A Simple Favor

by Darcey Bell

  They played nicely in my son’s room and on the swings where I could watch them from the window. I made them dinner. We had a healthy meal. As you know, I’m a vegetarian, but Nicky will only eat burgers, so that’s what I cooked. I can’t count how often I’ve blogged about how hard I try to balance the good nutritious stuff with what they’ll actually eat. The boys discussed an incident at school: a boy got sent to the principal’s office for not listening to the teacher even after he got a time-out.

  It got late. Emily didn’t call. Which seemed weird. I texted her, and she didn’t text me back. Which seemed even weirder.

  Okay, she said emergency. Maybe something happened at a factory in one of the countries where the clothes are made. Sewn by slaves is my impression, but that could never be mentioned. Maybe there’s another scandal involving her boss, Dennis, who’s had some well-publicized substance-abuse episodes. Emily has had to do some heavy damage control. Maybe she was at a meeting and couldn’t get out. Maybe she was somewhere with no cell phone reception. Maybe she’d lost her charger.

  If you knew Emily, you’d know how unlikely it is that she would lose her charger. Or that she wouldn’t find a way to call in and check on Nicky.

  We moms are so used to being in touch. You know how it feels when you need to reach someone. It’s like you’re possessed. You keep calling and texting and trying to keep yourself from calling and texting again because you just called and texted.

  Each time, my calls went to voice mail. I heard Emily’s “professional” voice—perky, crisp, all business. “Hi there, you’ve reached Emily Nelson. Please leave a brief message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Talk soon!”

  “Emily, it’s me! Stephanie! Call me!”

  It got to be bedtime for the boys. Emily still hadn’t called. This had never happened. I got those stomach butterflies of fear. Terror, really. But I didn’t want to let the kids know, especially Nicky . . .

  I can’t write any more, moms. I’m just too upset.

  Love,

  Stephanie

  4

  Stephanie's Blog

  Ghosts from the Past

  Hi, moms!

  You all remember how often I blogged about not letting Miles see how grief stricken I was when his dad—Davis—was killed in the same accident with my brother, Chris.

  It was a beautiful summer Saturday afternoon. Davis lost control of our vintage Camaro, and they hit a tree. Our whole world changed in one minute.

  I lost the only men who ever mattered to me, not counting my dad, who died when I was eighteen. And Miles lost his father and his beloved uncle.

  Miles was only two, but he could sense my grief. I had to be strong for his sake and not fall apart until after he was asleep. So you could say I had good (if you could call that good) preparation for not freaking out or letting the boys suspect how worried I was about Emily.

  After I put the boys to bed, I had another glass of wine to calm my nerves. The next morning, I woke up with a headache, but I acted as if everything was fine. I got the kids dressed. It helped that Nicky had slept over so often, it didn’t seem strange. Nicky and Miles are about the same size, so Nicky could wear Miles’s clothes. That was another way I knew that Emily had meant to pick Nicky up last night; she always sends a change of clothes when he’s going to stay.

  Emily still hadn’t called. I was approaching full panic mode. My hands shook so much that when I poured the kids their Cheerios, crispy O’s skidded all over the kitchen table and onto the floor. I don’t think I ever missed Davis so much—someone to help me, advise me, calm me down.

  I decided to drop the kids off at school and then try to figure it out. I didn’t know who to call. I knew Sean—Emily’s husband, Nicky’s dad—was in Europe somewhere, but I didn’t have his cell number.

  I can hear all the moms out there thinking I’ve broken my own rules. never have another child over for a playdate without backup contact information!!! Both parents’ home and work and cell numbers. A close relative or someone empowered to make medical decisions. The name and phone number of the child’s health care provider.

  I did have the nanny’s—Alison’s—number. She’s a responsible person. I trust her, though you know I worry about kids being raised by nannies. Alison said that Emily told her Nicky was having a sleepover with Miles. Good news! I didn’t ask how long Emily said he’d be staying. I was afraid it would make me seem . . . not together, and you know how sensitive we moms are about competency issues.

