Untraceable (6 page)

She exhales a long sigh, at least twenty seconds. “Because I’ve known him since high school.”

Seated on the stool, I twirl in a circle so my world becomes one big blur. “Sounds like a conflict of interest to me.”

She snaps back. “You know you’re my only interest.”

I mumble. “I’m not crazy, Mom.”

“Never said you were. But you concern me.”

“Why, because I ask questions that you don’t want to know the answers to?”

Mom sighs again. “I can’t get into this again right now. I’m late.”

I finally notice she’s wearing her Daisy’s Diner apron. “Thought you weren’tgoing in until later?” Since Dad went missing, I never see Mom anymore. She’s either taking on extra shifts at Daisy’s or locking herself in her room until she leaves again. Some nights, she cries. Sometimes she just watches TV. Other times, I don’t hear anything at all.

As far as I’m concerned, both my parents disappeared on the same day.

She gazes into the chrome lamp and adjusts her apron. “I have a few things to do first.”

I try to hide the frustration in my voice. “Like what?”

“Like none of your business. You just worry about getting to Jim’s on time.”

After a few awkward minutes, I try to be nice. “We having dinner tonight?” A faded memory sizzles in my mind. Mom, Dad, and me sitting around the dining table, eating Sloppy Joes. I miss those days. Mom was different then. A tide of sickness churns through my belly.

She avoids my eyes and rolls on her lipstick. “Can’t. Already promised Susan I’d eat with her. How about lunch?”

“Sure, whatever.”

She gazes at me, and for a split second, I think I see her eyes moisten. A hint of regret for pushing me away? Maybe an apology for all the times she’s blown me off? As the staring contest ticks on, I suddenly notice how much older she looks than a few short months ago. Her once professionally highlighted hair has surrendered to a mousy gray-brown. Instead of her hair down, it’s slicked back into a bun. New worry lines crease her once-smooth porcelain skin. Tiny crow’s-feet frame her brownish-yellow eyes. Under them, black smudges that would make a raccoon jealous, peek through her concealer.

Mom looks tired. Worn down. Similar to those women with no smile, hiding in dusty, faded photos from the past. Of course, the puce diner uniform and black nursing shoes don’t add much cheer either. A rush of sadness trickles through me. She used to be so full of life. Now she’s hollow. Her energy sucked out. A zombie waitress ambling through life, decaying without even noticing.

For a brief moment, I want nothing more than to hug her. I wish she’d let me comfort her. Then she could stroke my hair while singing
Blackbird
in my ear. When I was little, her singing could fix anything.

Now a song just isn’t enough.

Mom turns away. “I better go.”

“Yeah, see ya.” I spin around on my stool and pretend to start tying another fly.

She sighs as she leaves the room. Once the front door slams shut, I spy on her from behind the old curtains splattered with large flowers. My dad called them “antique.” He had a way of making cheap things sound beautiful.

Mom hops into my dad’s “antique” faded-red truck. My throat tightens as I watch her, wishing I’d been a little nicer. Still, I can’t help but want to give up on Mom the way she’s given up on Dad.

The same way she’s given up on me.

I press my forehead against the cool window and watch as she inches down the pebbled driveway like an old lady, braking every few feet. As soon as the truck rounds the corner, I hear the familiar crunching sound of a tired clutch as she shifts into second gear. After the countless hours Dad spent teaching her, Mom still sucks at driving a stick.

I smirk. In a backward kind of way, the scraping sound comforts me. It’s one of the only things I can still depend on with her. That god-awful noise gives me hope that maybe one day, things will be normal again.

The alarm on my watch sounds off, pulling me from my thoughts. Great. Now I’m going to be late for Dr. Head.

I can hear him now.
Being tardy makes you look like an “avoider lost in denial.”
After stripping off my PJs and squeezing into my getting-too-small-but-I-don’t-care jeans, I yank on a vintage green t-shirt of Oscar the Grouch that says, “Scram!”, tie back my hair, and race out the door.

Sitting in Dr. Head’s office, I zone out, staring at the smiley-face clock above him. The eyes look left and right with every tick and tock, like a crazy person. Only thirty-seven minutes and twenty-nine seconds to go.

I silently celebrate. This is the longest I’ve gone in a session without talking. I sit Indian-style in the fabric chair. Dr. Head sits across from me in a raggedy, brown leather recliner, and packs his pipe. He lights it and settles back into his favorite La-Z-Boy, making him look about thirty years older than he really is.

Seriously, who smokes a pipe these days besides authors or grandfathers?

Not to mention, what kind of therapist sets up a business in a small town? A bad one, maybe? One who doesn’t know what he’s talking about? Plus, I happen to know Dr. Head moonlights as a janitor at my school to get extra cash. What real therapist does that?

Dr. Head’s eyes are hidden behind ebony horn-rimmed glasses, and his wavy black hair skims his shoulders. He’s kinda handsome in a hippie-professor sort of way. Then I stare down at his feet, wondering why Vans shoes were ever made in the first place, let alone, remade.

When I glance up again, he smiles and waves at me with his fingers. A smoke ring curls out of his pipe. I turn my head away and fake cough at the sweet fumes as they coil in the air. My legs bounce up and down, pumping out nervous energy fueled with a growing urge to speak. I recount the number of crooked pictures hanging on the walls and reread the battered sign above the door for the umpteenth time.

