The Loss Not Found by Sherry Morris

             Tim Vrtiska CC



The Loss Not Found


‘We’d like to talk to your wife,’ the vicar said, standing on the front steps of my house. He had his own wife with him. The old couple stood arm-in-arm swaying slightly in long, dark coats, woollen hats and thick scarves – a tiny buffer against an icy wind that blew in from the north. I didn’t know if they swayed because of the wind or their age. Either way, I didn’t care. I didn’t want to talk. Neither did my wife -- she was busy. As far as I was concerned, they could stand outside swaying ‘til the wind blew them away.
    ‘Leonie?’ I said. ‘She’s resting. Come back later.’ I sounded convincing.
    ‘We know it’s a difficult time.  We don’t want to intrude. We just want her to know we’re here if she wants to talk.’ 
    ‘I’ll let her know,’ I said. 
There was a long silence while I didn’t invite them in.
    ‘Thanks for your concern.’  I finally said, maybe a little too loud, and began shutting the door. That wasn’t rude -- I hadn’t invited them in the first place. I couldn’t risk having them in the house while Leonie was in the basement. They might hear something, I might have to explain. The vicar’s wife put her hand out to stop the door from closing.
    ‘Maybe we could talk to you about your wife. Inside.’
    ‘Oh,’ I said and sighed. Stepping back as they entered, I snuck a look at my watch. Leonie would need thirty minutes. I’d get this over in fifteen. I sent up a prayer she’d keep it quiet. Wondered if these relig-o busy bodies ever considered prayer could work both ways. I pointed to the couch, let them sit in their coats. They made small talk about the upcoming Christmas pageant. When I didn’t respond, they got to the point. 
    ‘We hope Leonie is getting support. You too.’  
    ‘Yep,’ I said. ‘We are.’
    ‘Christmas can’t be easy,’ the wife continued. ‘We understand that.’
She was probably trying to be comforting, but her platitudes angered me.    
    ‘I doubt you could possibly understand. Unless it happened to you.’ 
This time I stared at my watch. 
    ‘Mark, we’ve had reports from other parishioners… there’s CCTV footage…’
I stopped staring my watch. 
    ‘Oh, yeah?’ I said, keeping my voice even. ‘Of what?’
    ‘It’s blurry, but it looks like Leonie with a dog that looks like Buster.’ 
I shrugged.
    ‘People are reporting the Baby Jesus’s from their nativity scenes are going missing. Even when they replace them. Some set up cameras. We didn’t expect to see what we saw. We imagined it’d be teenage pranksters. We thought it best to come over and talk about it.’
    ‘Teenagers get up to all sorts of mischief these days,’ I tried.
    ‘This wasn’t teenage mischief, Mark,’ she said.
We looked at each other.     
    ‘All you’ve seen is someone who looks like Leonie walking with a dog that looks like Buster...’
    ‘This could be a call for help. Let us talk to her so it doesn’t… develop… further…’
    ‘Develop? Don’t be ridiculous.’ 
    ‘Do you want to see the tapes?’
    ‘Nope,’ I said.
    ‘So you know?’
I stood up. 
    ‘Thanks for coming over, but we got this. I’ll show you out.’ 
    I was sure I could hear movement in the basement now. I didn’t quite push them out the door, but it was close. Now wasn’t the time for Leonie to talk to anybody.

I made myself a drink. Whiskey. Large. No ice. No water. Sat by the fire. Got angrier. Of course it wasn’t an easy time. What a stupid thing to say. Is there ever an ‘easy time’ to lose a child? 
    It’s best to have coping mechanisms. That’s what the counsellor said. She probably said more, but I stopped going. It wasn’t productive. I’d get home after a session and break something. We’ve run out of mugs, vases and photo frames. I’ve saved the tumblers though – useful for the whiskey. 
    Leonie’s got a different approach. She goes for long walks with our clever dachshund, Buster. She’s taught him a special game where he retrieves what Leonie says we’ve lost. Another stupid term. It’s not like we misplaced our son. We put him in his crib, on his back like we were shown, and kissed him goodnight. But we ‘lost’ him nevertheless, waking in the morning to find his lifeless body. That was six months ago for those who use a calendar. For us, time hasn’t moved one millisecond. Our loss is fresh, raw. Irretrievable.
    We don’t talk about it. Any of it. Her growing collection. The cribs she’s assembling. How the rocking chair, blankets and bath stuff have all moved to the basement. The lullabies that waft through the heating vents. 
    I went down there once. Didn’t stay long. Couldn’t bear to see her practice placing them in the correct position over and over again. Poured myself an extra-large whiskey that night. 
    I tell myself it’s just a phase. She’ll move on to something else after Christmas. 
Out the window, something catches my eye. A white shape, gliding through the dark.  It passes under a streetlight. A dachshund’s carrying an object in its mouth. In the light I see a soiled, chewed face. Then it’s back into the dark. The training’s going well. Buster’s out on his own now. I’d been non-committal when Leonie asked if Buster could manoeuvre through cat flaps. I reckon he can. Guess we’ll find out. She just needs to help him find a gentler technique.

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Originally from America's heartland, Missouri, Sherry has never had a dog that could retrieve. She writes short stories, flash fiction and monologues which have won prizes, placed on shortlists and been performed in London and Scotland. She lives on a farm in the Scottish Highlands where she watches clouds, pets cows, goes for long walks and scribbles stories. Her published work can be found on www.uksherka.com or follow her @Uksherka.

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