What We Lost

by Sara Zarr

  I paddle away from him for a few yards, then we both stop. He comes up out of the water, shaking his head, droplets of water staying on his pale skin—the skin of someone who spends more time with his computer than in the outdoors. “You okay?” he asks.

  “No,” I say, tiptoeing backward on the rough bottom of the pool, toward deeper water.

  “Me, neither.”

  “Do you really wish you hadn’t said anything about what happened to you in Mexico?” I tread water, letting the smooth, warmish waves of it churn over and around my arms.

  “I don’t know. I just know I want to do something… meaningful. I want to do what God wants me to do. And I thought it was that.” He pulls a green pool noodle over and drapes his arms on it. “I didn’t know there’d be all this extra stuff, whatever it is, when I tell people. They either look at me like I’m insane or start asking me deep theological questions about the meaning of life.”

  I wonder if that’s how it feels to my dad, still. That everyone thinks he’s crazy, or that he has all the answers. I just want him to have some of the answers. “Remember what my dad said. You could be God’s Chosen Waiter.”

  “Yeah, well, your dad makes everything sound meaningful, and easy.”

  “It’s an act.” I dive under the water and come back up near the edge, intentionally splashing Vanessa. She squeals and sits up. “I think I’m starting to burn,” I say. “Let’s call your mom to pick us up.”

  KPXU

  LIVE @ FIVE

  The mood here in Pineview has turned somber as the fifth day of the search for Jody Shaw comes to a close. Several leads in the case have evaporated as quickly as they came and investigators are no closer to finding the thirteen-year-old, missing since Sunday. Police have said that no one, including family members, has been eliminated as a suspect but emphasize that the family has been cooperative. Regional FBI agents are working with local authorities; attempts to link Jody’s case to those of two girls missing in southern Oregon have failed. Sympathy for the Shaw family was palpable at Library Square today as volunteers waited in line and local companies donated food and drinks to searchers. A tip line has been set up for those with any information about the case. The numbers are at the bottom of your screen.

  Pineview Community Church will hold a prayer vigil tomorrow night at seven PM; people of all faiths are welcome.

  This is Melinda Ford, reporting live from the KPXU studio.

  “Mom,” Vanessa says from her beanbag chair in front of the TV. “We have to go to that.” She looks at me. “You want to, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say, even though really, I’m not sure.

  “Of course,” Mrs. Hathaway says. “We’ll all go.”

  After dinner we sack out in a pile of pillows in the basement, eating ice cream while Robby plays video games. I’ve kept my cell phone close all day in case Mom calls. Or Dad. Or anyone. When we got back from Daniel’s I called my own phone from the Hathaways’, just to make sure it works. It does.

  “This reminds me of the old days,” Vanessa says.

  “The ‘old days,’ like, last year?”

  She looks at me. “No. I mean like the old days. Like when you used to be here every weekend. When your mom and dad would come for dinner, and you’d stay to sleep over, and we’d sit down here while they were up there.”

  And her dad would play his guitar, old songs from when they were all in high school, and they’d try to remember the words, and laugh so much.

  “It wasn’t that long ago,” I say.

  She puts her spoon down. “Yeah, Sam, it was. It was forever ago. And then you, like, disappeared. I mean, where did you go?”

  I stare into my bowl, pushing the melting ice cream around. Vanessa is remembering our childhood, basically. And I understand why, I do. But like so many things, it’s gone. “I don’t know. Nowhere.”

  “You could have talked to me about your mom.”

  I glance at Robby, whose thumbs are working like mad on his game controller. “She didn’t want people to know.”

  “It’s not like I would have told anyone.”

  “I know.” It’s just hard, I want to say. The things that happen in your house, with your family, are personal. How do you talk about finding the spaghetti sauce lid in your dinner or the ice cube trays full of water in the towel closet? How do you talk about helping your mom put on her lipstick, so carefully, because her hands are shaking, so that it looks as perfect as she needs it to look before she can face the world?

  All I can say to Vanessa is, “I’m sorry. Now you know. Now everyone knows.”

