by Dete Meserve
When I’d left NASA Headquarters just days ago, I’d expected to be making announcements to the press about our Trojan asteroid discovery, not that my husband is missing. As I speak the words aloud—Ben Mayfield is missing—the realness of what’s happening sinks in and my voice shakes. I realize that I haven’t cried or shed a tear since this all began. I’d skipped over the shock and the fear and gone straight into problem-solving mode. Now I’m worried that I’m going to lose it—dissolve into tears or maybe have my voice tremble uncontrollably—in front of all these reporters.
It’s a tough crowd. Only a few reporters, like Kate Bradley and another reporter from the LA Times, show anything that resembles sympathy. The rest are ready to pounce with questions.
“The outpouring of support from our friends and family means so much more than anyone can know,” I finish, my voice hoarse with emotion. “Thank you for that and for understanding how difficult this is for our family.”
A reporter with a blonde bob points at me. “Earlier today, chef Ann Lyman, who worked with Ben Mayfield in the past, said, and I quote, ‘The timing is very suspicious. Ben was about to win that lawsuit against his partners, but before he got his day in court, he vanished. I believe if Ben hadn’t filed the suit, he would be here today.’ Do you agree with her theory?”
Christie shoots me a look of caution. I wait a moment before answering. “I know Ann and appreciate her passion for wanting to figure out why Ben is missing,” I say. “We all do. But I can’t comment on any connection with the trial. There aren’t enough facts to posit any theories yet.”
I suddenly worry that I appear too calm. Composed even. I want to break my CIT-trained habit of speaking in full sentences because I think it makes me sound too calculated. Too strong.
A reporter wearing a light-blue polo interrupts. “Are you a suspect in Ben Mayfield’s disappearance?”
I’m surprised by the question, although I shouldn’t be. “No. I was out of town in Washington, DC at NASA Headquarters at the time when we think Ben went missing.”
I look at Detective Dawson and immediately realize I’ve said too much. I should’ve stopped at “no” because by giving them facts—by laying out an alibi—I automatically sound like I’m on the defensive.
“The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” I imagine one of the headlines reading. Well, one of the smarter publications anyway.
It’s early evening and my house is full of people. There are Ben’s attorneys, of course, and Lauren, plus a handful of friends who are in the process of making flyers to post around our neighborhood and at Aurora. Lauren has assembled a small team to post on social media and tells me she’s recruiting more volunteers to “tack flyers on every wall, window, and flat surface in LA.” She’s also plowing through a checklist of things police have requested that will aid in the search: recent photos, personal items with Ben’s scent that will help search dogs find him, and a contact list of family members and close friends.
The kitchen is full, too. Even though Lauren asked people not to send gifts, there are cards, flowers, and baskets of cookies and muffins from friends, Ben’s colleagues and mine, our neighbors, and even Zack’s school. All expressing words of encouragement and hope.
I’ve completed interviews on several radio stations, answered questions from three LA news publications, done interviews for the local morning news shows, and because of Ben’s connection to movie star Michael Hayden, I’ve talked to several entertainment-industry trade publications. I’ve juggled requests from another half-dozen bloggers and social media sites until my voice is raw, and I’m tired of hearing myself talk, certain that I’ve begun to sound like a wound-up robot, repeating the same lines over and over.
Behind every interviewer’s eyes, I feel the silent question: Are you in on it?
The LA Weekly reporter isn’t as coy. “Everyone is wondering if you’re involved in Ben’s disappearance, but the suspicions are often dismissed because you are a CIT astronomer,” he says. “Yet there are rumors circulating that you had a prenup that would entitle you to a significant chunk of the Mayfield Department Store fortune after your recent fifteenth anniversary. So if your husband isn’t found, you have quite a lot to gain.”
He leaves his statement hanging there. It’s not even a question.
My voice is steady, even if on the inside I’m not. “The rumors you mention take the focus away from the crucial message we need people to know. And that is, we need everyone’s help finding my missing husband. He may be sick or injured. Someone out there may have seen him or talked to him—and we need them to come forward.”
