by Kris Ripper
“Yes, Aunt Cathy,” Frankie muttered.
“So we’ve ruled out former friends and teammates. She wasn’t particularly close to any teachers—single exceptions notwithstanding, and not helpful. And none of you remember Lisa working when she lived around here. So? Where else would she go? Singer? Anything you can think of from high school or earlier, any safe places?” She gestured to Frankie, Carey, and Jake. “That goes for you three as well.”
“Never that close,” Frankie said.
“And I didn’t even know Lisa,” Jake added. Miles had been carried, asleep, down to the bedroom by Joe, who hadn’t returned. Singer wondered if he was watching Miles sleep and thinking about Jake and Carey at that age.
“Carey? You and Lisa were in the same class.”
Carey looked over, catching Singer’s eye. “She’s been having panic attacks.”
“She has?”
“She mentioned them to me, as well,” Emery agreed. He’d been sitting in the same spot on the sofa, pressed into Alice’s side and holding a cup of coffee, since he arrived.
Cathy’s gaze landed on Singer. “And I assume she’s been seeing a therapist.”
“I know she saw one she kind of liked,” he offered weakly, unable to come up with a date, or even a gender.
“Saul,” Emery said. “Give me a minute and I’ll think of his last name. But she said she didn’t think she’d see him again because her mother didn’t like him.”
Cathy’s eyes narrowed. “Singer, Lisa’s been here for … three months? Four? And she hasn’t settled on professional help to navigate the culture shock? To say nothing of the likely unbearable grief. Didn’t you notice she needed help?”
“Cath,” Joe murmured from the doorway. “Not Singer’s fault.”
But it was. “I should have paid attention.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I was—I should have at least asked her.” They want to lock her up in some Club Med rehab resort, and I never even bothered to ask her if she could use some help.
“Smith.” Emery snapped his fingers. “Knew I could remember. Saul Smith. She liked him.”
Cathy rubbed her eyes. “Then when she comes back, she can make another appointment. I’ll take her myself. She’s been gone since one, you said?”
At least he knew the answer this time.
“Shortly after.”
Frankie nodded. “I dropped her off at maybe one thirty, but not later.”
“Well, that’s ten hours. Unless any of you can think of something, we might as well all get some sleep. She has her phone with her, correct?”
“Yeah, but the charger’s still in her room,” Alice said. As the only member of the family with lock-picking skills, Alice had been the one to inspect Lisa’s bedroom. Singer had looked up from the prior conversation just in time to see a complex set of glances exchanged between the Derrie parents and their sons; Jake had, for a split second, met his eye and smiled. Because of course Carey brought home a girl who could pick locks.
“Would you mind?” Emery began. “I know I barely know her, but if someone could give me her number, I’d like to leave a text with my number, at least. She probably won’t call, but it doesn’t hurt to try.”
“Hell, she’s way more likely to call you than anyone else,” Frankie said.
Singer considered it while Jake recited numbers. Would she call Emery? He wasn’t connected to her family, to the house. Maybe she would.
“Singer, you might look around her room, see if anything looks strange.”
“I haven’t really been in her room.”
“I have,” Emery said.
Eyebrows shot up around the living room.
“I installed her lock. And we … hid. For a few minutes. A couple of weeks ago.”
“So Em.” Alice was still serious despite the humorous looks shooting between everyone else. “You might check it out. I didn’t know if what I was looking at was the usual state of the place or not.”
“Yeah, okay. Come on, Singer. You’re my insurance, entering her space without her permission.”
“You think that matters right now?”
“I think it matters all the time.”
He followed Emery into her room. It felt wrong to see the door open wide and the light on.
“She had the bed made back into a sofa the last time I was here.” Emery stood just inside the doorway. “And the side table was where it is. The computer was the same. Her orchid.” He looked around, shaking his head. “She keeps the backpack right there by the window like a go bag for an escape.”
“Escape from what?” Mother asked from behind them.
Singer turned, biting off the urge to say, From you. “It makes her feel more secure, I think. I don’t think she was actually worried she needed an escape.” Then again, as already covered, he hadn’t really been all that in tune with what she needed, had he?
Mother frowned, and he realized suddenly that before, she’d had smile lines. Laugh lines, even. But now there was no hint that Mother’s was a face that had ever held real humor, or joy.
His heart twisted, just a little.
“If you had let us speak to her, Singer, none of this would have happened.”
Thanks for making it so easy to be angry at you, Mother. “If Lisa had wanted to speak to you, she would have. Kidnapping her and hauling her away to some group therapy oasis isn’t the answer.”
“Group therapy oasis?” Emery took a seat at the desk and powered on the laptop.
“You should see the brochure. Volleyball in sand pits. Tennis courts.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“I hardly think any of this is amusing—”
It was impossible to stay merciful.
“We don’t think it’s amusing, Mother. We think it’s serious. You might notice that Emery and I and Jake’s entire family have been sitting here all night trying to figure out where Lisa would have gone, and why, and how to contact her to come home, and what to do to help her when she does. Where have you been, other than hiding from people who are actively trying to help?”
