Things We Didn't Say

Chapter 18

Michael



Casey and I passed the night together in the kitchen, neither of us willing or able to sleep.

While Casey was still thawing out in the tub, I’d abandoned the idea of driving all night toward Cleveland, feeling too tired and scattered to focus, afraid I’d end up crashed on the side of the road, compounding tragedy with rash, pointless action. The Cleveland police were looking, the Grand Rapids police checking out the phone and e-mail records. That was their job.

Yet the idea of sleeping in my warm bed felt like a betrayal, not knowing where my son was, whether he was safe and warm himself. I kept returning to the missing children stories I’ve reported and read over the years, and wondered anew how the parents survived it. At least Dylan checked in once, at least we’re pretty sure he left on his own.

How could you ever go on with your life, the mundane things like eating, showering, mowing the lawn? Yet people do, especially if they have other kids depending on them. Birthday parties, school plays. All the while, not knowing.

We didn’t speak, Casey and I, the whole night. What else was there to say?

We moved in restless circles like hummingbirds from the kitchen chair, to the office chair, to the counter by the phone, steering clear of Mallory on the living room couch.

I eventually changed out of my work clothes, grabbing some sweatpants in the dark of the room.

The sun rising behind the cloudy sky provided no beautiful views, just a gradual erasure of darkness.

The phone shrills at 7:30, and I run for it.

“Mr. Turner? It’s Detective Wilson.”

My throat is frozen. I cough out, “Yes.”

“We got the information from the cell phone and e-mail companies. The phone and e-mail are both registered to a Harper household in Cleveland. We called the number and also talked to the Cleveland police.”

I grip the countertop. “And?”

“Ed Harper, the owner of the phone and computer in question, has also reported his daughter, Tiffany, missing. This should be some sort of relief for you, sir, as we’re satisfied that he is indeed with a girl as he believes.”

I let out a shaky breath. “Okay. Thank you. What now?”

“Mr. Turner, we’ve alerted Cleveland police to be on the lookout for your son and the girl, but I’m afraid that’s all we can do at this time.”

I close my eyes, put my head in my hand. “Running away is not illegal,” I mumble.

“Sir, may I suggest you contact the National Center for the Missing? They are set up to help parents in your situation. I’m sorry, I wish we could help you, but we simply don’t have the manpower to chase runaways.”

I hang up, forgetting to say good-bye to the officer.

The wood floor creaks as Mallory comes into the kitchen, wrapped in a blanket. Casey stands just where she was when the phone rang. She’s wrapped her sweater tight around her, and her eyes are big as she watches me. She bites her knuckle.

“Well?” shrills Mallory, her hair matted from sleeping, a jagged sleep wrinkle down the side of her face.

“The good news is, he apparently is meeting a girl. A real girl, who is also missing. The bad news is, now that the police are satisfied they are runaways, they’re not going to chase them anymore.”

“Oh, my God,” moans Mallory, sinking into a kitchen chair. “He’s never coming home.”

“We don’t know that,” I hasten to say, back to the exhausting job of reassuring, propping up.

Casey moves around in my peripheral vision, and as I join Mallory at the table, Casey plunks a coffee down in front of her.

“I need some cream,” Mallory says, taking the cup without looking at Casey. Like she’s a waitress.

I remember suddenly that it’s Friday. I’m supposed to be at work. Late at night I’d let a call from Kate go to voice mail and never did listen to it. I should have, it was probably about that staffwide meeting.

I bring a coffee with me to the office desk and dial up Aaron.

“Aaron, I’m not coming in today.”

“Shit,” he replies, his fingers clacking on the keys as he talks to me. “I’m shorthanded already. And listen, you should probably call Evelyn.”

Another round of layoffs, just like the last time they called an all-hands meeting.

“Oh, great. I’m toast, aren’t I?”

The clacking pauses. “We don’t know that. They’re talking to everyone individually.”

“I can’t deal with it now. I’m having a crisis at home.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“How?”

“Your dad called this morning already.”

“Dammit.”

“Don’t worry about it, I know the drill. I ended up transferring him to Evelyn. She’ll say no, too, but I didn’t have time to argue with him. But listen, I am sorry. I wish we could help—”

“No, I know. Dylan’s not in town anyway, it seems.”

