When She Was Gone (24 page)

“Honey,” he'd told the machine this morning, because Reeva couldn't bear to pick up and talk to him, “I'm sorry, honey, I'm not going to make it for dinner.”

Honey, honey, honey. Everyone was abuzz because they'd found Linsey Stein, or Linsey Hart, off in the middle of the
country somewhere, Colorado, was it? Tina came home thrilling with the food fight they'd had in front of the Steins' while Reeva was off at Kings—apparently Frank lost it and started flinging pie, and then all the kids at the vigil joined in and they threw fistfuls of Doritos all about until the police came, only they were there because the old music teacher had a stroke or something—it was too much for Reeva. She was glad her daughter was home, instead of camped out on someone's lawn in her too-tight clothing.

Abigail Stein had been, surprisingly, a kind person to talk with. Like showing your opponent your poker hand, Reeva had told her about Jordan. Why had she just let go, after holding her hand so carefully from eyes? Maybe it was the expectation of commerce, after Reeva listened to Abigail's worries. Who wouldn't worry—who wouldn't feel like they'd been dissected for the media, for the neighbors, for everyone and left empty with the girl gone—daughters were part of you, organs, they were still connected in a way that influenced your very breath.

“JeSUS!” she yelled, as she felt the wet warmth, and slapped the hood of his car, as if it were responsible, before going inside to change her pants.

It wasn't as if she was about to be late—she was almost never late, even when she tried, even a hundred years ago, when she used to meet her friend Rhonda for playdates with Steve and Rhonda's son, also named Steve, so they called them Stevemeets and got together in the playground where they both felt overwhelmed, as if raising one child was actually
enough work to occupy oneself in addition to a part-time job. Rhonda was habitually late, really late, forty-five minutes minimum late, always making some sweet-and-harried excuse about a last-minute phone call or a problem finding keys, but despite knowing this, week after week, Reeva couldn't make herself get to Wyckoff Playground more than five minutes after their planned rendezvous, even if she dawdled, even if she changed Steve's diaper twice before leaving the house, even if she stopped to get a cup of coffee at the Daily Grind, which was all they had in town before Starbucks.

Before all the babies. Before her body was cut one too many times and her bladder became a pathetic weakling. Just yesterday, she'd made an appointment with her gynecologist, who had told her to come in if she ever decided she might want to “take care of that little problem surgically.” Ah,
little problem,
she'd thought, as she held the line for twenty-one minutes before getting a real live person to schedule the appointment. Reeva pulled on a clean pair of jeans, and a pair of underwear that she could only think of as granny pants, cotton, white, stretched past any semblance of youthful joie de vivre; she felt a strange pulling sensation in her hips. Maybe it wasn't just that post-baby problem. Maybe that third episiotomy had never healed, or maybe she had a tumor in there, because her mother had a tumor, her sister had a tumor, maybe this stupid thing with Jordan had pissed off God just enough to make him want to smite her, too, belligerent bastard that he was. The Big C. And she hadn't even
had a chance to tell Charlie anything. She was not going to let this make her late to pick up Johnny on his first day.

“Oh, Reeva!” Christine cooed, standing with the flock outside the doors of Wilde Elementary School. “How
are
you?”

She smiled at them, Helena and Andrea and Mazie, and Beth Boris, of all people, wearing an odd red silk suit, as if she'd just come from a wedding where she'd been forced at gunpoint to be a bridesmaid. Beth, who was not part of the Group anymore, whose lipstick was much too plummy for that outfit.

“That suit is really something, Beth,” she said. “Really brings out your complexion.” She hoped someone knew she meant the spider veins. She was feeling especially mean.

Beth smiled, but she wasn't looking right at Reeva's eyes—she was gazing slightly askew, as if Andrea's ear was very compelling.

“Beth was just telling us how she's sold two units on Gale Street.”

Sold two units of what?
Reeva wondered.
Crack?
Beth was a stay-at-home mom, for god's sake. She still felt a little jilted, she supposed, though if she thought about it, she was the one who'd soured on Beth first.

“I didn't know you had your broker's license?” said Helena, blessed Helena, who had left her harp in the minivan around the corner on Oak Street; Reeva had seen it on the walk over, angel instrument in a Toyota Sienna.

