Missing

by Becky Citra

  Van speaks now, his voice tight with impatience. “The day Livia disappeared. What happened?”

  May doesn’t answer for a long time. Then she says, “Esta was in a foul temper that afternoon. She complained all through lunch. She didn’t think it was fair that she had to look after Livia and Iris while Melissa was having fun riding. Livia could be a handful and she was fussing—missing her mother and father I expect.”

  May’s blue-veined hand trembles. She sets her teacup down and it rattles in the saucer. “Esta said they went for a walk,” she says softly. “I always suspected it was to that old cabin at the end of the road. It was never used for guests so it was empty. Esta used it as a kind of playhouse, and sometimes she made Iris go there with her.”

  “The cabin’s still there,” I say. “Van and I found it.”

  “Really?” says May. “Well, the girls weren’t supposed to go to the old cabin that summer, and according to Esta, they didn’t. But Esta, quite frankly, was not a truthful girl. She said they played on that little beach toward the end of the road, and then Iris and Livia went back to the cabin they were staying in. Esta insisted that the two of them left together. Esta stayed a little longer. She said that when she got back to their cabin, Iris was asleep on the bed. She woke Iris up and asked her where Livia was and Iris didn’t know.”

  “But Esta changed her story,” says Van. “She said she saw Livia in Grandpa’s truck.”

  “Yes, she did say that,” says May slowly. Her eyes fill with shadows. The lines in her skin seem deeper. “It was a confusing time. Melissa was hysterical when she got back from the ride. She blamed herself. Everyone was hunting for Livia. And then, of course, that night we got the terrible news that the girls’ parents had been killed. The police said that Wayne crossed the center line. He must have been in an awful state, driving back to the ranch knowing that Livia was missing.”

  “Esta changed her story,” Van persists, his voice angry. “Why did people believe her?”

  May hesitates, as if she is choosing her words carefully. “She didn’t really change her story. She just added to it. She always insisted that Livia had gone back with Iris. The police said that, with all the trauma, Esta’s memory would come in bits and pieces. They thought that perhaps Livia had wandered away when Iris fell asleep and that Esta had seen her in Heb’s truck when she was walking back to their cabin.”

  “What did Iris say?”

  “Iris?” May frowns. “All I remember is Iris crying. Crying and crying and crying. She was only eight, and she was devastated. She screamed when the police tried to talk to her.”

  “So it was just Esta’s word,” says Van. “What about Grandpa?”

  “He never saw Livia that day. He took the afternoon off and drove up to Marmot Lake to throw in his fishing line. He wasn’t even here. The problem was, no one saw him leave. And there was no one at Marmot Lake, so there was no one to give him an alibi. We were expecting a big crowd the next week, all the cabins full, and I was baking all afternoon, trying to get a store of pies and muffins and such in the freezers. So I didn’t see him leave either. The ranch was quiet—most of the guests were off on the trail ride. When Heb got back, everyone was looking for Livia and he joined in the search right away. He was upset, terribly upset, thinking that something bad might have happened to her.”

  May stares at her teacup. “We all thought she’d drowned. It was the obvious thing to think. We spread out along the lake, searching under all the docks and in the weeds and lily pads along the shore. And the police dragged the lake. Not a sign of her.”

  “Someone must have seen Grandpa go to Marmot Lake,” insists Van.

  “No one came forward.” May’s voice falters. “The police asked him so many questions. They wouldn’t leave him alone. There was a lot of pressure on them to make an arrest, but they had no actual evidence. And then they came back. Twenty-five years later. They hounded him again.”

  May sounds exhausted. This must be agony for her, I think, resurrecting these memories. I know how hard it can be to think about the past.

  “So it all came down to what Esta said,” says Van roughly. “She never saw Livia in Grandpa’s truck. She lied. She must have. Why?”

  We sit quietly for a minute.

