She exhaled, and like the stream of smoke, the memory dissipated to be replaced with thoughts of the unknown teen from Saxon Falls. No matter that she was likely off on a lark; her disappearance was doing a number on those she left behind. It was hard to summon sympathy for a girl who intentionally churned emotional waters in her wake. She didn’t know what Janie did. That tragedy changed a family. Sometimes it shattered it. Parents split up. The surviving kids developed coping mechanisms. She smiled grimly. Coping mechanisms. A $200-an-hour phrase that meant searching for normal. God knew that was what she’d spent too many years doing before she was old enough to realize that “normal” was unattainable because it didn’t exist. At least not for the Willards. Not anymore.
The chimney stack on the restaurant next door belched a thin thread of smoke not unlike the one she expelled. Her sister’s kidnapping hadn’t destroyed them. Not totally. But it was as if someone had taken an eraser to her family. Smudge, smudge, smudge. One fraction at a time, Kelsey had faded away until there was just the slightest shadow. And the rest of them were a bit fainter around the edges. Still there, but they were all a little . . . less.
She flicked the ash off the end of the cigarette into the graveled parking lot that hemmed the walk. Watched the embers glow. Knew she’d have to keep a close eye on her mom for the next few days. Turn off the phone. Try to keep her away from the TV. Lose the morning paper. Because it didn’t take much these days to spin Claire Willard off her carefully constructed orbit. Janie knew just how fragile her mother was beneath her elegant, stylish exterior. Claire played bridge with friends twice a month, volunteered at church, and had her city clubs—the ultimate suburban housewife. If anyone else knew how much time she spent sitting on Kelsey’s bed with a glass of vodka, they didn’t talk about it, not even Janie’s dad.
Especially not her dad. Janie’s mouth tightened. Years ago her parents used to have some pretty ugly fights about her mom’s drinking, about his work and, God, why couldn’t Claire just put the damn past behind her? But somewhere along the line, they must have called a truce. Sometimes Janie missed the fighting. At least that emotion had felt real.
She watched the traffic on the road in front of the business without really seeing it. Life had a way of moving forward from even the worst circumstances. Eventually, everyone resumed their roles. Janie thought her parents deserved awards for theirs. They came to school conferences; they told her how proud they were of her grades. Getting up in front of the class for a speech could still turn her into a quivering case of nerves, but there was nothing wrong with her brain. Which was why, now that college acceptance letters had started rolling in, she finally had her ticket out. Until graduation, though, she was content enough with the part she played: the quiet loner everyone overlooked. Because most of the time that suited her just fine.
“Is Janie back here?”
She scrabbled to her feet as Doris’s words traveled through the open back door. Dropping the cigarette, Janie stepped on the butt and leaned down for her purse.
“Janie?” The manager stuck her head outside, swiveling it to either side.
She opened her mouth to answer but then heard Matt’s voice. “I just came in, and I didn’t see her.”
“Well, where in heaven’s—” The door shut on the rest of the woman’s words.
A resigned laugh escaped her as Janie walked back to the entrance. If that wasn’t the perfect summary of her existence for the last seven years.
Her sister was a ghost. But it was Janie who was invisible.
Claire Willard
November 2
12:00 p.m.
“I know spring is months away, but it’s never too soon to start planning. I’d love to see us do the county park beds in purple and red salvia. Petunias are so . . .”
“. . . I swear the boy got that lazy gene from his father. He doesn’t even shower some days, and forget about asking him to lift a . . .”
“. . . Quinn’s three-day sale. Don’t you just love their shoes?”
Claire Willard sipped from her vodka martini and let the snippets of luncheon conversation swirl around her. The second drink of the day always softened the edges a bit, made it worth the painstaking care she took with her appearance. By the third or fourth glass, the difficulty she’d had getting out of bed that morning would be long forgotten. She coveted the blessed numbness. Guarded it closely. Like the collection of rainbow-colored pills she kept secreted inside a tiny drawer at the base of an antique clock in her bedroom.
Monday luncheon at the West Bend Country Club was a weekly mainstay, except around the holidays, when most people were frantically busy with preparations. The participants varied slightly from week to week, as the other women had appointments, prior commitments, or God knew what else to keep them busy. Sometimes Claire purposefully stayed away, to keep up the pretense that she, too, had a life so full that it was a struggle to fit it all in.
“Claire, what do you think? You always have such lovely taste.”
She blinked and, with an accuracy honed by long practice, refocused. “You know me, I’m all about the perennials. I’d love to see Central Park’s beds in a blanket of tulips. Go with daylilies for the summer and mums in the fall. Then we only need to plant a tenth of the annuals, just as borders. More expensive in the short term, but it will save the organization money in the long run.”
The suggestion required little thought, as it was one that got bandied about yearly. At times, she wondered if these women really cared about the colors of the flower beds they tended for the city, the latest fashions, or minor family conflicts. Or if, like her, they immersed themselves in trivialities in a frantic effort to avoid a yawning inner emptiness that sometimes threatened to swallow them whole.
Occasionally, she found such minutiae soothing. Normal, even. But at other times—when she was having a particularly dark day—it made her want to shriek at these women for wasting their time on such silliness when there were far more important things to think about.
Like missing children. Kidnapped girls. Her Kelsey.
One day at a time. That’s what she’d heard endlessly at that worthless support group she and David had attended for a while. She’d taken it one day at a time for 2,592 days. They’d said it would get easier.
They’d lied.
“You’re so clever, Deirdre.” She leaned back slightly as the twentysomething waitress laid a white-on-white-patterned china plate down in front of her. Artful bits of lettuce were adorned with baby tomatoes under a sprinkling of blue cheese that masqueraded as salad. “You always find the best sales. I swear I’m going to plant a GPS on your car and tail you whenever you go shopping.”
The women laughed, and Claire smiled serenely. Witticisms and pleasant chatter kept her a welcome member of the group. After Kelsey had been taken, she’d quickly learned that people had a finite tolerance for the suffering of others. Empathy went only so far before their personal comfort levels maxed out, and they started backing away from displays of grief. No one wanted to be reminded that tragedy befell without warning, striking at random. It was easier to believe that people bounced back from the most unimaginable heartbreak possible to once again care about five-inch heels and city-beautification efforts. And that was possible only when others kept their pain to themselves.