And then I notice the balloons, a whole slew of them covering the house, all in lime-green and magenta. Apparently a favorite.
“It’s for her,” she says. “Mia loves lasagna. Any kind of pasta. She’s the only one I could always count on to eat what I’d cooked. It’s not that I expect her to show up. I know that won’t happen. But I couldn’t...” And she lets her voice trail off. From behind, I see her shoulders quake, and watch as the Italian sausage absorbs her tears. She could blame the onions, but she doesn’t. I don’t stare. I lose myself in the mozzarella cheese. She finds a clove of garlic and begins to smash the damn thing with the palm of her hand. I didn’t know Mrs. Dennett had it in her. Seems to be amazingly therapeutic. Into the skillet the garlic goes, and she yanks jars of seasoning—basil and fennel, salt and pepper—from a cabinet and slams them to the granite countertop. The acrylic salt shaker misses the edge of the countertop and tumbles to the hardwood floor. It doesn’t break, but the salt spills. We stare at the collection of white crystals on the floor, thinking the same thing: bad luck. Is it seven years? I don’t know. Regardless, I insist, “Left shoulder.”
“Are you sure it isn’t the right?” she asks. There’s a panic to her voice, as if this little salt incident might very well determine whether or not Mia will come home.
“Left,” I respond, knowing I’m right, but then to pacify her, I say, “Oh, what the heck, why not toss a little over both. Then you know you’re covered.”
She does, then wipes her hands on the front of the apron. I stoop to pick up the salt shaker, and she lowers herself to collect the remaining salt in the palm of her hand. It happens in an instant and before we know it, we clunk heads. She presses a hand to her wound. I find myself reaching out to her. I ask if she’s okay, then say I’m sorry. We rise to our feet and for the first time, Mrs. Dennett begins to laugh.
God, she’s gorgeous, though the laughter is uneasy, like she might just burst into tears at any moment. I dated a girl once who was bipolar. Manic highs one minute, so that she wanted to conquer the world, so depressed the next she could hardly get out of bed.
I wonder if Judge Dennett has once—just one time since this all happened—put his arms around the woman and told her that it was going to be okay.
When she settles I say to her, “Can you imagine if Mia did come home? Tonight. If she just showed up at that door and there was nothing.”
She’s shaking her head. She can’t imagine.
“Why did you become a detective?” she asks me.
There is nothing profound about this. It’s embarrassing almost. “I was appointed this position because, apparently, I was a good cop. But I became a cop because I had a friend in college that was headed to the academy. I had nothing better to do than follow.”
“But you like your job?”
“I like my job.”
“Isn’t it depressing? I can hardly watch the news at night.”
“It has its bad days,” I say, but then I go on to list as many good things as I can possibly come up with. Putting down a meth lab. Finding a lost dog. Catching some kid who’d gone to school with a pocketknife in his bag. “Finding Mia,” I conclude and though I don’t say it aloud, I think to myself: if I could find Mia and bring her back home, if I could wake Mrs. Dennett from this horrible nightmare she’s trapped in, that would make it worth it. That would override all the open, unsolved cases, all the wrongdoing that goes on in our world every day.
She returns to her lasagna. I tell her that I wanted to ask her a few questions about Mia. I watch as she spreads the noodles and the cheese and meat into a pan, and we talk about a girl of whom photographs magically appear, scattered in more abundance every time I come through the door.
Mia on the first day of school, smiling though half her teeth are gone.
Mia with a goose-egg bump on her head.
Mia with scrawny little legs hanging out of a one-piece bathing suit, floaties on her arms.
Mia preparing for the high school prom.
Two weeks ago one might not have known that Grace Dennett had a younger sister. Now it’s as if she’s the only presence in this home.
Colin
Before I have the advantage of a watch with the date on it. Without it we’d both be lost.
I don’t do it first thing in the morning. She hasn’t spoken to me in over twenty-four hours. She’s pissed that I pried, but even more pissed that she talked. She doesn’t want me to know a damn thing about her, but I know enough.
I wait until after we’ve eaten breakfast. I wait until after lunch. I let her be mad and sulk. She mopes around the cabin feeling sorry for herself. She pouts. It never crosses her mind that there are a million places I’d rather be than here, but this is her misfortune and hers alone. Or so she thinks.
I’m not one for grand displays. I wait until she’s done cleaning the dishes from lunch. She’s drying her hands on a terry-cloth towel when I more or less drop it on the counter beside her.