“Just two months,” said Beth. “And almost two million in
sales.” She gave Andrea's ear that shit-eating grin. Reeva felt her stomach clamp. Her nose itched, too, and she willed herself not to sneeze, not to even think about sneezing. Reeva Sentry Wets Her Pants, she thought, feeling sorry for herself, feeling pathetic.

“What do you think they could possibly have accomplished in one minimum day?” Helena was clearly trying to change the subject.

“Have you signed up for soccer yet? And Scouts? I was hoping someone would co-mother a troop for Janey with me this year.” Mazie wore a trim little gray dress. She had clearly done the going-out-of-business sale at Laura Ashley.

“Oh, look, finally,” said Beth, as if she hadn't been reveling in the company. The children were issuing from the building, great hordes of wild things, all energy and flying backpacks. The air smelled of sour milk. Reeva suddenly felt very tired.

Mazie was the first to step away from the group to greet her Janey. They walked together down the sidewalk like girlfriends.

“She really dressed up for pickup,” said Beth, pretending this was innocent.

“I know,” said Christine. “As if she hadn't spent the morning shopping online and ogling the barista at Starbucks.”

Reeva's stomach churned. She couldn't stop the heat from spreading across her cheeks. What did they know?

“Oop,” said Christine. “Here's my baby!”

“Wow,” said Andrea, even before Christine had fully cleared earshot. “She is really just ballooning. Anyone think we should stage a Weight Watchers intervention?”

“That's not very nice,” said Beth, and for once, Reeva agreed. Reeva's hips really hurt. It was somehow a familiar pain, a stretching. Had she been growing a tumor for months?

“Oh, those are mine,” said Beth. She stepped out of the cluster and hugged her sons, gathering them to her like long-lost soldiers.

Reeva pulled her day planner from her purse, looking for the little red dots she used to mark her cycle, so she'd know at her annual appointments, so she'd always keep tampons stocked, so she'd understand her weepy moods. She was counting on her fingers. Someone bumped into her left thigh. This was impossible.

“Reeva?” said Helena, stroking her arm as if she were a patient. She felt the bump again, then looked over to see Johnny standing there, waiting for his greeting. “Oh, baby!” Reeva stuffed the book into her purse.

“Crap, Mom, I'm not a baby!” Johnny had stepped away from her, mortified in front of his friends.

“Of course not,” she said. Had Johnny said
crap
? Had Helena heard him? Never mind.

“Want to get ice cream at Van Dykes? I think Leland and Mark are going with their mom?” Reeva asked, and then caught her breath. It was an awful recognition. The hip pain, the peeing.

“Yeah,” he said, “I guess so.” Little man. As they walked
down the sidewalk to the car Johnny was telling her something about reading, but she was watching the twins, Cody and Toby Stein, as they took turns riding their father's back and play-tackling him in the field. They were headed for the shortcut through the woods, to walk home, the way Reeva had walked home with Steve when he was the only one in school. When she hadn't been so worn away by all the work of days. Frank Stein looked old, his wild hair mostly gray. She was too old for this; too old to leapfrog back to Young Motherhood, too old to be pregnant, again.

FLIGHT 808

H
e was absolutely fine until they were over Winnemucca, Nevada. The woman next to Timmy was gorgeous, olive skin and sea green eyes, and a teal silk blouse on a long plane ride. She was in her third year at Stanford, and Timmy let her attention distract and engage him. They laughed about the lettuce in the for-purchase snack sandwiches,
limp and impotent lettuce.
They exchanged numbers, typing “Woman on Plane” and “Man on Plane” in contacts as though they were in a spy movie.

“I thought it was only trains, you know, the pretend-he-is-someone-you-know bit, so they'll assassinate the wrong man.”

“You'd do that? You'd sic them on me?”

“You know, stand by your man,” she said. “Sit by your man. You could have typed in ‘Sylvia.' My name is Sylvia.”

“Okay,” said Timmy.

“Okay what?” said Sylvia. “That's where you say your name.”

“I was being mysterious, and hoping to avoid the inevitable comment about the diminutive.”

