She's Not There

by Joy Fielding

  “Just wanted to meet the infamous Caroline Shipley, see if she’d actually have the gall to show up. Although I don’t know why I’m surprised. Clearly you have no shame.”

  You’re wrong, Caroline thought. I have nothing but shame.

  “Frankly, I’d be surprised if any school in the city would consider hiring someone so irresponsible—”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Really? I know that a woman who can’t take care of her own children has no business around other people’s. I know that she should be embarrassed to show her face around decent, God-fearing members of society.”

  “Go to hell,” Caroline whispered.

  “You first,” he said.

  Too late, Caroline thought as she fled the premises. I’m already there.

  —

  Even though it was a weekday, Balboa Park was crowded. It always was. The landmark destination was the heart of San Diego, and had been since the early twentieth century. It was filled with lush gardens, museums, theaters, and beautiful Spanish-style pavilions, as well as being the site of the world-famous San Diego Zoo. The park attracted thousands of people, both tourists and locals, every day of every week of every month. Caroline had come here often over the past year, walking the grounds and trying to lose herself in the crowds.

  She sank onto a nearby bench. It wasn’t that easy to lose yourself, she’d discovered. Despite being the eighth-largest city in the United States and the second-largest city in California, with a population of close to 1.3 million people, San Diego was really a small town at its core. It was hard to get lost in a small town.

  When she’d first returned from Rosarito, she’d spent entire days in the vast parkland, wandering from garden to garden, attraction to attraction, peering into the faces of each and every small child, searching for Samantha under a floppy cotton sunbonnet or snoozing in her father’s arms, her head resting on his shoulder. How many times had she stolen a peek into a passing stroller, convinced she might encounter her daughter’s sweet face? It was possible, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?

  Even if whoever had taken her had cut and dyed her hair, somehow rendered the child virtually unrecognizable, Caroline was convinced she would recognize Samantha instantly. A mother surely knows her own child, no matter what, no matter how many years have passed. Dear God, she thought now. My baby has been missing for more than a year.

  “I’m sorry. Is there a problem?” a woman asked from somewhere beside her, her tone stopping just short of accusatory.

  Caroline’s eyes snapped into focus. A young woman was sitting on the far end of the bench, breast-feeding an infant. Caroline must have been staring at her for some time without realizing it.

  “I’m within my rights,” the woman said. She was younger than Caroline, with long blond hair and deep bags under her eyes, probably from lack of sleep.

  “Sorry. I guess I tuned out for a few minutes. I didn’t mean to stare.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I know you,” she said slowly. “You’re that woman whose baby disappeared in Mexico.”

  Caroline was immediately on her feet.

  “Did you do it?” she heard the woman call after her. “Did you murder your own child?”

  —

  “You’re very late,” Caroline said when Hunter walked through the door at half past nine that night.

  “Sorry. There was an emergency partners’ meeting. It went on forever. I went to the gym after to unwind.”

  Caroline nodded knowingly. Hunter had been made a partner in his prestigious downtown law firm two months ago, but she doubted that was where he’d been. There had been too many emergency meetings, too many late nights unwinding at the gym. She found it interesting that her husband had received little of the vitriol that had come her way in the aftermath of Samantha’s disappearance, that his career had actually advanced. And why not? Hunter’s clients weren’t the kind to be overly bothered by scandal. As long as he did his job, as long as he continued to negotiate successful deals and mergers, as long as he could be counted on to make them money, he was an asset, regardless of what was happening in his personal life. Ironically, the tragedy of losing his daughter had made him seem noble. It was left to Caroline to bear the burden of their guilt.

  “What are you doing, sitting here in the dark?” He turned on the lamp beside the sofa and took off his jacket. Caroline put her hand over her eyes to block out the unwanted light. “Michelle asleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “She give you any problems?”

  “The usual. She wanted her Grandma Mary. Apparently she’s a much better story reader than I am. You smell good,” she added, an observation more than a compliment.

  “Took a shower,” he said, his voice casual. “I was pretty sweaty.” He lowered himself into one of two beige tub chairs across from where Caroline sat on the gold-and-beige-striped couch. “How’d the interview go?”

  “Not good.”

  “Sorry.”

  Caroline shrugged.

  “Something will turn up eventually.”

  “I doubt it. It seems there are a lot of people who don’t exactly relish the idea of someone who might have murdered her own child taking care of theirs. Imagine that.”

  Hunter sighed. “Maybe you’ve rushed things. Maybe it’s still too early. Maybe you should go slower, start by putting your name on a list of substitute teachers…”

  “I did that months ago,” Caroline said testily, tired of all the maybes. “Phone’s not exactly ringing off the hook.”

  “Well, December’s an especially hard time of year.”

  December, Caroline repeated silently, thinking ahead to Christmas. Was it possible it was Christmas already? She’d spent last Christmas in Mexico, miserable and alone, waiting for some word of their daughter. She’d begged Hunter to come back down; he’d begged her to come home. Michelle needed her, he said repeatedly. He needed her. But how could she leave? How could she go anywhere without her baby? No, she’d told him. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—go anywhere until Samantha was safely back in her arms.

