Before I get started on the tree, I sit cross-legged on the floor and reach for the basket on the hearth where I’d placed Christmas cards as they came in. I sift through until I find the one I’m looking for, a white card with a red barn on the front, next to a tree with a cardinal perched in its branches. Clear glitter falls from it as I peek inside. It wishes me a peaceful Christmas, full of love and joy, and is signed simply in a shaky hand: Sincerely, John and Margaret Castleberry.

Twenty-nine years ago, John Castleberry, a middle-aged farmer, had been out on an ATV, checking his crops, when he saw a blue car parked behind the abandoned house next to his fields. He’d written the town every year for ten years asking for the house to be torn down, as it was a hazard, but some official would write him back and say that they were trying to locate the owner, who’d moved to Florida years earlier. That was all Mr. Castleberry would hear about it until he wrote again the next year. But that hot July day, he saw a young man leave through the back door and climb into the vehicle. After the man had pulled away, John, fearful that teenagers were causing trouble inside the dilapidated house again, decided to investigate. Mr. Castleberry returned to his house and got his car and went back. He didn’t find any teenagers, but instead heard a child’s whimper coming from the cellar. Despite the statewide search that had been ongoing for me and Indie, Mr. Castleberry was shocked when he found two little girls locked below. That was how I heard the story.

But I remember how the sunshine blinded my eyes when he carried me out, and the smell of his work shirt—dirt and sweat and tobacco. I clung to him and buried my face in his shoulder. I was tired and hungry and frightened.

He deposited me on his wife Margaret’s ample lap in the passenger seat of their old Dodge and drove me to the police station. I didn’t know why he left Indie behind, and I tried to tell him that she was still down there, but the words wouldn’t come. Mrs. Castleberry hugged me tight and murmured that I was safe now.

Every year I send them a Christmas card and get one from them. They are the only people from back home, besides family, who know where I am. Their yearly Christmas card is all I hear from them, just enough to let me know they’re still there, still thinking about me, and it makes me feel safe somehow. They must be well into their eighties, and I dread the time that will come when the cards stop.

CHAPTER 56 - Rita

CHAPTER 56

Rita