Grace Is Gone

by Emily Elgar

  The Ship is a big pub on the harbor. Like most places in Cornwall, it’s quiet in the winter and bloated with tourists in the summer. The kind of place that sells fluorescent shots for a quid on the weekends, it’s generally ignored by locals but not, it would seem, by Dave.

  “Who? The mum?” I ask.

  “Nah, the mum’s got that salon, hasn’t she? I mean her daughter, Cara, the one who found the body,” Dave says, keeping his eyes on the screen.

  “Is she working there again this summer?”

  Dave shrugs. How should he know? He takes a big pull on his pint before turning away from the screen and forcing his eyes back to me.

  “So, go on then, mate, what was it you wanted to tell me about Ruth?”

  But now I’m thinking about Meg and Grace I can’t even remember why I needed to talk about Ruth. It’s like my head is full of tiny doors concealing different aspects of who I am and only one can be open at a time. Now the door to Meg and Grace is wide open, swinging on its hinges, and the Ruth door is firmly locked and bolted. So I just shake my head and say, “It’s not important anymore, mate. Look, it’s been good to catch up, let’s go for a drink again soon, yeah?”

  I leave Dave before he’s finished his pint but he doesn’t seem to care. It’s a relief to be outside, walking home in the cool, dark night. I snap the band round my wrist so hard it breaks. “Fuck,” I say out loud as the limp rubber falls to the asphalt. And because it feels good I say it again: “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Ashford’s deserted, as though it’s 4 a.m. on a Sunday night, but for once I don’t miss the bustle of London, the wired feeling of being constantly in a race with nine million other people. Tonight, the stillness helps me think. While I was talking to Dave about Meg and Grace, all the unfathomable shit with Ruth and the future of our marriage melted away. For a while I understood who I was, and I didn’t ache anymore because my brain was busy, active with other people’s lives, other people’s pain. If Meg and Grace give me a purpose beyond myself, is that really such a bad thing?

  I’ve tried to ignore it, but I can’t anymore. Meg might be beyond help but, despite what Dave thinks, Grace could still be alive. I don’t have much faith in the local force, not if Dave’s anything to go by. I was good at my job—great, in fact. I always found the leads that others couldn’t. What if I could find Grace?

  I think fleetingly of Ruth, imagine her scornful expression as she tells me I just want to salvage my career. But this is about more than that. Grace is a very sick, very vulnerable child. Like my child once was. What if it was Jakey who’d been taken? We’d do anything we could to get him back. I’m one of the few people who have met Meg, Grace, and Simon, who have met people from their past. I’m in a unique position.

  The restraining order flashes into my mind. I’m probably Ashford’s public enemy number two, after Simon. The police haven’t been in touch yet but I’m sure they will be—it’s lucky that I met with the organizers of the summer fair the night Meg was murdered. But I’ll still need to be careful, not do anything too public. For once, I can’t wait to be back at the flat. I want to have another look at my notebook, see if I turned down any other pages apart from the one about meeting Dr. Rossi.

  I quicken my pace. I’m certain Simon was involved in Meg’s death and Grace’s kidnapping, which makes the article I wrote quietly supporting him even harder to bear. For the first time I question my judgment. I looked into Simon’s eyes and saw a troubled but innocent man. Am I the only one who didn’t see him for what he was? How could I have got it so wrong? I resolve, here and now, to use my experience and what I know to help Grace. I’ll use all my resources to find her, and then, when she’s safe, I’ll write an article, the best article I’ve ever written. I’ll apologize for what I wrote before and tell Grace’s story, all of it. It will be a tribute not only to her safe return but also to Meg’s memory. I feel twitchy for a pen and paper as the words take shape within me. The shamed reporter who helps find Britain’s most vulnerable victim, not only saving her but also saving himself in the process. Bloody hell, my road to redemption could be brilliant. I quicken my pace as the betting shop below my flat comes into view. I wish I could call Ruth, talk through the idea like we used to. But of course that’s the last thing I’m going to do. First, I need to find Grace, and then I need to write the article, and then maybe, just maybe, my family will come back to me.

  5

  Cara

  DCI Upton and DI Brown came over this morning as soon as Mum called in about the diary.