  Then May says, “When it was all over, we decided to stay in the area. It was our home, and no one should be allowed to take that away. We raised your father here. Martin was a joy to us. Oh, we had lots of good times, but Heb never got over the shame. It made him what he is: a bit of a recluse. He didn’t want his grandchildren to know, and we won’t tell your sisters; there’s no need. Bless him, he forgets the past most days now. Old age isn’t all bad. It’s given him some peace.” May closes her eyes and says, “This is a lot of talk, enough for today. I think I’ll have a little rest.”

  Van reaches out and squeezes her hand. “Thank you, Grandma,” he says.

  We leave May to her memories. I feel restless and uneasy.

  One burning question remains.

  What happened to Livia?

  That night I decide to go back to the old cabin at the end of the road. The sun has slipped below the ridge and the shadows are long. The mosquitoes are out in droves. But there’s something I want to check.

  It’s dim inside the cabin but still light enough to see what I have come for. I study the letters gouged into the wooden doorway. I trace the S and the T and then I make out the shape of the first letter, sunken into the wood. E.

  I say the name out loud. “Esta.”

  Twelve

  It turns out that I haven’t scarred Renegade for life after all. The last two mornings I’ve put his grain bucket in the round pen and left the gate open, and both evenings when I went back, the bucket was empty.

  I’m sitting on a stool in the sunshine, rubbing saddle soap into a bridle, enjoying the way the leather turns a rich dark brown. I have one eye on Renegade, but I’m trying not to let him notice. He’s sticking his head sideways through the wooden rails of the corral, awkwardly tearing up pieces of grass within his reach. He gives up after a while and wanders into the metal round pen, checking out his empty bucket, which has been lying there since this morning. He grabs the rim with his teeth and flips the bucket back and forth.

  I put the bridle down and approach him quietly, climbing over the corral fence so I’m close to the round pen. I slip inside and shut the metal gate. Renegade looks up. He’s on the far side, opposite me, the bucket hanging from his mouth in a comical way.

  I’ve left the rope hanging over a rail, ready for this moment. I pick it up and move to the middle of the pen, watching Renegade. He drops the bucket. Tension ripples through his back. He looks poised for flight.

  I’ve been reading how less pressure is better. I threw the rope too hard last time. Slowly I raise my arm with the rope. That’s all I do. Renegade breaks into a canter. He catches the bucket under his back feet. He kicks out and it skitters into the middle of the pen.

  I think about the words I wrote. Control movement.

  I raise my arm again and Renegade increases his speed. But not crazy-like. Steady. A grin spreads across my face.

  He makes three or four circles. His ears are slanted back and his tail swishes from side to side, signs that he is not at all sure about this. He’s looking to the outside of the pen as if he wants to be anywhere but here with me. His feet start to slow and I send him on faster again, this time tossing the end of the rope gently onto the ground behind him.

  I am the lead mare.

  Now. Change direction.

  I step toward Renegade. That’s when things start to go wrong. He swerves toward me, his ears flattened. I leap out of the way. He bucks twice, churning up clods of dirt, and then canters back out to the rails.

  I take a few deep breaths. Renegade circles the pen two more times. Sweat breaks out on his flanks.

  “Change direction,” I mutter. I step toward him again. He speeds up from a canter to a gallop, kicking out sideways as he st
reaks past. I swear I can feel the wind from his hooves on my face. My legs shake.

  “If you want to make him turn,” says a voice quietly, “you need to focus on his head and shoulder.”

  For the first time, I notice Marion Wilson standing outside the round pen.

  “Move toward his shoulder,” she says. “Hold up your arm. Make a barrier.”

  I think I get it. Renegade has dropped back to a canter. As he approaches, I take a step toward his shoulder, my arm nearest his nose raised. Renegade tucks his back legs under and skids to a halt. He spins toward the rail and turns, gives a tremendous buck and canters off in the opposite direction.

  I glance at Marion triumphantly. She smiles, then says, “Ask for some more turns. Keep his mind on you.”

