Missing

by Becky Citra

  After a while, Marion changes the subject. “I’ll join you for dinner and I’ll take you up on that offer of a bag lunch, but I’ll pass on breakfast. And I certainly don’t need maid service in my cabin or anything like that.” Her voice is brisk.

  Tully looks disappointed. He’s so excited about being a host. “How about clean towels every few days?”

  “That would be fine. And I would like the use of a boat while I’m here,” says Marion.

  “No problem,” says Tully. “We’ve got canoes and a couple of small boats with electric motors. Thea can show you.”

  Marion smiles at me. “That would be lovely.”

  “I’m sorry we can’t offer you riding,” says Tully. “You’ll have to come back next year.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid my riding days are over,” says Marion quickly.

  “You used to ride?” I say, for the first time really focusing on the conversation.

  “A lot. I had a bad fall about ten years ago. The doctor warned me that if I fell again, I’d do some serious damage to my back. But until then I rode almost every day.”

  “What kind of horses?” I ask.

  “Thoroughbreds,” says Marion. “Steeplechasers.” There’s a slight pause and then she adds, “It was my aunt and uncle’s business, and when they died I took it over.”

  I’m totally impressed. “Did you race?”

  Marion smiles. “We had jockeys to do the racing. But I started lots of young colts. And I rode them on training rides.”

  “I’m planning on getting into breeding,” says Tully proudly. “Quality quarter horses. I’m researching bloodlines. It’s always been a dream of mine.”

  “That’s exciting,” says Marion, “but a big undertaking.”

  “And all new to me,” confesses Tully. “Ah well, I like a challenge.”

  There’s a scraping sound as Dad abruptly pushes back his chair. He mutters something about banging in a few more nails.

  “What about apple pie?” says Tully.

  “Later,” says Dad, and then he’s gone. For what seems like a long time, no one speaks. My cheeks flush. Dad sounded so rude. I wonder what Marion is thinking.

  “Homemade apple pie,” she says, breaking the silence. “You’re spoiling me.”

  I dig into my pie, which is still warm. Tully says he’ll bring the coffee out to the porch, and I gather up the dirty dishes and take them to the dishwasher. For a second, I almost tell Marion Wilson about Renegade. Then I change my mind. I’m not sure I want to share him yet.

  The light on my watch tells me it’s 2:00 AM. Sweat soaks my back and my heart is racing. I take a few deep breaths, relief flooding me as I realize that I was dreaming. That’s all it is. A bad dream.

  It felt so real, but already the details are fading. I try to piece the dream back together in my mind, grasping blurred images. I remember we were looking for Livia Willard, the little girl who went missing. It’s all mixed up because she disappeared nearly sixty years ago, but we were all there—Tully, Dad, Van, me and a shadowy person who I think might have been Marion Wilson.

  In the part of the dream that I remember clearly, we were standing in a marshy spot beside the lake— not anywhere that I recognized, but I think it must have been Gumboot Lake—and someone was shouting that they’d found something. It was a pink running shoe with a bunny on it. Then somehow I was swimming underwater and there were weeds everywhere, pulling at my legs and arms. And then the weeds turned into hair, blond curls swirling in the water, and I saw a pale face.

  I waded onto shore, the weeds still dragging at me like skinny arms. I could hear someone sobbing. It sounded like a young child, but I couldn’t see anyone. And then the dream got weirder and somehow I was in a forest and a person was standing beside a tree. It was the girl in the photograph, the older sister. I frowned, trying to remember her name. Esta. Her face was expressionless and her eyes were blank, but I knew she was watching me.

  “Where’s Livia?” I said.

  “Livia is dead,” she replied.

  That’s when I woke up.

  I push back the damp sheets and climb out of bed. I pour myself a glass of water at the kitchen sink, quietly so I don’t wake Dad. The window over the sink is open, letting in cool air, and moths beat at the screen with their silvery wings. It’s harder and harder to hold on to the dream, though one question nags at me: Did Livia drown? That must have been one of the first things the police thought of. They would have searched all along the lakeshore. Is that where they found her?

