Beautiful Things

By Amy Belder

How dramatically life can change in the space of one phone call....

It begins as a normal day for Katelyn. She is washing dishes as her two daughters play happily outside. When Katelyn answers the phone, everything changes. Returning to the kitchen she realizes her worst fear has come true.

Her daughters

• Language: English
• Publisher: Burnstown Publishing House
• Release date: Jun 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781772572810

Amy Belder

Amy Belder grew up in Petawawa, Ontario. She graduated from Redeemer University in Ancaster and currently lives in Pembroke, Ontario with her husband and three children. Amy enjoys spending her time reading, spinning a good yarn and making people laugh. She is currently working on her second novel.

Book preview

——— Chapter One ———

Katelyn

INEVER SAW MYSELF living in a home like this. It was my husband’s dream home. Growing up in the city he would stay awake planning for this future, a life devoted to nature, the earth and farming. He wrote intricate journals describing what crops he would grow, eventually expanding into animal husbandry with a variety of animals: goats for milk to make soap and keep the grass short, chickens for eggs, and a cow for milk. Everything had a purpose and a place in his little farmhouse. He made complex drawings, essentially the blueprints for his future and kept them under his bed so at night, when all the rest of his family was asleep, he could pull them out and spend some time with his imaginary farm. In my imagination they are of the utmost quality, maps of this farm he would one day create from nothing, and for his age I suppose they were.

People called him a dreamer, but he wasn’t then, and he isn’t now. He is a planner, a meticulously detail-oriented person. Most people who had never been around that way of life would not succeed. His family would chuckle and shake their heads as he scrimped and saved, planning for every possible scenario. The fact he was the butt of other peoples’ jokes never fazed him. The fact that he didn’t have farming in his blood, that he was missing the innate understanding of nature or the experience of cultivation, never stopped him from envisioning.

When I brought him home to meet my parents, it was quite momentous. Justin was my first real college relationship. I had a serious boyfriend in high school who my parents had loved. He had been involved in my father’s business and my dad and he really got along. So, when things failed between us, I knew it would take someone really special to bridge that gap. I knew I had found that special man when I met Justin. He came over and was his charming self. All smiles and plans. He went on to explain his future and our future. How we would make our dreams come true. They listened patiently while he explained his master plan—how he would follow these steps that would eventually lead into farming. After he left, my dad sat down with a cold beer and a smirk on his face. The closest that boy has ever got to a steer is a quarter pounder with cheese. My father was the entrepreneur, who had built a successful business from the ground up with no help—just drive and a plan. Couldn’t he see Justin was the same? He had a plan, a vision. I was so angry. Were they blind to his genius? His drive? His passion? He would show them, and so would I.

So, when the time finally came, when he finished growing up and got a real job, the first big purchase he made was this acre and a bit of property, hardly a farm. There is enough of a bush lot behind that he can pretend he owns acres and acres beyond the tree line. This home is his passion, that is why he works so hard on the road so he can come home and rest.

It is his passion; it is my prison.

When he first found the property, it was like he had won the lottery. He put in a bid and was up all that night waiting for a response. When the word came through, he was on cloud nine. All those plans, all those dreams and late nights. Through his eyes this property was full of potential. This was the beginning, a little piece of heaven with a fishing creek running through and a pristine lookout past the ravine. That’s where our property line ends, at the ravine. It’s almost a 40-foot drop into more bush.

He designed every inch of this house, the pine walls, the library; he even added a secret passageway, hidden behind a bookshelf, which leads to his office He spent hours planning and talking with contractors. It consumed him. I teased him, this was his midlife crisis, reverting back to his childhood. I swear all of this was planned in the wee hours of the morning back when he was a child hiding under the covers. The fort to end all forts. Throughout it all he always said he was doing it for our kids.

We waited until the house was finished before we had our children. No one wants kids running through a construction site. Now we have our family, two lovely girls. Rachel is four and Victoria is two now, and they love it here. The big yard, the neighbours’ horses—it’s a child’s dream home.

I would have been just as happy to stay in the city. There’s always something to do, so many activities and programs for the girls, but Justin always said, Kids need fresh air. Well now they have loads of it.

He’s been gone for what feels like weeks now and under the circumstances I am not sure I’m ready for him to come home.