When we wrap up the interview, he thanks me for my time, but the way he looks at me leaves no doubt that he thinks I know more than I’m saying.
Back in my kitchen, Lauren, her blonde hair tossed up in a messy bun, is the ringleader of the team of friends and volunteers developing the flyers. She insists on including an image of Ben’s missing car, but despite looking through thousands of photos in our digital archives, she can’t find one.
“It’s not like we took photos of the car,” I tell her. “It’s a dark-blue Audi, but I don’t remember the model number.”
Lauren jumps online. “Was it an A6? Maybe the A8? Or could it have been the TT Coupe?”
She shows me the photos on the screen, but I don’t know the answers to her questions. I didn’t go car shopping with Ben, and in the haze of the moment, all the models appear too similar to make out which one is his.
I hand her a binder that contains all the important information about our cars. Still, I know what she’s thinking. What they’re all thinking. I’m a crummy wife. I can’t tell you what kind of car he drives. I don’t have a favorite photo of him as my phone screensaver. I hadn’t talked or texted with my husband for three days before he went missing.
I have absolutely no idea what was going on in my husband’s life.
Tears cloud my eyes. I’m becoming someone I never thought I’d be. Scattered. Weepy. Unfocused. I feel like there are a hundred things I should be doing, but I’m doing none of them.
Lauren spots my leaky eyes. “Why don’t you get something to eat? Debra brought your fave—scones and lemon curd.”
I don’t have an appetite, so I head to the guest bathroom to collect my thoughts. Even with the door closed, I can hear the muffled inflection of voices—rising and falling—drifting from the kitchen. And clattering dishes. One of my friends is cleaning up my kitchen, I think, which is wonderful, but just plain odd.
I glance in the mirror and, in the unflattering glare of the overhead lights, notice a web of mascara smudged beneath my bloodshot eyes.
I splash cold water on my face, dry it with a towel, then call Ben’s voice mail and listen to his low, measured voice. I hang up and listen again. It sounds like he recorded it in the early morning when his voice is always a bit hoarse. I imagine him sitting in the living room, wearing his favorite navy-blue sweatpants and drinking espresso.
Where is he?
Then my eye settles on the tub and I can see three smudged footprints, as though someone—Zack?—had stepped into it with their shoes on. I move the wooden blinds aside on the window above the tub. It is definitely closed enough to let us activate the alarm. But the latch is not in the locked position.
We hadn’t installed a camera in this guest bathroom for obvious privacy reasons. Were these footprints evidence that Zack was bringing friends through the window to avoid being recorded by the cameras?
Or was this proof of something more sinister? Something to do with Ben’s disappearance?
I close the latch and resolve to ask Zack later. Then I click on the email from Aaron. This clip is taken in the living room on Tuesday, the day Ben went missing. The camera takes in the whole room, including the Christmas tree, which, in this shot, is fully decorated.
Ben and Zack are standing in front of the tree, their backs to the camera, putting something in the branches. Ben pats Zack on the shoulder. The Burl I
ves song “Holly Jolly Christmas” is playing on the living-room speakers and drowns out anything they might be saying. But there’s no mistaking that they’re laughing as they position Santa Claus in the tree.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Why didn’t you tell me you and Dad worked on the Christmas tree together?” I ask Zack, avoiding the word “lie” because I know it’ll upset him.
He’s sitting on his bed doing his algebra homework, wearing a set of green headphones. The cat lounges at his feet.
“What do you mean?” he says, looking up from his homework and removing one of his headphones.
“I know that you and Dad worked on the tree together. You did, didn’t you?”
I don’t like the tone I’m using. It’s accusatory, the same tone I used when we found him passed out drunk. Only this time we’re talking about whether or not he decorated a Christmas tree.
He looks down and slumps a little. I’ve caught him in a lie. “Yes.”
I lower my voice. There are a dozen people downstairs and I don’t want this conversation to get out of hand. “Why did you tell me that you didn’t work on the tree with Dad?”