  Something catches my eye outside. It’s a light, shining through the trees. For a second I can’t figure it out, but then I realize it must be coming from Marion Wilson’s cabin. I watch for a few minutes, wondering what she’s doing. When I turn to go back to bed, shivering with goose bumps, the light is still on.

  Eight

  Van has asked me to his house for dinner. It’s not a date. How could it be when his whole family is going to be there? His mom, his dad, his three sisters and both his grandparents. But it’s the first time a boy has ever asked me to do anything, and I take a pathetically long time to get ready. I’ve discarded four tops when I hear Van talking to Dad outside on the dock. In a panic I pull on a black halter top (the one I started with in the first place) and head outside.

  Van has come for me in his boat. It’s Wednesday; school tomorrow. He promises Dad that he’ll bring me back before dark, even though I remind them that it’s the last week before summer vacation starts, and we’re not doing anything in class anyway. I scramble into the bow of the boat and Van swings it around and guns the motor. We surge forward toward the middle of the lake, tiny waves beating against the tipped-up bow, and my hair blowing in the wind.

  Marion Wilson is just coming back in to shore in a small blue boat. She’s sitting very erect in the stern, her hand on the tiller of the motor, and she’s wearing a straw hat. I wave at her and she waves back as she heads toward the dock in front of her cabin. I wonder idly if she has been out all day, if that’s why she wanted a bag lunch.

  “That’s Marion Wilson,” I tell Van. “She’s a guest from England.”

  Van nods. He picks up speed. I’ve explored in one of the canoes a few times, but I’ve always stayed near the ranch, going only as far down the lake as a small island covered in scraggly trees and a lot of bleached gray wood. Van shouts out something as we fly past the island, and I turn around so I can hear him. He slows the motor a little and says, “That’s Spooky Island. I used to build forts there all the time when I was a little kid. My sisters still play there.”

  “Why is it called Spooky Island?” I ask.

  Van shrugs. “Don’t remember. Maybe because all that dead wood kind of looks like bones.” He’s cut the motor right down until we’re barely idling. The breeze dies suddenly and the lake turns to glass. I dangle my hand over the side of the boat and scoop up a handful of cold water. It trickles through my fingers like silk. It’s peaceful out here. Blue sky. Green water.

  Van seems to be making up his mind about something. “Do you want to see something cool?” he says finally.

  “Sure,” I say.

  Van lets the throttle right out and we slice across the smooth lake, heading for the far side. The shore is much steeper on this side; dense forest, with the occasional outcropping of bare rock, climbs straight up to the sky. We cruise along the edge for a while. Then, in the mouth of a small bay carpeted with pale green lily pads, Van turns the motor off and lifts the propeller up out of the water. He slides to the seat in the middle of the boat, where he picks up a set of oars. “The weeds and stuff will clog up the propeller,” he explains. “We’ve got to row from here.”

  With strong thrusts of the oars, Van noses the boat into the lily pads and across the bay to the shore. The lily pads make a rustling sound against the bottom of the boat; it’s the only sound other than the splash of the oars. We’re approaching a cliff with scraggly trees growing out of bare rock. Just when I think we’re going to bu
mp right into it, I see what Van is heading for: a slit in the cliff wall, just wide enough for the boat. We glide through into a place of shadows and dark water. A secret pool.

  “It doesn’t go very far,” says Van. “It’s just like a little inlet. But I like it because if you don’t know it’s here, you’d never find it.”

  The long narrow pool is cut out of the cliff. There are steep banks, rimmed with trees, on either side, and at the end are slopes of rust-colored boulders covered in patches of lime green moss. It’s dank and cold, the water almost black. A different kind of lake weed grows here, hanging in tangled brown clumps just below the surface of the water.

  “It’s awesome in here,” I say, shivering, “but kind of creepy too.”

  I pick up a clump of the slippery brown weed and hold it, dripping, over the water. We sit still for a few minutes, and then Van says, “I just wanted you to see this. You’ve got goose bumps. Let’s get back out into the sun.”

  When we come back out into the little bay, the sun is dazzling, bouncing off the lily pads. The warmth feels glorious on my bare arms and legs.

