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From the time she was seven-years-old, May was always Frances Campbell's favourite time of the year. After all the blustery traces of Philadelphia's brutally cold winters had vanished to reveal a world of teeming greenery, Frances would spend countless hours building forts and hunting for butterflies in the thickets of Fox Chase.
The May of her seventh year brought with it a new experience. Outside the window of her father's study, a robin built a nest in the small Japanese maple tree that Frances would spend countless hours under once the summer sun blazed down. For two magical weeks in May 1947, Frances took refuge inside the study after the robin's blue eggs hatched; Frances spent whole days inside twirling a lock of her dark red hair as she watched the mother bird feed her four babies crickets. As the two weeks drew to a close, Frances cowered in suspense as she watched the baby birds learn how to fly.
When the babies left the nest one day and did not return, Frances returned to the outdoors, but brought a souvenir back inside with her that night. Putting the already crumbling bird's nest onto a vacant spot on her book shelf, Frances wanted to always have a tangible memory from the first time she had witnessed the full circle of nature bringing forth new life. Through school and marriage, the last remaining pieces of the robin's nest remained carefully placed inside her memory box inside crackling yellow tissue paper.
XXX
On May 6, 1967, Frances and her husband, Norman Campbell, welcomed Melanie Frances Campbell into their lives. As Norman struggled to scratch out a living for his fledgling family, Frances remained at home with Melanie and wondered what she had done to deserve this perfect baby with dark brown hair and luminous gray eyes that mirrored her own. A quiet child who rarely fussed, Melanie grew into a child Frances and Norman were proud of. Like her mother, Melanie loved the outdoors and as soon as milder winter weather approached in March, Melanie would spend every free moment outdoors looking for fairies and fireflies. After coming in flushed and sweaty with dirt caked underneath her fingernails, Melanie would spend at least an hour each night showing her mother and father all the new treasures she had found.
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In May 1975, the Campbells witnessed a new side to spring in Philadelphia; instead of enjoying the profound new changes of the season, the Campbells were reminded of the centuries' old tensions and hatred that still ran deep when the whole neighbourhood gathered to protest the arrival of an African-American family.
"Get out of here, critters!" bellowed Jack Wilson, the ringleader of the crowd waving signs and chanting, "Leave, Leave!" behind him on the sidewalk across the road from the house the Pierce family was moving into.
As Frances escaped into the house, Norman eyed the shouting crowd with disgust. Turning his eyes next door, Norman spotted Cherice Pierce, the Pierce's eight-year-old daughter, as she stood transfixed in her front yard. Catching Melanie's eye as she began to head back into the house, Norman stopped Melanie's retreat.
"Honey," Norman whispered as he ran a hand through his thick blond hair. "There's that little girl your mom and I told you about. Why don't you show her the fireflies you caught today?"
"Sure, Daddy!" replied Melanie, an excited look coming into her eyes as she began to run down the front steps as she clasped her glass jar tightly. Ever since Nancy Dyers had moved away to Boston, there had been no little girls of Melanie's age left in the neighbourhood.
"What does critters mean, Tyrell?" Cherice asked as her brother Tyrell came along beside her, lugging a heavy cardboard box towards their new house.
Stealing a quick glance at the chanting crowd before turning back to his sister, Tyrell issued a quiet reminder, "Dad told you to go inside, Cherice." Angry once again that their dad had moved them from Brooklyn, Tyrell moved towards the house without another word.
"Critters means bugs and stuff!" explained Melanie, running up to the small mesh fence that separated her front yard from the Pierce's.
"Oh!" said Cherice, running towards Melanie, a huge smile plastered across her face that revealed the two spaces yet to be filled.
"Wanna see my fireflies?" asked Melanie, holding her jar out across the top of the fence.
Cherice's face scrunched up in horror as she stammered, "Are those…bugs?"
"They beautify up at night!"
Eying the flying specks uncertainly, Cherice let out a nervous giggle.
"They do! Like magic! I mean, if you believe in that stuff," said Melanie, shrugging her shoulders as she smiled at Cherice.
Intrigued, Cherice couldn't help but grin back.
XXX
Inside their modest bedroom, most of the space taken up by a double bed covered in a white crocheted spread, Frances nervously fingered the top of the memory box that lived on her nightstand. Though their bedroom was at the back of the house, the shouts from the crowd across the road still permeated through the walls.
"I'm sure they're good people, Norman," said Frances as she took a bobby pin out of her hair. "But are you sure it's a good idea for us to invite that girl over for dinner?"
"I'm very sure!" declared Norman, crossing his arms over his chest. "They're decent, hardworking people, just like us! If we don't set an example for our child in this backwards world, who will?"
"I hope you're right Norman, I hope you're right," mused Frances as she pulled the memory box onto her lap.
"You will see that I am honey," whispered Norman, giving his wife a small kiss on the forehead. "Anyway, it's my turn to cook tonight. I'm going to start making those hamburgers."
After Norman left the room, Frances opened the memory box, running her hands over the paper containing the robin's nest. Once upon a time before motherhood, life had been so much simpler.
XXX
On a balmy Indian summer night in September 1975, Melanie disappeared from her bedroom. Despite extensive searches of the woods in the park behind their home, the only trace the police ever found of Melanie was her white Mary Jane shoe covered in blood. With no tips coming in, the police eventually gathered the documentation and evidence of a presumed homicide into two small cardboard boxes that would sit gathering dust for decades in the basement of the main administration office in downtown Philadelphia.
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While the police may have been content to let new cases capture their attention, Frances Campbell refused to give up hope her child would return home safe and sound. For twenty-three years, the only time Frances left the house voluntarily into the world that seemed to be permanently stuck on winter was on Melanie's birthday. Every May 6th without fail, Frances would stand on a street corner in downtown Philadelphia as she handed out fliers to passersby.
