“Ben,” her mother says when she looks up. “Did you pass an opportunity for your daughter to void?”
“What’s void?” Helena asks.
“Nadda,” her father answers.
“What’s nadda?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t have to nothing.”
Helena’s mom twists her body around so she can look at Helena. “Can you hold a little longer, honey, or should we make your father turn back?”
“Turn,” Helena says, suddenly desperate.
“Okay, family. Hold tight.” Helena’s dad makes her Uncle Jeff’s car do a letter-U turn that upsets Helena’s stomach. He steps on the gas until they almost touch the green car in front of them. The license plate is one she saw before: 175 ELP.
Her dad makes the Mercedes take a sharp left-hand turn. The green car vanishes from view and a moment later they glide up to an Esso gas station.
The sharp turn has made her bladder even twitchier. “Can you make it, honey?” her mom asks.
“Elp, elp,” Helena says. She crosses her legs to hold in the pee.
Her dad gets out of the car. He isn’t as gentle as Helena would like as he carries her across the lot to the bathroom. Lately he’s been grumpy a lot of the time. It occurs to Helena he might be mad she wasn’t snatched instead of Gabriel Wheeler.
“Hurry or we’ll leave without you,” he says, proving Helena right.
¤
Helena can hardly believe her eyes even though Uncle Jeff’s car is parked in the bright light of a motel’s flashing vacancy sign. There’s a car parked beside theirs and the boy inside is Gabriel Wheeler. She’s almost absolutely certain.
Mark’s sleeping with his sweaty head on her lap, so she can’t move to get a better view, but the boy’s hair is springy and blond like Gabriel’s in the photograph, and he’s wearing something white. Helena would tell her parents, except they went to register in the motel office together so they could “continue their discussion in private.” It’s an improvement because they’ve been having nasty discussions about money in front of Helena and Mark ever since they stopped for dinner at McDonalds.
Helena tries knocking on the window of her Uncle Jeff’s car. When the boy shifts his head slightly, she catches a glimpse of big eyes that might be blue. The heat wave she feels in her body tells her she didn’t really believe it was him until now.
“Caution is advised,” she says as she knocks again with enough force to cause Mark to complain in his sleep. This time Gabriel turns his head all the way. The halo’s gone from his head, but otherwise everything is almost exactly the same as in the photograph.
Stifling the urge to scream, she tells herself she’s safe. The car doors are locked. If Gabriel’s kidnapper tries to get her and Mark, say by smashing in a window with a battering ram, Helena will climb into the front seat and honk the car horn. The horn’s off limits to her because she’s played with it one too many times, so her dad will be mad if she does. He’ll also come running.
Gabriel stares so hard, Helena realizes she’s in an actual staring contest with a kidnapped kid. Her own eyes are dry from looking out the car window all day and she blinks first. Then she has to blink some more to clear the blurriness. By the time she’s done, the car with Gabriel backs slowly out of the parking space, getting away.
Helena climbs over the seat. She tries to honk the car horn, needing her dad to come rescue Gabriel before it’s too late, but nothing happens.
The kidnapper’s car doesn’t speed away. It stops when it reaches the other side of the parking lot. People get out and Helena sees Gabriel isn’t Gabriel after all. She’s a tall girl in a white snow bunny jacket, and white boots with bows at the front Helena that wishes were her own.
“Bumpy,” she says, jostling Mark. “Wake up.”
Mark whimpers as Helena helps him sit. He seems startled to find himself in the car at night without their parents. “Mommy,” he says.
“She’s in there.” Helena points to the office door. “You have to put on your boots so we can go get her.”
Helena finds one of Mark’s boots and one Velcro-strapped running shoe, both stuffed under their father’s seat. Her fingers tremble as she wrestles the footwear onto her brother’s chubby feet. Her own feet only have socks on, and there are still patches of snow on the ground, but she decides it doesn’t matter because she’s too strong to catch colds and croups, unlike Mark who fusses about stinky cod liver oil even though their mother always gives them a sugar cookie afterward.