  You moms will think I’m not only irresponsible but insane for not having Nicky’s dad’s cell phone number. There’s no excuse. I can only ask you not to judge me.

  When I dropped the kids off at school, I told Mrs. Kerry, their fantastic kindergarten teacher, that I’d kept the kids overnight. I had the craziest feeling, like I’d get Emily in trouble if I said she hadn’t come back and hadn’t called. As if I . . . as if I was telling on her. Ratting her out for being a bad mom.

  I said I couldn’t reach Emily but I was sure that everything was okay. We must have gotten our signals crossed about how long Nicky would be staying. But just in case, could the school give me his dad’s—Sean’s—cell number? Mrs. Kerry said Emily had mentioned that her husband was spending a few days in London on business.

  Miles’s teachers like me. They all keep up with my blog. They appreciate how positively I blog about the school, how often I send them major love and hugs for the great job they’re doing with our kids.

  Mrs. Kerry gave me Sean’s number. But I could see (over the top of my phone) that she was looking at me with a slightly mistrustful expression. I told myself that I was being paranoid, again, that she was trying to seem concerned but not worried. Trying not to judge.

  I felt better having Sean’s number. I should have called him right away. I don’t know why I didn’t.

  I did call Emily’s company in the city.

  Dennis Nylon Inc. There. I’ve said it. To me and a lot of you moms, Dennis Nylon is what Dior or Chanel was to our moms. An unapproachable, unaffordable, all-powerful fashion god.

  I asked the young (everyone who works there but Emily is practically a child) man who answered the phone to connect me to Emily Nelson’s office. Her assistant, Valerie, asked me for the thousandth time who I was, exactly. Okay, I get it. Valerie has never met me. But does she have that many Stephanies in her life? Does Emily?

  I said I was Nicky’s best friend’s mom. Valerie said she was sorry but Emily had stepped out of the office for a moment. I said no, I was sorry. Nicky had slept at my house last night, and Emily hadn’t come to pick him up. Was there someone I could speak to? I was thinking how every mom should have a Valerie of her own. An assistant! There are so many things we do—so much we need help with.

  Davis had two assistants, Evan and Anita. Talented young designers. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world without an assistant. I’m kidding, of course. We have so much more than most people, but still . . .

  I could tell that something wasn’t right. Valerie said that someone would call me right back. But no one ever called.

  I’ve blogged about the silly, hurtful divisions that often come between working moms and stay-at-home moms. I’ve kept it secret, but I’ve always been a teensy bit jealous of Emily’s career. The glamour, the excitement, the practically free clothes! The celebrities’ unlisted numbers, the runway shows . . . all the cool things Emily does while I’m home making peanut butter sandwiches and wiping up spilled apple juice and blogging. Not to underestimate how happy and grateful I am to be able to reach out to (by now) thousands of moms worldwide. I also know that Emily is missing out on a lot of things, on the ordinary fun stuff Miles and I do every afternoon.

  Now no one at Emily’s company seems to be concerned. She’s worked there almost since she got out of college. Dennis should be going on the news and pleading with someone to find her.

  Relax, Stephanie. Calm down. It hasn’t been all that long.

&nbs
p; Thanks, moms. It comforts me just to know you’re out there reading this.

  Love,

  Stephanie

  5

  Stephanie's Blog

  All My Fault?

  Hi, moms!

  What a typical mom I am! By now I’ve almost convinced myself that the whole misunderstanding is my fault. Emily must have asked me to keep Nicky for a couple days instead of for the evening. Then why do I remember her saying that Nicky wasn’t going to sleep over, that she would get him by nine?

  Many of us have shared on this blog about how hard it is for moms to feel they’ve got a grip on reality—what day it is, what’s expected of us, what someone said or didn’t. Nothing is easier than convincing a mom that something’s her fault. Even when it isn’t. Especially when it isn’t.

