17. Chasing Ghosts

After hanging the last ornaments on the Christmas tree that stood proud in the corner, Lizzy and Aunt Beebs sang traditional carols and put out milk and cookies for Santa.

Though Lizzy was much too old to believe in Santa, they did so anyway if only to bring a little happiness into their shattered lives. Before ten o’clock, Aunt Beebs bid goodnight to her niece, who was sitting on the floor, shaking unopened presents.

Cassie felt a spark of inspiration and exclaimed, “Oh, wait!” She dashed into the storage room off the balcony, her hands eagerly rummaging through the dusty, worn boxes. “Aha! Here it is!” A wide grin spread across her face as she pulled out a vibrant Elf on the Shelf.

Lizzy watched with bubbling excitement as Aunt Beebs revealed the colorful doll. “Where should we put it?” Cassie asked, her eyes shining with nostalgia. She had bought it for Lizzy when Elf on a Shelf first came out in 2005. And every Christmas since, they would dig it out together during Lizzy’s visits.

“Where he always goes,” Lizzy replied, snatching the elf from Cassie’s hands. She carefully placed it on the mantel above the fireplace. “There!” she declared, positioning it smack in the center, where Sam, the name she had given him two years earlier, could observe the festivities in the morning. Lizzy adjusted the other decorations around it to make everything just right.

On Christmas morning, the unthinkable—and utterly unbearable—occurred. Cassie had just emerged from the shower, her hair damp and her mind still hazy. She tiptoed into the kitchenette, craving a warm cup of coffee. Lizzy was still in bed, or so she assumed.

As she reached for the note resting on the table, a wave of dread washed over her, and she sank to the floor. Leaning back against the kitchen cabinet, she clutched the paper in her trembling hand, her heart racing as she tried to process the words scrawled across it.

Dear Aunt Beebs,

Please don’t be angry with me. I have to do this. I can’t bear the guilt any longer. Had I not been born, my mom and dad would have split within a month or two. Had I not been born, mom would have been able to finish school. Had I not been born, mom would still be alive!

And now – if I stay here, I’ll ruin your life too. I just can’t bear to do that. I’ll be fine. You’ve taught me to take care of myself. Please don’t worry. Just go on with your life. Please! Promise me that. I love you, more than you know. – Lizzy

Almost immediately, a previously untested maternal instinct kicked in. Her first reactions were fierce and unwavering, but as time passed, that intensity began to fade. On the first day, she reached out to everyone in the community who might have any information.

Within days, she had alerted the local police, and together they expanded their search throughout Harrisburg, and surroundings communities … but came up empty. She called all of the hospitals and walk-in clinics. She reached out to the local media. Nothing!

Gradually, she started to entertain the thought that Lizzy might have returned to Havre de Grace, so she devoted time to searching there as well. Unfortunately, her efforts in both locations yielded no results.

Weeks turned into months, and the trail grew colder. By the end of 2008, a full year after Lizzy had disappeared, police departments in both locales had suspended their investigations, officially marking the case of one “Magdalene Elizabeth Gilmore” as a runaway, and filing it away.

With the new year revitalizing her, Cassie decided to move back to the hometown of her birth, Havre de Grace, where she could be embraced by her surrogate family.

A month or so after arriving, Cassie mustered the courage to seek Father Patrick’s counsel. She did not know him very well, certainly not like Father Mac – or even Father Jesse, for that matter. She found him to be most approachable, and overly sympathetic with her situation.

“Some things cannot be solved by the brain, or forced to acceptance by the heart, Cassandra. You know your Bible, so you know the Beatitudes. ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.’ Jesus reassures us that when we are at our breaking point when we feel we have nothing left to live for … that is when the Lord will answer our prayers.”

“I’m not so sure I believe … anymore, Father Patrick,” Cassie confessed. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to do good, trying to be a good girl. Good daughter. Good sister. Good aunt. Goodness…” she paused. “And for what? To be forsaken?”

