The Quiet Girl

by S. F. Kosa

  On Saturday morning, after another near-sleepless night spent waiting for my wife to show up, I get out of my Lyft and turn to the front door of my in-laws’ house. I’m keenly aware of the strangeness; Mina never brought me out to meet them or visit, even though she owns a home only ten miles away. And now I’m about to tell these nice people that I have no idea where their daughter has run off to.

  As my ride pulls away, I stand frozen in the drive, bleached white shells crunching beneath my shoes as I shift my weight from foot to foot. Scott and Rose live right on the border of the National Seashore lands, only half a mile off Route 6, in a charming old Cape house surrounded by wax myrtles and evergreens on all sides. You can’t even see the house until you pull into the drive, so even though we’re in the middle of high season and the population around here has quintupled, right here, you wouldn’t think there was another soul around for miles.

  The only car in the carport is a Cadillac that’s at least ten years old, if not fifteen. There’s a pickup parked at the side of the house, and an old brown Mercedes in the drive. Mina’s Prius isn’t anywhere to be seen, and I swallow back a sour pang of disappointment. It would have been so easy, so obvious, so nice if she had just been here.

  “Hello?”

  I turn to see a woman with shoulder-length silver hair coming out the front door, but it isn’t Mina’s mom. “Hi,” I say.

  Her eyes go wide. “I know who you are! Your picture’s on the mantel.” She jerks her thumb back toward the house and then comes toward me, her hand outstretched. A broad, flat, cloth-covered basket hangs from the crook of her other arm.

  “I’m Sharon Rawlings. I live next door.” She waves her fingers vaguely at the thick, scrubby wall of wax myrtles to my right, then gives my hand a quick squeeze. “Rose was just telling me that you were coming over. She showed me the wedding album, too. Such a lovely, lovely day it must have been.”

  “It’s really nice to meet you,” I say, wondering if we should have invited her to the wedding. Mina only had a few guests on her side, mostly friends from the Boston area.

  Sharon holds up her basket as I glance down at it. “Rose is the sweetest lady.” She flips up a corner of the flowered tea towel covering the basket’s contents, revealing a large plate of scones, complete with crocks of what appear to be clotted cream and raspberry jam, garnished with little pink and yellow flowers. “These are our favorite,” Sharon says. “Strawberry almond. She knew we needed the lift.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Oh, my Phillip is under the weather. He’ll be fine, but this week hasn’t been easy.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “He should be out of the hospital by tomorrow night.”

  “Rose did say she had a friend who’d been hospitalized. I’m glad he’s on the mend.”

  Sharon nods, looking fretful. “We were lucky. Terrible bout of food poisoning, if you can believe it.”

  “Seafood?”

  “You’d think it, wouldn’t you? Around here?” She covers the scones again. “I had told Rose he’s hesitant to try solid foods just yet, and look what she did! He won’t be able to help himself once he sees these.”

  “Mina told me that her mother’s always baking something.” It’s one of the few concrete things she’s actually said about her mom and the one thing Mina’s been willing to admit they have in common.

  “Oh, always.” Sharon’s smile almost looks like a grimace. “Rose is a tough lady to keep up with. Always has been.” Then her expression turns mischievous. “One day I thought to myself, why even try? Especially when I can benefit from the fruits of my friend’s labor?” She pats my arm. “She was telling me she hadn’t gotten to spend much time with you before the wedding. It sounded like quite a whirlwind affair! I actually wondered if…”

  “What?”

  Sharon’s cheeks have gotten a little pink. “A shotgun wedding? Not that Scott would ever—”

  “No,” I say. “That’s not… No.” I let out a burst of awkward laughter.

  Sharon drops her face into her hands, looking like she wants to sink into the ground. “Oh, dear Lord. I always manage to put my foot in my mouth,” she says, her voice muffled against her palms. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s totally fine.”