  By that afternoon, I had myself so psyched that I half expected to see Emily waiting under the big oak tree near the entrance to the school where she always is on Fridays. I was so positive she’d be there that, for a split second, I imagined I saw her.

  It couldn’t have been her. For one thing, it was Wednesday. I had that sinking feeling—you can’t find your kid anywhere, and in the lifetime it takes to find him, you feel like your heart is going to explode. There was a period when Miles loved to hide from me, and I flipped out every time . . .

  Wait. I have a plan. More soon.

  Love,

  Stephanie

  6

  Stephanie's Blog

  A Visit to Emily’s

  Hi, moms!

  Normally, I wouldn’t go over to Emily’s house without calling. I did try her landline. No one answered. Emily had given me her keys and asked for the keys to my house. I’d been so impressed because it seemed like such a sensible, grown-up, mom thing to do. Plus it meant we were really friends. We could use the keys in an emergency. Or even if we just arrived early for a playdate and the other wasn’t home. This was an emergency. I didn’t want to invade Emily’s privacy, but I had to make sure that she hadn’t fallen or hurt herself, or that she wasn’t ill and in need of my help.

  I couldn’t bring the boys. What if I found something dire? My imagination was running wild. I imagined her house smeared with blood, Charlie Manson–style. I pictured her in a bathtub full of blood.

  I decided to stop by Emily’s on my way to pick up the boys at school.

  Just pulling into her driveway felt dangerous and spooky. It was raining slightly; a wind was shaking the trees, and I felt like the branches were saying, Don’t go there. Don’t go there. I’m joking. I’m a sensible mom. I don’t hear the trees talking.

  I felt a lot better when I spotted Emily’s housecleaner Maricela’s car in the driveway. Maricela told me she was just finishing up, which was comforting. If Emily were dead or lying helpless somewhere in the house, Maricela would have noticed.

  Maricela is an angel. I only wish she worked for us, but Miles and I can’t afford her.

  She said, “The senora said she’d be gone four days. She said I should come to clean and then again to see if the plants need water.”

  Four days! What a relief!

  “Have you heard from her?”

  “No. Why would I?” Maricela asked sweetly. “Senora, are you all right? Would you like something to drink? Food? The senora left beautiful fruit in the fridge.”

  Beautiful fruit was a good sign. Emily meant to return. I asked for a glass of water, and Maricela went to get it.

  It felt strange to sit on the couch where I’d spent so many hours with Emily. Her big, comfy sofa felt suddenly lumpy and strange, like something you could sink into and never climb out of. Like a Venus flytrap couch. I considered searching the house for clues.

  Why hadn’t Emily said she’d be gone four days? And why didn’t she return my calls? I knew my friend. Something awful had happened.

  Being in Emily’s house made me feel even more jumpy and scared. I kept expecting her to walk in and ask what I was doing. First I would feel relieved, overjoyed to see her, and then maybe guilty, even though she’d given me plenty of reason to drop by.

  Where is she? I felt like whining, like a child.

  I looked above the mantelpiece at the photograph of the twins. There were so many gorgeous things in Emily’s home: Persian rugs, Chinese vases, iconic design pieces, masterpieces of midcentury modern furniture. Davis would have loved her house, if only he’d lived to see it. But Emily made a point of showing me the black-and-white photo of the two girls in their party dresses and hair bands, so oddly beautiful and so haunting, half smiling at some secret knowledge.

  Emily said, “That photo cost more, and I love it more, than anything in the house. If I told you how we got it, our friend in the auction house would have to kill me. Which twin do you think is the dominant one?”

  It was almost like déjà vu or a memory of another life. My other life—when I lived in the city and worked at a magazine. A home-decorating magazine you can buy at the supermarket checkout counter, but a magazine nonetheless: a cover, paper, text, photos. I used to have a life in which I met people who made odd comments and asked interesting questions and had beautiful, unexpected objects in their houses. People who talked about something besides what after-school lessons their kids were taking and whether you could know if the tomatoes were really organic. People who had fun!

  “I don’t know,” I’d told Emily. “Which twin do you think?”

