Missing Pieces (24 page)

It didn’t work. I tried another. I was a college student whose professor had given her a failing grade. What could I do? I begged him. I’d already told my parents I was getting straight A’s. I could come to him after class, he told me, wearing nothing but a garter belt and stockings …

I shook my head, pushed Larry’s head away from my breasts. Nothing was working.

Larry pulled my panties down, buried his head between my thighs. I waited anxiously to feel some release, felt nothing but frustration.

“That hurts,” I told him after several minutes.

“Just relax,” he said. “You’re so uptight.”

“I’m uptight because you’re hurting me.”

“How am I hurting you?”

“You’re applying too much pressure.”

He shifted his weight, adjusted his position. “How’s this? Better?”

“You’re not in the right place,” I said, my voice testy.

“Show me.”

“I don’t want to show you.”

He raised himself on his elbows. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“You’re not in the right place,” I repeated stubbornly, knowing I was being unfair, knowing the right place was
anywhere away from me. “Let’s just forget it. It’s not going to work.”

“Let me try again,” he said.

“No,” I said loudly, drawing my legs together, staring toward the window. I didn’t have to see his face to feel the hurt on it.

The phone rang.

“Don’t answer it,” Larry pleaded softly.

I reached over, grateful for the interruption, and lifted the receiver to my ear. “Hello,” I said as Larry turned away.

“Kate, oh God, Kate.” It was Jo Lynn. She was sobbing.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

“The jury came back. They just announced their verdict.”

I held my breath. Was she sobbing from disappointment or relief?

“I can’t believe it, Kate. They found him guilty. Guilty!”

I closed my eyes. Thank God, I uttered silently.

“Are you all right?” I asked my sister as Larry edged his body off the bed.

“I can’t believe it,” she repeated. “How could they do that when he didn’t do it? It’s so unfair.”

“Do you want to come over?” I asked as Larry walked from the room.

I could feel her shaking her head. “No. I don’t know what to do.”

“I think you should go home, get a good night’s sleep …”

“They found him guilty,” she cried, not listening to me. “He’s my whole life. Oh God, Kate, what am I going to do now?”

T
wo days before Christmas, my mother disappeared.

I was in the middle of an argument with Sara when the phone rang. “Could you get that?” I asked. We were in the family room, and I was on my knees, stacking the last of the Christmas presents around the tall, ornament-laden spruce tree.

Sara remained where she was, in the middle of the room, impossibly long legs planted firmly apart on the tile floor, stubborn hands poised on improbably slim hips. She was wearing elasticized black leggings, a cherry-red, too short, too tight tank top, and ankle-length black boots with three-inch heels that exaggerated her already considerable height. Her hair, like parchment paper, had yellowed from continual exposure to the sun, except for the dark roots that framed her oval face like a wide headband. To say she was a formidable-looking opponent would be something of an understatement. In fact, she was terrifying. “The answering machine will pick it up,” she said, not budging. “Why won’t you give me any money?”

“Because I don’t feel like paying for my own Christmas presents again this year,” I told her truthfully, as the phone fell mercifully silent. “I think you’re old enough now to be buying gifts for people with your own money.”

“What money?”

“Money you’re supposed to have saved. Christmas isn’t exactly a surprise. You’ve had lots of time to prepare. Michelle’s been saving her money for months.” I knew it was a mistake the minute the words were out of my mouth.

“Sure, compare me with Michelle, why don’t you?” Sara threw her arms into the air, in a gesture that was simultaneously threatening and full of defeat.

“I didn’t mean to compare you with Michelle.”

“You’re always comparing us. Little Miss Perfect, she can’t do anything wrong. Little Miss Bitch,” she sneered.

“Sara! Stop it right now. Leave your sister out of this.”

“You’re the one who brought her in.”

“Yes, and I’m sorry.”

“So nobody will get any presents from me this year because I don’t have any money,” she repeated.

I shrugged. “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah, you sound really broken up about it.”

The phone rang again.

“You’re determined to embarrass me, aren’t you?” Sara continued, trying a new approach. “Just because I’m not organized like Michelle, because I’m different than you guys, you’re trying to punish me.”

God help me, I thought, clambering to my feet, heading for the phone on the counter that separated the kitchen from the family room. “Hello.”