She unlocks the door. It doesn’t creek like Maggie the Mazda’s door always does when she pushes it open. “Come on,” she says. The night’s chilly and Mark resists the pull of her hand.
They’re only halfway to the office when the door opens. Their mom steps out first, followed by their dad. Their voices cut out when they see the children. Romy rushes to Helena and Mark and sweeps them both up into her arms even though Helena’s too big for such treatment. “What’s going on?” she says.
Mark starts to bawl like the baby he is. Helena wants to tell her parents nothing happened, but she can’t. She’s too busy bawling herself. The cold wind, her parent’s troubled faces, and her failure to save Gabriel Wheeler prove too much pressure for her bladder. The stream it releases soaks her yellow tulle skirt first and her mother’s pants and shoes.
An ugly old man comes out of the office to ask if everything is all right. No, Helena wants to say. It’s not. But her dad answers instead. “Everything is per-fucking-punderful.”
That’s bad, but what’s worse is Helena’s mother who laughs even though nothing is even the tiniest bit funny.
«33»
After the family settles into their motel room Romy tosses her oldest pair of Birkenstock sandals, along with her guilt, into the bathroom garbage bin. With no way to disinfect the battered sandals, she’s ready to admit they’re not salvageable. Ben, who adores her face and body but dislikes what he calls her bag lady look, would probably crow as if he’d scored a moral victory to see the discarded shoes, except he’s taking a break from speaking to her. He won’t come into the bathroom while she has it occupied.
As if to make up for Ben’s lack of communication, Helena chatters non-stop. Topics flit from why no one can really do multiplication, to the gross girl in her class who eats her own boogers without any logical transitions. When she realizes Romy is only pretending to pay attention, Helena flops back in the water, setting off a tsunami of bubbles. She tugs on Romy’s arm, forcing her to sit on the wet edge of the tub.
“Guess what?” she says.
Romy wipes a bubble off her nose. “What?”
Helena widens her eyes. She lowers her voice, creating a conspiratorial tone. “I saw someone in the parking lot.”
“That’s nice, honey.”
“It’s not,” Helena says in the squeaky voice reserved for use when the dumbness of her parents disgusts her.
Romy doesn’t ask why not: her daughter’s conversations are labyrinths she lacks the will to get lost in.
Helena flops back into the tub, setting off another tsunami that forces Romy to jump up before the wave of water can dampen her pants. “Caution is advised,” Helena says.
“Now you tell me.” Romy tosses a towel on the floor to soak up the mess. She walks over to the counter where there are complimentary body creams and shampoos. They smell of chemicals instead of the promised lavender and mango. There’s also a minuscule shoeshine kit and a boxed shower cap. She opens the shower cap box as a promise to herself: If Helena relinquishes the tub while Romy still has energy, she’ll soak away the grit of an awful day with a hot bath.
Romy prods the wrinkles on her forehead. She doesn’t want to model vanity in front of Helena, the child’s vain enough, but lately she’s felt an almost constant need for reassurance that she’s still attractive. And she is, despite the deep vertical wrinkles in the space between her eyes.
“It’s super-duper not nice.” The adorable bubbles o
n Helena’s nose don’t match the grim set of her mouth. “It was Gabriel Wheeler.”
Romy releases her hair from the shower cap, catapulted into overwhelming fatigue by her daughter’s obsession. The closed toilet seat lid shifts under her weight when she sits. “Close your mouth,” she says. She dips a facecloth in the tub water.
“Ow,” Helena says as Romy scrubs the chocolate ice cream from her face with too much force.
Even though Mark’s too young to understand a word, Ben reads him Helena’s copy of Where the Wild Things Are. Ben’s boxers, the new ones with the yellow happy faces on the waistband, hang on the towel holder where he left them after a father-son shower. The kindness of her husband’s voice paired with the cheerful sight of his underwear triggers a surge of tenderness in Romy that turns her focus away from her squirming daughter. She married a good man. So why can’t she remember that fact when she feels the urge to nag?
