Local Woman Missing

by Mary Kubica

  That said, the last thing I want to do is make someone else shoulder the burden. Besides, it’s women like Shelby who need me the most. Women like Shelby are the reason I got into this career, to be there for women with no or unsupportive partners.

  I take a deep breath. I peek at Josh to be certain the covers are still over his head.

  Did he hurt you? I ask. I remember the sunglasses the last time I saw her. She was hiding something, either red, swollen eyes from crying, or a black eye.

  I think of all the things that she could say in reply. She could tell me that yes, he hurt her. That he hit her. That he has a temper. That he screams and throws things.

  But abuse isn’t always physical. It can be emotional, too. Name-calling, throwing insults, controlling her behavior, monitoring her whereabouts at all times, asserting financial control. Shelby used to work. She no longer does. She no longer has her own source of income. We think that victims of abuse should leave their spouses. We judge them for not leaving but choosing to stay in abusive relationships. But with no job and a baby on the way, what are women like Shelby to do? She’s reliant on Jason.

  Physical abuse worries me more than emotional abuse. But the fact that Shelby doesn’t reply is most disconcerting of all.

  I think the worst: that he saw her texting and now he’s mad.

  Is everything okay, Shelby? I ask.

  When again she doesn’t reply, I consider going to her house to see if she’s all right. The Tebows’ address is on the contract. They don’t live far. They live quite close actually, in our neighborhood. It might be how Shelby heard of me.

  Now that I think of it, I don’t know how Shelby heard of me. Sometimes OBGYNs recommend me. But Shelby’s is leery of doulas. I haven’t worked with him before, but his reputation precedes him. He wouldn’t have recommended me or anyone else in my line of work.

  I have a website. There is a database of doulas where she could have found me. The fact that I can walk to her house may only be coincidental.

  But it would be rash for me to go to the Tebow house now, by myself. It’s the middle of the night. And what would I do when I got there? Just knock on the front door? If her husband isn’t mad now—if he doesn’t know what Shelby told me—he would be.

  Besides, how am I to know he wouldn’t answer the door with a shotgun? People have them. I am a mother. I have my own kids. I can’t put myself in harm’s way for Shelby’s sake.

  I could call the police then, ask them to do a welfare check. But what if that would only make things worse for her? Her husband would be angry if the police showed up. He’d want to know why they were there. There would be backlash.

  And besides, not long ago a woman called in a welfare check on a neighbor whose door was left open overnight. When police arrived, they got spooked. They inadvertently shot the neighbor in her own home. She died as a result. I wouldn’t want something like that on me.

  In the end I do nothing. Indecision paralyzes me. I go back to bed, clutching the phone to my chest in case, later on, she needs me.

  LEO

  NOW

  We don’t need the lady cop anymore. Our crisis was averted when I found you asleep in the basement. Still, Dad doesn’t call her off. He lets her come, though it’s the middle of the night and her arrival sparks much interest from the hacks outside. There are lights and cameras on our house because of her.

  “Josh,” she says as Dad ushers her quickly in and closes the door.

  “Carmen.”

  She takes Dad in her arms. They hold each other too long. It’s embarrassing to watch. “I came as soon as you called. You must be beside yourself with worry.”

  Dad pulls back. The lady cop isn’t in her usual detective getup, but the most put-together version of someone who’s just rolled out of bed. I smell her perfume from halfway across the room. “We found her,” Dad says, “Leo did,” and then they look at me, as if they only just then realized that I was here.

  “Oh, thank God. Where was she?”

  Dad tells her.

  Her hand goes to her heart. “Oh my God.”

  Dad couldn’t stand the idea of you sleeping on the basement floor, so he woke you and sent you back upstairs. You did as told, though you were disoriented when you awoke. You weren’t so sure you weren’t still in that other basement. You panicked. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I said when you did, careful not to touch you like Dad had. “It’s just Dad and me. Leo. You’re home. You’re safe. Remember?”

