Still Missing

by Chevy Stevens

  My back to him, I grasped the edge of the tarp, leaned forward like an ox with a gruesome cargo, and pulled him over to the shed. Getting him over the lip of the doorway was tricky, because he kept sliding farther down the tarp. Eventually I had to drag it out again, move him up it, and fold the end over him like a napkin. Then with both ends in my hands I wiggled, dragged, shoved, and pulled him inside. At one point his hand fell out and touched my knee. I dropped the tarp, leapt backward, and hit my head on a post. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but I was too focused to pay the pounding any attention.

  I stuffed his arm back in the tarp and tucked it all around him. I found some bungee cords, wound them tight around his legs and upper body. As I wrapped him up like a mummy I kept telling myself he couldn’t hurt me anymore. Not one part of me believed it.

  Dehydrated, sweat-soaked, head pounding, and aching all over from the physical exertion, I locked the shed and made my way back to the cabin for some water. Once I’d slaked my thirst, I lay on the bed clutching the keys and stared at his key-chain pocket watch. It was five o’clock—the first time I knew the hour myself in almost a year.

  At first I didn’t think, I just listened to the ticking of the second hand until the pounding headache calmed down, then I thought, I’m free. I’m finally fucking free. But why didn’t I feel like I was? I killed a man. I’m a murderer. I’m just like him.

  All I’d gotten rid of was a body.

  During one of the first press conferences I held after I came home—I stupidly thought if I got it all over with at once, they might actually stop calling and lurking outside the trailer—a bald guy in the audience holding a Bible up in the air chanted, “Thou shall not kill. You’re going to hell. Thou shall not kill. You’re going to hell!” The crowd let out a collective gasp as he was dragged off by bystanders, then turned back to me. Camera bulbs flashed, and somebody shoved a microphone in my face.

  “How would you respond to what he said, Annie?”

  As I looked out at the crowd and the back of the bald-headed guy, who was still chanting, I thought, I’m already in hell, asshole.

  I wish sometimes that I could talk to my mom about these things, Doc, about guilt and regret and shame, but as much as I have a talent for shouldering all the blame, Mom has one for ducking it. Which is one of the reasons I still haven’t talked to her since our fight, not that she’s tried either. That doesn’t surprise me, but I thought for sure Wayne would have called by now.

  Shit, I’m getting so damn lonely these days I might even have to give one of your meet-your-fears-head-on experiments the old college try. But it’s just so stupid that I still feel like I’m in danger. The Freak is dead. I’m as safe as safe can be. Now, can someone please tell my psyche that?

  SESSION SEVENTEEN

  You know, Doc, all along, even while you were giving me techniques to work through my fears or explaining what might be causing them, I still told myself they’d eventually go away on their own—especially after I read up on all that grief stuff. Then this week some dickhead broke into my house.

  I came back from my morning run to find my alarm blaring, cops parked in my driveway, the doorjamb on my back door kicked apart, and my bedroom window open. Judging by the broken branches on my shrubs, that’s how the bastard got out. Nothing seemed to be missing and the cops said they couldn’t do much unless I figured out if anything was gone. They also told me there’s been a couple of B&E’s in my neighborhood recently, but they didn’t find any fingerprints at them either, like that was supposed to make me feel better.

  After they all went home and my full-body shaking had subsided to occasional tremors, I headed to my bedroom to change. A thought stopped me in the hallway. Why would you risk going in but not steal anything? Something wasn’t right.

  I walked around my house slowly, trying to think like a burglar. Okay, bust open back door, race upstairs, then what? Run to the living room—nothing small visible, stereo equipment and TV are too big to grab fast, especially if you’re on foot. Run down hallway to bedroom—search drawers for valuables?

  I examined each one carefully. All were shut tight and my clothes were neatly folded. Everything still hung straight in the closet and the door was closed evenly—sometimes one side sticks. I stepped back and surveyed the bedroom. A hamper full of clothes I’d just taken out of the dryer was in the same place on the floor, the big T-shirt I sleep in still tossed across the foot of the bed. The bed.

