Over the Moon at the Big Lizard Diner

by Lisa Wingate

  Suddenly it wasn’t John Wayne below; it was Sydney, all alone, being swept away by the current. She called out, and I tried to run to her, but my legs wouldn’t move. I was on top of a windmill tower, and there was no ladder. I dove off, fell and fell like a cliff diver until I hit the water and plunged below the surface. I drifted downward into a cool, deep pit, where the sand was white with salt, and the bones of ancient creatures lay glittering like pearls in a giant oyster. Overhead the raft passed by, two dark-haired girls looking over the edge—Sydney on one side, and Zach’s daughter on the other.

  Jerking upright in bed, I called Sydney’s name, fighting the tangle of the quilt and scrambling to the edge of the mattress before I came to my senses.

  “It’s all right.” I gasped, falling back against the pillows and throwing my hand over my eyes to shut out the morning sunlight. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”

  I lay still, getting my bearings, letting my surroundings sink in, remembering the turmoil of the day before. In the bright glow of morning it seemed foolish—sitting at the riverside, crying, and analyzing, and making decisions based on something Pop said in passing. The most logical course of action was to stay a few more days, get serious about investigating the stolen tracks, and take some time to talk to Zach. There could be all kinds of extenuating circumstances separating him from his daughter.

  But what kind of extenuating circumstances could justify abandoning a little girl, not seeing her or talking about her?

  In my mind there were none. A parent who left a child behind after a divorce was self-centered, immature, cruel, unfeeling—everything that Geoff embodied. I couldn’t imagine ever being in love with such a person.

  But I couldn’t imagine Zach doing such a thing. Then again, if there was some logical reason he no longer saw his daughter, why wouldn’t he have mentioned it when we were talking about my custody issues with Sydney?

  The debate raged in my head as I dressed and climbed up the hill to e-mail Sydney and see if Geoff or Gracie had sent anything new about the stolen tracks. Leaving my computer on the picnic bench, I stood for a long moment, gazing at the horse herd and wishing Zach would appear at the gate. From time to time the horses lifted their heads and looked toward the barn, but no one came. Whoever was supposed to feed them this morning was late.

  The vast stretch of country below suddenly seemed empty, and I felt the painful sting of loneliness. I wanted Zach to streak across the prairie at a gallop and make me feel like I could soar off into the blue.

  Finally I turned away and walked back to the bench, connected the computer to the cell phone and dialed, then waited while my e-mail window opened. My mind drifted as I worked my way down the list, deleting spam, and answering a work-related question from my boss at the museum. The bottom of the list scrolled into the window, and my pulse ratcheted up. There was nothing from Sydney. I scanned again. Nothing from Sydney or Geoff. Sydney never missed a day. Sometimes she e-mailed two or three times, but always at least once, in the evening, when she was sitting up late, lonely and sleepy, missing her mom and the normal bedtime routine.

  A burst of fear rocketed through my body. Something was wrong. I searched my old mail list, my recently deleted mail, my filing cabinet, hoping that some computer glitch had rerouted her e-mail—that I would find it, and it would say she was fine, and she’d had another busy day with Whitney and the housekeeper. But there was nothing. Staring at the screen, I tried to decide what to do.

  I e-mailed Geoff, hoping he might be online.

  ARE YOU THERE? I DIDN’T GET AN EMAIL FROM SYDNEY TODAY. I’M WORRIED. IS EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT? PLEASE LET ME KNOW.

  —L

  I waited, watching the minutes tick by on the bottom of the screen. Two minutes, three, four, five. Long enough for him to answer if he was at his computer. Nothing came. Disconnecting, I picked up the phone and dialed his number, even though I knew that at this time of day I would get the housekeeper or Whitney, either of whom would give me the brush-off, and remind me that I was to call Sydney only once per week, at the specified time. I didn’t care who answered. At least I would know that Sydney was all right.