  She goes back to scraping her spoon in the bowl. “She’ll come back and be a lot better. You’ll have a fresh start.”

  I know the place is called New Beginnings, but I don’t think it works quite like that. You can’t just erase everything that came before.

  Vanessa’s mom calls down the stairs. “Robby, come on up and brush your teeth and get your pj’s on.”

  He puts down the controller and switches off the game without protest. Such an easy kid. He gets to the bottom of the staircase before turning to me and saying, “Night, Sam. Your mom’ll get better.”

  Of all the things people have said and not said to me over the last couple of days, this is the one that makes me want to cry. It’s so unexpected, and Robby sounds so sure, the way only a seven-year-old can. I barely manage to get out a “Thanks, Robby,” without my voice cracking.

  Then, my cell rings; I lunge for it. I don’t recognize the number, but I’m sure it’s New Beginnings. “Hello?”

  “Hey.”

  It’s Nick.

  “Oh,” I say, surprised. “Hi.”

  Vanessa is watching me. “One sec,” I say to Nick, then stand and tell Vanessa, “Be right back,” before going upstairs and slipping into the guest bathroom at the end of the hall. “Hi.”

  “So, how are you?” Nick asks.

  “Okay. How are you?”

  “Um, you know. Bad.” Then he kind of laughs, and it dawns on me that of course he’d know, too, all the stuff it says about him online. “Am I interrupting anything?”

  “No. I’m just at Vanessa’s.”

  “I can call you back later if you’re busy.”

  I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. There’s a nice, soft light in here that makes my skin look good and my hair shiny. I wonder how Nick sees me. Just someone who can use his “big brother skills”? Or as a real friend?

  “Actually,” I say, watching the way my mouth looks when I talk. “I kind of moved in. Temporarily.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “My dad thinks it’s bad for me to be alone so much. And he’s busy with… everything.”

  “Yeah. He’s helping my parents a lot. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” I turn away from the mirror, still waiting for the reason he called.

  “He and Erin just left here after working out stuff for the vigil thing,” Nick says, “and I was just thinking about you. So I thought I’d call and say hi. How’s your mom?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve left a couple of messages for her and she hasn’t called me back.” It’s the first time I’ve said that out loud, and even though the truth of it feels bad, it’s a relief to say.

  “Oh. That’s kinda… that sucks.”

  “She doesn’t have to be there that much longer.” Emphasis on the have to. She could stay longer, if she wants. “Maybe she’s just trying to get through it.”

  “Maybe. But she should call you back. You’re her daughter.”

  I gnaw on one of my knuckles. My stomach feels shaky. All I can say is, “Uh-huh.” Because now my mind is stuck on what he said about how my dad and Erin just left his house, together. And I’m here. And our house is sitting there, empty.

  “Sorry, you probably don’t want to talk about it. I guess it’s nice for me to talk about someone else’s problems for a change but if you don’t want to…”

  After taking a deep breath, I say, “I guess I
’ll see you at the vigil?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be there. Come find me after, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  When I hang up, all of Nick’s words are running through my head. Until now, I’ve been convincing myself that Mom would have a good reason for not calling me, but there isn’t one. There just isn’t one. Like Nick said, I’m her daughter. And my dad is her husband. And he’s with someone else right now. Maybe. Suddenly, I have to know for sure.

  Panicked, I come out of the bathroom and run into Mr. Hathaway in the hall. “Um,” I say, and he stops. “I’m really sorry but I left something at my house that I need.”

  “I can run you by in the morning to get anything you need,” he says, smiling helpfully.

  “I kind of need it tonight.”

  “Oh, well.” He checks his watch. “You sure it’s not something Vanessa or her mom can… supply you with for tonight? Did you check under the sink?” He thinks it’s female products.

  “It’s not.”

  He feels bad for me for everything that’s going on, I can tell, and doesn’t press further. “Sure. Okay. Grab Vanessa and I’ll take you.”

  In the Hathaways’ minivan I try to stay calm and think about what I’ll do if Erin’s car is parked at our house. This was stupid. Because now if it’s there, Vanessa and her dad will know, too. I think of what I could say. Like that they have a meeting about the prayer vigil or youth stuff. I’ll pretend it’s normal, I’ll pretend not to notice it.