  “Did you read it?” Upton asked, expertly raising an eyebrow. I met her eyes, managed not to blink.

  “No, of course not. It’s private.”

  Next to me, Mum’s bangles chimed as she shuffled in her seat. She knows me better, of course, knows I’m lying. It seems to me that anyone who says they didn’t read the diary of a kidnapped person is untrustworthy or stupid, or most likely both. Incredibly, Upton seemed to swallow my lie. I tried not to think about the carefully photocopied diary under my bed in case she could read the truth in my face as she told me again how much I’m helping Grace by helping the police. I’d been too upset to read it properly and what if Grace had left a hint or a clue that the police, not knowing her, would miss? I wanted to go back when my head was clearer.

  I’d cried quietly in my room for hours after I read the diary. There were seventy-three entries in total, each one full of Grace’s sweetness. Taking a lock of hair from the salon was the naughtiest thing she’d done, for God’s sake. She had more to be miserable about than anyone I’ve ever known—stuck in her chair at home most of the time, a dead brother, and an actually crazy dad. God, it used to make me depressed just thinking about her life—which is why I avoided it as much as possible. But in the diary Grace focused on the good: the support they received, the fun she and Meg had, the love between them. I feel tears start to burn behind my eyes and I don’t want Upton to see so I blink them away.

  The police officer on duty at our front door tips his hat at Upton and Brown as they leave. There are only a handful of news vans left now outside number 52; it looks strangely sparse.

  Mum closes the door quietly behind them and slowly turns towards me.

  “You know Jane gave me a number for a counselor, a woman who’s specially trained in working with victims of trauma.”

  Is that what she thinks I am now? A victim?

  “I know, Mum, you said, I just don’t want to right now, OK?”

  Mum looks at me like I’m something she just can’t understand.

  “It’s free, Car, for as long as you need.”

  “Yeah, you said that as well.”

  Mum’s brow crumples, so I move in for a hug. Her hair is crisp with chemicals against my face, her body taut as a wire, and I know mine must feel the same. I wonder which one of us will snap first. When we pull away, she wipes the tip of her finger under her eyes, frowns at the smudge her tears have left.

  “Oh for God’s sake, I must remember to bring that waterproof mascara back from the salon today.”

  She squeezes my arm and walks towards her bedroom, still dabbing at her eyes. I don’t follow her in case Meg’s in there waiting for me. Drip, drip. So I wait in the hall next to my baby pictures while Mum changes.

  “You’re opening the salon today?” I’m surprised—she didn’t say anything about work. Mum set up the salon after Granddad died ten years ago. Like most of our neighbors, she sold the three-bed Victorian cottage right on the harbor, the house where she grew up, when a couple from London looking for a holiday home offered over three hundred grand. She bought our bungalow and had enough left over to set up her hair and beauty business. She called it the Style Rooms and I’ve always hated it, not only because it caused me no end of grief at school as I romped around in skinny jeans and Dr. Martens, but because Mum loved something I never understood. She loved turning perfectly normal women into frozen mannequins of themselves. They’d come out with PVC-shiny lips, dangerously flammable hair, and a petrif
ied look. I’ve grown up a bit, though. At least I can bear to say the word “salon” now instead of just mumbling “Mum’s work.”

  “Obviously not for clients, love. I told you already, it’s going to be the HQ for the Find Grace campaign. We’re going to get search parties together—we can’t rely on the police to do everything. It’s time for us to pull together, to help, and there’s the vigil to organize. It’s what Meg would’ve wanted.” For the first time since I found Meg, Mum seems more like her old self; she seems better now she has a plan. Ever since Dad left to start a new hippie life living off grid with his girlfriend in Scotland fifteen years ago, Mum’s always needed to keep moving, to keep busy, as though she’s constantly trying to outpace any feelings she doesn’t want to settle for too long. I don’t say what I’m thinking, that Simon—if he has Grace—could have her locked up hundreds of miles away from here. But I know if there’s a chance, no matter how minuscule, that Grace is just down the road, Mum won’t rest until the whole area is searched. It’s the doing something that’s important for her—and for the community—now.

  “Sounds like Martin and Sylvia’s idea,” I say instead. Martin and his wife, Sylvia, live opposite us. Martin heads up the local community watch group. Most weekends they can be found in their fold-up chairs by the side of the road, trying to catch speeding drivers.