“It is too early in your story to know whether you have been forsaken, or not. I’m not a betting man. But, if I were, I would double down on a better life ahead. I know your life until now has been filled with tribulations. But perhaps they were all to prepare you for a special mission that lies ahead.”

He worried that his message wasn’t as inspiring as he had hoped. “Anyway, what I do know, for sure, is that prayer can do miracles.”

At age 37, she knew to bring a padded seat cushion. Sitting on hard concrete for any length of time would kill her back. Cassie sat with her shoulder leaning against cracked stucco of the tower’s apex, bundled in a heavy winter coat and matching gloves.

There was something about the Lighthouse’s bridge. Not just the isolation, but the distancing from a frightening and hostile world below. It was being up in the clouds, with mist and sun and wind and seagulls – all reassuring that God is never far away. At least, that’s how it used to feel.

“But that’s not how I feel now. Anymore.” Cassie was speaking aloud, perhaps hoping that her mother and father might be hearing her. “I feel entirely alone.” My gosh, I’m living out that Gilbert O’Sullivan song, Alone Again Naturally, she thought to herself. “Best not ‘throw myself off.’ She sat for a minute or two, not particularly thinking about anything. Just savoring the harmony of a passing choir of geese, and watching the hairs on her arm dance in the breeze.

“They’re all gone. Mom. Dad. Aunt Ruth. Father Mac. Selma. Mary.” She paused, and then whispered, “Lizzy.” It was okay to talk out loud. It was soothing to hear a human voice, even if it was just her own.

“Well, I guess this should complete the set,” she mused, as she stood and gripped the railing. “Thanksgiving? Mom dies. July 4^th? Dad dies. Christmas Day? Mary calls for help. And … today?” With a simper, she said aloud, “Well, maybe today is my pivotal moment. One way or another.” She sat back down.

“Something happens up here. Something magical. Like no other place on the planet. I am able to speak my mind and sing my heart. No judgments, no paranoia. If only I could dance my soul.

“Before that phone call – the one telling me that Mary had been shot dead in cold blood – I had been making progress. I was beginning to master meditation. At least a little. I’d moved past listening to my breathing. Could sense the blood slowly streaming through my veins. I was learning to distinguish my soul’s voice from my brain’s ramblings.

“All of that came to an end on July 17^th, 2007. Not just for me. For Lizzy, too. That one single bullet stopped all of us – dead in our tracks. The last eight months feel its like someone else’s story.” Cassie hugged herself, the chilly breeze shivering her. “God, I wish it were.”

As she watched a baby white cloud chase its parents across the clear blue sky. Prayers, Cassie repeated unconvincingly. I don’t know about prayers Father Patrick, she mumbled to herself from high atop the lighthouse. Where has God been during all of this? Where was He for Mom?

“Oh mother, if you can hear me, I am so sorry for your life. I believe that, once upon a time, you must have been a joyful girl, like a million others, with hopes and dreams of a happy life. And, for a short while, you might even have had that.

“But then, your body betrayed you. Gradually, you became weak and bedbound. You must have felt so guilty, having to depend on others for your very survival. What must it have been like to watch others, loved ones, suspend their own lives to tend to yours? Mom, what hurt more – the physical pains or the guilt?

“And Dad, where was God for you? You gave your life to your country, fought for your country. And then, your government killed you with its poisons. Betrayed you with its carelessness. You must have been happy when you met Mom…and when Mary and I were born.

“I remember you carrying me on your back. I remember swimming in the river with you. But then, like mom, your body failed you. As you became more and more dependent on others, surely your powerlessness to take care of your bride and your children must have eroded even more than the toxins.

“Mary? Fran, dear? Yours was the saddest life of all. When I think back on your story, I wonder how you managed what had been dropped in your lap. Was your childhood as miserable as I fear? Taking care of Mom and me while Dad was away at work. Learning to scramble eggs at five years old, do a load of wash at seven, make a shopping list at eight. Then, when Dad became disabled, you cared for him, too.