  “Please don’t tell Rose or Scott.” She peeks up from her hands and glances toward the ruffled curtains that grace the windows at the front of the house. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if they wondered about it themselves, now that you mention it.” I’d never even considered that people might think that about us. I don’t think it would have occurred to any of our friends.

  “They have some strong beliefs in that department. They were thrilled when you two decided to tie the knot before living together.”

  “They’d actually care about that? I don’t really know them that well.”

  “Oh, honey.” Her laughter is throaty this time. She shakes her head. “Rose Harkin Richards is a Southern belle, from skin to soul. Loves God, country, and a perfectly set table. And Scott, he loves Rose. Once you know that about them, the rest makes sense. I’d better get going.” She gives my arm another pat and heads for the Mercedes, pausing to wave toward the front door as she gets in.

  Rose emerges from the house as Sharon pulls out of the drive. Mina’s mother is wearing a flowered sundress and pink cardigan. She’s a formidable woman, much taller than her daughter. I’m six two, and Rose has got to be only an inch or two shorter than I am. Her shoulders are broad. Everything about her is broad, in fact, including her smile. She holds out her arms. “It’s so good to see you again,” she says warmly as she envelops me in her perfumy embrace and voluptuous accent. “Your visit is an answer to prayer. We were hoping to get to know our new son! You met Sharon?”

  “She was telling me how much she appreciated the scones.”

  Rose releases me, shaking her head. “It was a close call, apparently. Closer than she’s making it out to be. She’s such a tough lady, and she doesn’t like to make a big deal when things are troubling her. He’s been in the hospital for days, though! I visited with him last night for a little while, and the poor man looked downright hollowed out. I’m hoping he’ll be willing to choke down a few crumbs.”

  “She seemed to think the scones would bring him around. They looked great to me.”

  “Well, I’ve got something else for us.” She releases me and holds the front door wide. “Scott’s making drinks. Bloody Mary?”

  “Sure.” I follow her into the immaculate living room. Wooden floors, rattan area rug, a chipped antique coffee table painted sea green, squashy beige couch and chairs in front of the fireplace. One of our wedding pictures is on the mantelpiece, black-and-white with me and Mina in the center and her parents on either side of us. Right next to it is a poem about footprints in the sand, words printed over a beach scene, a cross Photoshopped into the corner of the image.

  “Sit down, sit down. Are you hungry?”

  I shake my head, and her smile sags a bit.

  “I’ve made a giant batch of zucchini bread, and I just finished the blackberry compote,” she informs me. “Picked the zucchinis and berries right out back this morning.”

  “Now that I think about it, I’m famished.”

  Rose looks delighted. She leaves me in the living room and disappears into the kitchen, where I hear her murmuring to Scott. A moment later, he emerges with a Bloody Mary, which he hands to me. “We’re glad to have you here, Alex,” he says quietly. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  From what I can tell, Scott says everything quietly. At the wedding, Rose did the talking for both of them while he stared into his drink and let her tow him around. The only time he smiled was when he looked at Mina. Meanwhile, as far as I could tell, Rose and Mina barely interacted after we got through with the wedding picture
s. While Mina and I danced and celebrated with our friends, Rose circulated, seeming to enjoy being the mother of the bride and determined to make friends with every single guest, including my mom, who didn’t quite seem to know what to make of her.

  Scott seems like the perfect match for his wife—he’s as big as she is. Same height, same width. But in every other way, he’s her opposite, as if he’d been built to complement her. He rarely makes a noise while she fills the room with the sound of her voice. His stillness is the inverse of her bustling energy. When she walks into the room carrying a tray laden with thick slices of bread beside a crock of butter and another of compote, Scott fetches a vase of flowers and brings it to the coffee table. When she sits down next to me and leans forward attentively, he stands behind her chair like a butler.

