The Good Girl

“He takes care of you?” I ask. “Mows the lawn, gets the groceries...” She says that he does. I see the fruit rotting on the counter, swarming with an abundance of fruit flies. I allow myself to peek inside the refrigerator/freezer and find a bag of frozen peas, a carton of expired milk, a couple of TV dinners. The pantry is as inadequate: a few cans of soup that Mrs. Thatcher likely can’t open by herself, and crackers.

 

“Does he take out the garbage?” I ask.

 

“Yes.”

 

“How long has he been helping you? A year? Two years?”

 

“He was a child. When I got sick. His dad...” Her voice trails off.

 

“Left,” I finish.

 

She nods.

 

“And now Colin...lives with you?”

 

She shakes her head. “He comes. To visit.”

 

“But not this week?”

 

“No.”

 

“Or last?”

 

She doesn’t know. There are very few dishes in the sink, but the garbage is an abundance of paper plates. He encouraged her to use paper—easier than cleaning up after herself—and takes the trash to the curb every week he comes.

 

“But he does the shopping and the cleaning and the—”

 

“Everything.”

 

“He does everything. But he hasn’t been here for a while, has he, Mrs. Thatcher?”

 

A calendar on the wall points to September. The milk in the fridge expired on October seventh.

 

“Would it be okay if I took out the garbage for you?” I ask. “I see that it’s full.”

 

“Okay,” she says.

 

The tremors are hard to watch. It makes me uncomfortable, to be honest.

 

I grab the wretched bag of trash and lift it from the bin and head out a back door. It reeks. I jog down three steps and toss the garbage into the trunk of my car to deal with later. I make sure no one’s looking, and I peek into the mailbox and grab what’s there, a stack so high it practically overflows onto the road. There’s a slip tucked inside from the USPS, requesting the resident pick up additional mail from the post office. The mailman crammed in what he could until there was no more room.

 

Back inside Mrs. Thatcher is fighting with the corn. I can’t take it. Nobody should have to work so hard to eat a damn TV dinner. I slide into the nook across from the gaunt woman and say, “Let me help.” I take the fork and serve her a bite. There’s a moment of hesitation. God knows the day someone has to spoon-feed me is the day I’d rather be dead.

 

“Where’s Colin?” she asks.

 

I offer the food slowly, only a few kernels at a time.

 

“I don’t know, ma’am. I’m afraid Colin might be in trouble. We need your help.” I find a photograph of Mia Dennett and show it to the woman. I ask if she’s ever seen her before.

 

She shuts her eyes. “TV,” she utters. “I saw her on TV...she’s the... Oh, God, Colin. Oh, Colin.” And she begins to sob.

 

I try to assure her that we know nothing. It’s only speculation. Mia Dennett may or may not be with Colin. But I know she is.

 

I explain that I need her help to find Colin. I say that we want to make sure that he and Mia are okay, that he isn’t in trouble, but she doesn’t buy it.

 

She’s lost all interest in her dinner. Her deformed body droops before the table and over and over and over again, she says, “Colin,” an out-of-place answer to every question I ask.

 

“Mrs. Thatcher, can you tell me if there’s any place Colin might go if he needed to hide?”

 

Colin.

 

“Can you provide me with contact information for family or friends? Anyone he might have contacted if he was in trouble. His father? Do you own a Rolodex, an address book?”

 

Colin.

 

“Please try and remember the last time you spoke. Have you talked to him since he was here last? By phone, perhaps?”

 

Colin.

 

I can’t take it. I’m getting nowhere.

 

“Ma’am, is it okay if I look around? I’m just going to see if there’s something here that might help me find your son.”

 

It’s like taking candy from a baby. Another mother would lawyer up and demand a warrant. But not Mrs. Thatcher. She knows what will happen to her if Colin doesn’t come home.

 

I leave her crying on the breakfast nook and excuse myself.

 

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