“Hey, I’ve gotta go, but listen, when you hear something, let us know, okay? Meanwhile, when you can, call Evelyn. About the meeting you missed.”

A voice interrupts us.

“Gotta run, Mike.”

I barely get out a “good-bye” when he hangs up. I don’t mind. The paper still has to come out. Life goes on and all that.

I glance out at the blowing snow whirling in the gunmetal sky. It’s daylight now, I could risk the drive more easily. Except my little Honda wouldn’t be of much use in a wreck. It would crumple like tinfoil.

I hear footfalls on the steps and turn to see Angel. She comes right to me, and I just shake my head. She throws herself into my arms, burying her face. When she steps back I can see from the pale blue hollows under her eyes that she’s slept very little.

“The good news is,” I tell her, smudging a tear away with my thumb, “is that they have confirmed that Tiffany really is a girl.”

I see her relax a few degrees. “Oh, good. Well, that’s good. Can I have some coffee, Dad?”

“We don’t have any lattes or anything, kiddo. Just the boring Maxwell House stuff.”

She shrugs. “I’m so tired.”

“Well, fine. Go ahead, if you can stand it.”

Angel rummages for a cup, and as she’s pouring coffee from the machine, the sight of her performing this simple, adult action thunks me in the chest like an arrow. My girl, my first child, who was a baby when we were still in college and babes ourselves.

Jewel emerges now, her hair knotted from her usual crazy sleeping. She’s rubbing her eyes beneath her glasses, skewing them as she does so they end up crooked on her face.

She looks at the kitchen clock and gasps. “Oh, no! We’ll be late for school!”

For a moment she stares around at everyone in pajamas, none of us hurrying, no one packing lunches. Then her face crumples in. “I forgot!” she cries, and flees back upstairs, wailing. “I forgot!”

Mallory is faster, and closer, so she gets there first. I follow them up the stairs.

Jewel sobs on her bed, burying her face in her blankie. She still keeps the blankie around, but I haven’t seen it much since the first weeks after Mallory and I split. Actually, I’d thought it was put away somewhere by now.

“Baby,” Mallory says, stroking Jewel’s hair, but her hand is shaking. “He’s okay. I’m sure he is. Don’t you ever get so mad sometimes you want to leave?”

Jewel shakes her head into her blanket.

“Well, teenagers do. And you know what? Pretty soon he’ll get hungry and cold and miss his own bed and he’ll decide to come home.”

At this Jewel picks her head up and looks at Mallory, her face puckered as if with confusion. “But doesn’t he miss me?”

I interject, “It’s complicated. Teenagers are confusing people, and they don’t always think very clearly.”

Jewel’s eyes dart between us, one hand already on her stomach.

I sit down with them on the bed, putting my hand on her mother’s shoulder, and my other hand on Jewel’s knee. “It’s okay. I’m sure he misses us and that’s when he’ll decide to come home. He’s a good kid, isn’t he? He’ll realize that we’re worried and he’ll come home.”

Jewel nods, but there’s no light in her eyes.

A moment passes, all of us ringed together, our hands on each other, joined by worry. In my line of sight is that picture on her bulletin board, the last picture taken of us as an intact family. It’s tacked up next to a magazine cutout of a pony.

Jewel breaks the silence. “Can I watch cartoons while I eat?”

“Sure,” answers Mallory, and I sigh but don’t protest.

Jewel runs downstairs at this, leaving Mallory and me alone in her room.

“Thanks,” I say.

She’s rubbing her own hands, threading the fingers through each other, twisting her turquoise silver rings. She stops suddenly, shaking her hands out.

“For what?” Now she starts playing with her hair. I’ve seen this before. It’s restless Mallory, usually followed by Mallory filling up a plastic cup with boxed wine.

“For . . .”

She smirks. “For not being crazy. Yeah. You bet. At your service.” She gives me a mocking bow, tipping an invisible hat.

“You’re not the only one upset.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Would throwing things make you feel better?”

“A little emotion never killed anybody.”

We slip right into the worn grooves on the record of our marriage. She’s too unstable, I’m cold.

I turn away from her and stomp back down the stairs, once again hearing a ringing phone, the sound sparking a mosaic of frightening and ecstatic possibilities.