Everything changed this morning; I was doing the dishes after their snack and I told the girls they had to play outside. They didn’t want to. They never want to. They are such couch potatoes. I never should have got them those tablets. Just put them down and go outside! They love it once they get going but it is always such a battle getting them out in the first place. I’m sure I wasn’t this lazy when I was little, but who’s to know?

While I was doing the dishes, I watched them through the window. They know not to pass the tree line; we always say, Without an adult you have to stay in the yard—no exploring. They were there, playing tag or some other running-around game, with their pigtails waving. I put the dishes in the dishwasher and when I looked back, they were just starting to walk through the trees. I think they were playing hide and seek. I went to the back porch and called out to them. I told them not to explore, not to go into the trees. They heard me, I’m sure they heard me, because they paused when they heard my voice and hid from me behind some pine trees. I came back in; I poured my coffee and that’s when the phone rang. It was a telemarketer of course, no one else calls the home phone. I really shouldn’t have answered it; I shouldn’t have even gone back into the house. After I hung up the phone and looked out the window again, I didn’t see them. There was a moment where I thought maybe I saw a glimpse of pink through the trees. I went outside and called them; they didn’t come. I called again and again. Nothing.

That’s when I put on my runners and went out the back to look for them; I searched. I called out their names. When I didn’t find them in the bush lot, I thought maybe they had gone to see our neighbours’ horses so I went back inside and called, but the neighbours weren’t home. I went looking but by the time I got to their home there was no sign of the girls. After I got back here it was already getting cooler; the sun was starting to set. I hadn’t realized how much time had passed.

That’s when I called 911.

I didn’t realize the last time I saw my daughters it would be the last. I didn’t get a good enough look.

I don’t remember exactly what they are wearing. I don’t know which way they went. I don’t know what to do.

All I know is my daughters are missing.

——— Chapter Two ———

Hilary

MY CRUISER BUMPS along the unpaved driveway, as I approach the home. It is surrounded by dense forest on every side. I am mesmerized. You don’t see homes like this everyday. Its grandeur is only matched by the unique presentation—a gigantic log cabin situated within a dense bush lot. Trees block the view on all sides.

We slow down as we approach the wooden fortress. The sun has long since set and every light inside is lit, every blind open. I see a solitary figure watching as we pull up. As the engine shuts off, she is already standing outside waiting for us on the front porch.

I hustle inside; people often think we don’t take missing person calls seriously. This in itself is untrue; so much happens behind the scenes. However, this is different—a child changes everything, and this is two children.

Good evening Mrs. MacDonald, my name is Sergeant Tremblay. I didn’t bother to extend my hand, instead removing my cap as she eyes me up and down. Why don’t we go inside? I lead the way, this poor woman following me into her own home. Immediately I notice the photos on the walls: two cherub faces smiling with big toothy grins—the girls, pictures of Mrs. MacDonald and her husband on their wedding day, framed candid photos ascending the wall leading to the upstairs.

I look at the woman before me; she is almost unrecognizable compared to the woman in those framed photos. Her hair seems greasy, pulled back in an unruly ponytail; she is wearing a faded, stained t-shirt with frayed yoga pants. I try to remember what I looked like when my children were small. Would I have been bumming around the house in attire like this? Did I make an effort when it was only me at home? Her face looks freshly scrubbed. The red rims and dark circles under her eyes are the greatest contrast with the closeup from her wedding day. The only thing that is unclear to me is whether this state of disarray is a result of her children being missing or if there are other reasons.

Mrs. MacDonald is in the kitchen making coffee; she brings me a cup. As I take a sip, she begins to describe the events of the evening. Her voice never waivers; it is a monotone, almost robotic, as she details the last moment she saw her children.

They were with me all morning. I had so much time to really look at them and soak them up…and I didn’t. I didn’t know it was going to be the last time I would see them. I can’t believe that was the last time. You never think it will be the last time, do you? Her voice is overcome with emotion and it disappears as it passes her lips. I put my coffee down and pull out my notebook.

Now Mrs. MacDonald, I have a couple questions for you. I need you to answer the best you can; any information you can provide will make me better able to bring your children back to you. She nods and I continue, Is there anywhere you think the girls would try to go if they found themselves lost in the woods?

