The Accidental Siren

7.2 Fairytale Part Three: The Final Scene

Traffic signals, storefronts and neon signs painted downtown Grand Harbor with primary streaks of light. The Dune Grass Grill was on my left; my father's go-to joint for romantic dinners with Mom. Out the right window was a series of novelty shops interspersed with a make-your-own-jewelry shop, a music store, and The Grand Harbor Bread Co. In three weeks, Main Street would be overtaken with screaming children, tumbling hunks of colorful metal, and the unquenchable smell of fried batter.

“Son,” Dad said. “We need to talk.”

“What about?” I watched his glasses; the way they lifted when he crinkled his nose, the reflection of taillights in the right lens. Did he know about the game of Truth or Dare? Did he know about the diary?

“Remember the woman that Mara was living with when you found her?”

Was he serious? Ms. Grisham would follow me for the rest of my life. “What about her?”

“She's been in county jail since the arrest. Nobody’s posted bail. Do you know what bail is?”

“I watch movies, Dad.”

“For two months she refused to talk about Mara; who she is, where her parents might be... but early this morning, Lydia opened up.”

“Lydia?”

“Lydia Grisham.”

Bestowing that witch a name made me queasy.

“They set the date of her trial yesterday; your mom thinks it scared her into a confession.”

I imagined the hag in a confessional, a cop--not a priest--listening through the lattice. “Wha'd she say?” I asked.

My father gave me a watered down version of the tale that evening, but with the advent of search engines, online public records and social networking sites, I've been filling in the blanks ever since.

To my horror, Lydia Grisham wasn't a pedophile hermaphrodite with yellow eyes and snakes for hair, but a relatively normal English teacher at a South Florida elementary school. In 1966, she was recognized and awarded by the State for developing a unique system of teaching phonics that involved word repetition, silly nemonic devices and elaborate sign language. Former students not only describe her as “easygoing,” “patient,” and “beloved,” but they traced their understanding of the English language directly to her.

In 1972, Lydia married Donald Grisham, a hotel manager and entrepreneur. My internet research didn't expound on the reasons for their divorce eleven years later, but sources suggest a one-two punch of infertility (on her part) and infidelity (on his).

It was church that helped Lydia overcome the pain. It was church where she first heard Mara's voice.

The girl was four when her parents stuffed her into angel garb and debuted her gift at the annual Christmas pageant. (She had parents. “The Landons” my father told me; a name so human--so tangible and permanent--it sucked the light from Mara's ethereal veneer.) Standing among the heavenly hosts--above the kings and shepherds and cardboard stables--Mara sang Away in a Manger. I lived twelve-hundred miles from the tip of Florida when that tiny voice shook the walls of that holy chamber, but the memory is vivid nonetheless.

The song brought Lydia to her knees. It was there--folded before the nativity--that she hatched her plan. As the congregation dried their tears and mingled toward the exits, the divorcee approached Mara's parents, introduced herself, and claimed to be a vocal coach. Her services would be free... for such a special little girl.

For three months she maintained the ruse, inviting the family into her home, faking her way through music theory, relishing every moment with that darling child.

Despite my best efforts, I've been unable to locate a police report to pinpoint the date of the kidnapping. In her confession, Ms. Grisham placed their departure from Florida in March of 1986. She provided no insight into her motives for taking the child, but explained that Mara's face was recognizable, not only to those who knew her, but to those who glimpsed her on the street, in a photo, staring out her bedroom window. Michigan was an arbitrary decision, but provided the distance and seclusion needed to begin a new life.

When a year passed without word of a missing girl in Florida, Lydia made a downpayment on a home, began attending mass at a church in Grand Harbor, and raised Mara as her niece. With her insider knowledge of the public school system, she was able to enroll the girl in first grade without drawing unwanted attention.

I was so involved in my father's retelling of Ms. Grisham's confession that I hardly noticed we stopped at the State Park. The stars were visible above the lake. The lighthouse beam illuminated, in bursts, the sea of undulating ink.

“What a wacko,” I said, then supplemented my childish reply with, “I can't believe Mara had to go through that.”

“Your friend is learning to trust people again. She may not remember her time in Florida, but the experience of being kidnapped can stick with a person for the rest of their life.”

“What about...” The ramifications of my next question clotted in the back of my throat. “What about her parents? Now that we know who they are... are they gonna take her back?”

Dad adjusted his torso awkwardly beneath his seatbelt, then took my shoulder. “James, Mara's parents are dead.”

I admit it here, in writing: grief was not my first emotion. Like a cruel game of tug-o-war, relief made the first pull. My competition was dead! Mara would be my permanent sister! Then I remembered her diary (”I pray every night that theyre alive”) and empathy jerked back.

“They died in a car accident,” Dad said, “a year after the kidnapping.”

“That's horrible...”

“Mr. Anderson is looking into Mara's extended family. From what he told your mother, the Landons are a mess.”

My mind whirred with new implications. I nodded.

“It might be a tough few days for your friend, James. You need to stand back from the situation to determine what she needs.”

“What do you mean?”

“You need to gauge Mara's feelings; does she need to talk? Does she needs to be alone? Sometimes she might tell Livy or Mom things that she can't tell you. You need to respect that. Do you understand?”

I nodded. Dad's advice, fairly stated, broadened my chest and quashed the games in my head. I crossed my legs and traced the lid of a coffee cup with my finger. “When are you going to tell her?” I asked.

Dad gazed at the light pulsating against the pier. “Mom told her tonight.”