  It’s easier the next time, and the next. Renegade’s turns become smoother. Back and forth. He’s breathing hard now.

  Then he turns without my asking him to. Marion says, “If he does that again, slap your rope. Tell him no. Tell him he’s made a mistake. He can only turn when you say so.”

  Renegade canters once around the pen and then braces his back legs and starts to turn. I bang the coiled rope against my leg and shout, “No!” Renegade spins around, back in the direction he was going.

  “That’s good,” says Marion. “Now, ask him to turn.”

  I ask. He turns.

  Change direction. It’s working! I don’t want to stop, but Marion says, “He’s had enough.”

  I know what she means—take away the pressure. I move my eyes away from him and let my shoulders go soft. I turn my back on him.

  There is silence behind me except for the sound of Renegade breathing. I peek at him. He’s standing still, his head turned away from me, his flanks going in and out.

  “Well done,” says Marion. I’m not sure if she’s talking to Renegade or to me. I feel suddenly ashamed of the way he looks, his coat scruffy, his mane unbrushed, and I say defensively, “He won’t let me touch him.”

  “He will soon,” says Marion.

  We walk back to the barn together, leaving the round pen gate open. I’m bubbling over with what has just happened. “Thank you for your help,” I say finally.

  “It just takes a bit to get the hang of it,” says Marion. “You’ll want to practice that. Pick places along the rails and make him turn exactly where you want him to. And there’s no need to tire him out. Less is more.”

  Marion waits while I put away the tack and the tin of saddle soap. “I actually came to tell you that Tully has iced tea and homemade cookies on the porch for everyone,” she says. “He said I would find you out here. He’s probably wondering what’s happened to us.”

  I’m more than ready for iced tea. I wipe my dusty hands on my jeans. “Marion,” I say as we walk to the lodge, “please don’t tell Dad. I don’t want him to know yet.”

  “I’m good at keeping secrets,” says Marion.

  I practically live at the barn for the next few days. I try to ignore the fact that Van hasn’t come around. Maybe he’s still upset about his grandfather. Maybe he blames me. Or maybe he’s just hanging out with his youth-group friends. I tell myself I don’t care.

  I practice with Renegade in the mornings before it gets too hot. He follows a bucket of grain quite willingly into the round pen; maybe he doesn’t hate me after all. On the third day, something different happens. Instead of turning his butt to me when he changes direction, he turns into the circle, toward me. His ears flick back and forth and he lowers his head.

  I’m sure that this means something, but I’m not sure what.

  I’m lying on our dock later in the day, thinking about Renegade, when I see Marion coming across the lake in the blue boat. She goes out in the boat every day, sometimes for hours. I don’t have the faintest idea where she goes. She must have explored the whole lake by now. I can’t imagine coming on a holiday like this by yourself, and I wonder if she’s lonely. At dinner we talk about ordinary things like school or how the cabin renovations are going. Sometimes Tully tells more stories about his travels. Marion’s never said anything about having any family.

  I walk over to her cabin to meet her. She bumps the boat up against the dock, gathers up her lunch bag and hat and climbs out. Her movements are slow, and I’m shocked by how tired she looks. There are dark smudges under her eyes, and her face looks caved in; that’s the only way I can think of to describe it. She ties the boat to a tire on the side of the dock, lowers herself into a deck chair and motions me to sit beside her.

  She brightens when I tell her how Renegade makes his turns inward now, looking at me instead of pushing his butt in my face. “That’s a great sign, Thea,” she says. “He’s showing you more respect. He’s focusing on you. I’ll come out and watch you tomorrow, shall I?”

  “That’d be great,” I say.

  There’s something else I want to show her, something I tried at the very end with Renegade. Something I haven’t told her about. I want it to be a surprise.

  Renegade is standing quietly in the round pen, gazing out through the metal rails as usual. I’ve just put him through his paces. His turns were smooth and consistently to the inside. Now he’s resting.

  I make a kissing sound. He bends his neck and stares at me. Then he looks away.