  But after two months of rude police questions and no answers, of lost opportunities and leads that went nowhere, of increasingly pointed accusations and decreasing results, she’d finally given up and returned to San Diego, alone and defeated. Except she wasn’t really alone. Reporters were always lurking. People were always staring. Judging her. Finding her guilty.

  “I was thinking maybe we should put up some decorations this Christmas,” Hunter said. “Michelle’s been asking about a tree.”

  Caroline tried to process what he was suggesting. The holiday season was upon them. Her mother had insisted on holding her usual Thanksgiving dinner, although it had proved to be a muted affair, none of the participants particularly thankful. Steve and Becky barely looked at each other, let alone spoke. Caroline and Hunter had little appetite for turkey and even less for each other. Their eleventh anniversary had come and gone without so much as a congratulatory kiss. And now here he was, talking about decorating Christmas trees as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be discussing such things, as if it was time to put away their grief, accept what had happened, and get on with their lives.

  She lowered her head. She was being unfair and she knew it. Someone had to be practical; someone had to take care of the business of day-to-day living. Someone had to worry about Michelle, make sure her needs weren’t forgotten. The child had every right to enjoy the glittery trappings of Christmas. Hunter was right to want to provide her with that opportunity. Caroline knew she should be grateful. He’d been so attentive to Michelle these past months, so patient, never raising his voice or losing his temper, as if trying to atone for his earlier lapses as a father.

  She watched a sudden flash of worry shoot through his eyes. “What?” she asked. “What is it?”

  Hunter pushed some hair away from his forehead, a signal that he was about to impart some information he considered important.
“Listen. I have to tell you something and I need you to stay calm,” he began.

  Caroline felt her heart rate quicken. Was he about to come clean about where he’d been tonight, about the affair she suspected he’d been having? She was almost certain there’d been more than one such affair in the last year. She wondered how many times he’d betrayed her since her return from Mexico. But she wasn’t sure she had the strength to deal with his honesty now.

  “I spoke to Detective Ramos this morning,” he said, catching her by surprise.

  “This morning? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “You called him?”

  “He called me.”

  “What? Why? Have they found…?”

  “No.”

  “For God’s sake, Hunter. Spit it out. What did the man say?”

  “Apparently a member of the hotel staff was arrested yesterday for molesting his niece.”

  The words hit Caroline with the force of a well-placed punch to the stomach. She doubled over, the air rushing out of her lungs as she gathered her arms around her, her body rocking back and forth. “What do you mean, ‘molested’?” she asked when she was able to straighten up and find her voice.

  “What do you think I mean?”

  “He raped her?”

  “He ‘interfered with her’ is how Detective Ramos put it.”

  “And they think he might have ‘interfered with’ Samantha?”

  “They don’t know. They’re still questioning him. So far, he’s denied any knowledge of what happened to Samantha.”

  “Well, of course he’d deny it. But he was working at the hotel at the time she disappeared?”

  “Yes.”

  “And nobody knew they had a child molester on the payroll?”

  “How could they? He had no record. He’d never been charged with anything.”

  “But there’s no question he molested his niece.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Oh, God, Hunter. Do you think it’s possible? Do you think…?”

  “I don’t think anything until all the facts are in.”

  Caroline jumped to her feet. Damn him for thinking like a lawyer. “We need to go down there.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We have to see this man. We have to confront him.”

  “They’re not going to let us see him, Caroline. They’re not going to let us talk to him. They’re not going to let us anywhere near him.”

  “I don’t care. I’m going down there.”

  “You’re not going anywhere. This is exactly why I didn’t tell you earlier. You’re panicking, being irrational.”

  “So what are you suggesting? That we just sit here and do nothing?”

  “There’s nothing we can do. Detective Ramos promised to keep us informed.”

  “How reassuring.” Caroline buried her face in the palms of her hands.

  “Come to bed,” Hunter urged after several minutes had passed.

  Caroline shook her head, refusing to look at him. She was trying not to resent his composure, his skill at rationalizing and compartmentalizing, his resolve to stay calm and focused, to not let his emotions get the better of his common sense. How she envied his ability to throw himself into his work, to take refuge in a string of meaningless affairs. How she hated him for it.

  Hunter waited another minute before reaching over and switching off the lamp. Caroline felt his arm as it brushed against her shoulder, but didn’t open her eyes until she was certain he’d left, taking the sweet, soapy scent of his most recent betrayal with him.

  “Okay. This morning I’d like to talk about some of the ways we can use mathematics in our daily lives,” Caroline said, trying to generate a modicum of enthusiasm in her class of twenty-three tenth-grade students. The students, an almost equal mix of boys and girls, stared back at her, one face blanker than the next. “Now, I know that some of you don’t think you’ll have any use for algebra, or trigonometry, or geometry, or any kind of math at all, for that matter,” she continued, thinking of Michelle’s frequent pronouncements, “but, in fact, we use some form of math to solve problems every day. And if we don’t, we should.” She looked up and down the five rows of desks, hoping to catch at least one nod of confirmation, one glimmer of interest in a pair of glazed eyes, but finding none. “Let’s take astronomy. An astronomer needs to apply the concepts of algebra and trigonometry in order to determine the distance from one planet to another, or to measure the distance between stars. Or a surveyor,” she continued, realizing there probably weren’t a lot of potential astronomers in the room. “A surveyor needs to determine precise locations and measurement of points, elevations, and areas for such things as mapmaking and land division.” Another unlikely prospect. “Or on a simpler level, say we want to determine the height of a tall building or tree. We can do that by knowing the distance from us to the base of the building or tree. Everyone with me so far? Anyone?”

