online
Authors: Castillo Linda
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grille of the Tahoe.
A quarter mile in, the track opens to a large gravel area. Two hulking red barns trimmed in white loom into view. Ahead, I see several smaller outbuildings, an old outhouse, and a rusty metal shed. On my left, a white farmhouse with tall, narrow windows and a green tin roof looks out over the land. I wonder about all the things the house has witnessed over the years and I know this place, like so many others in this part of the country, has stories to tell.
Beyond, several huge maple trees shade a manicured yard teeming with blooming peonies and tufts of pampas grass with spires as tall as a man. A scarecrow wearing a straw hat and suspenders stands guard over a garden abundant with strawberries and green beans. An Amish girl in a tan dress stops hoeing to watch us.
I recall reading, when I was in college, that sense memories can be a powerful trigger of flashbacks. The sight of this farm, combined with the smell of cattle and horses and that of summer foliage, elicits an intense sense of déjà vu. This farm is uncannily similar to the one I grew up on, and for the span of several seconds I’m transported back to the past. I see my mamm, a clothespin between her teeth, hanging trousers and dresses on the clothesline. Looking at the field behind the barn, I imagine my brother Jacob driving our team of Percheron geldings while my datt and the neighbor boy cut and bundle hay. I remember the frustration of being stuck in the house, scrubbing floors, when I desperately wanted to be outside on the back of one of those horses.
They were happy, innocent times, and though that part of my life was far from perfect, the memories evoke an uneasy sense of longing. It’s not that I want to be Amish again or that I want to recapture my youth or a past I know is forever gone. But invariably when I remember those days, I can’t help but think of all the things I left unfinished. Mostly my childhood, which was cut short long before its time. So many things I left unsaid, most of it to my family. But if I’ve learned anything in my thirty-three years, it is that no matter how badly you want a redo, life never makes such allowances.
I think of Annie King and I wonder if she was content living here with her family. If she found comfort in being part of this tight-knit community. Or was she like me? Perpetually discontent and pining for things she could never have. I wonder where she is at this very moment. If she’s frightened and wishing she was back here with her brothers and sisters and the monotony of farm life. I wonder if years from now she’ll look back and, like me, wish she’d done things differently.
“Looks like they’ve got company.” Tomasetti’s voice snaps me out of my fugue.
Two Amish men in blue work shirts, straw hats, and dark trousers with suspenders stand at the barn door, watching us. “They’re probably neighbors,” I tell him. “Here to help with the search or care for the livestock while the family deals with this.”
I follow his gaze. A few yards away, two Amish girls are trying to wrestle a large dog into a beat-up washtub. The girls are about ten years old. They’re wearing plain green dresses, their mouse brown hair pulled into buns at their napes. Their feet are bare and dirty, and the dresses haven’t fared much better. The simplicity and innocence of the sight makes me smile.
All children are innocent, but Amish children possess a particular kind of innocence. They believe the world is a good place, that their parents never make mistakes, that everyone they meet is their friend, and that if you pray hard enough, God will answer your prayers. It’s particularly shattering for an Amish child when she realizes none of those things are true.
Tomasetti and I watch the girls for a moment, each of us caught in our thoughts. That’s when it strikes me that these girls are about the same age his own would have been had their lives not been cut short by a career criminal who
A quarter mile in, the track opens to a large gravel area. Two hulking red barns trimmed in white loom into view. Ahead, I see several smaller outbuildings, an old outhouse, and a rusty metal shed. On my left, a white farmhouse with tall, narrow windows and a green tin roof looks out over the land. I wonder about all the things the house has witnessed over the years and I know this place, like so many others in this part of the country, has stories to tell.
Beyond, several huge maple trees shade a manicured yard teeming with blooming peonies and tufts of pampas grass with spires as tall as a man. A scarecrow wearing a straw hat and suspenders stands guard over a garden abundant with strawberries and green beans. An Amish girl in a tan dress stops hoeing to watch us.
I recall reading, when I was in college, that sense memories can be a powerful trigger of flashbacks. The sight of this farm, combined with the smell of cattle and horses and that of summer foliage, elicits an intense sense of déjà vu. This farm is uncannily similar to the one I grew up on, and for the span of several seconds I’m transported back to the past. I see my mamm, a clothespin between her teeth, hanging trousers and dresses on the clothesline. Looking at the field behind the barn, I imagine my brother Jacob driving our team of Percheron geldings while my datt and the neighbor boy cut and bundle hay. I remember the frustration of being stuck in the house, scrubbing floors, when I desperately wanted to be outside on the back of one of those horses.
They were happy, innocent times, and though that part of my life was far from perfect, the memories evoke an uneasy sense of longing. It’s not that I want to be Amish again or that I want to recapture my youth or a past I know is forever gone. But invariably when I remember those days, I can’t help but think of all the things I left unfinished. Mostly my childhood, which was cut short long before its time. So many things I left unsaid, most of it to my family. But if I’ve learned anything in my thirty-three years, it is that no matter how badly you want a redo, life never makes such allowances.
I think of Annie King and I wonder if she was content living here with her family. If she found comfort in being part of this tight-knit community. Or was she like me? Perpetually discontent and pining for things she could never have. I wonder where she is at this very moment. If she’s frightened and wishing she was back here with her brothers and sisters and the monotony of farm life. I wonder if years from now she’ll look back and, like me, wish she’d done things differently.
“Looks like they’ve got company.” Tomasetti’s voice snaps me out of my fugue.
Two Amish men in blue work shirts, straw hats, and dark trousers with suspenders stand at the barn door, watching us. “They’re probably neighbors,” I tell him. “Here to help with the search or care for the livestock while the family deals with this.”
I follow his gaze. A few yards away, two Amish girls are trying to wrestle a large dog into a beat-up washtub. The girls are about ten years old. They’re wearing plain green dresses, their mouse brown hair pulled into buns at their napes. Their feet are bare and dirty, and the dresses haven’t fared much better. The simplicity and innocence of the sight makes me smile.
All children are innocent, but Amish children possess a particular kind of innocence. They believe the world is a good place, that their parents never make mistakes, that everyone they meet is their friend, and that if you pray hard enough, God will answer your prayers. It’s particularly shattering for an Amish child when she realizes none of those things are true.
Tomasetti and I watch the girls for a moment, each of us caught in our thoughts. That’s when it strikes me that these girls are about the same age his own would have been had their lives not been cut short by a career criminal who
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