  I make the kissing sound again. He turns, and this time he makes steady eye contact. He holds it for two, three seconds. Then looks away.

  Next time, he holds the eye contact for longer, at least ten seconds. I feel like we are looking right inside each other. The back of my neck prickles.

  Then Renegade takes two steps and turns his whole body to face me.

  I move sideways a few feet. Renegade moves his head first and then his feet, keeping up with me. I let my breath out. Marion is smiling broadly and she says, “That’s marvelous progress, Thea. Marvelous.”

  Her praise makes me feel warm inside.

  But the person I really want to show is Dad.

  Thirteen

  Tully has unearthed a box of photographs of the ranch. They look like the ones in the old guest books: grainy black-and-whites. Tully says they were taken with a Polaroid camera, the kind where you take the film out of the camera and watch it develop. He thinks they’re probably fifty or sixty years old.

  We’re all looking at them: Tully, Dad, Marion and me. There are pictures of people piled into a hay wagon, riding horses, sitting in boats, playing horseshoes. There’s one of a tall woman wearing an apron, and I wonder if it might be a much younger May.

  We’re passing the photographs around in a circle. Marion is quiet. She takes a long time with each photo, staring intently, as if she were searching for something, and a stack builds up on the arm of her chair.

  I come to an abrupt stop when I get to a photograph of a little girl sitting on a pony. A man is holding the lead rope. I recognize them right away. Goose bumps prickle the back of my neck. I feel like I’ve seen a ghost. “That’s Livia Willard,” I say. “And her father.”

  “Who?” says Tully.

  I tell them the story of Livia, how I found the newspaper article in the old guest book and how Van and I went to the museum. I leave out the part about Van’s grandfather and talking to May. I’m not sure Van would like everyone to know that.

  “That’s sad,” says Dad. “I wonder if she drowned.”

  “They searched the lake,” I say. “They didn’t find anything.”

  “Then someone must have abducted her.” Tully is distressed. “To think that it happened here. The poor child. It’s horrible.”

  Marion says nothing, but I know she’s listening. Her hands, holding a photograph on her lap, don’t move.

  Now she gets up and murmurs something about looking at the rest of the photographs another day. Her face is pale, and I think again that she doesn’t look well.

  She’s not. She has a headache, a migraine, she tells us. She’s going to turn in early.

  After Marion leaves, my cell phone vibrates. It’s Van, texting me.<
br />
  “Can I go to a party with Van on Friday?” I ask Dad.

  “Where?” says Dad.

  “A girl called Lindsay’s.” Dad’s frowning slightly and I add, “She’s in the church youth group and she lives on a ranch somewhere near here. Van’s dad said he’d drive us and pick us up.”

  “What time will you be back?”

  “He’ll pick us up at eleven.”

  “Is someone supervising?”

  “Lindsay’s parents.” I don’t know if that’s true, but I say it anyway.

  I’m not that good at parties, and I usually avoid them, but suddenly it’s the most important thing in the world to me that I’m allowed to go.

  “Okay,” says Dad finally.

  I text Van back the good news. I feel all zingy inside, like I want to dance.

  Renegade won’t do anything right today. His feet are firmly planted and he’s not budging. I have to throw the rope hard, letting the end slap his legs, and that makes him buck. He bucks the entire way around the pen.

  He’s sulking now, staring through the rails as if he’s plotting his escape.

  I make the kissing sound.

  He ignores me.

  I’m hot and dusty, and at this very moment I hate horse training. I feel totally fed up with Renegade. Something tells me to stop before I do something I might regret.

  Renegade raises his tail and lets loose a steaming pile of manure.

  I can’t help but laugh. “You win,” I say, “but just for today.”

  Fourteen

  On the night of the party, Van’s dad drops us off in the driveway of a large log house. Van rings the doorbell and a girl that I recognize from school opens the door.

  “Hey, Lindsay,” says Van. “This is Thea.”