  Was that a slight indent near the edge? Did I sit there when I put my socks on? I came closer and inspected every inch of the bed. Examined every hair. Mine? Emma’s? I brought my nose close to the duvet cover and sniffed the length of it. Was that the faint traces of cologne? I stood up again.

  A stranger forced his way into my house, was in my bedroom, looking at my things, touching my things. My skin crawled.

  I stripped my bed, grabbed my T-shirt, dumped everything in the wash with lots of bleach, and wiped down every surface of my house. After I boarded up the back door and the window—house looked like an army bunker by the time I was done—I grabbed the cordless phone and hid in the hall closet for the rest of the day.

  Gary, the cop I was telling you about, called me later to make sure I was all right, which was nice of him considering he doesn’t deal with robberies. He backed up what the other cops were saying, that it was most likely a random event and the guy raced in to grab what he could, then panicked and took the quickest exit out. When I argued with him, insisting it was a dumbass thing to do, he said criminals do a lot of stupid things when they’re scared. He also suggested I call someone to stay with me or go to a friend’s until my doorjamb was fixed.

  I may have been scared to death, but no way was I going to my mom’s. And friends? Well, even if I wasn’t more paranoid than Howard Hughes, I’m not sure how many of those I have left these days. Luke is about the only one who still calls. When I first came back, everyone—friends, old coworkers, people I went to school with but haven’t seen in years—was making such a fuss over me, I just couldn’t handle it. But you know, people only try for so long, and if you keep shutting the door in their face they eventually go away.

  Christina is about the only one I’d consider asking, but you know what happened there, or at least you know about as much as I know, because I still don’t understand why I reacted so badly to her. She’s probably just trying to be a good friend by leaving me alone now, but sometimes I wish she’d haul off and force me out into the light, bully me like she used to.

  Of course, right away I thought about moving, but dammit, I love the house; if I ever sell, it won’t be because of some asshole burglar. Not that I could, anyway. How the hell am I going to qualify for a mortgage? I thought about looking for work. I have a whole new set of skills, but I’d hate to see what kind of job they’d land me.

  All of which leads me to the call I got from Luke when I got home from our last session.

  “My bookkeeper up and quit on me, Annie. Any chance you could take over until I find someone else? It would be just part-time, and—”

  “I don’t need your help, Luke.”

  “Who said anything about you needing help? This is about me, I need your help—I can’t make heads or tails of these books. I feel bad even asking, but you’re the only person I know who’s good with numbers. I can just bring the stuff to your house, you won’t even have to go into the restaurant.”

  I think it was embarrassment that made me tell him okay, I could try it, before I realized what I’d just committed to. Later, it was a different story. I’m not ready for this! I almost called and canceled. But I took a few deep breaths, then told myself to just sleep on it. Of course the next morning is when my house got broken into. In the midst of all that drama and the ensuing panic attack, I forgot about my conversation with Luke. Then last night he left a message that he’s going to come over this weekend with an accounting program to load on my computer. He sounded so damn relieved and grateful, I couldn’t think of a way
out. And I wasn’t sure if I really wanted one.

  I tell myself it’s just a business thing on Luke’s part, but I’m sure I’m not the only person who could do his bookkeeping—the phone book is full of names.

  Last Monday night I had a cold that was threatening to escalate and was sitting at half-mast on the couch in faded blue flannel pajamas and hedgehog slippers, a box of Kleenex in my lap, the TV on but the sound down. A car door slammed at the end of my driveway. I held my breath for a second and listened. Footsteps on the gravel? I peeked out the window but couldn’t see anything in the dark. I grabbed the poker from my fireplace.

  Soft footsteps on the stairs, then silence.

  Poker gripped tight, I peered through the peephole, but couldn’t see anything.

  Rustling sounds near the bottom of the door. Emma barked.

  I yelled, “I know you’re out there. You better tell me who you are RIGHT NOW!”

  “Jesus Christ, Annie, I was just picking up your paper.”

  Mom.