  No one raised a hand.

  “Okay, let’s tackle a specific problem.”

  “Let’s not,” a male voice said from the back of the room. Joey Prescott, class cutup. Medium height, shaggy-haired, more muscles than brains.

  “Okay, Joey,” Caroline said, “suppose your mother wants to buy broadloom for a room that’s twelve feet long and ten feet wide.”

  “What’s broadloom?” Joey asked.

  Caroline smiled. “Wall-to-wall carpeting.”

  “My mother doesn’t like wall-to-wall carpeting. She likes hardwood.”

  There were a few chuckles from the front of the class and one outright guffaw from the back. Caroline knew the laugh well: Zack Appleby, court jester to Joey’s clown. “Zack,” she said, staring the freckle-faced boy down, “how does your mother feel about broadloom?”

  Zack stared back at her as if he’d never seen her before in his life. “Huh?”

  “Come on, people. Did you all eat too much turkey last week?”

  A hand shot up from the third seat of the second row.

  Thank God, Caroline thought. At least someone was making an effort. “Fiona?”

  “What was the question?” Fiona asked.

  Caroline bit down on her bottom lip. “Your mother wants to buy broadloom for a room that’s twenty feet long and ten feet wide.”

  “Her mother, too?” Joey shouted out. “Hope they have enough in stock.”

  More laughter. Even Caroline found herself chuckling. “The broadloom costs fourteen dollars and ninety-five cents a square foot,” she continued, shifting her gaze from Fiona to the girl beside her, who was chomping aggressively on a strand of long blond hair. “Daphne, can you tell us how to determine the total cost of the carpet?”

  Daphne shrugged and continued chomping.

  You can do this, Caroline encouraged her silently. All you have to do is try. I can help you, if you’ll let me.

  She’d resumed teaching twelve years ago, following her divorce. It had taken two years after Samantha’s disappearance for her marriage to finally limp across the finish line and another year after that to find a school principal brave enough to hire her. Unfortunately, the principal hadn’t proved brave enough to keep her on, asking her to resign two years later, following the suicide of one of her students. Not that he blamed her, he’d explained repeatedly. He knew the boy’s death wasn’t her fault. But if word were to get out that a student in one of her classes had killed himself…if parents were to find out…if reporters were to get wind of it…with her history…

  Not to worry, she’d told him, leaving without protest.

  The following year she’d been hired to teach math at a high school in Golden Hill. She was asked to leave five years later, when the story of the boy’s suicide did indeed make the news. Two years later, she’d found a position at Jarvis Collegiate, a medium-sized, under-achieving high school located in East San Diego, and she’d been teaching there ever since, although with all the recent publicity, with every so
rdid detail of her life having been dredged up yet again, she didn’t know how long it would be before she was once again asked to quietly resign.

  Could she survive another devastating blow? Teaching was the one thing keeping her sane, the one area of her life where she felt any real satisfaction. And she was good at it. No—better than good. She had a genuine gift, a way of reaching even the most recalcitrant of pupils.

  Not all of them, she reminded herself.

  “You have to know how much carpet you need, right?” Caroline continued, breaking free of such disquieting thoughts. “So the first thing you have to figure out is the total area of the room.” She wrote on the chalkboard behind her:

  Area = length × width

  = 20 × 10

  = 200 square feet

  Underneath that she wrote,

  Cost = $14.95/sq. foot

  “So, the total cost would be the area in square feet multiplied by the cost per square foot. Are you with me?”

  Again, no response, no raised hand.

  She pointed to the equation on the board. “Twenty times ten equals two hundred. Two hundred multiplied by fourteen ninety-five is…?”

  “Two thousand, nine hundred and ninety dollars,” Rob Kearny shouted.

  “Correct. Very good, Rob.”

  The boy proudly held his smartphone above his head.

  “You’re not supposed to have those turned on in class,” Caroline reminded him, her elation short-lived.

  “How else are you supposed to figure out the answer?”

  “You might try using your head.”

  “Give head for Christmas,” Joey Prescott exclaimed, and the rest of the class laughed uproariously.

  Caroline suppressed a smile. “All right, class. Settle down. Is any of this making any sense at all? Does anybody have any questions?”

  Addison Snider raised her hand.

  “Addison?”

  “Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”

  The room suddenly stilled, waiting for Caroline’s response.

  “It was very nice. Thank you. But I was referring to the lesson.”

  Caroline sensed movement from the far side of the room, saw Vicki Garner dropping something onto the desk of the girl behind her. “What’s that? What did Vicki just hand you, Stephanie?”