“Mrs. Sinclair?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God. I tried you a few minutes ago and got your machine.”

“Mrs. Winchell?” I asked, connecting a face to the harried voice on the other end of the line. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to my mother?”

There was an ominous silence. “Then she’s not with you?”

“If I were Michelle, I bet you’d give me the money,” Sara raged, pacing back and forth in front of the counter.

“What do you mean?” I asked Mrs. Winchell.

“I mean, if I were Michelle, there wouldn’t be any problem,” Sara said.

“We can’t find your mother,” Mrs. Winchell said.

“What do you mean, you can’t find my mother?” I demanded. “Would you stop that!” I shouted at my daughter, whose pacing came to an abrupt halt.

“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Winchell asked sheepishly.

“Don’t yell at me,” Sara snapped.

“Please tell me what happened,” I urged Mrs. Winchell.

Mrs. Winchell cleared her throat, paused, cleared it again. “Your mother didn’t come down for breakfast this morning, and when we went to check on her, we discovered she wasn’t in her apartment, and her bed hadn’t been slept in. I was hoping that she was with you, what with Christmas and everything, and that you’d just forgotten to inform us.”

“She isn’t here.” My eyes shot aimlessly around the room, as if my mother might be hiding behind the large silk palm tree in the corner.

“Is there any chance she’s with your sister?”

“None,” I said, then promised to check with her anyway. “Have you searched the building?”

“Who’s missing?” Sara asked. “Is Grandma missing?”

“We’re searching it now.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“I’m sure we’ll find her,” Mrs. Winchell said, although the quiver in her voice told me otherwise. “If she’s wandered off somewhere, she can’t have gotten very far.”

If she’s been walking all night, she could be halfway to Georgia by now, I thought as I punched in my sister’s
number, picturing my mother walking along the center line of the freeway, falling off a bridge into the Intracoastal Waterway, or wading fully clothed into the ocean.

“Jo Lynn, is Mom with you?” I asked as soon as I heard my sister’s voice.

“Is this a joke?” she asked in return.

“She’s missing. I’ll pick you up in five minutes,” I said, hanging up before she could object, grabbing my purse, and running for the door.

“I’m coming with you,” Sara said, right behind me.

I didn’t object. Truthfully, I was grateful for the company.

“Have you found her?” I demanded as my sister, my daughter, and I stormed into Mrs. Winchell’s office. We must have been quite a sight—my yellow-haired Amazonian daughter with her black roots, three-inch heels, and forty-inch bosom, my similarly endowed sister, her hair wild and uncombed, with her white mini-dress barely grazing the top of her thighs, and me with no makeup, blue jeans, and crazed visage, all of us towering above poor, petite Mrs. Winchell, who took several instinctive steps back when she saw us.

“Not yet,” she said, her dark face pinched with worry, “but I’m sure we will.”

“How can you be sure,” Jo Lynn said, “when you have no idea where she is?”

“Have you notified the police?” I asked.

“Of course. They’re keeping their eyes open for her. So far, they haven’t found …”

“… any bodies,” Jo Lynn said.

“Anyone matching her description,” Mrs. Winchell corrected.

“Half of Florida matches her description,” my sister told her.

“And in the meantime,” I interrupted, “what’s being done?”

“We’ve searched all the common rooms, and the kitchen, and the garage. So far, nothing. We have staff checking all the floors,”

“I don’t understand, how could this have happened?” I knew the question was pointless, but asked it anyway.

“It’s hard to keep track of everyone twenty-four hours a day. This isn’t a hospital. It’s strictly a facility for assisted living,” Mrs. Winchell reminded me, as I marveled over the phrase “assisted living.” “The residents are free to come and go as they please. We check on them every morning, of course. If someone doesn’t come down for breakfast and they haven’t previously informed us, then well …” Her voice drifted off. “I’m sure she’ll turn up.”

“Bad pennies always do,” Jo Lynn said, only half under her breath.

I almost smiled. Despite the circumstances, it was nice to know that my sister seemed to have snapped out of her self-imposed mourning and was back to her usual caustic self. Our mother always managed to bring out the best in her, I thought, wondering where on earth she could be.

It was almost two hours before they found her.

