Blooming Azaleas

The azaleas are blooming in a riot of snowy white, cottony glory. Sunlight glints in kaleidoscope hues through the sprays; the summer sun is bright and new in the blue, blue sky. White muslin curtains dance in the gentle breeze floating through the window. I love the aroma of spring. Carrie was born in the spring.

“You look so invigorated this morning, darling." Hugh smiles through his words, and I see hope sparkle in his gray-green eyes. He lights up. “Coffee?” I nod in acquiescence.

By the time he sets the French Press and two mugs down, I’m fidgeting with my laptop, which is ever-present—a veritable extension of my being. I note Hugh’s frown, and in response, I push the device aside and set about pouring the coffee he’s prepared.

“There’s news, Hugh!” I try to make my tone light. Buoyant, without the tremulous inflection Hugh hates.

“There’s always news, Sarah,” he sighs, turning away from me.

“This time…”

“No!” Hugh turns back to me and actually stamps his foot on the wooden floor. The sound of his angry negativity resounds like a slap.

I feel as if he has slapped me.

“Hugh?”

“Enough…enough. Please, Sarah. It’s enough already.” A muscle tickles beneath his morning stubble. His face looks a little lopsided because of it, and I see how age has crept onto my beautiful husband’s face without me noticing, at least until this very moment.

“He’s got an excellent reputation, this new man,” I say without looking at him. I face the curtains, and their exuberance, their flirty float gives me courage because I remember. I remember just how much Carrie loved the fresh breeze on her face, the azaleas, and the garden. When she was very young, she loved me, she loved Hugh, and she loved us.

"Sarah." He always calls me Sarah when he’d rather not talk to me. When he’d rather not explain, “the last guy took you for thirty-five grand. Don’t you understand you’re walking around with a target on your head? You’re an easy mark, Sarah."
“He took us for thirty-five grand. He was a scammer. This new guy has a pedigree as long as my arm."

Hugh picks up his car keys and gives me a level glare before heading for the front door. I whimper, a silent, broken sound that I hear quite plainly in the vacuum that my husband leaves behind. I know that he hasn’t showered or shaved. I know that he’s gone. Gone to get away from me and Carrie.

The very worst part of the entire scenario is that I feel relief like a flood after my mini-breakdown. I fire up my laptop and wait impatiently for Windows to ask me for my username. I feel the slow-burn of hope tickle at my temple; I can’t put the thoughts of Carrie’s aside. I see her smile in my dreams and in my waking hours. I see her smile all the time.

My background image jiggles onto my screen, and eight-year-old Carrie stares back at me against a backdrop of spring. Of course, she has a fairy crown of azaleas in her hair.

My little princess My beautiful girl I hear myself wail. I catch my chin and force control. I must speak to the detective. I know my duty.

I finally click all the right buttons, and I’m face-calling with a sturdy-looking man wearing a dour expression. Absurdly, he’s sporting a crew cut, and he looks vaguely like a caricature of Tom Cruise in Top Gun, which is wholly inappropriate.

He asks me questions.

I respond. I respond the way I’ve done time and time again.

I do it again.

“How old was she when she disappeared?” he asks.

“Seventeen.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?”

“Yes, Mark. My neighbor’s son. They disappeared on the same day.”

A note of “knowingness” creeps into the detective's voice. Actually, he’s not a detective. He’s a PI. It sounds so important, Private Investigator Vance.

“And you’ve had no contact with either of them since that day. What was it? Let’s see. August 27th, 2019.” He shuffles paper. “Is that right? Before the pandemic?”

I nod without speaking, and he gives me time.

I wait, but then my mind breaks.

“Mark, my neighbor’s son... my daughter. They got involved with a group. A cult, I suppose. They became very secretive. They changed. They used to slink around. Slink without telling. Oh, my God!” words desert me.

He gives me more time. I start… I begin to like him.

But then, I always like them because they smell of hope.

“Did she leave a note? Did she call? Did he?”

“No.” I bite my lip before I offer my confession.

“They were so weird, you know,” I take a deep breath, “they used to lock themselves away in Carrie’s bedroom. I used to creep up. I crept up. I used to listen at the keyhole.”

My silence takes a long time to sound wholesome.

PI Vance clears his throat in my absence.

I’m trying so hard to pay attention, but then my phone rings. I pick it up and look at my husband’s number. I wait four rings before I clamp it to my ear.

I close the screen on PI Vance, and my heart stops when I hear Hugh whisper, “I love you, Sarah. Pay no mind to me. I know how hard you’re trying, and I love you more each day because of it. You are stalwart. You’re a wonder.”
My heart leaps, and I feel his aura as if he’s in the room with me.

“Keep going, Sarah. It’s the only way forward.” I close the call and hold the phone to my heart.

...and my wonder radiates like the silver lining on the clouds in the frame of my morning window.

The azaleas are glowing.

And I cry. I cry tears that I’ve not shed since the day she left.

---

##Sources and further reading

Disturbing Cults
Feature image: my own. Shot with my iPad