“I don’t see that it’s gotten you anywhere, Singer.”
He took a deep breath and turned back to the desk. Better to ignore her. Better to avoid engaging.
Emery clicked something, maybe opening a browser. “I am so fucking uncomfortable right now.”
“Then why are you doing that?” Mother snapped.
“Because I don’t know what else to do. Maybe she’s been searching for places to go, or jobs, or bus schedules, or anything that will help us know where she might have gone.”
Mother pursed her lips and didn’t respond.
“Well, here’s something. She uses Chrome, and she’s got it storing passwords.” He clicked a few more times. “Twitter, Twitter, Twitter. I know you use Twitter, lady, so what are you doing? She follows no accounts. Huh.” Click, click, click. “Wait. She has two saved searches. Dead for the last few hours, but … huh.”
Singer leaned over his shoulder, watching as he scrolled down. “What is this? Who are these people?”
“Consistent through the weekdays. A lot of activity from just before five a.m. on until the early evening, locations and times and numbers. Hm.”
“Yes, but who are they? It’s all the same people.”
“Ohh. I think I get it.” Emery pointed at the search string. “Praise for Anthony Grace. Anthony is his name. The one from the farm.” He craned to look up at Singer. “That’s him, I’d bet on it.”
Lisa’s voice, matter of fact: the last guy I was in love with fucked different women on a schedule and never slept with any of us. His hands tightened, nails biting into palms. “I want— I want to—” There weren’t words.
Emery nodded. “Believe me, I’ve considered a lot of possibilities, but it isn’t necessary.”
�
��So can you use this to find her?” Mother asked.
“No. Definitely not. Now would be the worst possible time to go around chipping away at her agency and self-direction.” The commentary was pointed, but Singer assumed it went over Mother’s head.
Or maybe not. She gritted her teeth and withdrew. Good.
After a few seconds, Emery pulled out his phone, opened a Twitter client. “She’s calling herself CrazyScrapbker. A little long, but she’s never actually sent out a tweet, so I assume it only needed to be memorable to her. Okay. So. I’ll direct message her, just in case. Most phone clients send a notification unless you change the setting, and she probably wouldn’t have thought about it.”
Singer watched Emery’s fingers on the screen. Lisa, it’s Emery. Forgot to give you my number. 555-3849. Call any time. Seriously. Even if it’s just to talk about snakes. I mean that, by the way—I keep pretty weird hours. If you want to call, I’m probably up. -E
“Hell. What do you think? Too much?”
“Snakes?”
“Private conversation, and shut up, no, not about that.”
“I think it’s good. I don’t know if it’ll work, but it sticks to your theory of not pressuring her to do anything.”
“Fuck it.” Emery hit send. “The same thing in text…” He typed a nearly identical message out in a text window and sent that, too. “And now we cross our fingers.”
“Excuse me.” Dad’s voice from behind them. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Singer and Emery turned at the same time.
“I’m Drew Thurman. Lisa’s father.”
To his credit, Emery didn’t blink. “Good to meet you.” He stood and offered a hand. “I’m Emery, a friend of Lisa’s.”
“I’ve heard.”
“My reputation precedes me, huh? I’m going to hunt down a coffee refill, Singer, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.”
“Good meeting you, Drew.”
Singer fought the sudden desire to grin savagely at the liberty. Dad was a big guy. No one called him “Drew” without being invited first.
“Well.” Dad looked at the door where Emery had gone. “He appears to have a good head on his shoulders, which I didn’t expect. Bit of a problem with authority, though.”
“Do you want to come out and actually meet the rest of my family, Dad?” It was a challenge, more than anything. Singer watched the gears turn and waited for the dry, emotionless letdown.
“I think I would, yes. Your mother’s gone to bed.”
“Then there’s even a chance you might like them.” Singer straightened, stretched, walked into the hallway. “Miles is asleep, but we can check on him.” The bedroom was dark save for the nightlight by the crib, which highlighted Jake, staring down at the baby.
“Hey,” he whispered. Then, catching sight of Dad, he raised both eyebrows just slightly. “Um, hello, Mr. Thurman.”
“Please call me Drew, Jake. We didn’t meet properly before.” Dad nodded toward the crib. “He’s a strapping boy. Is that from the mother’s side or the father’s? Or is that a rude question? I’m not entirely sure how to approach this.”
Jake shifted over, and Singer moved to stand beside him. “We’ve only met his mother, Regina. But she tells us his father was a football player in high school.”
“A good one, according to his grandmother,” Singer added. And if he stepped a little closer to Jake, Jake either didn’t notice or didn’t mind.
Dad stared down at where Miles lay, breathing deeply, arms and legs splayed out wide, head tilted. “It’s the strangest thing, isn’t it? They’re so young, so vulnerable. And you promise yourself you’ll do anything to keep them safe. And then they grow up.”
Jake’s hand reached over, barely moving, and brushed against Singer’s.
“It was very good of your parents to come over tonight, Jake. We owe them deep gratitude for that.”
“Well, Singer’s family. There’s nothing my parents wouldn’t do for him, or for Lisa.”
