Songs for the Missing (17 page)

Not here, she thought. Not now.

Rigid as a Marine, she fought back the idiotic Disney tears, but the song wouldn’t stop. The intro was just long enough for her mother to finish her speech—“in a moment not of silence, but of hope”—and turn to find her.

This they hadn’t practiced, and a twinge of disbelief made Lindsay’s face flush. The music was plinking, the singer moaning like the wind. Her mother reached out a hand for her to join her.

The cameraman panned to Lindsay, his lens trained on her face. She hesitated, thinking crazily of running away, of racing over to the fence and kissing J.P. It wasn’t fair. She wasn’t the one who died. She hadn’t done anything.

With her first step her cleats caught in the dirt and she stumbled, nearly losing her balloon. In the stands behind her a little kid laughed. She recovered and crossed the infield, her cheeks burning, her vision blurred, with every step struggling to remember the intricate mechanics of walking. Her mother intercepted her halfway, taking her in her arms. Lindsay held on to her, wishing she could hide there.

“It’s okay, babe,” her mother said, rubbing her back, because—for no reason except the dumb song—she was sobbing.

“I’m sorry,” Lindsay said, and she meant about everything.

“It’s okay.”

Someday I’ll wish upon a star,
the singer sang, like it wouldn’t work, and Connie and Jocelyn gave the bleachers the signal to release their balloons.

“Hang on to yours,” her mother said as, with a communal
oooh,
everyone watched them slowly ascend, climbing above the treetops into the sky, swirling, forming patterns as they rose to the music, drifting with the competing winds over the harbor and out over the open water, dwindling to dots against the clouds.

When they were almost gone her mother raised hers high. The crowd watched solemnly as the song went on—
there’s a land that I heard of
—and standing there beside her, Lindsay realized that this was the real point of the ceremony. For all of their best wishes, in the end her mother would be left alone. When everyone else had stopped, she would still be thinking of Kim, and searching for her, and hoping, because she had no choice. She was different now, separate from them, and always would be. That was why they clapped for her. Looking at her Statue of Liberty pose, Lindsay understood that she was fully aware of it—and that it didn’t matter. The song wound down, the singer cooing softly:
Why, oh why, can’t I?
Lindsay raised her balloon, and then, together, they let them go.

Follow Me

The police had released the Chevette, so he needed her to FedEx him the spare set of keys. She’d just poured her third glass of wine when he called (her last, she’d promised, then filled it to the brim), and for a moment she was confused. It wasn’t that complicated. They needed two people to drive the cars back.

Honestly, Connie wouldn’t mind driving her out. It would give them a chance to replace the flyers at all the rest stops.

His plan was to drive the Chevette himself, then take the bus back to Sandusky. As he explained his logic the unthinkable dawned on her: He wasn’t coming home.

“Just how long are you going to stay there?”

“We’ve got the Pennsearch people coming this weekend.”

“So you’ll be home Sunday night.”

“Probably.”

“Just like last week.”

He ignored the dig. “If there’s no change.”

“Ed,” she tried. “You don’t want to take the bus.”

“It’s just easier if you send them.”

“How is it easier?”

“This way we don’t have to figure out what to do with Lindsay.”

It was true, Fran didn’t want to leave her, but that wasn’t what they were talking about. He’d been gone for nine days now, and she felt tricked, and disloyal for bringing it up. She stayed silent, letting her disappointment sink in. Drinking could make her picky and bitchy—needlessly, she thought, and relented. “So what’s going on with Cedar Point? Is that going to happen?”

She wandered the downstairs, tidying up the kitchen while he filled her in. There was still no trace of the stolen cars, and the T-shirt was so contaminated from the dumpster that the lab results were useless. The glove, as they’d both suspected, had come from the hospital. He relayed this dully, as if he’d already explained it to someone else. In a tone only slightly brighter, she told him about their plans for the fun run, ending up lying on the couch with her eyes closed while the news played mutely. Like every night, she waited for the moment when they set aside the exhausting topic and spoke directly to each other.