“I don’t know . . . I figured Dad would tell you.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me the truth? You’re never going to get in trouble for decorating the Christmas tree with your dad,” I say, settling beside him on the bed.
He looks away. “I was asleep when you asked, okay? And I didn’t want you to make a big deal about it.”
“You didn’t want me to make a big deal about what?”
He sighs. “I knew you’d think that if I worked on the tree that it meant I’d forgiven you and Dad.”
“Forgiven us? Zack, you’re the one who’s been grounded for drinking and smoking pot here with your friends. What do you need to forgive us for?”
He folds his arms across his chest. “You don’t trust me about anything anymore. I’m grounded forever.” He waves a hand in the air. “And it’s like I’m in prison with all these cameras everywhere. And you and Dad checking them all the time to see what I’m doing.”
My face crumples. I place my hand on his. “Zack, we did all this because we’re worried about you.”
“I just want things the way they . . . were.”
I take in a deep breath, slowly exhale. “We’re—I’m trying,” I say. “Let’s keep trying . . . together. And just so you know, it makes me really happy that you helped Dad with the Christmas tree.”
“Dad drafted me.” His eyes well with tears. “He promised the tree would bring us all back together again.”
I can’t speak. Instead, I reach out to hug him, and when he hugs me back, a shudder comes over me, then tears slip out of my eyes and slide down my face. “He said that?”
“Yeah. Then he told me a story about how I pulled the whole Christmas tree over when I was three . . .”
I smile and wipe my eyes. “Your dad wasn’t always the best at applying physics principles to figure out how wide the Christmas tree base should be. So when he made the base really small, you pulled on the tree and it toppled right over on you.” I kiss his forehead. “Now, where did you and Dad find the Wedding Santa?”
He brightens. “We tore apart the attic and found him way in the back under some of my old toys.”
The Wedding Santa was given to us as, yes, a wedding gift. Even though our wedding was in June. It showed up on the gifts table without a note or explanation. Ben and I could never figure out who it came from, but we thought it was such an odd wedding gift that each year one of us hid it in the Christmas tree and challenged the other to find it.
Ben was the most creative at hiding it, wrapping it in a tangle of lights one year or secreting it high in the boughs another. Once the Wedding Santa was found, Ben would grab me by the waist and kiss me until we were both breathless.
Twelve years into our marriage, the Wedding Santa went missing. We searched every corner of the house looking for it, but unlike when we’d lost the infinity ring years before, we couldn’t forgive each other for the Wedding Santa’s loss, and we each blamed the other.
“Why won’t you admit you accidentally threw it out,” I had said angrily.
“You’re the one who put it away last year.”
It was a meaningless fight, and we both knew it wasn’t just about the missing Wedding Santa. We were exhausted and stressed. Drifting apart. Our connection consisted almost entirely of taking care of Zack and the deadening routine of making and managing a home. Add to that our busy travel schedules—Ben was working to set up restaurants in Chicago and New York, and I was on the road twice a month for NASA meetings and other research sessions. And when we were home, there was the inevitable dinnertime conundrum when one of us planned to be home to cook something, but neither of us made it there early enough to prepare anything. With two demanding work schedules, our discussions were invariably stressed, flaring with anger as the juggling grew even more complicated.
I’m about to leave Zack’s room when I remember to ask him about what I saw in the tub.
“Do you know anything about the footprints in the downstairs bathtub?”
His eyes cloud over. I know it must sound like I still don’t trust him. “No, why?”
“Could your—”
“No, Mom. I never use that bathroom. And neither did my friends.”
“Okay,” I say gently, wanting to believe him, but still not entirely sure I can.
I leave his room after that and slip unnoticed into the living room. Though the steady hum of voices floats from the kitchen, this room is hushed, silent. I scan past the silvery tinsel and lights, through the branches, to where I’d seen Ben and Zack place the Wedding Santa. When I don’t find him, I search more methodically, pushing aside fat-bulb lights and shiny ornaments, scouring each sector of the tree from the top down. The Wedding Santa is gone.
