Maricela brought me water in a polka dot vintage glass. The perfect glass. Even the glass was so Emily!
“Drink,” Maricela said. “You’ll feel better.”
I drank the cold clear water. But I didn’t feel better.
I thanked Maricela and left the house. I checked my phone. No texts or emails. I was sure that Emily wasn’t one of “those who walk away.” Something was very wrong.
I should have called the police. But I was still in denial, blaming myself for getting my facts wrong, for hearing my friend say something she didn’t say.
Since then my subconscious has gone into overdrive, running horror movies about carjacking, kidnapping, murder, the corpse in the ditch, the blow to the head that’s left Emily wandering around, amnesiac. Maybe someone has found her. Maybe someone will bring her home.
Which is why I’m posting this. We’ve all heard about those miracles that are the upside of the internet. They are the very best thing about social networking and blogging! So I’m asking the moms community to keep its naturally extra-sharp mom eyes open. If you see a woman who looks like Emily, ask her if she’s okay. If you see a woman who looks like Emily and she seems injured or lost, text me immediately at the number at the bottom of the screen.
Thanks, dear moms!
Love,
Stephanie
7
Stephanie's Blog
(The Next Day)
Second Thoughts and a Call to Sean
Hi, moms!
Fitful sleep. Weird dreams. When I woke at six, I didn’t know what was wrong. Then I remembered that Emily was gone. Then I remembered the rest of it, and I was scared to look at my phone. I’d given out my private number and asked my readers to report any woman who looks like Emily, who—to be honest—looks like lots of blond, thin, pretty, gym-toned moms. Her tattoo and ring might narrow it down, but lots of moms have tattoos. Who knows if she’s wearing her ring? What if she’s been robbed?
Thank heaven the moms community is so sensible. I only got two texts. Both Emily sightings from places (one from Alaska, one from the north of Scotland—it’s amazing how far my little blog has reached) so distant that I didn’t see how Emily could have gotten there in the (short, I keep telling myself) time she’s been gone.
I actually thought of changing my phone number, in case thousands of moms started contacting me, trying to be helpful. Still . . . while we always need to be careful about keeping our personal information safe, it’s the only number that Emily’s got, and I’m still hoping she’ll call. Nicky and I need her to be able to get in touch.
The second night, at dinner, Nicky was starting to get antsy. Any kid would. I’m sure he was picking up on my anxiety. Until now he’d never stayed for two nights in a row, not counting the weekend when his parents went away and everyone had such a good time and no one was nervous. Now Nicky started asking me when his mom was coming to get him. He ate his veggie burger and immediately threw up. I stroked his head and told him that his mom would be back soon and I was calling his dad.
It was seven when I called Sean in England. I was so desperate that—stupidly—I forgot the time difference. He sounded groggy.
“Did I wake you up? I’m so sorry!” Why was I apologizing? His wife had gone missing!
“You didn’t wake me,” he said thickly. “Who is this?”
I had the weirdest temptation to giggle because I always wondered if Sean would still have the tony British accent if you woke him from a deep sleep. He did.
“Emily’s friend,” I said. “Stephanie.”
“Stephanie,” he repeated. He had no idea who I was, though he’d met me many times. “What is it, Stephanie?”
“I don’t mean to be alarmist,” I said, “But Emily left Nicky with me, and I was wondering . . . where she is and when she’s planning to come home. I must have heard her wrong. I didn’t know Nicky would be staying—”
I could practically hear his patience run out. Snap!
“She’s traveling on business,” he said evenly. “She’ll be gone for a couple of days.” Very definite, very clear.
“Oh,” I said. “That’s a relief. I’m so sorry I bothered you.”
“Not a problem,” he said. “And do feel free to call again if you need me . . . Stephanie.”
Only after we hung up did I realize that he hadn’t asked how Nicky was. What kind of father was he? What kind of husband? Wasn’t he even a little worried about his wife? But why should he have been worried? They were both away on separate business trips. That was how they lived. Did I believe that a husband and wife had to talk every single night?
Besides which, I’d woken him. Lots of men can stay half-conscious for a long time after they wake up. Another luxury that single moms can’t afford.
Emily didn’t return that night. I didn’t call Sean back, and once more I pretended that everything was all right. A normal evening with the kids. Nicky cried, on and off. I let the boys climb into my bed and watch cartoons on TV until it was time for them to go to sleep. I pushed the bad stuff to the back of my mind, which is something moms learn to do. I just had to be patient. Give it a day. There was nothing to do but wait.
Emily still hadn’t returned by the next evening when Sean got back from England. He phoned me from the airport. Now he sounded nervous too. He dropped his stuff at home, where he must have hoped (or feared!) to find Emily. Then he drove straight to my house.
As soon as Nicky heard his dad’s voice, he came flying out of Miles’s room. He flung his arms around his father. Sean picked his son up and kissed him and hugged him against his chest.
Somehow Sean’s being in my house, holding his frightened but brave little boy, made my watery fears turn to solid ice.
This is real. My friend has disappeared.
Moms everywhere, please help.
Love,
Stephanie
8
Stephanie
Everyone has secrets, my mother used to say. Not a great thing to tell a daughter you want to grow up into a healthy person who can have healthy relationships with other healthy people. But Mom certainly had her reasons.
Four days after my father passed away, when I was eighteen, a stranger knocked on our door. My mother looked out the window and said, “Look, Stephanie! It’s your father.”
I’d heard the expression “crazy with grief,” but Mom was perfectly sane. Of course, she was heartbroken about my dad. They’d loved each other very much. At least as far as I knew.
Maybe neither of us really believed that Dad was gone. He’d traveled a lot, so for a while after his heart attack on the golf course near our home in a pleasant suburb of Cincinnati, it seemed as if he might still be on a business trip. He’d been a pharmaceutical company exec who attended conferences and meetings all over the country.
Anyway, what my mother really meant was, “Look. It’s your father when he was twenty-four. The year we got married.”
I looked out the window.
The young man on our doorstep was the groom in my parents’ wedding photo.
I’d never seen him before, yet I felt that I’d been looking at him every day of my life. Actually, I had. I’d lived with him in the framed photograph on the dusty upright piano.
The only difference was that the stranger was wearing jeans and a denim jacket instead of a white tuxedo, and his dark hair was stylishly cut instead of slicked back, Elvis-style, like my dad in the wedding photo.
My mother said, “Ask him in.” He was so good looking I couldn’t stop staring. My dad had been handsome before the traveling and excessive drinking and airport food caught up with him.
Mom told the young man, “Just stand there. Don’t say a word.” She grabbed her wedding photo off the piano and handed it to him. He stared at the photo. He seemed shocked. Then he laughed out loud. We all laughed.
He said, “I guess we can skip the DNA test.”