A janitor discovered her hiding behind the central air-conditioning unit in the main utility room. She’d somehow managed to squeeze between the unit and the wall, a not inconsiderable feat, considering the tiny amount of space, and it took three workers almost half an hour to extricate her. When they finally brought her to Mrs. Winchell’s office, she was bruised and whimpering, and the front of her mint-green dress was dirty and torn.

“My turn to hide now?” Jo Lynn asked when she saw her.

I rushed to my mother’s side, took her in my arms, hugged her gently to me. “Are you all right?”

“Hello, dear,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“What happened, Grandma?” Sara asked, laying a gentle hand on her grandmother’s back. “Why were you hiding behind the air conditioner?”

“Someone was after me,” my mother confided with a wink. “But I tricked them.”

“Were you there all night?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered, rubbing her arms. “Maybe. I’m a little stiff.”

“You must be hungry,” Mrs. Winchell said. “I’ll arrange to have some breakfast sent to your room, and of course we’ll get you all cleaned up and have a doctor look at you.”

“Who was after you?” Sara asked.

“I don’t know.” My mother’s unsteady hands reached over to stroke Sara’s hair. “You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?” she said. “Are you new here?”

I watched Sara’s features crumple even as her eyes grew wide. “Don’t you recognize me, Grandma?” she asked, her voice as small as a child’s. “It’s me, Sara, your granddaughter.”

“Sara?”

“I’ve changed my hair color,” Sara explained.

“So you have,” my mother said, and smiled. “I think I’d like to lie down now.” Watery eyes swept across the room. “Would you mind? I seem to be very tired.”

“Of course not,” I told her. “You rest for a while. We’ll see you later.”

“It was the hair color,” Sara said as we crossed the parking lot to my car. “That’s why she didn’t recognize me. It’s my hair.”

“Time to get those roots done, kid,” my sister said.

“My mother won’t give me any money.”

I unlocked the car door. We climbed inside, Sara beside me, Jo Lynn in the back. Jo Lynn’s hand instantly flopped over the front seat, waved five twenty-dollar bills beside Sara’s head. “Here. My treat. Christmas comes a day early.”

“Wow. This is so cool.”

“You’re in a good mood,” I said, deciding not to be angry with Jo Lynn’s impromptu generosity.

“Our mother is safe,” she said sarcastically, flopping back in her seat. “All is right with the world.”

“Who do you think was after her?” Sara asked.

“Her conscience,” Jo Lynn said.

“Her conscience?” Sara repeated.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“It means I’m hungry,” Jo Lynn said. “It means we stop for lunch. My treat.”

“I don’t have time,” I began.

“Everybody has time to eat,” Jo Lynn pronounced. “What kind of example are you setting for your daughter? You want her to turn into one of those scrawny anorexics?”

I didn’t think there was much chance of that, but I agreed to stop for lunch.

“We’ll go to the mall,” Jo Lynn said as I turned onto 1-95. “That way, we can eat, Sara can get her hair done, and we can do some last-minute Christmas shopping.”

“Not me,” Sara said. “Mom won’t give me any money to buy presents.”

“Mean Mommy,” Jo Lynn said, and laughed. “Don’t worry, kid, I have lots of money. You can buy whatever you want.”

“And where is all this money coming from?” I asked. “Did you get a job?”

Jo Lynn made a sound halfway between a laugh and a snort. “You don’t want to know,” she said.

I decided she was probably right, so I said nothing further.

Sara, however, had no such qualms. “Where’d you get the money?” she asked.

Jo Lynn required no further prompting. She lurched forward, leaned her elbows on the back of the front seat, rested her head on her hands. “I promised the
Enquirer
an exclusive. They paid me half the money in advance.”

“An exclusive what?” Sara asked as I tried to block my ears to the inevitable.

I could feel Jo Lynn’s smile burning a hole in the back of my neck. “An exclusive on my wedding,” she said.

“What is it going to take to convince you that the man you’re so intent on marrying is a homicidal maniac?” I asked Jo Lynn as soon as Sara took off to get her hair done. We were sitting in the crowded food court on the second level of the Gardens Mall, Jo Lynn taking her time with a piece of apple pie, me on my fourth cup of coffee.