Trespassing(12)

“It’s not my fault, Mommy.” A sob escapes her. “But it’s true.”

I pull her tightly to me and smooth her hair, press a kiss to the crown of her head. “Maybe he’s had a busy day, or maybe his phone broke. But he’ll call.”

Her hair catches on my sweater when she shakes her head. “No, Mommy.”

“I love you, Bella.”

“Love you, too.”

“Do you and Nini want to color while I finish the ronis?”

“Okay.”

“Make Mommy a nice picture. We’ll hang it on the refrig—” I stop. This refrigerator has panels to match the cabinetry. It looks more like an armoire than an appliance. Nothing will stick to it without tape. “We’ll hang it on the bulletin board in the mudroom.”

“Okay.” She backhands her nose, just as I reach for a tissue to dry her tears.

I give her another kiss. “Daddy is fine.” I peel the lilac Windbreaker from her shoulders and drape it over a chair at the island. “You’ll see.”

She looks at me skeptically, as if she thinks I’m lying. “Okay.” And finally, she turns toward the great room. “Come on, Nini. Let’s color. And I use the red first this time.”

I turn on the news, listening for any report of a small corporate jet not reaching its destination.

The anchors report nothing but city shootings and legislative arguments; during a commercial break, an ad for a cell phone company fills the screen. Hmmm . . .

I open my laptop on the kitchen island and log on to our mobile phone carrier’s site. I’ve never tracked Micah’s activity before—and doing it now, I feel a bit like a psycho who doesn’t trust her husband—but I’m not worried about whom he’s called or why. I just want to know that his phone has been in use. Period. Because if he’s used it, it means he’s okay.

But there’s no record of any calls after six thirty this morning. I jot down the last number, which begins with area code 305, in case I have to follow his trail. I won’t have to—he’ll call—but just in case.

Then I look up the number to Diamond Corporation. If I haven’t heard from Micah by tomorrow morning, I’ll call the company. A butterfly of relief flutters in my stomach. Of course Micah is fine. If anything had happened, if his plane hadn’t reached . . . where did he say he was going? . . . New York, the company would have called me. He’s fine.

Perhaps he’s being a bit irresponsible or negligent, but he’s fine. If he’d crashed, as Nini suggests, the company would have sent a representative, or the police would be here. Surely, if someone had to be in New York City in the morning and the plane hadn’t arrived, I’d know it by now.

I close the laptop, feeling ridiculous. No news is good news. Isn’t that what they say?

I pour the box of noodles into the boiling water and reduce the heat.

“Well, if he’s not at God Land,” Elizabella’s saying, “where is he?”

I glance at the numbers I wrote down on the pad of paper.

Bella giggles. “That’s funny, Nini. I don’t think my daddy knows any dolphins.”

A chill dances in my veins. I snatch up my phone and dial Micah again.

“You have reached the mobile phone of Micah Cavanaugh . . .”

Hang up. Dial.

“Hello. And thank you for calling Diamond Corporation. Our normal business hours are nine to five, Monday through Friday. If you’re calling during these hours, we are away from the switchboard or tending to other callers. If you know your party’s extension, you may dial it now.”

I press zero.

“Hello. And thank you for calling Diamond Corporation. Our normal business hours are—”

Hang up. Dial the last number on record for Micah’s phone.

A series of three high-pitched tones pierce my ear. A computerized voice: “The number you have reached . . . three . . . oh . . . five—”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Has been disconnected.”

Bella is giggling up a storm.

My heart is pounding so rampantly that I can scarcely hear anything beyond its beat. Who can I call? Who can help me find my husband?

My mother-in-law seems the obvious choice, but she’s in Europe with Micah’s father. I don’t want to worry her if I’m overreacting. Besides, it’s the middle of the night across the pond. If I’m going to call, it’ll have to wait until morning.

I consider calling Claudette—what are friends for?—but I feel sheepish after the way I stormed out of the park. I have to apologize to her, face-to-face, before I go to her for help.

A familiar dread rises up from the dark places of my past, and suddenly, I’m back there again, in the waiting room at Loyola University Medical. Eighteen and alone, staring at an approaching doctor, the one who’d been caring for my mother, knowing well before he reaches me what he’s about to say.

“Silly Nini.”

My daughter’s voice zaps me from the memory.

“My daddy doesn’t know that man in the kitchen.”

I flinch. My God, my God, my God.

“Bella.”

“No. He didn’t.”

“Bella, listen.” I crouch in front of her and hold her elbows.

She looks at me.