  They bow their heads at the same time and mutter quietly for a moment. A prayer, I realize, too late to at least bow my head in respect. They clearly don’t expect me to join in; maybe Mina told them I’m not religious. Mina describes herself as a recovering Protestant, but I think she’s careful around her parents. After talking with Sharon, I can see why Mina insisted we have a minister perform the wedding.

  Once Rose has served me a plate of bread, once I’ve taken a sip of my drink and been informed the mix was made from scratch with heirloom tomatoes from the garden, she fixes me with a look. She has the same pale-gray eyes as her daughter, the only physical similarity they share. “She didn’t come with you,” she says. Her tone is pleasant, as if she were simply commenting about the weather. “Did she send you over by yourself, or did you decide you needed to independently verify that we’re exactly as monstrous as she’s told you?”

  I blink at her. “She hasn’t—”

  Rose’s face breaks into a smile once more, and she lets out a laugh. “You poor thing. I’m joking!” She grins and shakes her head as she plucks crumbs from the coffee table and places them back on the scone plate, one by one. “I’m sorry. We finally have a chance to visit with you, and I’m already scaring you away!”

  “No, it’s all right,” I say. “I was actually hoping to talk to you about Mina.” Then I pause and glance up at Scott, who is once again looking into his drink.

  “Scott,” says Rose. “Why don’t you go make those bouquets and get them into the fridge?” As her husband obeys, she turns back to me. “It’s for one of the ladies in my Bible study. Her mother passed, and the wake is tonight. We’re providing the flowers.”

  Startled by the change of subject, I stammer, “That’s really kind of you.” Rose is one of those church ladies, always whipping up a casserole for a funeral or a cake for a baby shower or meals to freeze for families with a loved one in the hospital. She’s the one who coordinates the socials and the bake sales and the youth groups and the fund-raisers for missionaries. She’s the one who drives the children of undocumented landscapers to their medical appointments and runs boot and coat drives for the poor in the winter. I know all this not because Mina told me or because I’m seeing it live and in person today. Rose friended me on Facebook just after the wedding, and I’ve seen post after post about her good deeds and how each blesses her just as much as those she serves. “I don’t know how you find the time, but I’m sure it’s really appreciated.”

  She pats my knee. Despite all her gardening and baking, her fingernails are perfect ovals, shimmering with a pearly white polish. I’m thinking Scott does most of the dirty work. “I do what I can to help people, but I’m not exactly saving the world from cancer like you are.”

  I take a bite of my zucchini bread. “This is delicious.”

  Rose is practically glowing with the compliment, and it makes my chest hurt, because now I have to tell her why I’m here. “Rose, have you heard from Mina this past week?”

  “She didn’t tell you? She came to dinner on Monday, right out of the blue! Such a treat, since we hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her since the big day.” She gives me a perplexed look. “She’s not in Provincetown with you?”

  When I don’t immediately answer, she says, “I’m surprised you newlyweds are choosing to spend so much time apart!”

  “She was here Monday?” I sit back in my chair. One of Mina’s neighbors saw her putting a cake carrier into her car, and another saw her leaving on Monday or Tuesday night, and it could have been to visit her parents. “Did she say anything about her plans?”

  “Plans?” Rose’s glow has dimmed. “Why? Are you two having problems already?”

  Now, this is awkward. I have no idea whether Mina told her parents anything about our fight or our marriage. I don’t see why she would have, given her general pattern of parental avoidance, but then again, I wouldn’t have predicted she’d choose to spend her Monday evening with them, either.

  “No,” I say. “I mean, we’re both adjusting to married life, but nothing serious. It’s just that…” I pause. There’s no way to say this that sounds okay. No way to smooth it over or keep up appearances. “Mina left Boston for Provincetown on Monday morning, Rose, and I haven’t heard from her since.” I say it all quickly, like ripping off the proverbial Band-Aid. “I took the ferry from Boston on Wednesday, but she wasn’t at the cottage. She’s not answering her phone. And I guess now I know that she visited you on Monday, but I’d sure like to know where she went after that and where she is now. Because I have no idea.”