  “Actually, it was my idea,” Mum calls from her room, “and Zara was the first to agree with me.” Mum employed Zara, a hairdresser, five years ago and the two of them had been firm friends ever since. Zara has a penchant for huge earrings and, like Mum, bad men. Things haven’t been easy between them recently. I’d come home one night in March and found Mum crying and halfway through a bottle of white. A customer claimed Zara had stolen her diamond engagement ring she’d had in her handbag during a haircut. She’d shown it to Zara to get her advice on how to have the stones reset, but when she got to the jeweler’s the ring wasn’t in her bag. Mum threatened to fire Zara, but then realized the salon would sink without her. A thin truce was declared and when I asked Mum if the ring was ever found she turned away from me, muttering something about water under the bridge. Mum comes out of her bedroom wearing jeans and a white T-shirt with Grace’s smiling face on the front. She hands me a folded, identical T-shirt.

  “Mum! You’ve never worn a T-shirt in your life!”

  Mum shakes her hair back. “Well, I’ve never run a missing-person campaign either, have I?” she says, defensive, wobbling as she bends to slip on her heels. “A printer in town heard what happened, he knew Meg and worked through the night putting them together, bless him. Martin dropped these ones over first thing. Quickly, Car, put it on and then we can get going.”

  I don’t need to say anything. Mum looks up at me.

  “Oh, Car! You’re not coming, are you?”

  “I thought I’d go back to the pub today, just for a few hours.”

  Her jewelry jangles as she stands and looks at me, disappointed I’m not joining her.

  “Really?” she says. “Is it a good idea to go back so soon? What about tonight?”

  “I’m only doing a half shift, I’ll be back way before the vigil starts.”

  “But I thought you could help me with my speech, Car . . . I . . .”

  “Come on, Mum, you know I need the money and—”

  The doorbell rings so I don’t have to say how, more than money, I need time away from concerned glances, endless mugs of tea, and whispers about the effects of trauma. I need to think about something other than the horrible things that could be happening to Grace right now. I need to see if I can feel normal again, even if it’s just for an hour or so.

  Mum walks with fast, small steps like a seabird running from the surf and opens the door to Martin and Sylvia, who are also wearing campaign T-shirts, with reflective vests over the top. In their late sixties now, they’re like the parents of the whole estate, keeping an increasingly disapproving eye on everything that happens to anyone who sets foot on Summervale. They’ve been here since the estate was first built and love to talk about how much better it was, how much better people were back then.

  “Morning, Susan! Ahh, Cara, good to see you,” Martin says, tilting his head to look at me. Sylvia, by his side, smiles at me and pulls me in for a short, tense hug. “You’re joining us today, are you?” Martin asks.

  I explain that I can’t and Martin lifts his eyebrows in a way that suggests he should have expected as much from someone of my generation. Mum gives me her car keys so I don’t have to deal with the bus today. On the road outside, a delivery van pulls up and, staring at the reporters next door, a man hauls a box up the path towards us.

  “Oh, this’ll be the T-shirts” Mum says, casting a quick smile at the deliveryman and scribbling her name on his electronic pad. “Let’s get them straight into your car, Martin.”

  “No room, with all the vests and maps. We’ll have to leave them here for now and I’ll pick them up tomorrow. We’ve got plenty for today,” Martin says, pulling on brown faux leather driving gloves before turning towards his car, ready to leave.

  Mum steps over the box and says to me, “Love, would you mind?” But I’m already bending down to pick it up.

  “I’ll put it in the storage room, Mum.”

  “Thank you, love,” she says and kisses me hard, so I feel the stamp of her trademark coral lipstick sticky against my cheek before the three of them fold themselves into Martin’s small car.

  The peace of the house is a relief. I carry the box into the tiny room where Mum keeps all the stuff she can’t bear to look at every day, but also can’t bear to throw away. There are a few suitcases and a wardrobe, but mainly it’s full of Granddad’s things. His old suit jackets and coats are piled over his favorite easy chair as if he’ll pop back any moment to grab one—“Silly me, going out without a coat.” I wish he would. It’s been ten years since he died and I miss him more than I’ve ever missed Dad.

