My next scream cracks my voice.
I race down the trail, hands swinging in front of my face. Something squishes under my shoe. My throat gags. At the end of the bridge, I trip, get up, sprint until gravel crunches under my shoes.
I cannot stop.
What stops me is Drew's back door, which I throw open—it's never locked—and burst inside.
“Drew,” I pant. “Please. Be here.”
There's not even a hiss from Isaac Newton.
The house feels dark, a different kind of dark than outside, more like what you get pulling a blanket over your head. Suffocating dark. When I step into the kitchen, two empty wine bottles stand by the sink. Above them, on the wall, the cuckoo clock swings its pendulum. But the tap-tap-tap coming from behind its little door means Jayne still has the little bird locked inside and he's trying to announce my arrival: 1:30 a.m.
In the den, I find Jayne sprawled on the couch. An almost-empty wine glass waits on the coffee table. Her eyes are closed but the television is on and some woman is demonstrating how to sauté garlic. And prawns. I look back at Jayne. She wears faded yellow pajamas that match the dying leaves outside.
I've never seen the woman so much as stir a can of soup, but for some reason she's obsessed with the cooking channels. You'd think it was because she works for Reynolds Aluminum, but I've seen the expression on her face when she watches these people. Like somebody who can’t swim, stranded on the beach while everyone else splashes in the water.
“Jayne.”
Her forehead is scrunched down, like she's arguing her way through a dream.
“Jayne!”
Nothing. Not even an eye twitch.
I walk upstairs. In Drew's bedroom everything looks exactly the same, which is to say: in order. Her books line three walls, each section grouped topically, then alphabetically by author. Baseball gets an entire wall; to the right, applied science. Then chemistry, general science—with a nod to geology for me—and then tons of physics books that include everything written by Richard P. Feynman. Above her twin bed, the famous physicist grins from a poster. He looks like he's watching the mobile of sun-surrounded-by-planets.
Her closet door is ajar. When I open it further, Isaac Newton leaps out.
After the attack of frogs, I'm feeling fairly freaked out. There’s enough adrenaline remaining in my system to yell, “Get lost, Newton!”
He arches his back, displaying his sharp little teeth.
“Not impressed,” I tell him.
Drew's clothes hang in another compulsive order: color-coded. One empty hanger waits in front, where she hangs her St. Cat's uniform. Her shirts—nearly all purple and never pink—look like they're all here. Same with her jeans, which she hangs because she hangs everything, even summer shorts. Her laundry hamper is empty.
I check the other bedrooms, five total. So many that I've always wondered if Rusty and Jayne hoped for more kids, before they realized they couldn't stand each other. In the master bedroom, Jayne's king-sized bed is layered with satin pillows. The rest of the room looks surprisingly spare. Same with the two bedrooms that are guest rooms. Everything looks stripped down. In the final room, cardboard boxes sit on the floor, their flaps open.
I walk back downstairs. The television tutorial continues.
“Make sure you don't overcook the peppers. Two, three minutes at most. Nothing's worse than overcooked peppers.”
I stare at Jayne. There's something so pathetic about her that half my anger evaporates. She's curled on her side, knees tucked into her stomach like the dream's shifted to somebody coming to kick her. I lift a blanket off the back of the couch and lay it over her. She doesn't even twitch.
I carry her wine glass into the kitchen, dumping the half-inch of ice-diluted wine into the sink. It splashes like blood.
Newton yowls.
I look over. His Siamese-blue eyes lock on mine.
“Now what's your problem?”
He minces over to his bowl, letting out another yowl.
Inside the pantry, I find a can of
choice liver niblets
. After two years of Friday nights here, this kitchen feels more familiar than my own. I dump the meat-barf into his bowl and rinse the can in the sink—restraining my gag reflex—because one of Drew's rules is clean garbage. She doesn't care if it's an oxymoron. I'm about to turn off the tap, but when I look up, I catch my reflection in the window.
If I thought I looked bad in the girls’ bathroom tonight, things have gotten worse. Shadows circle my eyes. My ponytail has drifted down to my shoulders, loose hair framing a face almost sheet-white. For as long as I can remember, night has always scared me—not just the dark, but the fact that there's going to be this long stretch of time when I’m all alone. Even when my mom and dad used to let me crawl into bed with them, once they went to sleep, I was alone again. Everyone else just slumbers until dawn. But my mind only ramps up, the thoughts pinging through my head so fast I can't follow them. And then, as soon as I see that gray hint of light on the horizon, I suddenly feel like sleeping. Because I stop worrying. A little.
But this night is the longest of my entire life.
I walk back to the den. The cooking host says, "The food should look pretty on the plate, too."
Newton comes into the room after me, licking his whiskers. He jumps on the couch, walks up Jayne's legs and squats on her head. He stares at me, victorious, some sphinx guarding the temple of drunkenness.
I pick up the telephone on the end table and a notepad with Drew's precise penmanship explaining the speed dial crib sheet:
Raleigh #1. Dad #2
. And way down the list—after information hotlines for Harvard, Yale, and Massachusetts Institute of Technology—is
Jayne, at work, #9.
I glance at my watch, trying to decide if eccentric artists stay up all night and whether Rusty will even pick up the phone. I hit the 2-button and listen to the rings. The cooking host starts making dessert.
I hang up, call again.
And again.
He picks up as the show is ending.
“What?!” he says.
“Is this Rusty?”
“Who's this?”
“Raleigh.”
There's a pause.
I give him a clue: “Drew's friend.”
"Oh. Right."
“Is she there?”