  Before we left, Vanessa asked what we’re getting. “Just something I need,” I told her. She looked at me funny but didn’t ask for more. Now we’re sitting in the back of the van and her dad has the AC up to the point I wish I had a sweater. It’s not quite dark out yet, but getting there.

  We turn the corner to my block. I crane my neck to see past Mr. Hathaway’s head and get a glimpse of the house. There are no cars out front, not even my dad’s, and I know there can’t be any in the garage other than my mom’s, which has been parked there since her accident and arrest. The driveway lights are on but otherwise the house looks empty. I blow breath out.

  “You have your key?” Mr. Hathaway asks as he pulls into the drive.

  “Yeah.” I open the sliding door and climb out, then realize Mr. Hathaway and Vanessa are getting out, too. “Oh, I’ll just be a second; you don’t have to come in.”

  “No, no. Dad duty. I’m not sending you into a dark house alone.”

  “And I’m not sitting here by myself,” Vanessa adds.

  They follow me to the door. I hesitate, wondering where my dad is, anyway, if he’s not here. Maybe they’re at her house. Or maybe I’m just crazy for thinking anything could possibly be going on. Jody’s family needs my dad right now, and they need Erin, too. They need anyone who can help and of course Dad and Erin are going to be there at the same time, helping. He’s just not home yet, that’s all. Maybe he went out for coffee with Erin, to talk. It’s not a crime.

  I push open the door and a blast of heat hits us. “Sorry it’s so stuffy,” I say over my shoulder to Vanessa and her dad. “I’ll be fast.” Ralph runs to the door. I flip on the living room light and pet him, then turn to Vanessa. “Will you check his food bowl?” Mostly that’s to keep her from following me to my room, where I’m supposed to be getting this so-called item that I absolutely had to have tonight.

  In my room, I take my school backpack out of the closet and look around for stuff to put in it: the gardening book I bought from the hardware store on Saturday—a lifetime ago. An extra pair of shorts. The rooster clock stares at me from my desk and suddenly I know just what to do with it. I put that in the backpack, too, which now looks nice and full. On the way out, I stop to pick up the picture of my mom and me that I keep on my dresser. It’s from two years ago at my eighth-grade graduation. She’s looking out from under her perfect ash-blond bob, her arm around me, smiling like crazy. She’s beautiful. I got a citizenship award and a soccer award, and she was so proud of me, but it’s Dad who’s behind the camera, and really that smile is for him.

  I take the picture. Instead of putting it in my backpack, I go into my parents’ room and place it on my dad’s nightstand, right in the spot where he usually sets his cell phone to charge while he sleeps.

  Back out in the living room, I lift my backpack and say to Mr. Hathaway and Vanessa, “Got it.”

  Around three in the morning I wake up with the urge to pee. Quiet as I can, I slip the rooster clock out of my backpack, and on the way to the bathroom, I creep to Robby’s door. It’s open, spilling a faint yellow pool from his plug-in night light. I go in and set the clock, carefully, on his race car–shaped bureau.

  Day 7

  Friday

  We leave for the prayer vigil at six thirty.

  “You girls look lovely,” Mrs. Hathaway says, smiling in a kind of sad way at us when we come out of Vanessa’s room, ready to go. I borrowed a grass-green linen sheath dress from Vanessa, and twisted my hair up into a bun to keep it off my neck. Vanessa has on a blue and white flowered sundress; her short dark hair slicked back. We’re dressed up like it’s Easter Sunday or something, and I don’t know if that’s right, but we want to show respect.

  “So do you, Mom,” Vanessa says, and puts her arms around her mom. Her mom hugs her back, and in profile they look a lot alike with their short noses and short chins. I watch them and try not to think about how another whole day has passed without my own mom. Dad, at least, called me today. He wanted to check in and see how it was going, and I said fine, and he didn’t ask if Mom called me back about brunch, and since he didn’t ask I didn’t say anything.

