Sorta Like a Rock Star(40)

Father Chee serves us coffee, and then Donna makes a few phone calls.

I hear her talking to the police, and then to some sorta private detective.

At one point I hear her say, “Money is not an issue.”

Donna’s young assistant shows up without makeup and without her hair done, making her look less intimidating.

“You’re getting a raise,” Donna says to her assistant.

“Are you okay?” Jessica says to me, and I can tell that she is sincere. I remember thinking how much I hated Jessica in the past, so I start crying even harder now because I’m such a little girl.

“If we’re not back, don’t tell Ricky anything when he gets up in the morning,” Donna says to Jessica. “Tell him I had to go to trial early, let him eat whatever he wants for breakfast, and then take him to school. Oh, yeah. Feed the dog a can, and then let him out. Okay?”

Jessica nods, and then FC, me, and Donna are in her Mercedes driving back to Hello Yellow.

We call Mom’s name and search the parking lot with flashlights.

Mom’s not in the parking lot.

Mom’s not on Hello Yellow.

“Grab your things,” Donna tells me, so I get my trash bags from under Hello Yellow and Father Chee takes them to Donna’s car. “Where else might she have gone?”

“She might have met a man?” I say hopefully, because it’s better than any alternative of which I can think. “She was always trying to find a man with an apartment so we’d have a home.”

“Did she ever leave you alone for an entire night before?” Donna asks.

“No,” I say, but then feel like I shouldn’t be lying now. “Well, not very often. Sometimes. But tonight is different. I feel like something very bad might have happened. I sorta just know it somehow. You have to trust me on this. Seriously, Donna, I’m really scared.”

“Okay,” Donna says, and I can see in her eyes that she is worried—that this is bad. Very bad. So terribly messed up.

The three of us drive around aimlessly looking for Mom.

We cruise the ghetto, all of the major Childress streets slide past the passenger-side window; we pass all the bars and liquor stores of which we can think and then go back to the bus lot when it is time for the bus drivers to pick up schoolchildren.

Mom’s boss confirms that my mother did not show up for work today, and none of the other bus drivers have seen her. Mom didn’t call out sick either.

I start to feel as though I am very alone in the world.

When we get back to Donna’s house, Ricky is gone, and BBB has shredded the arm of Donna’s leather recliner.

When Jessica comes back from dropping off Ricky, she apologizes for the mess, and Donna says, “My fault. I forgot to tell you to lock up Bobby Big Boy whenever you leave the house.”

Even though Donna doesn’t say anything about my dog ruining her expensive furniture, seeing the damage makes me cry again for some reason.

I’m so tired.

After a few phone calls, Donna convinces the local police to come interview me. She leaves Father Chee in charge, and then the lawyers shower and dress and get ready to go to Donna’s ongoing murder trial.

Father Chee just sits next to me on the leather couch BBB ripped earlier, and we take turns petting B Thrice.

FC doesn’t say anything stupid, like most adults would, but just sits with me, which I appreciate.

Right after Donna and Jessica leave, two nice uniformed officers come and ask me a bunch of questions about where Mom and I were living, Mom’s drinking problem, and her long list of past boyfriends, all of whom I describe in great detail, while the cops write it all down.

Donna told me to tell the truth, and so I do.

I give all of the same answers to the private detective Donna hired, who shows up seconds after the police leave. He’s a twitchy man with a big yellow mustache and acne scars all over his face. He also writes down my answers—all the secrets I have been keeping for months now.

When we finish, it’s almost noon, which means that—besides the hour or so of sleep I got on the bus—I have been up for thirty-some hours straight.

“Are you okay?” Father Chee asks me.

“I’m so tired,” I say, and then because I really need to, I snuggle up to my Man of God, resting my head on his shoulder, and cry some more.

Somehow I fall asleep.





PART THREE



Puke and Cry





CHAPTER 13





It takes them nine days to find my mother’s body, but when they do, the story is the lead on every TV news station and is on the front page of every local paper, especially since my mother’s killer is immediately linked to the other rape-murders that had happened in the area, so I’m sure you know all of the gruesome, unreal, sadistic, and childhood-ending details. I’m not going to list these details here, because I don’t want to give the facts any more credence than they already have.

I’m pretty numb now.

Maybe even numb enough to be an official nihilist like Joan of Old.

For some things there are no explanations—no reasons, and so, when these things happen, there is nothing to talk about really. And it is best not to dwell on said things for too long, because you will find that life has no real meaning if you do.