Helena breaks away from the facecloth to say, “We need to rescue him.” For a moment, Romy thinks she’s talking about Ben rather than Gabriel Wheeler. The mistake makes her blush and she longs to press her hand over her obsessive daughter’s mouth—not a strategy recommended by the school counselor.
“Elp!” Helena says, as though she’s read her mother’s mind.
¤
Taking a hot bath while sipping two glasses of Australian Shiraz rewards Romy with a horny mood. She blocks out the intrusion of Helena’s laundered Snow White costume hanging from the shower curtain rod. Her abdomen is soft, with a small paunch underscored by a crooked caesarean scar, but her legs are still good. No cellulite, not that she can see. She used to take her bikini line in for regular waxing at Ben’s request, but has let things grow wild in the past few years to save the expense. Fur pie is what Ben calls her thatch.
She climbs out of the tub to dry off. The sensuality produced by creaming the smooth skin of her legs and face survives shrugging on a decidedly unsexy flannel nightgown with a fuzzy teddy bear applique.
The lights are off in the bedroom where the children are asleep with their limbs entwined on one double bed. They are so precious it would kill her to lose them the way Gabriel Wheeler’s mother has lost her child. She listens to the rhythms of their breathing, then, judging the situation safe, pulls the nightgown over her head to slip naked into the other bed beside Ben.
He isn’t fully asleep and shifts onto his back. He’s exhausted from the rigors of packing with young children, followed by a five-hour day on the road. Not that he’d complain. Romy thinks he probably loves his brother Jeff’s Mercedes just a little less than he loves her and the children. Without opening his eyes, he pulls Romy down until her head nestles on his shoulder. She presses the full length of her body against his. His penis jerks upright when she slides a leg over his thigh.
“Tired?” she says. As quickly as it arrived, the erection subsides.
Ben takes her hand, which rests on his chest. A bar of neon light cuts across their entwined fingers. “Dead,” he says.
“I thought we could go in the bathroom and—” She touches his flaccid penis.
Ben grunts a second time, but Romy knows it’s hopeless. She’s right; within a minute he’s asleep and snoring.
Romy looks at his face. It isn’t just the wine speaking; she loves him. She’ll love him even if he leaves her because she’s a nag. She adores the creamy tone of his skin, the scattering of brown freckles, his boyish take on life, his determined innocence. She loves that he has never once pointed out how easy, delightful Mark is exactly like him, while difficult, exhausting Helena is her replica.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” she whispers. If she repeats the mantra enough times, maybe his subconscious will come to believe her.
Ben’s mouth moves and Romy tilts her ear up to hear him. It isn’t her name he speaks; it’s that of a long-dead dog from his childhood. “Mitzy,” he says, “here girl.”
Romy kisses Ben’s face and neck. Her kisses move lower until she reaches her objective. When she looks up Ben is wide wake.
She gives him a wicked smile. “The name’s Romy, and I’m no girl.”
“Oh, yeah?” he says. “Prove it.”
«34»
The one constant in the basement meeting room of St. Paul’s Anglican Church is the stink of cheap coffee. For nearly eight years, Detective Harvey Sam has attended an AA group in the room with its aged carpet and airlessness every week, after some trouble with alcohol in his twenties, although he’s stubbornly refused the support of a sponsor. He’s seen rickety folding chairs changed for newer versions, an ever-evolving display of children’s biblical art on the walls (the story of David and Goliath is the hands down favorite) and a change of bodies in the seats.
Five of the AA regulars line up at the table with its Styrofoam cups, bowl of white death and jar of coffee whitener. A few with seedy lifestyles send guarded looks his way when Harvey tags onto the end of the line to get his usual decaf tea. A newcomer once told the group that Harvey carried the aura of his uniform even when dressed in street clothes. Group consensus is the aura freaks them out, but they aim for tolerance.
Hi, Harvey thinks. My name is Harvey Sam. I’m an alcoholic leper and I have failed in my duty as a cop.