  The phone made a series of electronic tones, then clicked in my ear, tick, tick, tick, as my desperation whizzed through the atmosphere, to some satellite and back, to a relay tower, down mile after mile of foreign phone lines in Mexico, until finally it reached Geoff’s house. The connection came up busy. I called again and again, but the result was the same. Busy signal. Finally I tried the operator, had her dial, with the same result. Perhaps a problem in the phone network, she said. I should try again later. I shouldn’t worry. Foreign networks often went down, and that would affect both Internet and phone service.

  The operator’s reassurances helped calm my panic. She was probably right. Some foreign phone systems were unpredictable—I knew that from experience—and a problem with the telephone system made sense, considering that I couldn’t reach Sydney and Geoff via e-mail or phone.

  I tried one last time, then packed up my things and headed down the hill with Mr. Grits walking ahead of me, surprisingly subdued. Even that bothered me. It was as if the dog knew something I didn’t.

  “Stop it,” I muttered to myself, and the dog looked over his shoulder. “Go on,” I told him, sounding as uncertain as I felt. Stop, go, stop, go. I didn’t know what to do next.

  I decided to take Caroline’s field notes and the map to the river, as a distraction. I drove down to the riverbank thinking about Sydney, wondering what she was doing and hoping that by the time I came back, the phone lines to Mexico would be functional.

  For the better part of two hours I explored the riverbed with the map and a small gardening spade and claw from the cabin. They were poor substitutes for a rock hammer and air scribe, but good enough for moving the soil and slivering off some rock samples in areas I thought might correspond to sites on the map. Unfortunately the map was old, and Caroline’s notes even older. The river had changed over the years. Landmarks had washed away, rock formations had weathered, and overhanging bluffs had tumbled into the water.

  After two hours I was right back where I’d started from, at the site of the stolen tracks. I’d found nothing, not even a disassociated fossil like the vertebra fragment. Except for the vandalized site and a trackway a short distance up the river, most likely made by a Pleurocoelus, there was nothing.

  I walked back to the car, feeling that, among other things, I was now a failure at paleontology. In the old days I had an innate sense of where to dig. I had “the luck,” as Geoff called it. It frustrated him, because he was methodical and scientific, while I operated on intuition. We were both equally successful, and, in fact, my percentage of digs to FSO, found significant items, was a little higher than his. Geoff was the type to keep percentages. Everything between us was a competition, which, for some reason, was all right at the time. Now it seemed immature and a little twisted. Love wasn’t about competition and self-promotion. It was about caring so much about somebody that you wanted to be happy together, or not at all.

  I started thinking about Zach again, about how I felt when I was with him, how he did little things that made me laugh, how I liked the way he walked, the sound of his voice, how he coerced me into doing things I wouldn’t normally consider. It was as if he knew me better than I knew myself—as if he saw through all the masks, and the worries, and the fears, and found the most authentic part of me.

  Is this the person I really am? My own question haunted me. How do you know what parts of yourself are authentic, and what parts you’ve created to make life bearable?

  When I slipped my hand into Zach’s, all the conflicting voices in my head fell away, and nothing mattered but being with him.

  If that wasn’t love, what was? But how could I possibly be in love with a man I didn’t really know, who’d hidden a deep and integral part of himself, something as important as the existence of a daughter? If Zach felt for me what I felt for him, how could he pos
sibly do that?

  The answer was simple, yet it struck me like an unexpected slap. Zach didn’t feel what I felt. The connection I perceived was one-sided, the result of a lonely heart that wanted to believe there was a soul mate out there for me, and that finding him would be as easy as taking an unexpected trip to Texas. To Zach I was a passing infatuation, something to do while he was spending time at the ranch, a pathetic divorcée who needed a little fun and a dose of cowboy charm.

  The idea stung, and I was glad when Mr. Grits barked at a truck coming up the gravel road. A dark truck, the one belonging to the grouchy ranch manager. Tucking my tools, the map, and the wooden box in the back of the SUV, I closed the hatch and moved to the driver’s-side door, trying not to look like I’d been caught trespassing. Through the glare on the windshield I could see two cowboy hats. My pulse fluttered, and I found myself hoping one of them would be Zach’s. He’d said he wouldn’t be back until late in the day, but maybe he’d returned early. Maybe he’d been thinking about me, and he couldn’t wait to return… .

