I spun the wheel three times, in a way that was second nature even though I hadn’t tried it in years. As the locks clicked open and the door unlatched, I pushed gently on the door and said, “Mom? It’s me. I’m coming in.”
The door was thick and the room dark and stale, and even before I had it open, I knew it was empty. The lights flickered on automatically, a crass fluorescent compared to the rest of the basement. The blue rug that my mom had put down so we could sit comfortably, playing cards. The shelves full of any possible emergency precaution, ordered from every end-of-the-world vendor site. It was, I could see now, nothing more than a sterile closet, with too-close walls, fluorescent lights, bottles of water and food that would keep. A fire extinguisher, fire blankets, and a black-and-white video feed from the security cameras, beside a phone.
I stayed in the entrance—I could see everything from here. I could see it was empty. It looked small, and cold, and I understood why Jan would be worried if my mother had kept us in here. I pulled the door shut, my hand on the wall until I felt it latch.
“What was that?” Ryan asked.
I shook my head. “The safe room. For emergencies.” Not looking at Ryan, not wanting to see what he thought of that. Whether he saw it as a safe room or a panic room. Like the black iron gates, it looked different now, from the other side.
A chill ran over me, but it could’ve been from the basement itself.
“I need to check my phone,” I said. “Maybe she called.” But even I could hear the desperation in my voice.
Ryan led the way back upstairs, followed me back to my room, for my phone.
The first thing I saw was a string of messages from him:
I’m outside. Can we talk?
I’m sorry about earlier.
There are things I have to say to you.
I turned to look at Ryan, and he was cringing to himself. “Yeah, um, you can ignore those….”
But Mom hadn’t tried to call me. Neither had Jan.
Ryan was rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, keeping his hands busy, trying to find something to do. The impossibility of this moment only worked to increase my dread: Ryan Baker is standing in your bedroom, and nobody cares.
I closed my eyes, trying to think like my mother. If she knew I was missing, who might she call? She knew I’d talked to Annika. Maybe she’d called her, maybe Annika had tried to cover for me and ended up making it worse.
Ryan leaned against my dresser as I dialed Annika.
I heard music in the background when she picked up. “Back so soon?” she answered.
“Did my mom call you?” I asked.
“Did your mom…what? No. Did she find out? Are you in trouble?”
“No, I can’t…” I ran my hand down my face. Too many people knowing about my mother was still a fear of mine. I didn’t want the whole world knowing the extent of her condition. “Did you happen to see her? I’m not asking if you were spying, but you know, you can see my house from the wall, and maybe you were sitting on the wall or something….”
The music was off now. “Kelsey, is everything okay?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “She’s not here, and it’s not…like her…not to tell me.”
“Just like it’s not like you to tell her when you’re leaving, right?” I could hear the smile in her voice.
“Annika, it’s important.”
“I know, I’m sorry. Eli picked me up at eight, and we’ve been out since then. I didn’t see her. She didn’t call me.”
I heard someone say something in the background, and I assumed it was Eli. “It’s my neighbor,” Annika responded, her voice muffled though the receiver.
“Maybe she called your mom?” I asked.
“My mom’s driving Brett back to college. Nobody’s there.” She paused. “Do you want me to come over? We’re in the car already, I can be there in thirty,” she said.
“No, it’s okay. Enjoy your date, Annika.”
Ryan moved to sit beside me on the bed—and again I thought of how ridiculous this was: Ryan Baker is on your bed. And I started to laugh.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
I shook my head. “You’re sitting on my bed, and my mother is missing. And I kissed you ten minutes ago.”
His lips quirked up in a half smile. “I know you did.” And now he was staring at my mouth again, like he was replaying it. “I liked ten minutes ago.”
But he didn’t understand—everything about ten minutes ago was gone. Everything from then to now was impossible.
“This can’t be real,” I said. I stared at the phone in my hand, because I knew what I had to do. I had to call Jan. I had to find out if she knew something, without giving anything away.
White lies. Little lies. Like my mother taught me. Careful.
I called Jan’s cell, but it went to voice mail after a single ring. Which meant she saw it was me and hit End. Which meant she was probably in a late meeting with a patient. Or at the class Cole had mentioned. If she knew something about my mom, she would’ve picked up. I was sure. I was pretty sure.
I typed: Did my mom call you?
And then: Did something happen? But I changed my mind, deleting the second line before hitting Send.
But it was too late—all those somethings started working their way into my head, circling and circling.
My phone beeped in response, and my heart jumped along with it.
Text from Jan: No. Is everything okay? In a seminar.
Was everything okay? Not even close. My mother didn’t call Annika, or Jan, or me. The possibilities were shrinking. Wherever Mom was, she was not okay.
“Kelsey?” Ryan asked, reaching for my hand.
Ryan was watching me closely. Between the ceremony and this moment, his hair had gradually become disheveled, like it usually was at school, and his dress shirt had turned casual, with the collar unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up, and he was beginning to look, once again, like someone who had been playing a part—stuck in someone else’s clothes—who was slowly unmaking himself.
He looked, all at once, both uncomfortable and unsure, alone with me in this house where something was very not right. Like my thoughts were catching. I remembered his face the moment we fell. His words as he crawled inside my car. But I also remembered the way he’d held on to me, promising we’d be okay. The way he thought that I was the brave one.
Think, Kelsey. If my mother noticed I was missing, would she try to come after me? Was it possible? Would she try? “The front booth,” I whispered. “And the backyard. We need to check them both.”
—
The booth near the front gate was not made like the rest of the house. It was wooden and painted white, but the grain was starting to show, with weather and time. The door didn’t have a lock. Though small and enclosed, nothing about this booth was safe. Even the floorboards echoed. As a kid, I’d been afraid to play inside it.
The windows to the front and side were thin and rattled when I pulled the door open. The room was empty.
Inside, it smelled of must and gasoline and exposed wood. Everything was coated with a thick layer of dust and pollen. There was only room for one person to sit, in a chair that was no longer here. Red plastic containers of gasoline for the generator were stored under the control panel—and had been for as long as I could remember. Everything about this room was undisturbed.
There were no safe answers left. My mother had not tried to come after me and then lost her nerve at the gate.
I quickly shut the door again, staring at Ryan.
He must’ve read something in my face, because he said, “There’s still the whole yard.” As if we might find her curled up in the weeds, hidden from our sight, just waiting to be found. As if words alone could turn into hope. He reached a hand out for me, and I took it.
I followed him in the darkness, and I felt the vastness, as my mother called it. All the danger, all the possibility, existing in the places I could only imagine.