Still Missing (17 page)

One afternoon after I moved into my house Mom and Aunt Val popped in from a shopping trip. Aunt Val glanced around, then asked me how I was enjoying real estate.

"It's good, I like the challenge."

"Yes, Tamara seems to really thrive on it too. She got the top sales award for her office this quarter, won a bottle of Dom Perignon and a weekend trip to Whistler. Does your office ever do anything like that, Annie?" Nice dig, if not subtle. My office was large for Clayton Falls, but nowhere near the size of Tamara's downtown Vancouver firm--we'd be lucky to get a bottle of wine and a plastic plaque.

Before I could answer, Mom said, "Oh, she's still doing residential? Annie's getting a huge project, all waterfront units. Didn't you say it was going to be the largest building in Clayton Falls, Annie Bear?" I'd only been talking to a developer, hadn't even done a presentation yet, which Mom well knew, but she just enjoyed twisting the knife so much, I didn't have the heart to take it out of her hand.

I said, "It's a big one."

"I'm sure Tamara will get a project one day too, Val. Maybe Annie can give her some tips?" Mom smiled at Aunt Val, who looked like her tea had just turned to poison in her mouth.

Of course, Aunt Val rallied.

"That's a lovely offer, but right now Tamara is finding she can make more money selling houses and doesn't want to spend years marketing a project that may not even sell. But I'm sure Annie will be fabulous at it."

Mom's face turned so red I was actually worried for a minute, but she managed to force a smile and changed the subject. God only knows what those two were like growing up.

Mom never talks about her childhood much, but I know her dad split when she was pretty young and her mom remarried another deadbeat. Her older stepbrother, Dwight, is the one who's in prison. He robbed a bank when he was nineteen, just before Mom got married, served his sentence, and was released a month after the accident, then managed to get arrested a week later. Dumbass even shot a guard in the leg the last time. I've never met him and Mom refuses to talk about him. I made the mistake of asking if we could go see him once and she flipped out. "Don't you even
think
about going near that man." When I said, "But Tamara told me Aunt Val takes them, so why can't we--" that got me a slammed door.

After we moved into the shitty rental house, I came home from school one day to find Mom sitting on the couch, staring at a letter in her hands with a half-empty bottle of vodka beside her. It looked like she'd been crying.

I said, "What's wrong, Mom?" She just kept staring at the letter.

"Mom?"

Her voice was desperate. "I won't let it happen again. I won't."

A jolt of fear shot through me. "What--what won't you let happen?"

She held a lighter to the letter and dropped it in the ashtray. When it was gone she picked up the bottle and stumbled to her room. On the kitchen table I found an envelope with a prison as its return address. The envelope was gone by the morning, but she didn't leave the house for a week after that.

I tuned back in when Mom said, "You know, Luke's a lot like your father."

"You think? I guess in some ways. He's patient like Dad was, that's for sure. We've been talking a lot recently, I'm going to help him with his bookkeeping."

"Bookkeeping?" She said the word like I'd just announced I was going to become a prostitute. "You
hate
bookkeeping."

I shrugged. "I need to make some money."

"So you haven't talked to an agent or a producer?"

"I decided I don't want to make more money off what happened to me. It makes me sick that people, including me, have made any money off it at all."

The first time I saw an old high school friend being interviewed on TV, I sat stunned on my couch while this girl I hadn't seen in a decade told the talk show host about the first time we tried pot, about the outdoor party where I got drunk and threw up in the backseat of a car belonging to a boy I had a major crush on, then read aloud from notes we supposedly passed each other in class. That wasn't even the worst of it--the guy I lost my virginity to sold his story to a major men's magazine. Jerk even gave them pictures of us from when we were together. One of them was of me in a bikini.

Mom said, "Annie, you
really
need to think about this. You don't have the luxury of time." Her face was concerned. "You never went to college or university. Sales is just about all you can do, but try selling anything now--all people see when they look at you is a rape victim. And bookkeeping for Luke? How long is that going to last?"

I remembered a call a few days back from a movie producer. Before I could hang up on her she said, "I know you must be sick of people bothering you, but I promise if you just take a few minutes to hear me out, and you still say no, I'll never call again." Something about her no-bullshit tone of voice connected with me, so I told her to go ahead.

She gave me her pitch on how I could set the record straight and my story could benefit women all over the world. Then she said, "What's holding you back? Maybe if you tell me what you're afraid of I can see what we could do."

"Sorry, you can talk, but sharing my reasons wasn't part of the bargain."

So she talked, and it was like she knew exactly what I was worried about and what I wanted to hear--she even told me I could have final script and actor approval. And she said the money could set me up for life.

I said, "It's still a no, but if anything changes, I'll call you first."

"I hope you do, but I hope you also understand that there's a time limit to this offer...."