Enough. Singer closed his fingers around Jake’s and squeezed. Thank you, love.
“Yes. Well. I think I’ll thank them in any case.” Dad cleared his throat. “It’s very … exciting. That you are adopting a son. Children never cease to be sources of surprise for their parents. I’ll take care of the crowd, if the two of you would prefer to stay here. This time is very short. Enjoy it.”
Then he backed out of the room, and Singer found himself stupidly tearing up. It must be the combined stresses of the day, Jake and Miles still being gone, Mother and Dad, Lisa—
“C’mere. Hey.” Arms closed around him. “You know we’re gonna find her, right? She’ll come home and be safe and we are totally throwing Alice under the bus for picking the lock. Also it’s Halloween next month, and we haven’t gotten Miles a costume yet—”
“I forgot completely about Halloween.”
“We have a little time. And we’ve been busy, Singer.”
Busy not talking. Not fighting. Not meeting each other’s eyes. Or maybe that’s just me.
“I know we’re not— I know this isn’t resolved,” Singer said, slowly, trying very hard to be precise. “But if there is any way— I mean, if it wouldn’t be too much—”
“Should we trust your dad to get rid of everyone? I told Carey we were spending the night here.”
Everyone else could take care of themselves, but he really shouldn’t leave Emery out there without backup.
“I’m pretty sure they’ll be fine,” Jake murmured. A light tease. “We have to talk. You have to talk to me, Singer, for real. But not tonight.”
“Yeah. Yes. I agree.”
“Come to bed.”
It was the first time Singer had slept well in weeks. He should have felt bad about that—Lisa was still missing, after all—but he couldn’t. Not when he felt Jake’s chest
rising with every breath. Not when he could hear every time Miles moved through the baby monitor.
Home. Family. Yes.
44
Lisa
Day 1 of grace
At some point she stopped walking. It was just starting to get light, and there was a bus stop on a road in the middle of farmland. Farmland? But there was a cow, so it counted.
Where did you think you were going?
I thought this was going to be Antioch. What’s past Antioch on this side of Mount Diablo? I wish I had a map.
She fell asleep, for a while, on the bus stop bench. It was like being in a movie, one of those movies where at the beginning the main character’s beloved mother dies or something, and then she sets off on a trek across the country, meeting fabulous people, eating exotic food, living off the generosity of strangers. By the end of the movie you’d laughed and cried and felt moved to change your whole life, started thinking about it while you got ready for bed. Maybe you’ll take up jogging. Or salsa dancing. Or maybe you’ll quit your shitty job and sell your belongings and see the world. Go on an epic quest.
Lisa stretched, tentatively, and sat back down when everything started to go black.
You don’t have a job. And you don’t want to take up salsa dancing. And nobody died, not recently.
Still, though. This was farmland in the middle of the Bay Area—geography she thought she knew well. Maybe there was a little bit of fairy tale to this morning, even without the drama of a funeral at the beginning of it. Nothing was stopping her from walking to wherever. No one could tell her not to.
What will you eat?
Maybe I won’t. I’ll be like the mystics and pick moldy bread out of dumpsters, fill an old jug with water and swing it by my side.
You’ll be cold again, like last night. And it’s only going to get colder.
That was harder. She didn’t like the cold. She’d nearly called home, called Singer, asked him to c
ome find her on the side of the road and bring blankets.
But I didn’t die. I’m still okay. I’m sitting here, aren’t I?
Her shoes, though. Her shoes were the flaw in the plan. I’ll need better shoes if I’m going to be a wandering mystic.
Then she got up again, slower this time, and waited for the swimmy sick feeling to pass before she started moving. And yeah, the shoes. The shoes were becoming, with every step, a pressing, aching, bleeding concern.
You can’t buy shoes in farmland. No dumpsters or water fountains, either.
Well, shit, Lisa thought, and sank back down again. Maybe I’ll take another nap. This grass looks soft.
What if there’s snakes?
What snakes? There aren’t snakes, Abigail, look around.
Wait.
She took a few deep breaths, panicking more about the idea of panicking than actually panicking itself. Focus, focus. Ants, an anthill, working very hard at dawn, already bringing home little bits of leaves and grass.
Had she been hearing Abigail’s voice in her head the whole time? Since she died? When did that voice become Abigail’s?
Slow down. Slow down. Everyone talks to themselves in their head, right? It’s not that weird. And Abigail’s voice is so normal, so comforting.
But for a second, it was almost like she was sitting right here, on this patch of grass, talking about snakes.
Lisa started breathing too fast again and couldn’t pull herself back. Her heart beat too fast, she couldn’t get it to sync up with her lungs, everything was out of order, and time was slowing down and speeding up and flying apart into pieces, and nothing made sense except dying. Dying, right now, on this patch of grass, next to this anthill, dying, unable to breathe or pump blood or move or think.
It was the worst one by far. She lay there and watched the sky go light and eventually realized that she hadn’t died. Lisa pulled out her phone and powered it on, relieved when it had enough juice to start up. It started chiming and beeping and vibrating with missed messages, which was overwhelming but tied her to the world in a way nothing had in hours, not even her aching feet.