Disappointed, I step back from the tree. I cannot imagine where the Wedding Santa had disappeared to in the twenty-four hours since Ben and Zack put it in the tree.
And then I see it. Hiding in plain sight. Obscured by the brilliant halos from a clump of multicolored lights and a trio of wooden snowman ornaments we’d picked up on a trip to Germany ten years ago.
I lift him out of the tree, and a memory surfaces of Ben’s face, his laugh, when we first pulled the cheery Santa out of the wedding-gift box that warm summer evening. He’d kissed me then and said, “Merry Christmas, my amazing wife!”
Santa’s black boots and red jacket have faded over time, and his belt buckle is tarnished. But his cheeks are still rosy, and he smiles at me, just like he once did.
My telescope is trained on the moon, watching for an event at dusk that’s barely visible, even with a telescope. It’s the penumbral lunar eclipse, where only a part of Earth’s shadow—the lighter penumbra—falls on the moon’s face. It’s difficult to observe because there’s not a dark bite taken out of the moon like we’d see in a regular lunar eclipse. In a penumbral lunar eclipse most people will notice nothing at all. At best, some might notice a dark shading on the moon’s face.
Tonight the eclipse eludes me. Even though I know where to track the Earth shadow’s movement on the moon’s surface and the subtle gray shading to look for, I can’t see it. I feel as though I wouldn’t see it even if I had the strongest telescope.
Still the moon beckons me, its cool light playing on the water in the pool. It seems to be calling me to distant memories.
I took Ben to a lunar eclipse on our first date. At twilight, we walked atop Mount Tamalpais amid the groves of smooth red-barked manzanita and oak while hawks swooped across the dusky sky. Then, underneath the inky canopy of stars, with the smell of wild fennel and eucalyptus riding on the wind, we watched the Earth’s shadow devour the moon. We stargazed atop that chilly mountain, our eyes and telescope trained on the cobalt-blue zenith above until we noticed the first glow of the approaching sunrise and the stars melted ahead of it, as though darkness itself were dissolving
.
The first time I saw Ben he was sitting across a crowded lecture hall in an English class at UC Berkeley. He had striking good looks—blue eyes and wavy brown hair that fell to his shoulders—and wore a black denim shirt and destroyed jeans, before jeans like that were a thing. I imagined he was a musician. In a rock band.
When he spoke to me after class one day, I actually thought he was talking to someone else. Guys with looks like his didn’t often talk with girls like me. They hung out with girls who wore makeup and their cutest pair of flats to class. Girls who bought Starbucks drinks with fifteen-syllable names and carried around PalmPilots to keep track of their busy social calendars.
I was more of a nerd, my brown hair tied up in a messy ponytail, peering out from trendy-but-still-nerdy two-tone glasses. I rarely wore makeup and was always reading, usually sci-fi novels by authors no one’s ever heard of.
“That’s one of my favorites,” he said, nodding toward the book in my hands.
I was sure he was kidding. This was a story about quantum mechanics, about science and faith and space and time—with some brain-explosion-causing philosophy thrown in. I laughed, just in case he was being sarcastic.
“Have you got to the part where she finds the tincture?” he asked.
He wasn’t kidding. “Yes, and she’s in deep trouble. The building has disappeared.”
We ended up talking for nearly an hour. I liked the way he looked at me when I spoke, as if it mattered to him what I said. Still, it crossed my mind several times that this was some kind of elaborate gag, that I was being punked. Instead, he invited me to go to dinner at an Asian fusion pop-up restaurant he wanted to try. I told him I was planning to watch the lunar eclipse, and without missing a beat, he invited himself along.
That night, under the red eclipsed moon, I learned he was a sociology major, a talented cook secretly hoping to own his own restaurants someday, and that hidden behind those impossibly handsome good looks, Ben was a true nerd. We had both read the encyclopedia for fun, played Dungeons and Dragons in middle school, liked Brown Sugar Pop-Tarts for breakfast, and could name all of the actors who played Doctor Who.