When She Was Gone

by Gwendolen Gross

  “That’s something I found in the backyard. I couldn’t read it. I don’t know the writing.”

  Geo knew handwriting. He knew his father’s, which was almost as bad as a doctor’s: a backward, lefty’s scrawl. His mother wrote in stunning block letters, like an artist, the letters more about shape and space than instruction. She’d tried to teach him calligraphy last summer; they’d assembled on the front porch in the slant green light of July. She shaped his name on a thick rectangle of clean white. He’d practiced; she’d given him his own Japanese brush and a smooth gray stone. Geo tried to compose lines as sure as hers, but he wasn’t as sure; he couldn’t bear letters that didn’t hold up their own houses, sloppy lines, so he had decided to wait until his fingers were more confident. He hadn’t told her that. He told her he’d lost his stone.

  Geo knew which sister had left an unsigned note on the kitchen table from the writing. He knew Cody’s and Toby’s lettering, from sitting in seats close to theirs in school. They were S and W, alphabetical neighbors. These were the things he noticed, it wasn’t his fault. He knew Cody bit his nails and that the dots he made for the lowercase i and exclamation points were little bubbles holding nothing. He knew Cody peeled off scabs. He knew Cody hadn’t actually meant to hit him.

  “Do you think—maybe? Do you think this note could’ve come from next door? Do you think?”

  He hadn’t been thinking about it at all when he pocketed the paper. He knew Linsey Hart was missing. He’d been the one to unfold the first flyer when it came in the mail slot a few days ago. He’d found himself wondering what the twins knew, wondering whether they missed their sister, whether they loved her the way he loved his sisters, like limbs, like body parts you expect to do their work without instruction, part of your whole. Linsey’s weren’t whole siblings, though, just halves. That made them more different than he was from his sisters; they shared full blood. Victoria, with her red wavy hair, had the whitest skin he’d seen, almost blue. You could see veins through her skin. She also had eyes shaped like his, and her hands matched his, and her knees turned in a little, the way his did.

  The newspaper said the whole family was in shock. It said Toby and Cody were close as can be to their half sister. He wondered why they bothered with pointing out half, if they were that close, who needed the distance of details? If one of his sisters disappeared, Geo would look for her. He wouldn’t play in the backyard. He wouldn’t get angry, but he would be really scared. He needed his sister, and he needed Linsey to come back, the way he needed to hear the final note of a song. Maybe he could help.

  “It could be,” he said to his mother. And it could. It could be something. It could be evidence. It could also be the last of Linsey’s high school homework, it could be Mrs. Sentry’s note to her house cleaner, it could be from blocks away. He was touching his collar, an involuntary protection.

  “I could take it over to them?” his mother said. Geo thought for a minute.

  “Maybe we should call the police,” he mumbled.

  “You think—hey, what is that? Why are you so dressed up? Geo?” His mother put her hand over his. She possessed him in the way only his mother could, and she pulled his fingers and collar back to reveal the damage. Then she gasped, as if she’d seen the blow.

  26 SYCAMORE STREET

  Everyone knew, of course, there was nothing casual about the signs Frank had made and stapled to poles all over town. Linsey in her graduation attire, her grin slightly lopsided—she’d hated that photo, though Abigail thought it was perfect, showing ambivalence. Ambivalently, she went to the next house, and the next. She spoke to open faces—have you seen my daughter, Linsey, recently? Have you heard anything about her? Have you heard any rumors or anything unusual or have you seen anything suspect in the neighborhood? Anything suspect was the code for suspicious people. Mexican lawn workers, the black mail carrier when he was new. She hated that—she didn’t mean that. The first person she spoke with, a new neighbor she hardly knew, said, no, no, no, sorry. That was it. The second offered her cookies. She couldn’t eat cookies. She couldn’t eat anything, but she accepted one anyway, a lopsided chocolate chip, and slid it into her sleeve instead of biting. The next house held a fight so loud she hesitated, but rang anyway. The man who was screaming stopped, answering the door. Mr. Corning, a lawyer. His face was fat with anger, his eyes bright. Was he crying?

  “May I help you?”

