Don't Look for Me(6)

Only they’d been getting worse.

Now the woman again. “The driver of that truck may know where she went.”

Yes, Nic thought. The driver might know why she left us.

“Is there anything else you can tell me? Any details about her that you noticed? I have to ask.”

“Yes, of course,” Edith Moore said. “Let me think … well—there was something she did, and I don’t know if it helps…”

“What?” Nic asked, suddenly desperate to have this be real. “What did she do?”

“When she waved at the truck—she used both arms, over her head, crossing back and forth. She had her purse in one of her hands, so it was odd, you know? That she didn’t just wave at the truck with one hand. I remember thinking that it was strange.”

Nic closed her eyes and saw her mother from years ago. At a cross country meet, standing at the finish line. Waving just like that—two arms overhead. She did it at Evan’s games too. And when she was trying to get their attention at a pickup, or when they ignored her walking through the kitchen and she asked them how their day was.

They had all poked fun at her. And yet, they had all found it endearing.

Years ago—when there was still room for endearment.

“What about the purse?” Nic asked.

“It was orange. Very bright—oh, and there were letters on it. NEA. At the time, I assumed it was a monogram, but after I read about your mother and saw her name, I thought maybe it was the name of the designer.”

“They’re our names,” Nic said. “The names of her children.”

Her mother had ordered the purse herself. No one else would have been that morbid. And that’s exactly what it was. A bright, bold, daily reminder that she had three children. Nicole. Evan. Annie. Three children, not two. And that one was dead. The giant gold “A” to punch her in the gut as she went about her day. That purse followed her everywhere.

Nic opened her eyes and let the truth find her.

This is real. This woman saw my mother.

“Why don’t you come and meet me?” Edith Moore asked. “I can show you exactly where she was when the truck picked her up.”

The thought was unbearable. Hastings …

“Maybe you can meet with the local police,” Nic offered.

But the woman insisted. “I don’t think that will go anywhere now, given what they believe.”

Silence then. Nic closed her eyes and tried to chase away the sickness in her gut.

Hastings …

“The thing is,” the woman said next, “no one is going to care about that poor woman on the road as much as her family.”

Ten minutes later, Nic was throwing clothes in a duffel bag. Jeans, shirts, sweaters, sneakers. What else? Pajamas, underwear.

She went to the bathroom for her toothbrush, shampoo.

A voice crept in, whispering, Is this just more running away?

The grief counselor had her theories about Nic’s behavior.

Don’t run from the pain. You have to feel it before it will get better.

But she did feel it. And it never did get better.

There were things she’d said that morning to her mother that she hadn’t told anyone. She couldn’t even think them. Things about Annie.

She’d wanted to see misery on her mother’s face instead of love. And she had succeeded. Now she had the image in her mind, placed there by Edith Moore—her mother standing in the rain, soaking wet. In the storm. A storm Nic had put her in with those horrible words.

And now, too, there was someone out there who knew where she’d gone. Someone who owned a truck. Someone who could help her get to her mother and tell her she didn’t hate her, and God, take back the other things she’d said that morning. She chased the voices away. The good advice. The well-meaning guidance she knew would be coming. She doesn’t want to be found. Take care of yourself, Nicole. But Nic knew things they didn’t, things she’d said to drive her mother away.

This was her fault and now she had to make it right. She had to find her mother.





3


Day one





The girl wears a mask. She pulls it up after I enter the truck.

It’s some kind of medical mask which I can see now only in the reflection from the side mirror. The man wears a wool hat, pulled down low.

We drive through sheets of rain. A violent wind pushes against the truck.

“Thank you for stopping,” I say. “I ran out of gas.”

The girl turns around.

“That wasn’t very smart,” she says. Her voice is perky, like she’s just stating the obvious and not rendering a judgment. Still, it is odd for a child her age not to know that she’s done just that.

“You’re right,” I say.

The man smiles. “No harm done. The town’s not far.”

I notice his eyes dart up into the mirror so he can see me. He quickly looks away and glances at his daughter.

Daughter … I wonder now. I am making assumptions.

The girl keeps talking.

“I’m allergic to everything so I have to wear a mask when I’m outside the house. Does it make my voice sound funny?”

Her words pass through me. I look out the window wondering where we are, exactly how far from town. I can see nothing but the small pieces of road where the headlights strike the pavement. The sky is a canvas of black.