Don't Tell Ellie

It’s 2 p.m by the time I’ve got a real person on the phone, a clerk named, Beth from the Dutchess County Courthouse tells me that I need to appear in person to obtain my records. Because I was a juvenile when I was abducted my records are sealed.

I fill Lagertha’s food and water and eye the bouquet of paper flowers in my trash can with disgust.

“I’ll be back later, kitten,” I pat Lagertha on the head before leaving.

The courthouse is two hours away in the town I grew up in, Millerton. They close at five, so if I leave now I might just make it in time.

Luckily, I don’t work at the bar until 10 p.m tonight, and I hope I won’t have to call out because the money is decent. I make about eight hundred dollars a week if I’m nice to the customers—which surprisingly for me, is not a rarity. That eight hundred pays for my studio apartment, not including utilities.

I head to the garage where I pay two hundred dollars a month to house one of the only things I’ve inherited from my parents—my father’s 1992 Buick Roadmaster. Living in New York City I barely have use for a vehicle, the fastest form of transportation is the subway. But, I’ve never had the heart to get rid of my dear old dad's car.

Sitting in the driver’s seat no longer makes me sad even though after twenty years the car still smells like him. Sandalwood and alcohol—not the drinking kind. Michael Brennan was a no-nonsense heart surgeon, and everything around him seemed to be too clean and perfectly sterile like the hospital he worked in for thirty years.

I punch the courthouse address into the GPS on my phone and slide it into the cell phone holder attached to my dashboard. I haven’t been back to Millerton in nine years, the minute I was no longer a ward of the state, I high tailed it out of there, off to the big apple, where the only person who gave a shit about me lived, Vivienne.

The worst part about this drive is that it isn’t a straight shot, I’ve got to get on to the Cross Bronx Expressway—which during rush hour traffic becomes a parking lot. Then I’ve got to get on to I-95, then I-87, and even after all that there are still a series of merges and turns and I’m instantly reminded how much I hate driving.

Six cigarettes and two Red Bulls later I roll into the tiny parking lot of the Dutchess County Courthouse. I’ve been here several times throughout my life, but after appearing in court for various violations in Manhattan this courthouse is comical in comparison.

It’s 4:30 p.m. and I’ve got to pee something fierce, but I don’t have time. I slam the car on my dad’s Buick and wince at the thought of him shouting, “Don’t slam my doors!”

The courthouse looks like a two-story family home with a wrap-around porch, the only thing it’s missing is a rocking chair cradling an old man and his shotgun. I press the buzzer attached to a small black speaker and wait.

“Can I help you?” A voice crackles through.

“Hi, yes, I called and spoke to Beth, my name is—” my words are cut off by a battery drained buzz, rude. I grab the doorknob and pull.

“Eleanore Brennan?” I hear my name as soon as I enter the building, I follow it to the right and two older women are sitting behind what reminds me of a teller window at a bank.

“Yes, um, Beth?” I choose to address the woman on the left who is wearing glasses on the tip of her nose and vigorously stamping a pile of papers with an old rubber stamp, pressing it down into a red ink pad and slamming it onto her papers with machine-like precision.

Thankfully, I chose correctly, “Please fill out this form,” She drones handing me a paper attached to a clipboard, “and return it to me with the documents we discussed.”

I stare at the form blankly, I hate these kinds of formalities, can’t I just give her my ID and get on with it?

“We close in fifteen minutes,” the other lady sitting next to Beth says, her long wrinkled finger pointing to the clock on the wall behind me.

I nod and begin to fill out the form with the pen held to the clipboard by a string. Name, date of birth, date of the incident, all the normal bullshit that has to be recorded and filed.

I’ve got eight minutes to go when I hand the form back, I lay my driver’s license on top, birth certificate, and social security card. Beth takes the items from me and glances over the form.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, rising from her seat and heading to a copy machine that looks like it was the first of its kind. She makes copies of my identification papers and then returns them to me with a Manila envelope.

“Just so that you are aware, Miss Brennan, much of the information in this file is redacted, as the victim was a juvenile at the time of the incident,” Beth says, and I can’t help but think there’s a smugness in her voice as if she’s happy my search may be in vain.

“Like what?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t know,” she says plainly and returns to her seat.

“Well, who can I contact if I need more information?”

Beth sighs and scribbles something down on a blue Post-It note, “Here,” she hands it to me, “If you should find that there’s information you need, contact the sheriff's department.”

“We’re closed,” Beth’s coworker says, her voice miserable as if the prospect of dealing with a customer one minute after hours is unbearable.

“Thanks,” I say with more sass than I intend.

I drop the envelope on my passenger seat and start the car, I can’t get out of this town fast enough, I would do one hundred miles an hour to the nearest rest stop if I didn’t think I’d get pulled over by a bored local cop. Not much goes in Dutchess County, back in 1997, my abduction was the most exciting thing to happen in Millerton. At the time, everyone treated me like I was some sort of prodigal child, greeting me in public, showering me with gifts and praises. That ended quickly though, five months later when everyone in my family, including my dog Bluto, ended up dead.

After that, everyone looked at me as if I were cursed as if whatever secret I was keeping from those three weeks was the reason they had all died. I was certain Beth and her grumpy coworker knew exactly who I was, their lack of warm customer service in a town where everyone is your best friend was evidence.

My bladder is about to burst by the time I make it to a rest stop. It takes everything I have to hold it as I awkwardly run into the women’s restroom. I don’t have time to lay one of those thin paper toilet seat liners down, but I don’t care, the instant relief is euphoric.

I stop at the small store inside the rest stop before I leave and purchase a pack of Marlboro’s and two more Red Bulls. I get back in my car, bladder empty and nicotine monster satiated.

It’s 5:45 p.m. I’ll make it back home with more than enough time to get ready for work, so I decide to take a quick look at my file, I’m hoping Vivienne may have overlooked more mention of the Marston’s.

The Manila Envelope is thick, and I’ve got to use a bit of strength to pull the papers out. It’s all copies, I’m not sure why I thought they’d give me the original file. I flip through, scanning handwritten notes, and typed up reports hoping something will catch my eye, and it does.

There are several photographs, black and white with printer lines dashed through them, god forbid they spend some money on a new printer or even colored ink. There are photos of me, seven years old and frightened. God, was I frightened, a chill runs through me at the memory. There’s a missing person flyer with a school photo of me that reads:

MISSING

$5,000 REWARD

Eleanore Brennan

Missing since July 8, 1997

7 years old • 4′11", 75 lbs.

Blue eyes • Brown hair

Last seen- 575 Barton Street, Millerton, NY

Please help us find Eleanore!

Contact:

Michael Brennan: 555-783-6775

Millerton Sheriff’s Department: 555-722-7638

I’ve never actually seen my missing flyer and it’s terrible to look at, it only reminds me of how distraught my family must have been, and how they never really got answers. But, it’s not this image that makes my heart stop. It’s a photograph with, Exhibit A, written in someone’s neat handwriting in the margin.

Some detective has documented the location where I was found—the foyer of the Victorian home, and right there in the center is the wooden table I was supposedly laying underneath, but there’s one thing I’m seeing that I can’t explain. It’s unmistakable on top of that table, a clear glass vase filled with a dozen paper roses.