Their questions were elemental then. How did she sleep? Did the pills help? Did he want some for himself? What did he eat today? What was she doing tomorrow? They hadn’t talked like this since they were dating, and a girlish part of her was tempted to see it as romantic, the two of them separated by fate, surrounded by night, a pair of voices connected by invisible waves traveling the cold air between remote towers—a furtive, unearned bond that dissolved at the thought of Kim out there by herself. She would give up any happiness of theirs to have her back. Short of that she resolved, impossibly, to protect him.

Later it came to her—after another glass—that maybe he didn’t think she was strong enough to drive the Chevette. Whether he was being chivalrous or chauvinist, he was wrong. Being here alone was harder than driving the damn car.

The next morning when she sealed the keys in the unyielding FedEx envelope, the idea of him dropping in and taking off again like a soldier on leave bothered her. Some of that was frustration at having to follow the investigation at a distance, and some, she could admit, was jealousy. For all his grumbling about the tedium of motel life, she wanted to be there. Though she believed in him, he wasn’t a practical person. As an administrator she had years of experience massaging an unresponsive bureaucracy. She was pushier and more organized, and thanks to Connie and Jocelyn she’d done her research. She wasn’t being unfair in thinking she knew the territory better. Because she did, she also knew that three weeks was too long.

The day was taken up with business—the detective’s morning briefing, a conference call with the bank and their accountant Sal about the legalities of the reward, the search for free T-shirts for the fun run. In the end several places promised deep discounts, but no one would donate them outright, not for an order that large. She was up against a deadline, and grudgingly put the deposit on plastic, reading the number over the phone, while right in front of her on the counter were bills they couldn’t pay.

She felt bound to the house, and after weeks of neglect it was a wreck. Lindsay hadn’t vacuumed as she’d promised, and Cooper’s hair was everywhere. Even if she felt like cooking, there was nothing to eat. In the basement there were precarious stacks of other people’s Tupperware. Ed coming home wouldn’t solve any of this, yet she felt she was getting no help, and after Lindsay had picked at someone’s spinach lasagna and slipped back to her room, Fran allowed herself a good cry while she did the dishes.

Afterward, fortified by a glass of pinot grigio, she felt stronger. She wasn’t angry with him, he had to know that. He could stay there as long as he wanted.

She wasn’t sure he believed her when she told him. As if to make up for it, he promised he’d be home for dinner tomorrow, as long as the keys got there by two o’clock.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Anything.”

“I can do chicken on the grill.”

“That sounds good.”

It became her mission to make his visit a success. The simplicity of it inspired her. She would give him what she knew he missed, what he counted on—the same dream he’d sold his whole life—but unselfishly. A welcoming house, a home-cooked meal. In bed, as the Ambien lowered her into sleep, she was still choosing a menu.

In the morning she rousted Lindsay and attacked the downstairs, the vacuum racketing, broadcasting the scent of mothballs. The living room had gradually become her office. She emptied it box by box, storing the obsolete records from their first searches in the corner behind the furnace with all of their holiday decorations. The green Rubbermaid containers were treasure chests of ornaments Kim and Lindsay had made in grade school—cotton ball angels and stars made of popsicle sticks dusted with glitter. Here were the Halloween costumes she’d sewn for them, and the pastel Easter baskets with their plastic eggs—saved because she couldn’t bear to throw them away. She saw how easily the past could trap her and fled upstairs. She had to keep moving if she was going to do this.

Lindsay humored her, grimly wielding the feather duster from room to room. Fran wished she was more enthusiastic, and more thorough, but it was enough that she was helping. As a reward, after lunch, on her way to the store, Fran dropped her off at Jen’s.

She hadn’t been shopping since Kim disappeared, and the process of rolling a cart along the aisles felt beside the point, an unearned diversion or indulgence. The Foodland was set up backwards, which made it even stranger. Normally she went to the Giant Eagle, since it was closer, but she didn’t want to risk running into J.P. He’d stopped calling, finally, after she’d told him she was sorry it had to be this way but they really didn’t need this on top of everything else. Please, she said, because she was trying to be kind, and still he went on apologizing, as if that counted for anything now. Ed thought she was being hard on him, while she was amazed at her restraint. Her first impression of him had been correct, and she scourged herself for not trusting her instincts.

