Not A Sound. Heather Gudenkauf

I’m not Nora’s biological mother I have absolutely zero rights when it comes to custody or visitation. If and when I get to see Nora is completely in David’s hands.

      I clearly remember the day, even though I was completely sloshed, that David finally had enough. He had come home from his shift at the hospital and found me sitting on the floor of our bedroom with a bottle of Smirnoff and my coffee mug with “Cute enough to stop your heart and skilled enough to restart it” written across the side. A Valentine’s Day gift from David. I couldn’t be that bad off if I was still using a glass. At least I wasn’t chugging directly from the bottle, never mind that I was holed up in my bedroom with the shades drawn, lights off, drinking vodka and watching closed captioned episodes of Judge Judy at four in the afternoon on a Tuesday.

      Of course I didn’t hear David come into the room, but once he turned on the light and I saw the look on his face I knew things were bad. “You forgot to pick up Nora,” he said, pointing to his watch as I rolled the Smirnoff beneath the bed.

      “Sorry,” was all I could offer. “I’ll go get her now.” I got unsteadily to my feet. My face felt numb and I almost didn’t care that I couldn’t actually hear what David was saying.

      “No, Amelia, you won’t. You can’t get in a car and drive like this.” I couldn’t stand seeing the anger, the disappointment in his eyes, so I averted mine. David grabbed my chin. Not hard, but firmly, so that I couldn’t help but look at him. “You will never drive with Nora again. Do you understand?”

      “You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” I said, my chin still cupped in his hand. I remember actually being glad that his hand was there, I was having trouble keeping my head steady. I kept wanting to lie down, close my eyes.

      “I can and I will,” David said through clenched teeth, making it difficult for me to read his lips. “I en an I ill,” it looked like he was saying, and for some reason this struck me as funny and I started to laugh.

      “Dammit, Amelia!” David said, his fingers now digging into my cheeks so hard that tears sprang into my eyes. “You will not get into a car with my daughter. If you do, I’ll call the police, I swear, I will. Once you sober up, I want you out. Out of my house. Do you understand?” David’s face was pale and he was nearly vibrating with rage.

      I wrenched away from his grasp, the half-filled mug still in my hands. “Now Nora’s your daughter? I knew you would do this,” I spat. “I knew you could never deal with me being deaf. I’m not your perfect little wife anymore so you’re going to just throw me away,” I slurred.

      “I’m not doing this because you’re deaf, Amelia. I’m doing this because you are a fucking drunk.” This I understood. No need for my husband to repeat these words. I read his lips perfectly.

      The mug was out of my hand before I even realized that I had thrown it. The mug struck the wall, exploding into shards just as Nora came into the room. Vodka sprayed in all directions. Nora’s mouth made a perfect O as she clamped her hands over her ears and then ran from the room. David gave me a look filled with pure hate and rushed after her.

      “Trista wasn’t perfect, either, was she? You ran her off too!” I shouted. “No wonder she got as far away from you as possible.” I slammed the door, locked it, and with shaking hands I rooted around beneath the bed in search of the bottle of vodka. When my fingers found the cool smooth glass, I sat with my back against the wall, the carpet wet beneath me, and drank until the tremors slowly subsided.

      Officer Snell tugs on my sleeve and points to an opening in the trail. The EMTs arrive in a six-wheeled contraption that’s a cross between an ATV and a short bed truck. It has a yellow stretcher strapped to the back and I realize that this is how they plan to transport the body out of here. It’s not enough that Gwen has been found murdered, nude and dumped like refuse into the river, now she has to be unceremoniously hauled out of here by a mud-splattered OHV—off-highway vehicle. I know my irritation is misplaced. This isn’t the first time that a body has been found in a rural, hard-to-get-to spot but usually it’s due to a hunting accident or a drowning or someone collapsing on the trail, not murder.

      I decline the offer from an EMT to tend to my hands even though they are still oozing blood and sting. Officer Snell is deep in conversation with my new neighbor so I find a rock to sit on while Stitch explores the muddy banks. I take this opportunity to survey the man who moved into the cabin next to my home. The two-story luxury stone-and-log home with its wide windows and wraparound decking puts my ragtag cabin to shame. The previous owners lost the home to foreclosure and it sat empty for the last three years. My new neighbor bought the property at the beginning of summer and opened Five Mines Outfitters. Now my once quiet road has a regular flow of traffic. Even worse, my stretch of river and the trails that have been my safe haven have been invaded by strangers. To be fair, we’re not exactly next-door neighbors, either. The outfitters is settled nearly out of sight behind thick foliage atop a bluff and well above the river, safe from any flooding while my somewhat shabby A-frame sits dangerously close to the river’s edge and is one heavy rain away from being swept into Five Mines by floodwaters.

      This is the closest I’ve actually come to meeting my neighbor. I’ve only seen him from a distance when he lugs canoes or kayaks down to the access ramp he installed on the property for his customers. Seeing him up close, I realize that he’s older than I thought. Midforties, I’d say. He is tall and very fit with jet-black hair, dark eyes and Asian features. As far as I can tell, he lives alone and runs the outfitters on his own.

      “Officer...take...home...four-wheeler.” I’m able to fill in the gaps and figure out that Officer Snell is letting me know that I’m going home on one of the four-wheelers.

      “What about my board?” I ask, knowing that to worry about my paddleboard is petty under the circumstances, but I’m convinced that this board saved my life on more than one occasion, whisking me away from the bottle of Jack Daniel’s I have stashed in the cabinet beneath my sink. I know I should just dump it out, along with the bottle of red wine I have hidden, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, when the need hits, I grab my board and Stitch and get the hell out of the house and paddle until I’m exhausted and the urge fades. At least for the time being.

      “We can strap it on the back of one of the...” my neighbor says and then moves toward my board so that the rest of the sentence drops away when I can no longer see his lips. Expertly he lifts the board above his head in one smooth motion, turns back to face me, his mouth still moving. He has no idea I can’t hear him and I don’t have any desire to educate him, so I just nod. He retrieves a knot of bungee cords from a small storage box on the ATV and secures the board lengthwise so that half of it projects off the back.

      Snell is talking to an officer, who if possible, is younger than he is. From the look on the boy’s face he is disappointed about having to leave what is likely the most exciting crime scene he’ll ever encounter in his career in law enforcement so that he can accompany us home. I feel a little sorry for him but it dawns on me that if I don’t act fast I’m going to end up sitting behind my neighbor or the officer with my arms wrapped around their midsection as they drive me home. No way. I get onto the four-wheeler with my board strapped to it, staking my claim, and signal to Stitch to hop up behind me. I pretend not to notice Okada’s slightly irritated expression as he climbs on behind the young officer.

      It’s about a forty-minute trek back to my house by four-wheeler and not that much faster on foot. I would have just walked home if I didn’t have my board with me. The maze of trails, which are maintained by the DNR, have mine-era names that echo back to Mathias’s mining history: Prospector Ridge, Galena Gulch and Knife Claim Hollow. We take Dry Bone Loop, a trail that winds like a corkscrew up one side of the bluff and then down the other. A delicate shower of gold and crimson leaves wafts down, littering the trail and catching in my hair. Stitch, from his spot behind me on the ATV, cranes his neck, jaws playfully snapping as he tries to snag each leaf that floats near. After about ten minutes of sitting patiently behind me as I navigate the rocky terrain, Stitch leaps from his seat and decides to run on ahead of us, pausing every few minutes to let us catch up.

      I’m eager to get home