  We go out to the driveway to get in the minivan, which Mr. Hathaway has cleaned out and kept running so that the interior is nice and cool. Vanessa and I take the second-row bucket seats; Robby is all the way on the back bench. I heard the rooster go off in his room this morning and he came running out in the hallway, and I went out there and teased him for a while about where it could have come from and how maybe it crawled in through his window and he should check to see if it laid eggs, then I told him it was from me. “Why?” he asked.

  “Just because,” I said, bending low so that I could look him in the eye. “You’re almost eight. I got it when I was eight. An eight-year-old needs an alarm clock.”

  “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “It does.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Hathaway are in now and we’re all buckled up and ready to go. Mr. Hathaway looks back at us for a couple of seconds. “Everyone okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah, Dad,” Vanessa says.

  Mrs. Hathaway doesn’t turn. It’s hard to tell for sure but she might be crying. The van pulls out and we drive the short distance in silence until Mr. Hathaway says, “Oh, sweet molly, look at all these cars.”

  The church parking lot already overflows into the street. There aren’t any spots along the curb in front of or across from the church, either. A white KPXU van is double-parked, and so are two vans from the big network affiliates up in Dillon’s Bluff.

  “Drop us off here,” Mrs. Hathaway says. “We’ll save you a seat while you look for parking.”

  We pile out and head for the church, passing TV vans and camera setups that are taking footage of people going in. It’s stinking hot, still. We’ve been inside all day; it was too hot even to go to Daniel’s house for the pool. I have no idea how all these people are going to pack into our church and not die of suffocation.

  One cameraman we pass has a blue ribbon tied to the handle of his canvas bag of gear. Mrs. Hathaway suddenly stops, staring at it. “Mom, come on,” Vanessa says, “we need to get seats. Brandy Wilcox might be here.”

  “Maybe we’ll get on TV!” Robby says, suddenly excited.

  Then, Mrs. Hathaway whirls around, so fast that Vanessa and I step back. She grabs Robby’s arm and looks back and forth between him and us. “Listen to me. This isn’t a reality show. This isn’t for being on TV, or for seeing a celebrity. If that’s what you’re here for, you can march
right back to the car and tell your father to drive you home.”

  A few of the people walking by slow down. Robby’s lip trembles. Vanessa pulls him close to her. “You don’t have to yell,” she mutters, red-faced.

  “I’m sorry.” Mrs. Hathaway’s eyes fill. People walking by glance at us, curious. “But it could have been you, Vanessa.” She looks at me. “Either one of you.”

  “We know, Mom. It scares us, too.”

  Then she takes them into a hug and I stand there in the hot parking lot, watching, until Mrs. Hathaway says, “Come on, Sammy, you, too,” and holds us all tightly.

  We find seats in a pew near the back of the sanctuary. It’s crowded with people I don’t know, people I don’t even recognize. A lot of them have blue ribbons pinned to their shirts. A lady behind me tells someone else that she drove all the way from Wyoming with her daughter, who’s fifteen. Like me. And I realize that this isn’t mine, or Pineview’s. Now everyone thinks they have a right to a piece of Jody being gone.

  There was this boy in my eighth grade class, Ronnie Gomez, a scholarship kid. He died of leukemia halfway through the school year and suddenly all the kids were crying like they’d lost their best friend. People who had treated him like dirt before he got sick—because he came here straight from Mexico and barely spoke English, because he only had two outfits to wear to school—put up this memorial poster in the cafeteria. As if they’d ever even said hello to him, let alone visited him in the hospital the way I did, with my dad, touching the gray, sick skin of Ronnie’s hand while we prayed by his bed.

  “That’s the way it is with most things in life, Sam,” Dad said when I complained about the poster, and how no one even asked me if I wanted to sign it. “No one is there to see your finest moments and give you a medal. But that’s not why you do good things, right?”

  A Teachable Moment. A reminder about the parable of the workers in the field, how the workers just do what the workers do for the agreed-upon wage and shouldn’t expect things to line up with human ideas of fairness. And then Dad ended up using it as a sermon illustration—changing the names to protect the innocent, and me.