  I just wanted you to see this. As we fly down the lake, I ponder the amazing news flash that Van has chosen me to be his friend.

  “Do you know how old I am?” says Van’s grandfather. He’s sitting beside me at the dining-room table. He’s a thin man with wispy gray hair, and skin mottled with brown spots.

  Van’s house is great. Like the lodge at the ranch, it’s filled with photographs. They’re propped up on tables and clutter the walls, but they’re different from Tully’s; they’re of family, and there are tons of school photographs of Van and his sisters. There are also more books than I’ve ever seen in one house, crammed onto shelves that climb all the way to the ceiling.

  We’re about to eat. Van’s grandmother is a large, red-cheeked woman with gray hair in a long braid. She was baking biscuits when we arrived and she’s still wearing an apron dusted with flour. She’s sitting on my other side, and Van is beside her. His three sisters sit facing us. Dawn is ten, Ginny is eight and Katie is six. Except for size, they’re very alike: freckles, blond hair and huge brown eyes. We met earlier out in the field, admiring and feeding carrots to the two ponies and throwing sticks for the golden retriever, Prince.

  “How old do you think I am?” Van’s grandfather persists.

  “Um, I don’t know,” I say.

  Katie giggles.

  “Eighty-nine,” he says with a grin. “I’m having my ninetieth birthday on September sixth. We’re having a big party.”

  “With all the bells and whistles,” says Van’s dad. He’s moving around the table, filling glasses with water from a pottery jug.

  At the other end of the table, Van’s mother glances around and says, “I think we have everything.”

  Van’s parents have told me to call them by their first names, Martin and Jane, and Van’s grandparents insist on Heb and May, but I’m feeling a little uncomfortable so I don’t call them anything. My plate is heaped with food: fried chicken, potato salad, green beans, creamed corn and a biscuit. I’ll never be able to eat it all. I pick up the biscuit nervously, break it open and spread some butter on it.

  I’ve taken a bite when it hits me like a cement truck. No one else is eating. They’re all waiting for something. The girls stare at me and then look at their mother to see what she’s going to do. My cheeks flame.

  Jane says in this smooth voice, “Dawn, how would you like to say grace tonight?”

  Grace. Crap. I should have known. I want to slide under the table. I want to completely and utterly disappear. A wad of biscuit is trapped in my mouth, and I’m sure everyone hears me swallow.

  Dawn sucks in her breath. “Thank you, God, for our meal and thank you for having Thea come and visit us. Amen.”

  “Amen,” echo six more voices around the table.

  Everyone is eating now and the moment has passed, but I still feel like a moron. I’m also mad at Van for not warning me.

  The conversation is dominated by Van’s sisters, who all have stories to tell from their day at school. I’m happy to sit quietly, trying to get used to so much family.

  In between the main course and dessert (I wait cautiously until Van swallows a spoonful of ice cream in case there’s some kind of second grace), Van’s grandfather falls asleep. His head tilts forward and he starts to snore gently. No one else seems to notice, or maybe they’re used to it. I worry that he might topple over sideways but after a few minutes he wakes up. His faded blue eyes survey the table. “What are we talking about?” he says politely.

  For a second, Jane hesitates. “I was just asking Thea about the ranch,” she says.

  “We used to work at the ranch,” says Heb. “I was a handyman and May was the cook. But I don’t remember when.”

  “It was a long time ago,” says May gently.

  And then from somewhere Heb produces a nugget of information. “I was thirty-one years old when I started there. Your grandmother, girls, was twentyseven. When was that?”

  There is a pause. I sense that Van’s parents and May are trying to protect Heb from something. What?

  “In the nineteen-fifties,” May finally says.

  “I don’t like Van going down there,” says Heb. He turns to Van and says sharply, “You’re not to go there anymore. They’ll blame you.”

  “Grandpa,” says Van.

  “They never found her,” says Heb. “Never. They searched everywhere but not a trace.”

  Livia. He must be talking about Livia.