  The truck hit the grassy clearing and sped up, and for a minute I thought it had to be Zach driving, speeding up to tease me. Either that, or the driver was going to hit my SUV. I backed away a step, unsure.

  At the last instant the truck did a one-eighty, the rear tires fishtailing and kicking up loose grass. Jimmy Hawthorne leaned out the window and grinned at my wide-eyed look. “Scare ya?”

  “A little,” I said, trying to act casual. “You practicing for a career in cowboy stunt driving?” I peered into the truck. Dan, the sour-faced ranch manager, squinted at me from the passenger seat, glancing suspiciously toward the river and back at my vehicle.

  “I drive down at the dirt track on Friday nights,” Jimmy informed me. “I was seein’ what this old baby can do, in case I want to buy ’er from Dan. She’s got an old V-eight in ’er. Lotsa power.”

  “Oh,” I replied hesitantly.

  Jimmy revved the engine. “So Jocelyn wanted us to run by and check on ya. She was worried something might of happened.” I blinked in confusion, and he added, “Because you weren’t at horse class.”

  “Oh, my gosh.” I glanced at my watch. In the morning turmoil I’d completely forgotten about horse psychology class. “I …”

  In the passenger seat, the ranch manager craned to look out the back window, suspiciously surveying my Jeep, then glancing toward the riverbed again.

  I stumbled quickly into an excuse. “I wasn’t feeling well this morning, and I went for a walk down the river, and …” What? Think of something. “I got a little lost.”

  Jimmy’s eyebrows drew together. “Well, you can always just follow the river back.”

  Duh. “Yes. That’s what I did finally. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.”

  “Looks like you finally found your way to your Jeep, at least.” Jimmy smiled good-naturedly.

  Dan sneered at me suspiciously. “Guess you’ll be headin’ back up to the cabin now.”

  “Yes, thank you. If you see Jocelyn, will you tell her I’m sorry for missing class?” I tried to sound pleasant and nonchalant. “ ’Bye.”

  Watching the truck drive away and disappear into a cloud of dust, I mentally weighed a new theory. Suspect number one and suspect number two together. Returning to the scene of the crime, suspicious at having found someone snooping around.

  When they were gone, I loaded up Mr. Grits and drove back to the cabin, then grabbed my backpack and climbed the hill to try my e-mail again. More spam, but nothing from Sydney or Geoff. I called the phone number, but the result was the same: a busy signal, no answer or answering machine.

  Don’t panic, I told myself. If the whole day goes by and you still can’t get in touch with them, then you can panic. Knowing Geoff, he’d probably taken a sudden trip to the coast, or forgotten to pay his phone bill. Maybe he was actually spending some time with Sydney and took her to see some of the sights in Mexico City.

  As plausible as those possibilities were, I knew I wouldn’t relax until I heard my daughter’s voice. After I spent an hour trying the phone and e-mail over and over, a viciously creative part of my mind started inventing scenarios about earthquakes, sudden volcanic eruptions, summer hurricanes, and foreigners being kidnapped for ransom.

  When I began envisioning ransom notes and how I would gather the money to pay, I decided it was time to go somewhere else. Returning to the cabin, I nibbled at lunch, thumbed through magazines without looking at the pages, and paced the room like a lion in a cage. Finally I went up the hill one more time and again tried to contact Geoff or Sydney. No luck.

  When I returned to the cabin, there was something on the door. A note, with my name at the top. Panic exploded like a string of Black Cats in my throat, propelling me onto the porch.

  Please don’t let it be about Sydney, I prayed. Please, please, please. I pictured Jocelyn or Collie or Laura trying to track me down after having received some tragic news about my daughter.

  Ripping the note off the door, I opened it with trembling hands. The contents were cryptic, just a hurried scrawl telling me to drop by the main house when I returned to the cabin. The handwriting was a woman’s—probably Jocelyn’s. Drop by, it said, not ASAP, or urgent, or emergency.