“Who?”
“Drew.”
“Drew?”
“Your daughter?” It's rude to say, but it's a good thing these people only had one kid. “She didn't show up for dinner tonight. I've been looking for her. She still isn't home.”
“What time is it?”
Restraining a sigh, I explain the whole night. Dinner. Bike. Physics lab. “I even went down to the river. You know, because last time . . . ”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Where's her mother?”
I look over at Jayne. Sitting on her head, Newton whips his tail across her face.
“She's right here.”
“Put her on the phone.”
“I can't.”
“Why not?”
“She's passed out.”
“What a surprise," he says bitterly.
“Rusty, do you know where Drew is?”
“No.”
“You don't sound worried.”
“I'm not. She pulled this same stunt last summer, when she was here for a weekend. I told her she couldn't live with me, and she was gone the rest of the day. Next morning she finally showed up for breakfast.”
“Did she tell you where she went?”
“No. She just needed to blow off some steam.”
I sympathized. Right now I'd like to blow off both Rusty and Jayne.
“But her bike's at school,” I tell him again, since I'm not sure he's listening. “And her notebook and jean jacket are in the Physics lab at school.”
“So?”
“So I think we should call the police.”
“Oh, c'mon. Take it easy. She's just ticked at her mother. Thanks for calling.”
He hangs up.
There's a new host cooking on the TV. She's telling me about her favorite breakfasts for cold autumn mornings. I barely hear the words. But in the kitchen, the cuckoo seems loud. It taps at its door. Twice.
Morning, morning.
Everyone is talking about the morning—my dad, Rusty, the cuckoo—like some automatic change will happen. The woman on TV starts putting together an egg casserole.
It's 2 a.m.
Which means morning is already here.
And Drew is not.
I call the police.
***
Twenty minutes later, Officer KC Lande is standing on the front stoop. She is tiny and freckled and the widest part of her is the gun belt circling her waist. She listens as I explain why I called—listens to the whole story with a face that looks hard as stone.
“Where are her parents?” she asks.
I lead Officer Lande into the den, where Isaac Newton is still camping on Jayne's head.
“Ma'am?” she says to Jayne. “Hello, ma'am?”
Officer Lande looks over at me. Under her freckled skin, the cheekbones seem as prominent as rock formations.
“How much did she drink?” she asks.
“Couple bottles of wine. But that's every Friday night.”
She reaches down, shaking Jayne's shoulder. Isaac Newton hisses but Officer Lande doesn't even pay attention to him. She shakes harder.
“Ma'am! It's the police!”
Jayne's face contorts. But it still takes several more prompts from Officer Lande until Jayne sits up, throwing Isaac Newton off-balance. Her eyes open, sort of, trying to focus on the person in the blue uniform standing right in front of her.
“Ma'am, we received a phone call about your daughter,” says Officer Lande.
“What she do now?”
All one word:
Wa-shee-dew-now.
“Have you been drinking?” Officer Lande asks.
“Jussalittle.”
Sir Isaac Newton has left an electrostatic charge on Jayne's hair. The rising strands make her look even more messed up. She looks at me, frowning.
I explain that it's past 2 a.m.
and Drew's still not home.
“Teenagers.” Jayne rolls her head toward Officer Lande. “You got kids?”
“No, ma'am. When was the last time you saw your daughter?”
“Breck-fust.”
I wonder if that's true. Jayne usually leaves for work at 5:30 every morning—so she can be the first person into the office—and Drew usually gets herself up, riding her bike to school. I try to signal Officer Lande, but she's watching Jayne.
“Ma'am, do you have any idea where your daughter might be?”
Jayne waves her hand, indicating my general area. “Ask her.”
“Me?”
“Ma'am, she's the one who called us.”
“Wants to make trouble.”
“No I don't!”
Officer Lande gives me a long look. Then back to Jayne. “Ma'am, why would she want to make trouble?”
“Why?” Jayne starts to laugh. It only lasts a second. Then she looks confused. “What time's it?”
“Quarter after two,” Officer Lande says. Then adds: “In the morning.”
“Time for bed!”
Jayne shoves herself off the couch. Isaac Newton seems to know what's coming because he leaps all the way off the couch. Jayne stands, wavering like she's going to fall backwards, before Officer Lande grabs her elbow. Jayne yanks it away and manages to shuffle around the coffee table. Then shuffles over to where I'm standing. Her wine-drenched breath makes me blink.
“You can't stop me,” she says.
"What?"
Her glassy eyes find Officer Lande again. “Experiment. They do this. Gonna hide. Call the cops. Try to stop the move.”
“What move?” I ask.
“North.”
"North?"
Officer Lande moves closer. “Ma'am, are you saying your daughter ran away because you're moving?”
“Zactly. Refuses to go.”
I can feel Officer Lande watching me, expecting me to say something, but every word is bunched into my throat.
“You're moving—?” I manage, finally.
“Monday.”
“But—” I can't find other words, even with my mouth hanging open.
“N'York.” Jayne smoothes her hair. “Promotion. Can't wait.”
The boxes. Suddenly I remember those cardboard boxes in the empty bedroom. The bare appearance of Jayne's bedroom. She's packing up, heading out. Drew's refusing to go.
But why didn't she tell me Jayne planned to move? How could she keep that big a deal from me?
“Ma'am.” Officer Lande is following Jayne from the room. “I'd like to get some clarification, if you don't mind.”
But Jayne makes a direct path to the front door, opening it with a flourish. “Not interested. G'night.”
Before we are barely outside, she slams the door.