“Look,” she said. “We're over Winnemucca, Nevada.” She pronounced it “Winne-mewka,” and pointed to the screen on the seat back, which told them travel speed and location.

“Winnemucca,” said Timmy, suddenly nauseated. He excused himself and went to the bathroom to vomit.

Winnemucca. Where they'd found Linsey, trying to hitchhike after her ride dropped her off when she didn't have as much money as he'd hoped. She met him online, a guy going to California, a friend of a friend of a friend, which was enough to infuriate Timmy. She wasn't that dumb, she didn't hate herself that way.

He wiped his mouth with a paper towel but wretched again into the silver bowl. It reminded him of kitchens, of mixing bowls. He was going to work in Berkeley—his uncle had several possibilities lined up, but he didn't want a desk job, he wanted to make something. He'd even be a busboy, but he'd like to be in a kitchen.

When he left, no one had spoken to her yet. It was Barq who found her, following some texts and the friend, whose friend had a friend—he'd found out that her ride was already over the state line in California, but Linsey was left behind. He'd walked home from the Steins' knowing this, and beauty became painful. The early moon, two geese, the locust buds on the tree.

He didn't like the idea of Linsey left behind. The truth was, he'd thought he was being noble, but maybe he was really being stupid. He let her think it, that she loved him more, that they were unequal—that uncountable infinity—that it was hers for him. But really, he loved her more. He
knew her time with him would end when she grew out of him—it wasn't just the body, his lust, why he pretended to himself that he needed to let her go. It was because even if she didn't, he thought she needed time to grow up, to become without him, and at the same time, he knew he loved her more, that he had to let go before she left him.

Timmy cleaned off his face. She'd been in a bar in Winnemucca, Nevada, searching for change in an ashtray to try the slot machines. He was disgusted at the thought, at the sudden desperation, but still, she'd been going west, toward him. Why hadn't she just called someone collect? What had she imagined when she arrived? Would they have moved in together? He could smell her hair, he wanted her hips against him. He wouldn't call—he'd let her belong to her family again. He'd let her go. He rinsed his mouth and went back to his seat, to Sylvia.

ABIGAIL

E
verything was easier in the light. The streets were clear as they pulled off Route 66 and into the little town where they were supposed to find the dirt road. Barq had a map and handwritten instructions, though the rental car had a navigation system. The police had brought her in, like a criminal, like a runaway, only she wasn't a flight risk, so they'd let her go with a respite worker—a woman who volunteered herself in emergencies. Last night Abigail had called from the airport, and the woman had answered first.

“I'm Lila,” she said to Abigail. “Your daughter is lovely. She's helping my boys with the horses.”

“With the horses?” It sounded odd, and Abigail pictured a carousel.

“We keep ten of 'em. We're short staffed, so she's helping with feeding and grooming.”

It was like a conversation from space. Abigail wanted to know what her daughter's hair looked like, whether she'd had a shower, who were these boys? But the woman was just a volunteer, just a free hotel, just a kindness. Abigail could use to offer the world more kindnesses, she thought. Not cupcakes.
She needed to volunteer. Proximity to New York had made her selfish. Or maybe she was selfish all along.

“We've got a new one, a flea-bitten gray, and he really likes her.”

A flea-bitten gray? “Can I talk to her?”

“They're out, but they'll be back soon.”

Like land of the lost. Abigail signed off, knowing she wouldn't get to talk with Linsey until they arrived, until morning.

They stopped at a tiny general store. Barq wanted coffee, though Abigail just wanted to go, go, go. The woman with a bloody apron behind the meat counter wrote out instructions for her on a slip of butcher paper while Barq sipped, and Abigail climbed back into the car feeling ready, calm, her daughter would be there.

Barq yawned and stretched and she noticed his uneven stubble. She hadn't imagined he'd be a redhead. His hair was faded a bit with age, gone more pinkish. He had a ruddy face and kind eyes. He said “God bless” all the time in person, too; he'd met her in the airport at the transfer in Chicago and he'd known who she was before she knew he was himself. He wasn't just Barq, he was Miles Barq, but she had a hard time calling him Miles. They sat side by side on the plane, each respecting the armrest, so neither could let their elbows down.