  Scott appears in the doorway to the kitchen, but Rose doesn’t seem to notice. Her hand has risen from her chest to her throat, and it seems like there’s something caught there. “Do you think something happened to her?” she asks hoarsely.

  “I don’t know. Did she seem worried or upset on Monday?”

  “She seemed perfectly fine, didn’t she, Scott?”

  Scott’s nod is barely perceptible.

  “When did she leave that night?” Rose asks him. “I didn’t see her after the two of you went out to your workshop.” She gestures at her husband and tells me, “This one is always working on a project, and he loves to show off for his daughter.”

  “She left around nine,” Scott says, looking like a man who has never shown off for anyone ever.

  “She seemed perfectly fine,” Rose says again, and it makes me glad I didn’t mention the fight. “Oh, do you think she’s been in an accident?”

  “I called all the hospitals in the area,” I offer. “She wasn’t at any of them. Not a Jane Doe, either.”

  Rose’s fingers are worrying at her throat, and I realize she’s rubbing a crucifix pendant on a thin gold chain. “We could call hospitals a little farther away,” she says. “Just to make sure.”

  “Have you reported this to the police?” Scott asks.

  I nod.

  “Let me guess,” Rose says bitterly, locking gazes with her husband. “They told you that she’s an adult and has a right to disappear.”

  “How did you know?” I ask.

  “Hmm?” Rose whips around to focus on me again. “Oh. I’ve seen every episode of Law & Order they ever made. The real ones, anyway. I don’t count the ones after Lennie Briscoe died.”

  “I really hope this isn’t headed in that direction,” I say.

  “My daughter is a free spirit,” Rose says, jabbing at the ice in her glass with a stalk of celery. “You understand that. She’s a creative person.” She takes a long pull from her drink, looking like she needs the fortification.

  “I do understand that,” I say. “I’ve seen her get lost inside her own head sometimes, but never actually lost.”

  Rose lets out a choked little grunt before waving the noise away and setting her glass onto its marble coaster with a hard clack. “A bit of spice in my throat,” she says hoarsely.

  “I’m worried about her, Rose.”

  “And now we are, too. Sometimes I think she forgets that kind of thing,” Rose murmurs. “How other people worry. How it affects us.” Tears shine in her eyes. “None o
f her Boston friends have heard from her?”

  “They might have. I’ll check.” Until now, I’ve been telling myself it was all going to be all right, but Rose’s reaction is making this real. “And I’ll call the police again. Maybe the Truro police?”

  “Try the state police,” says Rose. “Do you have any shared credit cards?” When I nod, she says, “Check to see if she’s made any purchases. That could give you a hint as to where she’s been.” She looks at Scott again, but the man is still standing there like he’s been carved out of ice.

  “I’ll do that,” I promise Rose, feeling stupid for not having done it already. “I’ll check the bank account to see if she pulled anything out, too.”

  Rose is nodding, pressing her lips together like she’s trying not to cry. I feel like a dick for coming to her like this, without having made enough of an effort first. I want to explain that I was hoping Mina was here, but that sounds so lame that I’m sure it would make things worse.

  “Her phone,” Rose says. “What about her phone? Can’t you track it?”

  “We haven’t changed that account yet. She’s still got her own.” And come to think of it, Mina has credit cards of her own, too, so if she’s trying to avoid being found, it’s unlikely she would have used the one we share. I’m still going to check it, but helplessness is already strangling me. “I’m sorry for worrying you two.”

  “It’s our job to worry,” says Rose. She lets out a weak chuckle. “We’ve been worrying about her for her entire life, whether she wants us to or not.”

  Scott is looking out the window now, to their lush garden plot, a riot of red and orange and purple and green. Then he walks to the double doors that lead out to the patio. “I’ll be in my workshop,” he says. “Nice seeing you, Alex.”