Snow Creek(40)

She has been identified as Ida Wheaton, 40, of Snow Creek Rd. Ms. Wheaton was reported missing by a relative earlier this week, according to sources.

Her husband, Merritt Wheaton, 53, is missing.

The couple left Snow Creek more than a month ago to volunteer at an orphanage in Mexico. They told their two children that they would be gone several weeks, taking time to drive down the West Coast.

A search was made of the Wheaton family farm and property earlier today. Several items were seized as possible evidence.

Bernadine Chesterfield, Jefferson County victim’s advocate, spoke on behalf of the family tonight.

“These kids have been traumatized,” Chesterfield said. “They are dealing with an unimaginable amount of pain. Please respect their privacy as they conduct a memorial service tomorrow afternoon.”





I roll my eyes upward. Of course, Bernadine is the source. She’s always on the edge of violating county privacy rules. I don’t even have to call her to find out what tactic she employed to get in the news, so she could send the link to her Coast Guard son and candlemaker daughter.

“The kids wanted me to let the community know of their loss and memorial service. You know how misleading social media can be.”

She’s always thinking of others.





Twenty-Five





I take the tape recorder with the next tape to bed. I’m too tired to sit at the kitchen table. Its proximity to my room-temp wine hasn’t been helping matters. I undress and put on my Portland State University T-shirt. I haven’t donned it for quite some time, and I wonder if my subconscious is working on everything I do.

Portland State University is where I was treated by Dr. Albright, of course. The shirt is pulling me back there in its own way.

I don’t make friends because I was trained not to trust people.

I don’t cook because my mother used me like a slave.

I don’t even own a TV because, when I did, certain things triggered me a little. All right, a lot. Hair dye, for one. A KitKat candy bar commercial. It’s the little things that add up. Those things treat my body like a voodoo doll, poking me until I cry out.

Silently, of course.

I know the work that I do is a kind of life-long atonement for the sum of what I did. Who I really am.

The poison that circulates in my blood.

I lay my head on the pillow and look around; my eyes scrape past the recorder. The room is pale blue, kind of a soothing robin’s egg hue. The ceiling is high and every time I look up, I make a mental note to get a broom and stepladder, so I can swipe away the cobwebs. On my dresser there are two pictures of my brother, one taken at our aunt’s place in Idaho. Another when he graduated from high school. On the back is a note that was meant to wound me.

Rylee, I’m graduating today. You are not here (as always). My foster parents are nice people, but they don’t replace my family. Thanks for taking all of that away from me.

Hayden





I don’t even have to pop the photograph from the frame to read it anymore. I’ve memorized every single word of it.

He hates me.

I don’t doubt that I deserve it.

And still I check my email twice a day to see if he’s written back.

On the wall next to the door with its vintage crystal knob is a painting of a sailboat. It came with the place. Sometimes I imagine myself on that boat, sailing away, never to return.

I press Play and I turn off the light next to my bed. I lie there, like a child listening to a scary story. My story.

Dr. Albright starts things off with a reminder that she is on this journey with me. That I’m strong and that I’m on a pathway to healing. I remember wanting to believe her so much, but also thinking it was complete bullshit. That I’d never be fully healed. She tells me to close my eyes and bring her with me. Hearing her voice so full of concern makes me think of the Wheaton kids and how alone they must be feeling. How huge their tragedy is and how it will forever be etched on their minds. How I hope they will find someone like Karen Albright to help them move through life.

Dr. A: Tell me about finding Aunt Ginger.

Me: It was flat-out weird. I’d never even heard of her and Hayden and I were about to knock on her door. I didn’t know how we’d feel. How she would feel. Or even if she knew about me and Hayden. So much of our lives had been compartmentalized. I remember standing outside, looking at her gray and blue two-story. It was tucked into the base of a ridge down from the mountains. It was old. But in decent repair. I’d seen an episode of Dr. Phil in which some kids went looking for their birth parents only to find out they were living in a rusted-out trailer on some riverbank somewhere. The kids on the show had decided that their adoptive parents weren’t so bad after all.

Dr. A: It’s good to be grateful for what you have.

Me: I am alive. And I’m grateful for that. (pause) I remember when she opened the door, how much she looked like me and my mom. She was about my height. Her hair was long, not Mormon-sister-wife long, but close. I remember how she reacted when I told her who we were.

Dr. A: Go on, Rylee. What did she do?

Me: She looked nervous. Scared. Anxious. Her light blue eyes narrowed, and I watched her eyelids flutter. She looked around the street, her yard, the driveway, and told us to hurry inside. The first thing she asked was where her sister was. I told her, “He’s got her.” And then she did something weird.