Page 103 of The Fire We Crave

It’s an obvious question given I just answered the front door.

I glance up and down the street. For what, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s because I think I’m getting punked. Maybe it’s because I’m hoping there’s someone with her, helping her through this moment. “I do. I have a thousand questions I want to ask you. Come in. I’ll make coffee.” My stomach flips a little at the thought Smoke is upstairs. “We could go into the bakery.”

She remains on the curb, uncertainty on her face. She makes no move to come inside or to answer, and I’m compelled to fillthe silence. Like I’m the one who should be much more prepared for this moment.

“I don’t know how you’re here or why,” I say, trying to tame my excitement at seeing her. “Or care that it’s been all this time. This is your home, Mel. Come in. Everything else can wait. We can talk. Or we can pretend nothing happened and you can tease me for not liking melon, and always wanting blue slushies, and for borrowing your clothes. I don’t care. Just…come in. And I’m sorry if I’m rambling. I’ll try to be quiet.”

She’s dressed nicely. A blue-and-cream-print dress with puff sleeves and a cream jacket draped over her shoulders. Gold earrings, the kind you always see in those magazine lists of classic jewelry staples, sit at her ears. And on her wrist is a slender gold watch.

Confusion sneaks in around the edges. Because I always imagined that if she was found, she’d be returned to us in a police car. Or we’d ride somewhere and meet her and there’d be social workers and psychologists because they’d rescued her from some basement dungeon where she’d been kept against her will for years.

I imagined she’d be traumatized, gaunt, unkempt.

But she seems…healthy. Well. Polished. Not starved. Definitely alone.

“Mel?” I ask.

“Is Mom or Dad here?” The words are blunt, cool, even. I need to remember we’ve been apart for a long time. We need to get to know each other as we are now.

Patience. Patience. Patience.

I’ve read a lot about the reunification of families after things such as this. The missing child often has strong feelings of anger. Like the family didn’t look hard enough. Or for long enough. And no matter how much survivor’s guilt we carry, our suffering is nowhere near as great as theirs.

So, I meet her with as much kindness as I can find.

“Sadly, no. I have contact details for Dad, though. In fact, we could take a trip. I’ll take you to him.” Because I want to be there for what I hope will be the starting point of healing us as a family. And I have no idea if she’s ever been on a plane.

I can’t tell her about Mom yet. It’s a complicated piece of the problem that’s nuanced and too heavy to share on the doorstep.

“Could I get his number?” she asks. “I really need it.”

“Of course. It’s on my cellphone upstairs. He changed numbers recently, so I don’t know it off the top of my head anymore. I accidentally dialed his old number a few weeks ago and got some college kid who runs a lawn mowing service.”

I step back to let Melody through, and she appears cautious. As if all this is new to her.

I’ve thought about this moment a million times. In some visualizations, Melody was so happy to see us, she’d throw her arms around us and we’d all weep and cry. In others, she’d hate us, want nothing to do with us, but we’d persevere to build a relationship with her.

But the feelings in my chest are threatening to burst. I want to scream at Mom for giving up, for letting the idea of never seeing Melody again overtake her. I can’t imagine how I’m going to explain this to Melody when the time is right.

And I panic at the thought that she chose this morning to come and knock on the door. What if she had come yesterday when I wasn’t here? We could have missed each other.

I wonder if she still has her key.

Would she have let herself in?

Would she have stayed until she heard the bakery open and come down to investigate?

Melody walks up the stairs slowly. I should probably warn her that Smoke is up there, but I’m scared it will stop her forward progress. After all, this place has been a monument toher return for all these years. When she reaches the landing, I step ahead of her to open the door.

Another door, another pause, as Melody doesn’t follow me in.

“You get rid of whoever that was, sugar?” Smoke shouts.

Melody doesn’t immediately recognize the voice, and I’m relieved. “It’s okay. We can work everything out together,” I remind her.

Maybe I’m reminding myself.

I reach for her hand to squeeze it like I used to do when we were kids. But she snatches her hand away, and I realize I don’t have the first clue of what she’s been through. “Sorry.”

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