She was right, and Mom was right. If I waited much longer I was going to be a hell of a lot more than a day late and a dollar short. But I wasn't sure what was worse, going down in a ball of flames like Mom predicted, or actually taking her advice.

Mom looked away from the TV and took another slug of wine. I said, "Did you give a movie producer my number?"

She paused with her glass in midair and her forehead wrinkled. "Did someone call you?"

"Yeah, that's why I'm asking. My number's unlisted."

She shrugged. "Those people have ways."

"Don't talk to any of them, Mom. Please." We held eyes for a moment, then she let her head fall to rest on the back of my couch.

"I know I was hard on you girls, but it was only because I wanted more for you than I'd had." I waited for her to say more, but she just gestured to the TV with her hand holding the glass. "Do you remember when I let you and Daisy stay up late to watch that?" Now I realized she'd been staring at a preview for
Gone with the Wind
--one of her favorite movies.

"Sure. You stayed up with us and we all slept in the living room."

She smiled at the memory, but her face was sad. It turned thoughtful as she turned to look at me. "It's on in an hour. I could stay over tonight, if you're sick?"

"Oh, I don't know, I've been getting up around seven and going for a run, you--" She turned back to the TV. The sudden withdrawal of her attention hurt more than I care to admit. "Okay, sure, it might be nice to have some company, probably stupid to run feeling like this anyway."

She gave me a smile and patted my foot under the blanket. "Then I'll stay, Annie Bear." She dragged the cushions off the other couch and started building a bed in the middle of the living room floor. When she asked me where I kept my spare blankets, her cheeks pink with excitement, I figured what the hell. Beats another night lying awake in the hall closet thinking,
Why didn't the burglar take anything?

Later that night, after Mom sent Wayne home when he stopped by to pick her up, after we'd eaten popcorn, Annie Bear cookies, and ice cream while watching
Gone with the Wind
, Mom passed out with her small body pressed against my back and her knees tucked into the curve of mine. As her breath tickled my back and her arm lay over me, I stared at her tiny hand touching my skin and realized it was the first time I'd let anyone physically close to me since I came back from the mountain. I turned my face away so she wouldn't feel my tears against her arm.

Just thinking, Doc, every time I say something bad about Mom, I have this urge to list all her good qualities right after--my version of knocking on wood. And the thing is, Mom
isn't
all bad, but that's the problem. It would be easier if I could just hate her, because it's the rare times when she's loving that make the other times so much harder.

On my way to your office I walked by a bulletin board, and a concert poster caught my eye. I was checking out the announcement, just about to take a sip of my coffee, when I noticed part of a different flyer underneath the poster. Something about it seemed familiar, so I pulled it out. And holy shit, Doc, it was a flyer with my face on it--
my
face--over the words
Missing Realtor.
I just kept staring, and until a drop landed on my hand, I wasn't even aware I was crying.

Maybe I should put up my own flyers:
Still Missing
. That smiling face belonged to the woman I used to be, not the woman I am now. Luke must have given them the photo--he snapped it on our first Christmas morning together. He'd just handed me a beautiful card and I was grinning up at him, all happy and shit. My hand shook like I was holding ice instead of warm coffee.

The flyer is stuffed in the garbage can outside your office now, but I still have the urge to go back and pull it out. God knows what I'd do with it.

Now that the shock of seeing my picture's worn off, I really want to talk about what happened when I finally sat down and made a list of all the people in my life like you suggested. Yes, Fraulein Freud, I actually gave one of your ideas a whirl. Shit, I had to do something--couldn't keep sitting around freaking myself out over the break-in.

My internal scare-yourself-silly sound track goes a little something like this:
My car was in the driveway, so the burglar must have seen me leave with Emma. How long had he been watching the house? Days, week, months, still? What if it wasn't a burglar?

Then I spend the next hour telling myself I'm an idiot--the cops are right, it was just a random event, a stupid burglar who got freaked by the alarm. But then the whispers start up again.
Someone's watching you right now. The second you relax he's going to get you. You can't trust anyone.

Like I said, I had to do something.

Starting with the ones closest to me--Luke, Christina, Mom, Wayne, any family like Tamara, her brother Jason, Aunt Val, and her husband Mark--I made a column beside each one for any reasons they might want to hurt me, feeling like a complete idiot because of course there's nothing to put there.

Next I moved down the list to anyone else I might have pissed off--former clients, coworkers, ex-boyfriends. I've never been sued, the only Realtor who might've had an issue with me is the "mystery" Realtor competing against me for that project back when I was abducted, and although I've broken the odd heart, I never did anything deserving of revenge so long after the fact. Even wrote down the names of a couple of Luke's exes--one was still hung up on him when we started dating, but hell, she moved to Europe before I was even abducted. I put The Freak down too, then wrote "dead" by his name.