  “I’m sorry to intrude, but—”

  “Oh, no, no problem,” he said. He was playing with something in his pocket. Change? A pocketknife?

  “I was wondering if you’ve seen my daughter, Linsey Hart?” She held up her poster.

  “This is NOT A GOOD TIME!” screamed Mrs. Corning from the other room.

  “I’m sorry, I’ll go,” said Abigail.

  “No,” said Mr. Corning. He reached out and grabbed her arm, a quick grip. It hurt all the way to the bone.

  “GO AWAY!” screamed Mrs. Corning.

  “I’m sorry,” said Abigail. Mr. Corning had already retreated, patting her before pulling his arm away, incongruously gentle.

  • • •

  At Reeva Sentry’s house, she had only just rung when the door swung wide open and Reeva, her mouth a slick plum, opened the screen and extended her hand. She touched Abigail’s arm, and Abigail thought she might start sobbing, but this was not why she’d come. She and Reeva were never friends—Reeva had offered her some hand-me-downs from her boys for Abigail’s boys, and Abigail had taken them all, afraid to offend by sorting through the six bags of beautifully folded navy blazers, long shorts, T-shirts with skateboard decals. Worn elastics, occasional grass stains, but expensive things, well made. She had donated most of the stash, because Frank liked buying clothes for the boys. He took them to outlet stores on long weekends and braved the crowds and somehow the boys came home proud of their purchases, taking off the tags by themselves before putting the turtlenecks, polo shirts, thick cotton sweaters into the wash unasked. She suspected he bribed them with computer games or even cash, which was not entirely a bad idea.

  “Oh, Mrs. Stein, come on in—,” said Reeva, wearing what Abigail could only think of as a hospital face, the expression you offer your great-aunt when she’s septic and smells of plastic IV tubing.

  “That’s okay,” said Abigail, trying to stand her ground on the stoop, but Reeva tugged at her.

  Abigail watched Reeva’s face as she stepped in the door, thinking how Reeva had trusted Linsey, how Reeva had hired Linsey, how Linsey had relationships in this world she couldn’t even imagine. The detective had asked about her laptop and her phone and was reviewing texts, and he had downloaded some files from the computer at the desk in the family room. Toby and Cody were angry with both mother and daughter: “He can see what I wrote to MY friends,” Toby said. “And he can see all my scores on my games,” Cody said. “That’s so unfair.” But she knew they just felt strange the way they did. Her own messages were on that computer—messages to Frank at work; love notes; messages to the college friends she never spoke with on the phone anymore; messages to her friend Mel, whom she had sort of dated between marriages, about whom she had never been serious, but with whom sex had been thrilling—she didn’t know which messages the detective might be reading, and despite knowing she had to give everything up for her daughter, she resented that intrusion.

  “You need tea or coffee?” said Reeva. She wore gold eye shadow; it made her eyes seem very dark, but it was lovely, Abigail thought, lovely in that way she would never attain, lovely as in put together. She didn’t need to be put together. She needed her family together, that was all. “Or something else? I’ll put on whatever you’d like.”

  “That’s all right,” said Abigail. “I just wanted to ask—”

  “I wanted to tell you,” said Reeva, parking Abigail at her kitchen table and turning toward the electric chrome kettle on the counter. She had one of those instant hot water taps, something Frank wanted to get as soon as the boys were
old enough not to mess with it—probably when they were twenty-four, Abigail had said—but she filled the kettle with water from a filter pitcher in the fridge. Cold to hot, thought Abigail.

  “I wanted to mention, I mean, I saw something you might want to know about—”

  “Did you see Linsey? What?” Abigail stood up.

  “It’s not that good, honey,” said Reeva, touching her again, hand on her shoulder: sit.

  “I just noticed, well, I saw that Mr. Leonard when I was on a walk, I mean I was in the neighborhood, you know, near the Hopsmiths’?—I was on my way to a book group? You have one of those at the temple, don’t you?”

  Abigail nodded, though she didn’t have any book group at the temple. She only really went to the temple on high holy days. It was just for Frank, it was her hypocritical indulgence. Maybe this was what had angered God; maybe she should go to confession.