  You’re not sure what safe means. Still, you climbed the stairs and went back up to your bedroom. You closed the door. I wonder how long you’ll stay there.

  “Good for you, Leo,” the lady cop says now.

  I shrug. “It’s not like she was that hard to find.”

  Dad tells her, “I should have called and told you you didn’t need to come. But we just found her a couple minutes ago. There wasn’t time.” I silently call bullshit. It’s been at least fifteen minutes since Dad sent you upstairs. Plenty of time to call the lady cop off.

  “No, it’s fine. You know I’m always here for you whenever you need me, Josh.”

  She’s staring at him. Their hands are still touching. Inside I gag. I don’t announce that I’m going to bed. I just leave, though there’s no chance I’m going to sleep.

  I don’t go into my room. I take a seat at the top of the stairs instead. I listen to what they say. One thing I’ve figured out about the lady cop is that she has two voices. She has her cop voice, in which she thinks she’s pretty badass. That’s the one I always hear at the police station. And then there’s her lady voice, which is the exact opposite of this. It’s eager to please. Tonight her lady voice showed up.

  “So tell me. How’s it been going having Delilah home?”

  Their voices are hushed from the distance. Dad’s chilled out some from his near heart attack upstairs, but I can tell that his nerves are still frayed. After he got you back upstairs, he cracked open a cold one and finished it in two minutes flat. “I’d be lying if I said everything was perfect. It’s far from perfect. She’s not right, Carmen.”

  “Of course she’s not.”

  “She’s suffered greatly.”

  “She has. And you have, too.”

  No one mentions me and my suffering.

  “It’s been over a decade that she’s been gone. She’s not my little girl anymore. Don’t get me wrong. I’m ecstatic to have her home. Relieved and overjoyed. I keep having to remind myself that this is real, that Delilah is actually home. That this isn’t just another dream I’ll wake up from in the morning, as I have hundreds of times since she disappeared. She’s here, and no one’s ever going to take her away from me again. We’ll get there,” he says. “We’ll get to a place where things feel normal.”

  “A new normal. Things may never be how they used to be.”

  “You did this, you know?”

  “Did what?”

  “This. You brought my baby girl back home to me. You never gave up on her, on us. You told me you’d keep looking until you found her, and now you have. I can’t ever thank you enough for this, Carmen.”

  “I was just doing my job.”

  “You went above and beyond. You are still,” he says, and then it’s quiet for a long time. Too long. In my perverted mind, I see them sucking face, even though I’ve never actually witnessed anything more intimate than their sappy texts and the occasional hug. But how would I know what they do when left to their own devices? They’re two lonely grown-ups, after all. The man has needs, even if the idea of it makes me want to puke.

  You’re making noise in your room. I don’t know what you’re doing in there, but I know you’re awake. I push myself off the floor. I go to your door. I knock. And then because I think me knocking might scare the bejesus out of you, I call through the door. “It’s me. Leo.”

  Your
side of the door goes quiet. If I had to guess, I’d say you’re standing there, trying to talk yourself into letting me in. How do you know that you can trust me? How do you know I’m not here to do something bad?

  I don’t blame you for being scared.

  I knock again. It takes some time for you to open up the door.

  You don’t say anything when you do. You just stand there, looking uptight. “Why aren’t you asleep?” I ask. You don’t say. You’re still wearing the hospital clothes. For whatever reason, you don’t want to put mine on.

  “What are you doing in here?” I ask. I look around to see what you’ve been up to. But the room is mostly dark. I can’t see much.

  You give your head a little shake. Your hair falls into your eyes. It’s schlumpy. You’ve got a smell to you. You need a shower, but Dad thought you’d had enough for one day, so a shower will have to wait until tomorrow. “Nothing, sir,” you say.

  “Leo,” I tell you, getting annoyed now. “It’s Leo. Le-o,” I say, ’cause maybe you don’t know how to pronounce it or something. I could wear a nametag to help you remember, but I don’t want to be a dick and assume you know how to read. “Say it with me. Le-o.”