"Someone, somewhere, knows where Melanie is," Frances thought desperately. "Any one of these people seeing her picture could be the key."
XXX
"My God, Frances, it's 3am! What the heck are you still doing up on that confangled box?" asked Norman, rubbing his eyes sleepily on a cool night in May 1998. Several months before, Norman had purchased the computer for Frances, hoping online bridge games and searching for trinkets on E-Bay would help her move back into the real world.
"Getting Melanie's story out," said Frances, not taking her eyes away from the flickering screen. "Do you know how many websites are out there devoted to helping people like us find their missing loved ones? Maybe Melanie is posting on one of those sites. Or someone who has seen her will tell us where to find her."
"That's great, Frances," Norman mumbled, wanting to punch himself for only worsening his wife's obsession. "But you need to sleep. When Melanie does come home, she will want you to be well-rested."
XXX
After over thirty-one years without any leads, a postcard found in the home of a dead mailman who refused to deliver mail to African-American families on his route breathed new life into the Melanie Campbell case. The postcard, addressed to Melanie's best friend Cherice, was postmarked the day after Melanie disappeared. Bearing one short line in clumsy cursive letters, the card read: The trolls got me!
XXX
Shivering in the brisk November chill, her long blonde hair blowing in the wind, Philadelphia Homicide detective Lilly Rush welcomed the warmth of the Campbell's living room as she took a seat on a hard white chair.
Reading the postcard through a Ziploc bag, Frances' hands trembled as she read, "The trolls got me!"
Staring at his wife's hair, red hair dye covering the gray, Norman clenched her hand.
"It was addressed to the door next door. Cherice Pierce," explained Lilly, gesturing towards the house the Pierce family had once occupied.
Taking the postcard from Frances, Norman studied the faded pencil intently. "You think Melanie wrote that?" Norman asked, a draft blowing his wispy hair across his forehead as he pulled on his brown rimmed reading glasses.
"Well, possibly," said Lilly. "Could the trolls have meant something?"
A smile crossed Frances' face as she remembered long spring play sessions before Melanie had started school.
"Melanie was always going on about fairies, and trolls and fireflies," explained Frances, waving a hand in the air. "Quite an imagination!"
Her own memories of the world she had created to escape the cold apartments filled with cockroaches and mice that had marked her childhood in Kensington creeping up, Lilly felt a quick smile break across her face.
"But it was just child's talk-" said Frances, becoming serious.
"Melanie did not write this," blurted out Norman, his blunt words reminding Lilly and Frances he was still in the room.
"How do you know?" asked Lily.
"Well, she'd just started the third grade and she didn't know cursive," explained Norman, handing the yellowed postcard back to Lilly.
"Course Melanie wrote that, those are her words!" admonished Frances, staring at her husband in disbelief.
Taking off his reading glasses and placing them in the pocket of his sweater, Norman took a deep breath before turning to confront his wife. "But anyone who heard her playing would have known them!"
"Who wrote it, then?" demanded Frances, her gray eyes becoming hard as she stared at her husband.
"Well, maybe the person who took her," said Lilly, trying to keep her voice gentle and even.
"What kind of monster would do a thing like that?" asked Frances, her glare not softening as she transferred her gaze to Lilly.
Beside Frances, Norman began studying the worn floor rug beneath his feet, flinching at the wound his wife was reopening and pouring salt into.
"That what I'm here to find out, Mrs. Campbell."
"So, you'll find Melanie, too?" asked Frances, her eyes sparkling as her face become animated.
"Oh, Frances," mumbled Norman.
Frances felt her gray eyes become hard at the cold gray pebbles that had once surrounded the robin's nest on her bookshelf fifty-nine years before.
"She is alive!" declared Frances.
Eying Frances' face, Lilly hated the dagger her next statement would inflict on Frances' heart. "It's—it's been thirty-one years," said Lilly gently.
"I don't care if it's a hundred-and-thirty-one years," said Frances, her shaky voice the only clue of the hurt Lilly's words had exacted. "Melanie is out there!"
As Frances turned her eyes away from Lilly and Norman, Norman got up from the white couch he and Frances were sitting on.
"Can I walk you out?" offered Norman, giving Lily a desperate glance.
Anxious to escape outside and begin working on bringing closure to the Campbell family, Lilly gave Norman a brisk nod as she got up and followed him out of the living room. As Lily and Norman retreated outside, both felt Frances' hard eyes glaring at them.
On the hard concrete of the Campbell's front walk, Norman and Lily shivered as the cold November air blew through their clothes. Lilly's numb hands struggled to keep a grip on the leather black cover that contained the postcard.
Staring at Lilly, Norman tried to keep his boiling emotions from erupting as he said, "We are prisoners in this house, because my wife believes our daughter is going to walk through that front door!"
"Just thought you should know we're reopening the case," explained Lilly, eying Norman's tortured face.
"All I want is to bury my child," confessed Norman, his voice growing softer as his eyes began to glisten with unshed tears.
"I understand."
Biting his lip as he looked back to the house his wife would now refuse to leave once again for days on end, Norman gave Lilly a curt wave before demanding, "Then bring her home!"
XXX
While Lilly's words had momentarily deflated her, Frances turned her anger into action as she fired up her computer to update the website she had created for Melanie several years before. Before pounding out the latest news about her daughter, France's eyes drifted to the robin's nest she now kept on display atop the computer desk. For the first time in thirty-one years, she had proof that her daughter had been alive beyond the date of her disappearance. And someone, somewhere, held the answer that would transform the longest winter of her life back into springtime.