I sat at my table, staring at this ridiculous list with its got-a-listing-they-wanted, didn't-return-their-call, didn't-sell-their-house-fast-enough, kept-one-of-his-CDs notes in the column, and when I tried to imagine any of these people lurking outside my house or breaking in so they could "get" me, I shook my head at my craziness.

Of course it was just a burglar, probably some junkie teenager looking to buy his next fix, and he's not going to come back now that he knows I have an alarm.

Man, as silly as I felt making that list, I'm glad I did. Even got a good night's sleep in my bed that night. By the time Luke came over Saturday afternoon to set up that bookkeeping software, I was as ready as I was ever going to be.

Aiming for casual but not sloppy, I'd rummaged through the box of clothes from Christina and found some beige cargo pants and a periwinkle-blue T-shirt. Part of me wanted to throw on a jogging suit and mess up my house again, but when I looked in the mirror I didn't mind what I saw.

I still haven't gotten around to having my hair cut, so I just washed it and pulled it back. I've finally gained a bit of weight--never thought I'd think that was a good thing--and my face has filled out.

I debated putting on makeup--Mom brought me a bag of cosmetics in the hospital--but none of it was colors or brands I like. Anyway, even if I hadn't heard The Freak's voice telling me makeup is for whores, I couldn't bring myself to call that much attention to my face. I settled for moisturizer, light pink lip balm, and mascara. I probably didn't look as good as the old days but I'd definitely looked worse.

Luke, however, looked amazing when I answered his knock. He must have just come from work, because he wore black dress pants and a burnt-orange shirt that set off his warm olive skin and the amber flecks in his brown eyes.

Emma rolled over and wriggled at his feet. I answered his "Hi" with a barely audible one of my own, then stepped back so he could come in. We stood awkwardly in my foyer. He raised an arm as though he was going to touch me or pull me in for a hug, then let it drop. Considering my reaction the last two times he tried to touch me, I wasn't surprised.

He crouched down to pet Emma. "She's looking great, huh? I thought about bringing Diesel over but I didn't know if that'd be too much chaos."

I told the top of his head, "I'm not an invalid."

"Never said you were." Still crouched, he looked up and met my eyes with a smile. "So, should we have a look at this program? And by the way, you're looking great yourself."

I stared at him while my cheeks grew warm. A grin spread across his face. I twisted around so fast I almost tripped on Emma, and said, "Let's go down to my office."

The next hour whipped by as he showed me how to set up the program and we went through the system together. I enjoyed learning something new and was glad we had something to focus on besides each other--I was having a hard enough time adjusting to him sitting next to me. He was in the middle of explaining a section when I blurted out, "That time you noticed me leaving the store? I saw you with a girl. That's why I was in such a hurry."

"Annie, I--"

"And when you saw me in the hospital you were so fucking
kind
, with those flowers and that stuffed golden retriever, but I just couldn't deal--with you, with
anything.
After that I asked the nurses to tell you I was only allowed visits from family and the police. And I hate that I did that, it was so nice of you, you're
always
so nice, and I'm such a--"

"Annie, the day you were abducted...I was late for dinner."

Well, that was news.

"The restaurant got busy and I lost track of time--I didn't even call when your open house ended like I usually did, and when I finally called on my way to your house a half hour late and you didn't pick up, I just thought you were mad. And when your car wasn't there, I assumed you got stuck with your clients, so I went home to wait. It wasn't until you still hadn't returned my calls an hour later that I finally headed over to where you said you were doing the open house...." He took a deep breath. "God, when I saw your car in the driveway, then all your things just lying there on the counter...I called your mom right away."

Turns out it was Mom who got the cops to take things seriously. She met Luke at the police station, convinced the desk sergeant I would never stand my boyfriend up, and was at the house when the cops found my purse in a closet, where I always put it for safekeeping. Since there weren't any signs of a struggle, Luke was their main suspect in the beginning.

"After a few weeks I started drinking at the restaurant almost every night after work."

"But you hardly ever--"

"I did
a lot
of dumb things then, things I never would have done...."

I wondered what dumb things he was talking about, but he looked so awkward and red-faced I said, "Don't beat yourself up, you handled it better than I probably would have. Are you still drinking a lot?"

"After a few months I knew I was relying on the buzz, so I quit. By then most people thought you were dead. I didn't feel like you were, but everyone was acting like you'd never be found and a lot of the time I was angry at you. I knew it was irrational, but in a way I blamed you. I never told you this, but I didn't like you doing open houses--that's why I usually called you after. You were so friendly, men can take that the wrong way."

"But that was my
job
, Luke. You're friendly at the restaurant--"

"I'm a guy, though, and look, I had stuff I had to work out for myself. I went a little crazy."

Emma butted her head between us and broke the tension. We gave her a few strokes, then I asked her where her ball was and she took off.