  A tickle runs up my spine. Van’s grandparents were at the ranch when Livia disappeared, they must have been. And then something shifts in my brain as Heb’s words sink in. Not a trace. For some reason I’d been sure that Livia had eventually been found. Maybe she had wandered away into the woods. Or maybe she had drowned and they had found her body.

  “Never found who, Grandpa?” says Ginny.

  “Never mind now, Ginny,” says Jane.

  And then Heb’s delicate hands, which were folded in his lap, start to flap. He says in a bewildered voice, “Why are we talking about the ranch?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” says Jane. She looks at Martin and he stands up.

  “It’s okay, Dad,” he says. “I’m going to set you up in your sitting room with your tea.”

  Heb allows himself to be led away from the table.

  “What’s wrong with Grandpa?” says Dawn, her eyes sharp.

  Van’s grandmother smoothes her hands on her apron and says calmly, “It’s just his dementia. He’s mixing up the past and the present. He’ll be fine in the morning.”

  Dawn persists. “Is Van allowed to go to the ranch?”

  “Of course he’s allowed,” says Jane. “I’m sorry about all that, Thea.”

  “That’s okay,” I say.

  “We’re awfully proud of Heb,” says Jane. “He’s usually as sharp as a tack. He knows so much about everything. He must have done too much today.”

  “He’s never said that before,” said Van. “About me not going to the ranch.”

  For a second I think May is going to tell us something. Then her eyes flicker over the girls, who are finishing their ice cream, and she says simply, “There’s nothing to worry about. Van, why don’t you take Thea to see Grandpa’s birds? That will put him right.”

  Heb and May’s sitting room is at the back of the house. Heb’s sunk deep in an armchair with a red plaid blanket across his knees, drinking tea. He’s surrounded by birds: ducks and geese and a tall great blue heron, woodpeckers, robins and tiny little birds that I don’t recognize. They’re carved out of wood and delicately painted in vibrant reds and blues, pale smoky grays, rich cinnamon. They perch on tables and shelves and the sill of a big window that looks out on the lake. They take my breath away, they’re so beautiful.

  “Did you make these?” I say.

  “Every last one,” says Heb proudly. He sets his teacup down and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “I
don’t carve anymore. Hands are too stiff with this darn arthritis.”

  “They’re incredible,” I say.

  “Grandpa had a show once,” says Van proudly. “In the gallery in town. They asked him to take the show to Vancouver but he didn’t want to move the birds so far.”

  “They belong here at Gumboot Lake,” says Heb. “There are no foreigners among them, just everyday birds you can see around here.”

  “Can I touch them?” I ask.

  “Oh yes,” says Heb.

  I pick up a little bird that is the color of a summer sky. “I love this one,” I say.

  “Mountain bluebird,” says Heb. “The male. It’s a pretty little thing.”

  He gets up stiffly and walks around the room with me, naming birds: northern flicker, blue-winged teal, wood duck and a ruby-throated hummingbird that fits in the palm of my hand.

  I’m amazed at how good his memory is now. “I’ve spent my whole life watching birds,” he says. His eyes twinkle. “Tried to get my grandson here interested but no luck. Now young Ginny, she’s got the bug. I’m starting her on a carving of a mallard.”

  “I think they’re wonderful,” I say.

  “Well, it’s a hobby that’s kept me out of trouble.”

  Heb is tiring. He sinks back into his chair and pulls the blanket around his thin legs.

  “We’ll leave you now, Grandpa,” says Van.

  “Thank you for showing me your birds,” I say.

  “Goodbye, Thea.” Heb puts out his hand for me to shake. It feels as fragile as the tiny hummingbird.

  “Goodbye,” I say.

  “You come in and see me before you go to bed, Van, and we’ll have that game of chess.” Heb’s grin is wicked. “My boy and I are at a draw, Thea, three games to three. Tonight’s the night I whump him.”

  On the way back in the boat, I tell Van about the newspaper article about Livia Willard. He’s amazed that he has never heard of her before. We’re both sure that his grandfather was talking about Livia at dinner. In his muddled-up mind, did he think that Van would get blamed for Livia’s disappearance?