  You say my name. I think there’s going to be something déjà vu-ish about it when you finally do, but there’s nothing. Not the spark of recollection I’d been hoping for.

  “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  You don’t say either way.

  “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

  You don’t tell me.

  “Just can’t sleep?”

  You don’t say.

  I think it would be hard trying to sleep in a place that’s brand-new, surrounded by people you don’t know. You were asleep in the basement, until Dad went and put an end to that.

  “Stay here,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

  I go to my room. Kicked to the back corner of the closet floor is my old security blanket. It’s blue. The silk edge is torn. Why I still have this stupid thing is beyond me. I used to go everywhere with it. I’d cry without it. According to Dad, Mom used to have to dupe me to get it out of my hands long enough to wash it. Once, it got left in the grocery store shopping cart and my world almost came to an end.

  I’m thinking maybe you need my blanket more than I do.

  I half expect your bedroom door to be shut and locked when I come back. It’s not. I thrust the blanket at you. “Take it,” I say.

  “What is it?” you ask, feeling the texture of it, the weight. The thing’s been washed so many times it’s anything but soft. It’s thin. It isn’t the kind of thing that would keep anybody warm. It doesn’t look like much.

  “My old blankie. My blanket. Some kids have them. Maybe you did, too. I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep without that thing as a kid.”

  You don’t say anything. You just hold my blanket in your hands, staring blankly at it, then me, then it, ’cause you can’t hold someone’s stare more than a second at best. “I thought maybe it would help you, you know, sleep. It used to be the only thing that made me feel better when I was sick or sad.” I turn my back to you and start walking away.

  Three steps later, you say, “Don’t you need it?” Then you tack on, “Leo.” The way you say it is unsure, like you’re not a hundred percent sure you should say it. It gets a smile out of me, though you don’t see. I keep walking.

  “I think you need it more than me.”

  KATE

  11 YEARS BEFORE

  May

  As promised, Bea and I drive to the babysitter’s to pick Leo up. We park on the street, then walk to the door, sharing an umbrella. When we reach the door, it sounds like mass chaos on the other side. I rap my knuckles against the door. When that fails to get anyone’s attention, I pound. Charlotte, the babysitter, comes. As she draws the door slowly open, I catch a glimpse at the anarchy on the other side. A TV is on, volume loud, but no one watches it. Instead, a group of kids play Simon Says, while another plays tag. They chase each other in circles around the living room, leaping on furniture whenever necessary to get away from It.

  It’s madness to play tag inside, and yet it’s raining outside. And even if it wasn’t raining, the ground is sopping wet from days of rain. It’s too wet to play in.

  I try and get a head count. But the children are constantly on the move; they’re impossible to count. If I had to guess, I’d say more than a dozen, including the one who hangs from Charlotte’s leg, wanting a ride. The kids are hysterical, slaphappy.

  I have to look a while to find Leo. He sits by himself at a small table in the corner of the room. He pieces together a puzzle, alone. The kids run circles around him. One knocks into the table. It’s by accident only, and yet it’s careless, insensitive. It’s a little girl who does it, taller than Leo by a head. If she knows what she’s done, she doesn’t apologize. She keeps running, laughing, while Leo’s puzzle goes flying to the floor. The pieces separate. No one but Leo and me notice. Leo’s face falls, but he doesn’t cry. He looks so small in comparison to the others as he scooches his chair out and drops to his knees, reclaiming the fallen puzzle pieces.

  “Can I help you?” Charlotte asks, peering at Bea and me through the screen. I let my gaze fall from Leo, feeling sad. Charlotte’s hair is gray. Her eyes are gray. She has deep-set wrinkles around her mouth and under her eyes, made worse when she smiles, which she does. She has a kind smile.

  “We’re here to pick up Leo,” I say, “Leo Dickey,” in case, in this mayhem, there’s more than one Leo.