"I went out with the girl you saw a couple of times, but I ended up talking about you and the case, so I knew I wasn't ready. What I'm trying to say, Annie, is that I'm just as confused as you--and that we've both changed. But I do know I still care about you, still like being with you. I just wish I could help you more. You used to tell me how safe you felt with me."

He gave a sad smile.

"I did feel safe with you, but now no one can
make
me feel safe. I have to get there on my own."

He nodded. "I can understand that."

"Good, now can you help me understand this damn program of yours?"

He laughed.

About twenty minutes later we were done and just as I was debating whether to invite him to stay for dinner, he said he should get back to the restaurant. At the door he stepped toward me, hesitated for a second, then raised his eyebrows and--just slightly--his arms. I moved toward him and he folded me into a hug. For a minute I felt trapped and wanted to wrench free, but I buried my nose in his shirt and inhaled the aroma of his restaurant--oregano, baked bread, garlic. He smelled like long dinners with friends, like too much wine and laughter, like happiness.

Against my hair, he murmured, "It was really good to see you, Annie." I nodded and as we slowly pulled apart, I kept my eyes down until I'd blinked back the tears. Later, I wondered if he would have stayed for dinner if I'd asked, but my regret was balanced with relief over not having to hear him say no. I used to be so good at quick decisions, but ever since I killed The Freak I've lived in perpetual hesitation. I remember reading once that if you have a bird that's lived in a cage for a long time and you leave the cage door open, the bird won't leave right away. I never understood that before.

I'd fallen asleep on the bed, where I'd collapsed after killing The Freak, and the throbbing of my breasts woke me--my milk was still drying up. My first awareness was of the keys gripped in my hand. I'd held them so tight while I slept that they'd left marks in my skin. In my sleepy confusion over why I had the keys and fear that The Freak would catch me with them, I let go. The jingle they made falling onto the bed startled me out of my haze. He was dead. I'd killed him.

My bladder urged me to the bathroom, but I checked the watch and saw I had ten minutes to wait. When I tried to go anyway, my bladder froze. Ten minutes later, no problem.

On my way back to the bed, my leg brushed the baby's blanket on her basket. I picked it up and pressed my face into it, breathing in the last traces of her scent. My daughter was still out there--alone. I had to find her.

I pulled on a white dress and stuffed my bra with cloths dampened with cold water for breast pads. After grabbing some slippers, I headed back down to the river and searched its shores in either direction until trees or sheer cliffs blocked my path. From a distance, any pale boulders the size of a baby stopped my breath until I was close. A bundle of cloth snagged on a tree in the middle of the river had my knees wobbling until I waded out and realized it was nothing but rags. When I wasn't able to find any trace of her there, I examined the clearing inch by inch for any signs of disturbed earth but I couldn't find a thing.

I even dug my hands through the soft garden dirt surrounding the cabin--I wouldn't have put it past the sick bastard to bury her where we planted food--and crawled under the porch. Nothing. The only place I hadn't searched yet was the shed.

The summer sun had been beating down on the metal shed all morning, and as the door opened, the odor of his already decomposing body rushed toward me in a nauseating wave. I grabbed a gasoline-scented rag off the bench and held it against the bottom of my face. Then, concentrating on breathing through my mouth, I tiptoed past his body. Flies that had hitched a ride in with his corpse the day before hummed around the tarp, as loud as the generator.

With trembling hands I dug everything out of the freezer. She wasn't in there, and the shelves held nothing but lanterns, batteries, kerosene, and ropes. I found a trapdoor with stairs to a root cellar, its dank scent fresh compared to the stench of death above. All it contained was canned foods, house hold items, a first aid kit, some boxes, and in an old coffee can a roll of money with a pink hair elastic wrapped around it. I hoped the elastic didn't belong to another girl who'd been hurt. It wasn't a lot of money, so I figured he had more stashed elsewhere. His wallet still hadn't showed up, not in his pocket when I grabbed the keys or in any of the cupboards in the cabin, but I'd never seen him with one. One of the keys hadn't fit any locks yet and I hoped it was for the van, hidden somewhere, his wallet inside.

In a wooden crate I discovered a rifle, a handgun, and ammo. I stared down at them. I'd never really seen the gun he threatened me with the first day, only felt it in my back and saw the butt of it in his waistband. It looked small next to the rifle, but I hated them both. One had killed the duck and one had forced me into this hell. My hand moved for just a second to the spot on my lower back where it had been pressed. I closed the crate and shoved it behind some others.

Each time I opened a box I was afraid I might discover my baby's body shoved inside, something that needed to be stored away and neatly labeled "Practice." But the final box only held my yellow suit and all my photos and newspaper ads. When I opened it I caught a trace of my perfume and I pressed the soft material against my nose. I tried the blazer on over my dress but it felt wrong to wear it--like I'd put on a dead girl's clothes. I left the suit in the box and only took the photo of me I thought was from my office as I headed back up and out into the light.