  “And I saw that Mr. Leonard, on a walk in the woods? And anyway, he had this pink sweatshirt? It looked a lot like one of hers; I know, because she babysat for me?”

  “Oh. Thank you,” said Abigail, writing it down. Mr. Leonard? Mr. Leonard who saw them through the windows? Who sometimes waved, as if they were passing on a train? Mr. Leonard with his music early in the morning? Linsey had been to his house over the years. She’d sold him Girl Scout cookies; she’d walked his dog. Mr. Leonard had her sweatshirt? She imagined it, Mr. Leonard’s thin arm raised to strike Linsey. Couldn’t be, couldn’t be, still, she reached for her cell phone—she was going to call Barq first, then the police.

  “It’s just that he’s rather an odd man, and he’s right next door to you—you know—Do you have any news at all?”

  The sweatshirt. She caught herself, she was breathing fast, almost panting, dialing the phone without looking at Reeva. She didn’t press Send, not yet.

  “Are you sure it was her sweatshirt?”

  “Well, it looked like it, but I wasn’t that close—I was, um, just passing by the Hopsmiths’. It could’ve been someone else’s, you know, the pink ones from the girls’ swim team?”

  Abigail paused in her dialing. She knew that sweatshirt. She thought they’d packed it in the trunk, but then, she hadn’t seen it for a while. For a few weeks at least. She looked at Reeva, who was still chattering, her mouth open, a fish, Abigail thought. She’d call it in, of course, but what was it really—just a rumor?

  “And of course I called the police—”

  “Pardon?” asked Abigail.

  “I assumed you knew, because I called the police about it. Yesterday.”

  Nothing, they told her nothing. She envisioned Martin Wooster, tipping back his chair at his big metal desk, eating a sandwich, writing “sweatshirt” on a pad. Then letting mustard spot the note. No, he wasn’t incompetent. She was just desperate.

  “Oh, so you already called about it? Oh. They didn’t tell me—”

  “Hmm. I’m surprised they didn’t tell you. I walk near that woods spot quite a lot. I even saw Linsey there—”

  “You SAW Linsey?”

  “Oh, honey, early this summer. She took my Johnny for a woods walk. She’s a good girl, isn’t she?”

  Something in her tone told Abigail she was asking, not being rhetorical. Always them, she thought, and us. But Reeva was here for her now—maybe there was something about this queen bee she could rely on. Or maybe she was just being lulled by the honey and the wing beats.

  “Yes,” said Abigail. “You have a daughter? Nina?”

  “Tina is much younger than Linsey. Just a freshman.” She seemed to reconsider after she said this. “I guess that’s not all that much younger.”

  “You are changing diapers and then you are applying to college. It’s that fast.”

  Reeva laughed, almost honestly. “Is Linsey still seeing that Timmy? He was such an athlete. I hear his house is up for sale. Someone said some people had already put in an offer. Maybe they were Korean?” She whispered this last word. Hissed it. “Do you know? I don’t mind Japanese, but the Koreans always keep to themselves—”

  “No. I mean, they broke up. I don’t know who’s buying the house. People, just people.” Abigail looked at her clipboard. She was going to call now.

  “Oh, that’s hard, first love. Have you asked him if he knows anything?”

  “He’s moving to California,” she said, thinking, I have to GO.

  “Oh, and have you checked with his parents?”

  “Thank you, Reeva,” said Abigail, getting up.

  “Oh,” said Reeva. “Glad to be of help.”

  Now Abigail felt nauseated, the smell of the chocolate apricots lingering in her nose. She’s a good girl, isn’t she? They always keep to themselves. Why must there always be an other? She was just as other in her acquired Jewishness. She didn’t like Reeva Sentry. Gossipmonger. Sure, she’d been hospitable, but she probably inspected all the neighbors’ recycling to find out who drank cheap wine and who ate frozen entrees. Abigail felt guilty for thinking it—Reeva had not been unkind, just chattery. She had said something about the sweatshirt; no one else had contributed a thing. It was noticing something; it was paying attention.