  “Yes, of course,” she says, “Josh called and told me you’d be coming. The weather,” Charlotte complains, leaning in closer to be able to speak over the noise. “Usually I’d have the kids downstairs, but the darn sump pump went out yesterday, and the basement flooded.”

  “Oh, no, how awful,” I say. “What a mess.”

  “We had a new one put in, but the basement is in the process of drying out. It will take a while. There are fans everywhere, but even after it’s dry, we’ll need repairs before the kids can go back down. Being cooped up inside like this,” she says, turning to look at the kids, “it’s making the children stir-crazy. All that pent-up energy. They need to get outdoors and play.”

  She calls across the room for Leo. He’s still on his knees, picking up fallen puzzle pieces. He glances up at the sound of Charlotte’s voice, seeing Bea and me through the screened door. A slow smile spreads across his lips, and Bea waves. Like a good boy, Leo finishes gathering his puzzle to put it away before he leaves.

  Charlotte hugs him before he goes, confessing to Bea and me, “He’s my favorite. I wish all the kids were as well behaved as him.” I wonder if she says this to all of the kids.

  Charlotte opens the door and Leo steps outside with us. We make our way to the car. Leo is quiet, as always. He doesn’t ask about Josh, Meredith or Delilah. Still, Bea says something glib about why we’re not going to his home.

  “Delilah’s sick,” Leo tells us at random.

  Bea says, “Yep, buddy. That’s right. Delilah’s sick.” It doesn’t feel right lying to Leo.

  At home, Bea makes dinner for Leo and me. She lets Leo help. They make pasta. Bea serves it with milk for Leo, a glass of wine for me. She makes an extra plate to save for Josh, not that he will eat it.

  We sit at the table and eat. Bea tries to get Leo to open up about his day. He isn’t very forthcoming. When Bea asks if he likes it there at Charlotte’s, tears well in his eyes. He doesn’t answer with words. He doesn’t need to.

  I finish my glass of wine and Bea brings me another. She switches topics to something more light. She and Leo get lost in a discussion of superheroes with the best superpowers. I don’t join in. My mind is elsewhere, circling on three things: What is happening at Josh and Meredith’s house? Who did Cassandra see on the Dickeys’ lawn that night? How can I meet Dr. Feingold for myself?<
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  * * *

  We’re playing charades when Josh comes for Leo. We’re in the living room. The TV is on but muted. For the last hour or so, Bea and I have watched the news ticker at the bottom of the screen warn us that we’re under a severe thunderstorm watch. As I open the door for Josh, I see that the world outside has turned ominous. It’s late and dark; he was with the police for hours.

  I welcome Josh in, pressing the door closed against the weight of the urgent wind. Josh rushes to Leo, where he scoops him into his arms. They talk about Leo’s day. Leo asks where Mommy is. Josh hesitates, and I feel for him, having to come up with an answer to Leo on the spot. As with Bea, it’s a lie. The truth would be too much for Leo to handle right now, especially when none of the adults in his life know what the truth is. Where is Meredith?

  “Mommy is at work,” he says.

  “When will Mommy be home?” he asks. His voice is small, discreet, like he doesn’t want Bea and me to hear.

  “You know how it goes, Leo,” Josh says. “Sometimes we don’t know when Mommy will be home from work. But she’ll be home as soon as she can. I promise you that.”

  We let Leo pick out a cartoon. Once he’s fully immersed in it, Bea, Josh and I slip into the kitchen where we can speak in private.

  “What happened?” I ask Josh. I go to the refrigerator, offer him a beer. Bea warms his dinner and brings it to the table, though, as expected, he doesn’t eat. Josh looks beat, disheveled, undone. He hasn’t shaved in two days. I’m not entirely sure he’s slept or showered.

  He says reluctantly, “They found Meredith’s pills.” I know what he means by this. I know what the implication is. They’re blaming the victim.