This was just a hit-and-run. She didn’t need to go down every aisle. She picked up some brown sugar and vinegar for her barbecue sauce, a half gallon of chocolate ice cream and a premade crushed Oreo crust, a bunch of broccoli, a package of chicken thighs, a pound of bacon, a gallon of milk and a half gallon of OJ, a carton of eggs, a loaf of bread. There was no line at the express lane, so she nosed in and unloaded her cart. It wasn’t until she’d dug out her wallet that she saw the cashier was wearing a button, and Fran realized that in her rush to get everything done she’d forgotten hers.

The girl was Kim’s age, small and dark and pretty, with two silver rings through one eyebrow. Fran didn’t recognize her, and she didn’t seem to recognize Fran, just asked if she had her card. When she said no the girl took mercy on her, passing a spare over the scanner.

In the car she promised to never forget her like that again, and when she got home, as if in penance, she pinned a button to her shirt. A few hours later when she left to pick up Lindsay, she patted herself the way she did in the morning before work to make sure she was wearing her ID.

As she was pulling into Jen’s driveway her phone rang. It was Ed.

“Just wanted to warn you,” he said. “I’m on my way.”

“Yay.”

“You’ll probably be able to track my progress by the calls to the hotline.”

She hadn’t even thought of it, and for the second time today she wondered where her mind was.

It was on him, and no wonder. In their entire married life they’d never been apart this long. As the afternoon passed she found herself counting the hours and then the minutes. When she’d put together the mudpie and was satisfied with the barbecue sauce, she went upstairs and took a shower, shaving for the first time in weeks. Her hair was dry, like when she was pregnant, and her eyes were baggy. Cover-up only covered so much. She went through her closet as if this was a date, modeling and discarding three blouses before deciding on a sleeveless white one that set off her tan. At the mirror she debated wearing the button. In the end she persuaded herself there was no need, since they wouldn’t be leaving the house, and set Kim and her rainbow on the dresser.

At five thirty she called their answering service. There were two messages. The first was a hang-up. The second was from a trucker who’d seen the Chevette on I-90 near Cleveland about an hour ago; he even confirmed the license number. She thought of the thousands of flyers they’d posted, and the millions of people who’d seen them. Even though the man’s information wouldn’t lead to anything, she was grateful to him. It was the rest of the world she didn’t understand.

If he was in Cleveland an hour ago he’d be home soon, so she started the charcoal. Cooper was afraid of the flames, and rumbled upstairs. He’d learned that Kim’s door was locked and no longer tried to butt it open. She listened for him to try Lindsay’s. Fran had told her she wanted her to be there to greet her father, but so far she hadn’t budged. There was no subtle way to dislodge her. When the fire subsided and the edges of the coals turned gray, Fran slowly climbed the stairs and knocked on her door.

“I know, Dad’s coming,” Lindsay said, as if she’d been harping on it.

They waited on the front porch, Cooper sacked and panting at her feet. Lindsay took a rocker and read her book—one of Kim’s, Fran noticed, but said nothing. Like Lindsay, she’d visited Kim’s room. The Hedricks’ sprinkler chattered, wetting the edge of the street. The sun was still high, but the locusts had started their sawing. It was August. In three weeks Kim was supposed to leave for college. She and Ed had worried that Lindsay would miss her, though they both knew Fran was the one who would moon over her absence. She was already dreading Lindsay’s departure—less than three years away now. When Ed mentioned it he made it sound like a natural passage, and joked about renting out their rooms. His grand plan had been for them to buy a smaller place with a view of the lake—a winterized cottage or a widow’s little fifties ranch on the bluffs with a Florida room and picture windows—but lately he’d been saying it might make more sense to stay put.

She didn’t like the drift of her thoughts and went and checked the grill, not quite ready yet. The table was set, the house picked up and neat. Back on the porch she stood with arms crossed and watched the street, feeling lightheaded and queasy—distracted, like right before a test. Each passing car was a false alarm. She needed a drink, but had promised to hold off until dinner. She paced at the top of the stairs, turning between the columns, biting the inside of her cheek, thinking he should be here already.