She paused lost in thought, her chipped nail polish clearly visible as she tapped her mug. I know they love the neighbours’ horses, but I checked their barn and there was no sign of them.

"Did you ever teach your children a safe spot where they could go should they find themselves lost or in need? The street? The mailbox?" I look up from my notes and see tears spilling from Mrs. MacDonald’s eyes as she chokes on a sob; she shakes her head no.

I never thought of that, she coughs out. They are so little, I just, never, again her voice vanishes, overcome by scratching sobs.

Is there anyone, you can think of that would want to take your children Mrs. MacDonald? She raises her eyes to the ceiling trying to compose herself. This isn’t helping. She is shutting down. I need to soften my approach before I lose her altogether. I lean in towards her and make a point to speak in a gentler tone. Perhaps there is a relative or a friend who may have seen them wandering and scooped them up and just forgot to call?

She shook her head, her eyes fixed on the floor, No, there is no family close by. Justin’s family live hours away and my parents have both passed away. We came here to start a new life for our family. This was our little oasis, away from everyone.

I nod as I begin my mental checklist. I will need to radio in for help. We need to search the property. Mrs. MacDonald there is a great chance that when we search your property that we will find the girls. They may be nearby, hiding. They may have snuck into a shed or barn. Just because you couldn’t find them doesn’t mean they are not out there. She nods and takes a deep breath. I bite my lip; Remember, don’t promise anything. Don’t ever make a promise you’re not 100% sure you can keep. The tension of keeping Mrs. MacDonald optimistic without providing false hope already feels exhausting.

All right, I have to gather some information for the search parties. I have Rachel and Victoria’s ages. I need their height and also a description of what your daughters were wearing when you last saw them.

A look of uncertainty flashes across her face. She bites her nails and scratches off some more nail polish. After a pause she closes her eyes, Pink. They were wearing pink. I don’t remember if it was a dress or t-shirt or what, but Rachel was wearing pink. Rachel was wearing pink and Victoria was in— purple. She collapses onto the sofa in tears. I walk to her, crossing the imaginary barrier of authority and grasp both her hands in mine.

Mrs. MacDonald, I am on your team. I am here for you. I keep my tone soft and steady; I feel like I am talking down a skittish horse. If you need anything, if you have any questions please let me know. Don’t make promises you cannot keep. My inner voice is trying to reign me back; but I can’t resist, here is a mother, just like me. She is living out my own personal nightmare. I need to comfort her. Don’t! I close my eyes against the barrage of my inner voice. I am sure your daughters are fine; they probably got turned around in the forest and now they are staying put somewhere until they are found.

What if they’re hurt? What if they’re trapped? What if they’re…. she trails off.

I will stay with you through this whole thing. You cannot save them all Tremblay, remember that.

In that moment, the door opens and crashes shut. There is a loud stomping which echoes throughout the log home. I rise from my chair to see a wild-eyed Mr. MacDonald standing before me, his face flushed.

Where are my daughters? he bellows. Katelyn, what have you done?

——— Chapter Three ———

Katelyn

HE USED TO love me, once upon a time. Like really love me— fairy-tale love. He would surprise me all the time with gifts and presents. He would show up unannounced just to see me smile. He epitomized grand gestures. To his credit, it lasted for a while. It lasted longer than a lot of people told me it would. It lasted until we had children, then all his affections fell elsewhere.

He used to find no fault in me. He never saw any of the negative things that other people saw in me. If I were criticized for being bossy or selfish he would just spin it, so I became The Boss and I was self-aware. Now it seems like I don’t have him in my corner anymore. It seems like he can find nothing about me to praise.

When I called to tell him the girls were gone, it went straight to voice mail. I didn’t know when he would check his messages or how long it would take for him to come back home. It was a surprise to hear his voice bellowing in the house. The worst part of it is, when he used to surprise me, I used to feel different about it—delighted, excited. I don’t remember feeling this ache in my gut, yet, here we are.

My husband is home.

My husband is home.

My—husband—is—home.

I’ve been dreading this moment.

I can see he is shaking as he enters the house. He storms in, straight at me, a hurricane, an uncontrollable force. It only takes a few steps for him to reach