Don't Look for Me(30)

I thought that this could not be true. But then I considered that perhaps it is true. Perhaps they didn’t recognize his number and did not pick up. We’ve been getting dozens of robocalls lately, and from all different numbers. Maybe there hasn’t been time for them to check their messages.

The man sits back in his chair, legs splayed wide, forearms on the table.

After dinner, we will go to town and call my family again. We will stop by the police station and ask about my car. I will have my clothes from the line. And that will be that.

“I’m sorry I got lost on my walk,” I say cheerfully. I direct my gaze at Alice and smile.

“I didn’t realize there were bears. That’s so scary,” I say. “Do they ever come up to the house? I’ve heard they can be very aggressive when they want food.”

Alice looks to the man who nods. Only then does she answer.

“One time they went through the garbage. But it might have been raccoons. They like the garbage too. And they’re so big!”

I don’t feel like talking, but I want to be polite. I make my eyes grow wide with amazement. “We have big raccoons where we live,” I say. “My husband put a lock on the garbage cans to keep them from coming. They gave up after a while.”

The man’s phone sits on the kitchen counter near his wallet. I glance at it now. I have to remind myself that there is nothing to check until we get back in range. Still, it reminds me that he tried to call and no one answered.

It was hard to believe without seeing the phone log. I didn’t even have to ask him—I think he knew how unbelievable it was.

I’ve been missing for twenty-four hours. They should be glued to their phones. They should answer every call—even the robocalls now. Wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t they answer every single call? Even though my husband doesn’t love me. Even though my daughter hates me. They would be desperate to find me. This sickens me, this thought of my family in despair.

And now another thought—maybe they don’t know I’m missing. Is that possible? That they haven’t even noticed I’m gone?

I struggle to make conversation.

“I saw smoke when I was lost in the woods. Are we close to the neighbors?” I ask.

Alice shrugs like she has no idea. I believe her. My kids never knew how far things were unless they got there themselves, by foot or by bike.

I stop myself quickly from having this thought. Annie was on foot that day. Running to catch the ice cream truck. She’d heard the bells. The jingle. She’d heard it pass by and knew where it would stop—on the corner of our street and the road that heads to town. Our town. There’s a small park on that corner. The truck would stop there and kids would come running from the park, lining up to buy ice cream. When I was home, I would walk with them. Down the driveway. Down the street. I would hold their hands and look for cars coming around the bend. We would cross the street to the sidewalk.

But I wasn’t home that day.

“It’s far,” the man says. “Too far to walk without getting eaten by a bear.” I wonder how he can say this when Alice is afraid of the bears.

“Alice said your wife got lost in the woods,” I tell him. The things Alice told me linger in my thoughts. That’s how my first mommy died.

The man looks at Alice now. Then back to me.

“It’s true,” he says. But when he hesitates, I know this is a lie he tells for Alice, and that he knows how ridiculous it sounds. “She went into the woods and never came back.” And that was that. His tone has a finality to it and I know to leave well enough alone. Still—he joked about the bears, didn’t he?

Finish lunch. Get to town.

Alice seems upset by this talk of her first mommy. I wonder if she was Alice’s real mother, and if she loved her. Alice is so hungry for love. It’s a hunger that could swallow a person whole.

“It’s not as bad as how your daughter died,” Alice says.

The man looks between us, curious.

“She was hit by a car. She ran into the street,” she says.

I feel violated but I try not to react. I try not to let my emotions run wild. She is just a child.

She is just a child.

Alice now strikes at my heart. “You were driving that car,” she says. “That means you weren’t a very good mommy.”

My eyes stare at her as she stares at me and I can’t look away. Suddenly I see Annie’s face. Annie’s blond hair and blue eyes. Annie’s feet swinging beneath the table. And Annie saying those words, the ones she must have been thinking when she felt the impact of the car, hurling metal crushing her bones, sending her into the air, her head smashing against the pavement.

That car.

My car.

I hear her voice. My sweet, sweet girl.

You were not a good mommy.

No, my darling. I wasn’t. I let you die. I killed you.

I feel tears streak my face. Alice and the man watch me with curiosity and wonder, and I no longer care what happened here. I don’t know what loss they’ve suffered and how they know these things about me.

I never told her that I was driving the car.

It is inhuman the way they watch me cry for my dead child.

“Should we clean up and go to town,” I say with a shaky voice. The hope that this will happen is fading but I don’t know what to put in its place.