  On the sidewalk, she dialed Barq’s number. She got voice mail. “Do you know about the sweatshirt?” she asked. “Did you know Reeva Sentry saw Mr. Leonard with a sweatshirt that looked like Linsey’s? Is that something? She said she called Wooster—or the cops, anyway—call me.”

  Then the police. Martin Wooster was at his desk. Why aren’t you out finding my daughter? “Did you get a call about a sweatshirt?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes, hello, Mrs. Stein.” He took much too long to breathe.

  “We did. We investigated. It was a dead lead, so we didn’t want to get you overexcited.”

  “A dead lead?”

  “Your neighbor buried a bird in a pink handkerchief. Somehow someone thought he had Linsey’s shirt. He didn’t.”

  “Oh,” said Abigail. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure,” said Martin Wooster.

  He mumbled something like be in touch and was already gone as Abigail was apologizing, explaining.

  A dead lead. A dead bird.

  She made her way down the cul-de-sac, her chest compressed. A dead lead. Maybe someone had a live lead, electrical, a current to jolt this cold hunt to life. She rang at three houses with no answer, then the Whitebreads. She hardly knew them now, but when she’d moved in, Mrs. Whitebread, Jane, had brought her banana bread and a jar of honey with a plaid ribbon. She’d sat on the front step with Jane, beginning the process of friend making. But somehow they never became friends, even though their boys saw each other at school, somehow they had children and built the hives of their families and woes in their separate lots and only waved half the time their cars passed.

  “Mrs. Whitebread?” she asked, when Jane answered the door.

  “Abigail,” said Jane. “I heard about Linsey, I’m so sorry.” She reached her arm around Abigail and ushered her into the room. Her son was on the floor, playing the game where you scooped rocks along a board—an African game of some kind, she thought, blushing, because the son was black. He looked up at her, and she thought he narrowed his eyes, making him feline, long lashed, angry. That was awful, how could she think he was angry? She smiled at him, but his glance was already cast back at the game.

  She’d heard rumors that he was the result of a mix-up with the markings on sperm donations, and also that Mrs. Whitebread had had a black lover, but she didn’t believe the latter, and the former, well, that was their business. Maybe he was adopted. Who cared? She wanted to like the son, though she didn’t remember his name. He played at the back of the yard, near theirs, making little nests with detritus from the recycling bins. Toby said he was always making movies and taking photographs. He was so quiet, sometimes she wondered if something was wrong with him. She also wondered why her sons didn’t befriend him, if perhaps they should, if she should encourage them, but she let them be when it came to friends, caring mostly abo
ut safety and car pools to soccer.

  Jane sat on the couch beside a nest of laundry. The basket was on the floor. She gestured that Abigail should sit down on the chair, but Abigail was afraid to settle anywhere. She asked her questions.

  “No,” said Jane. “I haven’t heard anything. I did know your daughter’s boyfriend—Timmy? He volunteered a few years ago for this little drama class Geo was in? He was a nice young man.”

  What odd words, thought Abigail, coming from someone so much more colorful than nice young man.

  “They broke up.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Jane. She began to fold the laundry, her daughter’s long-limbed fall T-shirts, Geo’s socks; she was trying to match the shades of white before she paired them from the masses.

  “Any rumors, perhaps, in town?”

  “Hmm. Well, I have to admit, I did see some kids looking at one of the posters—” She glanced at her son, and without looking up at her, he left the room. Abigail listened to his heavy steps up the uncarpeted staircase. A door sighed open and whined shut.

  “I heard someone saying something about drugs, Abigail. I feel horrible telling you this, but it was something about you catching your daughter with pot—I’m so sorry—I feel awful saying it—”

  “No, that’s okay, this was something we went through—it wasn’t a big deal, though at first I thought it was.” She shivered, though the windows were open and the afternoon was warm. She felt naked there, spilling out the contents of her house, of her family history, for this woman she hardly knew. “But thank you for telling me. Who was talking about it?”

  “Some teenager, and some young man who works at Starbucks? I think he lives in the carriage house behind the Hopsmiths’. They didn’t say her name, just gestured toward the poster? Is there anything I can do to help?”