  I put the box down on the floor next to a larger box that has Meg’s writing in black Sharpie on it: M & G—stuff for tip. Thank you! xxx. Typical Meg, to leave kisses even on a cardboard box. I don’t know why it’s here. Mum probably offered to get rid of it for her and forgot about it. It’s also typical of Meg to tape up a box that was destined for the dump, but then, she was fastidious about everything. Mum said carers had to be—if Grace missed a pill or an appointment it could be life-threatening. There was never any room for mistakes or forgetfulness; her life was about care and precision. I run my finger over the three kisses and remember how much I loved Meg’s hugs. Her hugs were strong and warm, they were gifts—I always felt surer of myself after one.

  I slide my finger along the box until I get to a loose bit and, without thinking, start to pull the tape away. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find. Some little fragment of Meg, perhaps, something that will make her feel more alive than dead. But inside there’s just the usual household detritus—an old kettle, some rusty tools, a moth-eaten blanket, two pairs of shoes with holes in the soles, a broken plastic plant pot, all jumbled together. Now I’ve cleared some space, I see that everything was resting on a sketchpad. I pull it out to have a look. Grace used to love drawing. Shamefully, I realize I don’t even know if she still does. The sketchpad is skinny; most of its pages have been torn out. There’s just one of Grace’s drawings inside. My breath catches as I realize it’s one of her special thank-yous. Grace went through a stage where she’d obsess over making thank-you cards for anyone who helped her and her mum. She’d labor over each card for days, carefully thinking through what she should draw, practicing what to write in the note again and again. They all followed a theme: a colorful scene on the front, with the name of the person Grace was thanking concealed somewhere within the picture. This one is a bunch of balloons. I imagine Grace drew it when she was much younger. In each colorful balloon she’d drawn a letter, spelling out the name “Dr. Rossi.” I run my fingertips over the drawing, imagine Grace humming, head cocked to one side
and bent close to the pad as she colored in each balloon. My throat feels tight suddenly. I open the card, inside is a note with carefully joined-up writing:

  Dear Dr. Rossi,

  Thank you for giving my mum a job. She’s so happy! Thank you for always making sure me and Mum have everything we need. We are lucky to have friends like you!

  Big Kiss,

  Grace xxx

  I read the note again and again until my voice becomes Grace’s voice and she feels a bit closer, a little safer. I put the card carefully to one side and, as I drop the now-empty sketchpad back in the box, a small envelope I hadn’t seen before slithers out of the pad. On the front, Grace has written:

  Granddad

  Resthaven Nursing Home

  Plymouth

  I turn the card over. It looks as though Grace had sealed the envelope and then opened it again. I slide my finger inside the ragged edge of the opening and pull out a small photo. The tightness returns to my throat, gripping harder now. The photo is of a man, old and crumpled in his chair, but his rheumy eyes sparkle as he looks at the little girl sitting on his lap. Grace looks about three in the photo; she’s turning her small face back towards the old man. Behind them both, with one hand on the old man’s shoulder and the other on Grace’s knee, is the youngest, slimmest Meg I’ve ever seen. There’s nothing written on the back of the photo and, uncharacteristically, Grace didn’t write a note, or it’s been lost. This photo—this memory—was something Grace clearly wanted to share with her granddad, so why did the photo end up here, waiting to be taken to the dump? Sitting here, surrounded by his scuffed shoes and his dusty books, I think how I’d love to get a message to my granddad if I could. Clearly Grace, at one time, wanted the same. The burn in my throat has at last given away to tears. I sit on the floor and cry as I stare at the picture of Grace as a toddler. I could have been so much better, I should have been kinder, more patient, more like the big sister she always wished I’d be, the big sister she so badly needed. I let myself cry. But I know it’s pointless, there’s too much, I’ll never be able to cry my guilt away. When I can’t cry anymore, I wipe my eyes and decide to look up the full address of the care home and the doctor’s office. I’ll post these remembrances from Grace to Dr. Rossi and to Grace’s granddad. There may not be much I can do anymore, but I can do this small thing. Glancing at my watch, I realize it’s 10:45 a.m. already. Shit. I grab a couple of envelopes from the kitchen and shove them in my backpack. I’m going to be late.