  I slid open the deadbolts—when the locksmith came to repair the doorjamb I had an extra one installed. Emma took one sniff of Mom and headed straight to my room, where she probably crawled under the bed. I felt like joining her.

  “Mom, why didn’t you call first?”

  With a toss of her head that made her ponytail shimmy, she shoved my paper into my hand and headed back out. I grabbed her shoulders.

  “Wait—I didn’t mean you had to leave, but you scared the crap out of me. I was just…dozing off.”

  She turned around and with her big blue doll eyes staring at the wall over my shoulder she said, “Sorry.”

  Well, that threw me. Even though the “sorry” did have a slight edge to it, I can’t remember the last time my mom apologized for anything.

  Her gaze traveled down to my hedgehog slippers, and her eyebrows rose. My mom wears marabou-feathered high-heeled slippers, summer or winter, and before she could comment on mine I said, “Did you want to come in?”

  As she stepped into the house to stand in the foyer, I noticed she was clutching a large brown paper bag to her chest with one hand. For a second I wondered if she’d brought some booze with her, but no, the package was flat and square. In her other hand she held a Tupperware container she now thrust toward me.

  “Wayne dropped me off on his way into town—I made you some Annie Bear cookies.”

  Ah. Peanut butter cookies in the shape of a bear’s paw with chocolate chips melted for the pads. When I was a kid she made them for me if I was sad or if she felt guilty about something, which wasn’t often. She must have felt bad about our argument.

  “That was really thoughtful, Mom. I’ve missed these.” She didn’t say anything, just stood there with her eyes darting around my house, then she wandered over to finger the dry leaves of the fern on my mantel.

  Before she could critique my plant-mothering skills, I said, “I don’t know if you want to be around me—I have a cold—but if you want to stay I could make us some tea.”

  “You’re sick? Why didn’t you say something?” She perked up like she’d just won the mother lottery. “When Wayne comes back, we’ll drive you to my doctor’s. Where’s your phone? I’ll call their office right now.”

  “I’ve had enough of doctors.” Shit, I sounded like The Freak. “Look, if I decide I need one, I can drive myself, but it doesn’t matter anyway, we’re not going to get an appointment this late in the day.”

  “That’s ridiculous—of course my doctor will see you.” My whole life Mom has never thought she should have to wait for anything—not doctor’s appointments, tables in restaurants, supermarket lines—and sure as shit she generally ends up with an appointment within the hour, the best table, and the store manager opening the next checkout for her.

  “Mom, stop, I’m fine. There’s nothing a doctor can do for a cold—” I held up my hand as she opened her mouth to interrupt. “But I promise if I get sicker I’ll go.” She sighed, set her purse and package down on my end table, and patted the couch.

  “Why don’t you lie down and I’ll make you a hot lemon tea with honey.”

  Telling her I was capable of boiling my own water would just get me a look, so I collapsed on the couch.

  “Sure, it’s above the stove.”

  Once she’d brought me a steaming mug, a plate of Annie Bear cookies, and poured herself a healthy glass of the red wine I had in the kitchen, she sat at the end of the couch and spread my throw over the both of us.

  She took a good long gulp of the wine, handed me the package, and said, “I found that photo album you were talking about, it must have gotten mixed up with our stuff somehow.” Sure it did. But I let it go. She’d brought the pictures back and the hot tea was spreading a pleasant glow throughout my body and even my feet felt warm tucked against her leg.

  As I started to flip through the album, Mom took out an envelope from her purse and handed it to me.

  “You didn’t have these photos, so I made you copies.”

  Surprised at the unexpected gesture, I focused on the first one. She and Daisy were at one of the ice rinks in town wearing matching outfits, matching ponytails, and matching skates. Daisy looked about fifteen, so it was probably taken just before the accident, and in the pink sparkly costume Mom looked about the same age. I’d forgotten she skated with Daisy sometimes when she was practicing.

  “People used to tell me all the time that we could be sisters,” she said. I wanted to say, Really? I don’t see it at all.

  “You were prettier.”