Heads swivel in his direction. For one humiliating moment Harvey thinks he’s spoken out loud, but eyes don’t flash toward his blushing face. The gazes of those present stop at the door behind him, where someone’s making such a noisy entrance Harvey marvels he hadn’t noticed.
The person is Celine Wheeler. In an attempt to look girlish she has collected her bleached hair into curly pigtails on either side of her head. She’s dressed in gold stiletto heels, junior-style low-rise jeans that barely conceal her panties, and a sequined leopard-print blouse. Fingers with deadly red acrylic nails twirl an unlit cigarette as she casts a disdainful look around the room. Her gloating finds a place to rest when it reaches Harvey.
“What the fuck is a pig doing here?” she asks.
What the pig is a fuck doing here? Harvey thinks. He immediately regrets the coarse language; he’s better than that.
Celine lights her cigarette. Harvey can tell by the shock on their faces the group is scandalized by her flagrant disregard for the no smoking ordinance. A woman scuttles out the door, probably with the intention of finding the AA moderator to come set Celine straight.
“Same thing as everyone else,” Harvey says. “Staying sober.”
Celine takes a long drag of her cigarette. She smooths the fabric of her blouse with her free hand. “I wondered why you didn’t find my little angel.” She tips an imaginary bottle to her mouth. “Now I know.”
«35»
Celine looks good. She can read it in the cameraman’s horny face as he snaps photos of her and Elvis in full regalia posing for the Fenny Times article on Gabriel’s disappearance. The front stoop of their apartment isn’t the sexiest location, especially when the interview will do dual purpose of keeping Gabe’s memory alive and advertising the new escort agency Celine has begun with two barely-legal girls who have agreed to work under her umbrella. She’s considering suggesting they move to the Starlight Lounge for round two when the butch bitch of a reporter calls it a wrap.
In her thigh-high power boots, Celine strides toward the woman. “I’m not done here,” she says. “Not by a long shot.”
“Thank you for your time, but we have the story,” the woman says, moving away as if Celine isn’t right there, in her face.
“You don’t have all the facts,” Celine says. “Walk away now and I give the scoop to someone I like.”
The bitch signals to the cameraman to stop packing up. “What scoop?”
Celine looks back at Elvis, preening on the front stoop. “Not here,” she says. “I need a warm environment where we can talk over something to drink.”
“Our office is nearby.”
“Screw that,” Celine says, “We’re heading to the Starlight. See you, and him,” she waggles a crystal
-studded fingernail at the cameraman, “in five. Or not.”
“What you gonna dish up?” Elvis asks as he steers his pink Caddy toward the pub.
Celine lowers the visor to freshen her lipstick in the mirror. “The whole truth, and nothin’ but the truth, so help me god. This town deserves to know their precious detective has big problems.”
“Such as?”
Celine grins. “Booze. That’s why he’s fucking useless at his job.”
«36»
Gabriel couldn’t find the shed key in the forest, no matter how hard he looked. Now he huddles to one side of the shed watching Willard bring down the thick side of an ax on the lock three, four, five times. The sound rings out across the forest, but there’s no one around to come investigate.
Willard tosses the ax when the job’s done, then shoves Gabriel against the closed door to force it open. “You first.”
Gabriel gags on horrible stink so thick it coats his face. Between parted fingers he sees bones and white hair. There are long, twisted nails on a hand that’s stretched out.
“Don’t blubber like a baby.” Willard sloshes the door and walls of the shed with gasoline. He forces a rolled up wad of newsprint into Gabriel’s hand, and a lighter into the other. “Wait until I got the car started. Then light it.”
Gabriel watches the door, waiting for the dead man to crawl out and grab him.
The car engine chugs to life. “Now,” Willard commands. Gabriel obeys. The hungry fire races toward his fingers. “Drop it.”
Gabriel’s fingers open. The little flame explodes when it touches the gasoline. A burst forces Gabriel back. Red tongues lick the walls as though the logs are made of ice cream. A bush shrivels and explodes. Bones wriggle.
All That Remains (A Missing and Exploited Suspense Novel Book 1) Page 9