It’s better to be mad and know it then to be sane and have one’s doubts.

Probably true.

I shift in my chair, trying to contain myself. Boredom taunts me, begging me to speak. The only sound in the room is the psycho-clock clicking in the background. Eleven minutes and sixteen seconds. Nine minutes, fifty-seven seconds. At eight minutes and ten seconds, I surprise myself by blurting out, “I suppose you want me to talk about my dad.” Where did that come from?

I sigh at the defeat. I hate to lose. Probably from years of Dad always winning when he played board games with Wyn and me. Though I’d give anything to lose to him right now.

Dr. Head answers in a monotone voice. “Is that what you want to talk about? Your dad?”

I huff and throw my head back against the puffy headrest. “Geez, this is so stupid. I told you before, there’s nothing left to say.”

Dr. Head cocks his head to one side resembling a bird. “Well, then why don’t you tell me about your visit with Captain?”

Great, here it comes. “Doc, it wasn’t a big deal. I asked him a few questions, that’s all.” Rocking back and forth, my chair repeatedly slams into the wall. I laugh on the inside.

Dr. Head seems completely unaffected by the thumping. He’s either really, really balanced or just plain dead inside. “Did you ask him questions about your dad?”

“Maybe.”

Dr. Head takes a drag off his pipe. When he speaks, smoke trails out of the corner of his mouth and spirals to the ceiling. “I thought we were coming to terms with your situation.”

My volume turns up a notch. “You mean
me
. Not
we
. You don’t have to work through anything.”

“So then, are
you
letting your investigation go?”

I blow out lightly. “Not until I prove he’s not dead.” As soon as I say it, I slap my hand over my mouth. Busted! I’ve barely spoken a word in all my sessions and now, within a matter of seconds, I throw open the door to my brain and invite Dr. Head in. And like a vampire, he will now suck me dry.

Dr. Head’s eyebrows shoot up into perfect arches. He leans in and fixates on my pupils, seemingly excited. “Good, at least you’re finally being honest. Maybe we’re getting somewhere. Let’s go over what we know. I can talk you through it.”

I mumble, “Lucky me.” The walls slowly start to close in around me, forming a tight box. My head pounds and my mouth turns dry. I circle my fingertips on my temples, attempting to push the emerging pain back into my brain. There’s only one small window in the incredibly shrinking room. My only escape.

Outside, a branch scratches a rhythm on the glass pane. I will the tree to break through and set me free.

I need air.

Breathe.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

Dr. Head continues poking his mental probe into my psyche. “After your dad went missing, the police said they found his radio in the Oconaluftee River.”

I fixate on the small square of freedom and suck in enough air to respond, the whole time spinning my bracelet on my wrist. “Doesn’t mean he drowned.”

Dr. Head perches his glasses on the bridge of his nose and reviews his notes. “Lester Martin’s been a park ranger out there for years. He said your dad told him he was going to the river.”

I tug at the collar of my shirt that’s suddenly choking me. Squeezing tighter and tighter. “Doesn’t mean my dad
died
there.”

“The dog didn’t pick up your dad’s scent anywhere else. Only at the river’s edge.”

I wring my hands together and remember something my dad once said.
Don’t lose your cool, it’s harder to get it together than keep it together
. I work hard to steady my voice. “Bear’s not a hound. He’s an old dog. He probably got confused.”

“Your dad wasn’t the best swimmer. Even he admitted that.”

I avoid hyperventilating before I can answer. “He saved people from that river. He wouldn’t
drown
there. Besides …” My voice trails off as the words stick to my larynx like a dead moth to light. I bite the inside of my cheek, careful not to reveal any information from the stolen file. Information I shouldn’t know.

Dr. Head urges me on. “Besides what?”

I swallow hard and keep my eyes on the glass portal, leading to safety. “Never mind.”

“Do you think you’re getting a little obsessed with this?”

I glare at him. “Don’t you mean, we?”

His face doesn’t move as if it’s frozen in place. No expression. “Grace, I’m trying to help you. I want to know where you think we can go from here.”

My voice comes out sharper than I intended. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

He isn’t bothered by my tone. Totally different than Mom. Dr. Head is more robotic.

“I think maybe you should consider letting go a bit. Focus on letting yourself move on. Let yourself try to be happy.”

I choke out one word. “Happy?”

He nods.

My chest feels as if someone is sitting on top of me and bouncing. I squeeze my eyes shut as emotions start to bubble beneath my hardened shell.
How can I be happy?

I don’t want to cry, but my body doesn’t seem to care what I want anymore. I’m on the verge of crumbling just as the alarm clangs.

Saved by the wacko clock.

I leap out of the chair like a lemur in a tree and clamber for the door. Knowing freedom is waiting for me on the other side. “Time’s up!”

Dr. Head tails me. “So I’ll see you next week?”

Without looking back, I wave over my shoulder and sing out, “Saaaame time. Saaaame place.” I hurl myself down the steps, barely avoiding injury, and sprint around the corner until I’m out of sight. I lean against the wall and fight to regain my mental strength.

That was close. Almost bought a one-way ticket to Meltdown City.

I regain my composure and drag my heavy body down the cracked sidewalk toward work. Immediately, people recognize me. Dad’s case has turned us into local celebrities. Only without the red carpets and expensive dresses. A few young girls from the local middle school stare with gaping mouths, while others eye me, searching for an excuse to say something. One couple avoids my gaze all together.