  “Annie, your sister was gorgeous.” I looked at her face. Her eyes were shining and I knew she was pleased, but I also knew she agreed with me.

  While she got up to get herself more wine, I flipped through the rest of the photos, and as she settled back down at my feet with a full glass—this time she brought the half-empty bottle with her and set it on the end table—I stopped at the last one, of Dad and her on their wedding day.

  When I glanced over at her, she was staring into her glass. It may have just been a trick of the light, but her eyes looked moist.

  “Your dress was beautiful.” I looked down at its sweetheart neckline, at the long beaded veil in her blond hair. Then back up from the photo.

  Leaning toward me, she said, “I made it from a pattern Val wanted for her own wedding dress one day. I told her she didn’t have the chest for it.” Mom laughed. “Can you believe she’s never forgiven me? For that or for going out with your father.” She shrugged. “Like it was my fault he liked me more.”

  This was news. “Aunt Val dated Dad?”

  “They only went out a few times, but I suppose she thought they were something. She was just awful at the wedding, barely spoke to me. Did I tell you about our cake? It was three layers, and…”

  While mom went step by step through their wedding feast, the details of which I’d heard a million times, I thought about Aunt Val. No wonder she was always trying to get back at Mom. Might also explain her attitude toward Daisy and me. When we were kids she and Mom did the take-each-other’s-kids-for-the-weekend thing, which Daisy and I dreaded. Aunt Val mostly ignored me, but I swear she actually hated Daisy, looking for any reason to make fun of her while Tamara and her brother giggled.

  Our families didn’t do a lot together after the accident. Wayne and Uncle Mark don’t have much in common, or even like each other, so it was mostly just Aunt Val and Mom. When they did include us kids, my cousin Jason teased the hell out of me, but Tamara kept her distance—I thought she was stuck-up. Now I figure her mother was probably giving her the gears about me as much as mine was about her.

  One afternoon after I moved into my house Mom and Aunt Val popped in from a shopping trip. Aunt Val glanced around, then asked me how I was enjoying real estate.

  “It’s good, I like the challenge.”

  “Yes, Tamara seems to really thrive on it too. She got the top sales award for her office this quarter, won a bottle of Dom Pérignon and a weekend
trip to Whistler. Does your office ever do anything like that, Annie?” Nice dig, if not subtle. My office was large for Clayton Falls, but nowhere near the size of Tamara’s downtown Vancouver firm—we’d be lucky to get a bottle of wine and a plastic plaque.

  Before I could answer, Mom said, “Oh, she’s still doing residential? Annie’s getting a huge project, all waterfront units. Didn’t you say it was going to be the largest building in Clayton Falls, Annie Bear?” I’d only been talking to a developer, hadn’t even done a presentation yet, which Mom well knew, but she just enjoyed twisting the knife so much, I didn’t have the heart to take it out of her hand.

  I said, “It’s a big one.”

  “I’m sure Tamara will get a project one day too, Val. Maybe Annie can give her some tips?” Mom smiled at Aunt Val, who looked like her tea had just turned to poison in her mouth.

  Of course, Aunt Val rallied.

  “That’s a lovely offer, but right now Tamara is finding she can make more money selling houses and doesn’t want to spend years marketing a project that may not even sell. But I’m sure Annie will be fabulous at it.”

  Mom’s face turned so red I was actually worried for a minute, but she managed to force a smile and changed the subject. God only knows what those two were like growing up.

  Mom never talks about her childhood much, but I know her dad split when she was pretty young and her mom remarried another deadbeat. Her older stepbrother, Dwight, is the one who’s in prison. He robbed a bank when he was nineteen, just before Mom got married, served his sentence, and was released a month after the accident, then managed to get arrested a week later. Dumbass even shot a guard in the leg the last time. I’ve never met him and Mom refuses to talk about him. I made the mistake of asking if we could go see him once and she flipped out. “Don’t you even think about going near that man.” When I said, “But Tamara told me Aunt Val takes them, so why can’t we—” that got me a slammed door.