  She said, “Sometimes I think one, sometimes the other.”

  “Maybe neither,” I said.

  “That never happens,” she said. “There’s always a dominant one, even in a friendship.”

  Was Emily the dominant friend? I looked up to her, I know . . .

  Now my friend was gone. And there were the twins, still looking at me with their tender, inscrutable little faces.

  The living room was perfect. Naturally. Maricela was here. On the coffee table—Davis would have known what midcentury modern genius designed it—was a paperback book. A Patricia Highsmith novel. Those Who Walk Away. Sticking out from the pages was a bookmark from our local bookstore. That was when it occurred to me—not quite in a flash, more like a flicker—that Emily might have walked away. Left her son with me and taken off. People walk away. It happens. Their friends and neighbors and family members say they never ever suspected.

  I decided to read the Highsmith book for information I might have missed. Information about Emily. I couldn’t take her copy. When she came back, she’d be annoyed. I’d order a copy if the library didn’t have it. If I could just keep cool and stay reasonable, everything would work out. All this would turn out to be a bad dream, a mistake, a misunderstanding that Emily and I could laugh about, later.

  Maricela brought me water in a polka dot vintage glass. The perfect glass. Even the glass was so Emily!

  “Drink,” Maricela said. “You’ll feel better.”

  I drank the cold clear water. But I didn’t feel better.

  I thanked Maricela and left the house. I checked my phone. No texts or emails. I was sure that Emily wasn’t one of “those who walk away.” Something was very wrong.

  I should have called the police. But I was still in denial, blaming myself for getting my facts wrong, for hearing my friend say something she didn’t say.

  Since then my subconscious has gone into overdrive, running horror movies about carjacking, kidnapping, murder, the corpse in the ditch, the blow to the head that’s left Emily wandering around, amnesiac. Maybe someone has found her. Maybe someone will bring her home.

  Which is why I’m posting this. We’ve all heard about those miracles that are the upside of the internet. They are the very best thing about social networking and blogging! So I’m asking the moms community to keep its naturally extra-sharp mom eyes open. If you see a woman who looks like Emily, ask her if she’s okay. If you see a woman who looks like Emily and she seems injured or lost, text me immediately at the number at the bottom of the screen.

  Thanks, dear moms!

  Lo
ve,

  Stephanie

  7

  Stephanie's Blog

  (The Next Day)

  Second Thoughts and a Call to Sean

  Hi, moms!

  Fitful sleep. Weird dreams. When I woke at six, I didn’t know what was wrong. Then I remembered that Emily was gone. Then I remembered the rest of it, and I was scared to look at my phone. I’d given out my private number and asked my readers to report any woman who looks like Emily, who—to be honest—looks like lots of blond, thin, pretty, gym-toned moms. Her tattoo and ring might narrow it down, but lots of moms have tattoos. Who knows if she’s wearing her ring? What if she’s been robbed?

  Thank heaven the moms community is so sensible. I only got two texts. Both Emily sightings from places (one from Alaska, one from the north of Scotland—it’s amazing how far my little blog has reached) so distant that I didn’t see how Emily could have gotten there in the (short, I keep telling myself) time she’s been gone.

  I actually thought of changing my phone number, in case thousands of moms started contacting me, trying to be helpful. Still . . . while we always need to be careful about keeping our personal information safe, it’s the only number that Emily’s got, and I’m still hoping she’ll call. Nicky and I need her to be able to get in touch.

  The second night, at dinner, Nicky was starting to get antsy. Any kid would. I’m sure he was picking up on my anxiety. Until now he’d never stayed for two nights in a row, not counting the weekend when his parents went away and everyone had such a good time and no one was nervous. Now Nicky started asking me when his mom was coming to get him. He ate his veggie burger and immediately threw up. I stroked his head and told him that his mom would be back soon and I was calling his dad.

  It was seven when I called Sean in England. I was so desperate that—stupidly—I forgot the time difference. He sounded groggy.