“The one who suffered the most, of course, was you. Every child craves love and respect. And when they don’t get it during their childhood, and their parents pass away – well, they spend the rest of their lives searching for validation and tenderness. In all the wrong places. With all the wrong people.

“And boy Fran, you had your share of creeps. I begged you to come home, to get grounded in normalcy. But you were addicted … to the wild life. Now, I don’t want to pile on, sis, but while you were so fixated on finding yourself – well, you neglected your child. Your only child. And now Lizzy is out there somewhere, looking for love and respect. I fear, in all the wrong places. And with all the wrong people. Sound familiar? If only you had chosen differently.

“Oh, dear Lizzy, where are you? Can you hear me? Can your soul hear my soul? If we are all connected to God as Father Mac taught us, then – God? Would You get a message to Lizzy? Please? Could You tell her that I love her, and I respect her? And that she doesn’t need to search for it among strangers? That she would not be ruining my life if she came home? I need her, Lord.

“And God – if she won’t come home to me, would You look after her, wherever she is? My parents’ only grandchild; my sister’s only child? If she is with You, then I can rest assured that she’s safe in Your arms. But if she’s yet wandering the dirty roads of this cruel world, please watch after her and keep her spared of harm.”

By now, Cassie’s anguished thoughts were flowing freely. The crisp air of March chilled her tears as they rolled down her cheeks. She was about to turn her back on the river and head home when it suddenly occurred to her to say one last, heartfelt prayer. She did so aloud, boldly petitioning the heavens.

“Dear God, Father Patrick says that prayers can do miracles. And I recall from Sunday School what Jesus told us about prayer. ‘Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened.’

“Dear Lord, I am knocking as fervently as I can. I freely surrender to Your will. I wish to flow with Your current, not against it. I don’t know what else to ask for. I am fresh out of ideas. I am lost. Alone. Clueless.

“Lord, I question what remains of my faith. I’m teetering on running out of hope as well. With all my heart and soul, I beg you to show me the way. In Isaiah I read, ‘And it shall come to pass, that before they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will hear.’

“If this be true, then what I am asking for, what I am asking of You … is already on its way. This will be my last vestige of belief. I pray you do not forsake me. I love you, God. Amen. And bless Lizzy, wherever she is. Amen, again.”

The short walk home was sufficient for Cassie to transition back to life. Life in the real world. As she strolled up the drive, she thought to grab Saturday’s mail from the mailbox. She unlocked the door and climbed the stairs to the guesthouse. Her coat returned to its hook; her gloves were put back in their tray. Cassie put up some water to boil for a much-needed hot chocolate. As she waited, she thumbed through the batch of mail.

Telephone bill. Funeral home bill. Water bill. Postcard…

“Postcard? Who’s this from?” she said aloud. Turning it over, she read:

Dear Aunt Beebs,

It’s me, Lizzy. I know it’s been a while. But I’m okay, and I miss you. I still don’t want to ruin your life, so I won’t be coming home. I wanted you to know I’m doing alright. Living with Tommy. I know you didn’t approve of him, but he’s been good to me. He works as a construction laborer. Pays the bills, and loves me. So all is good. I hope you are okay. Take care. I will write again in a couple of months.

Love, Lizzy

Cassie flipped the card over, searching for a return address. There was none. The only hint of where her precious niece’s location was came from the post office cancellation stamp that read, “Lakewood, CA.” So, she’s in Lakewood California.

As she stirred the hot chocolate, it occurred to Cassie that Lizzy’s postcard had arrived on Saturday. It was now Sunday afternoon. Less than an hour ago, she had asked for God’s help. Maybe it is true that ‘before they will call, I will answer,’ she wondered.

Consulting a map, Cassie discovered that Lakewood was a suburb of Los Angeles. With renewed hope, she immediately started making plans to find her niece. If she could just get herself to the West Coast, she trusted that God would help her find Lizzy. You gotta leave something up to the Universe.