  For what seemed like the thousandth time that day, I admonished myself not to jump to conclusions. Walking to the car with Mr. Grits, I tried to breathe deeply, settle down, get real, but I was edgy and exhausted. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

  Driving to the ranch house, I rolled down the window and let the warm afternoon air wash over me, lifting the dampened hair from the back of my neck, soothing the knotted muscles. I wished I could go to sleep, roll the clock back twenty-four hours, and reenter yesterday. I wanted to be back on the mountaintop with Zach. When he drove me back to the ranch, I wouldn’t go into the house. I wouldn’t see the picture of him with the little dark-haired girl. I’d wake in the morning, and read e-mail from Sydney, and far below on the prairie Zach would be gliding through the waving grass astride the spotted horse… .

  The mirage faded as I wound through the stand of trees near the ranch headquarters. Stiff in my seat, I peered ahead as the horse barn came into view. Jimmy and Dan were working with a horse out front. Dan was squeezing the horse’s upper lip in his fist, and Jimmy was trying to put a syringe in its mouth. They didn’t look up as I passed by.

  At the house, Pop was entertaining company on the porch, sipping lemonade with Jocelyn, Collie, Laura, and a man who needed a haircut. They turned as I drove up, and from the body language I realized they’d been waiting for me. My mind hopscotched, trying to reconcile the shaggy-haired man’s face with the location on Pop Truitt’s porch. On the other side of the table someone stood up—a little girl with long sandy-brown hair in uneven pigtails.

  Throwing the SUV into park and killing the engine, I gasped, shoved the door open, jumped out, and started running. “Sydney!” I screamed, even though I couldn’t believe my eyes. I knew I would awaken any minute, and my daughter, my little girl, wouldn’t be dashing across the porch and down the steps, her hair streaming out behind her. “Sydney! Sydney!”

  TWENTY

  IHELD ON TO SYDNEY AND CRIED AND CRIED. I DIDN’T CARE WHO saw. My soul was filled with a rush of gratitude that spilled over into every part of my body. The warmth of my daughter’s arms around my neck, the smell of her hair, the sound of her muffled voice singsonging, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” enveloped me, lifted me, transported me until I didn’t know where I was. It was as if a part of my body, an arm or a leg that had been torn off, had suddenly returned, and I didn’t have to be in pain anymore.

  Please, I prayed, please let this be real. If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up. Waking up with my arms empty would be more than I could bear now.

  Holding Sydney away from me, I checked her over, from uneven pigtails to toes peeking through Mexican leather sandals that were too small for her. Her skin was caramel brown fr
om hours in the sun, little freckles standing out over her pert nose and touching the long fans of dark lashes when she blinked. Her hair was lighter, either from the intense Mexican sun, or Whitney had highlighted it during one of their games of beauty shop. Flyaway strands of burnished gold escaped her sandy-brown pigtails and flitted around her face as she smiled shyly, and said, “Hi, Mommy.” There was a hole in her smile where an upper front tooth had fallen out. She hadn’t mentioned that in her e-mails. Perhaps she knew I’d be sad about having missed the event. Her baby smile was gone forever now. Soon the grown-up teeth would come in, and she would start looking like a big kid. I wondered if the tooth fairy had remembered to come to Mexico.

  “Hi, yourself, pea pod.” I used the silly endearment that had been handed down from my mom. “You look so good.” She didn’t really. Her hair was a mess, and there were dark circles under her big brown eyes. Her gaze flicked uncertainly over me, as if I were someone she didn’t know very well. The expression gave my heartstrings a painful twist. Three and a half weeks was a long time in the life of an eight-year-old.

  “How’s my little banana girl?” I said, making a joke about her favorite food to remind her of our life together. Sydney ate bananas on everything—cereal, pudding, peanut-butter sandwiches. She dunked them in chocolate milk and lemonade, and never approved of a sack lunch that didn’t have at least two bananas in it.

  She rolled her eyes thoughtfully, her tongue poking out through the new hole in her teeth. “Good,” she said finally, then leaned close to me and whispered, “Whitney left and went back to England.”