“My cell phone died,” she says. Again, the flat voice. She chews on her cuticle on her thumb. “I don’t have the charger. I left it—” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to.
“Oh . . . well . . . I can leave you the number on the kitchen counter. If you need anything you can call me from the house phone.” I think for a moment. It had never even occurred to me that she has a cell phone. Of course she does. Sharon would have bought her one. Most teenage girls have one. Certainly every one I know. “It’s probably going to get turned off, you know,” I say. “The plan will be cancelled for nonpayment and they’ll disconnect your number.”
She turns back to the window. Dips her brush in the paint.
“We’ll get you another cell phone. I think the new iPhone is out.”
“It doesn’t have to be a new one,” she says, barely above a whisper.
Again, my heart is breaking for her. The sound of her voice, she sounds so . . . wounded. Now, suddenly, I don’t want to go. What I really want to do is take her in my arms and hug her. But she hasn’t let me touch her since the day she arrived. And then, looking back, I realize she only let me hug her because I ambushed her.
“Okay,” I say, taking a step back. “So, I’ll be as quick as I can. Is there something you’d like for dinner? Something you’d like to make, maybe?” I add because that seems to be the one thing I know she’s interested in. I choose not to think about the fact that it’s probably because it was something she and Sharon, a chef, did together. “I could stop and get the ingredients.”
She shrugs. “Whatever.”
“Okay. I’ll be back in an hour. Hour and a half, tops.” I step back, into the hall, fighting the feeling that I’m stepping backward off a cliff.
15
Lilla
From my window, I watch her pull out of the driveway. I feel a little guilty. I wouldn’t consider myself a sneaky person. I never lied to my mom about where I was going or where I’d been. Mostly because my life was never interesting enough to have to lie. I’ve been to a couple parties where people were drinking or smoking weed. I’m not like all judgy about those choices. It’s just not my thing.
Jeez, I sound like some old Jew lady.
I almost smile. I sound like my mom.
I slide down, my back against the wall to sit, being careful not to touch the wet paint. Tears well up in my eyes. I wonder how much one person can cry. If you get dehydrated enough, does that stop the tears? I’ll have to Google it.
I miss my mom so much that my skin hurts. I’ve never been away from her for longer than a sleepover at a friend’s house and now it’s been more than a week.
Today is her birthday. We were going out for dinner tonight to some seafood place outside the city on Lake Pontchartrain. I don’t know where. I wipe my eyes. I wish I knew where we were going. I’d go there tonight. I don’t know how I’d get there. I only have eleven dollars in my backpack. I doubt I could take a cab to the restaurant and back for that and you have to have a credit card to Uber.
If I did have money for a taxi, I think I’d save it to go see Mom in prison. When I figure out where she is. I think Remy will tell me. Once he finds out. The mom doesn’t want me to know. She doesn’t want to ever have anything to do with my Sharon mom again. I heard her and Remy talking about it last night when I went to the bathroom. So I guess I’ve become a sneaky person; I never used to eavesdrop before.
The thing is, the Harper mom doesn’t understand that even though she gave birth to me, that only means something to her. It doesn’t mean anything to me. I don’t know her. I don’t even know if I want to know her. And I sure don’t need a spoiled, snotty sister like Jojo. Jury’s out on the dad. I’ve never had a dad. But the family’s a package deal. It’s not like I can pick from an à la carte menu.
I stand up and peek out the window. The car’s still gone. She won’t be back for an hour. So if I am going to be a sneak, I need to get moving.
I know I can’t go see Mom in prison, not yet, at least. Not without a plan, which includes knowing where she is. But there’s one place I can go to feel closer to her. And I want to get my phone charger, anyway; the battery was dead this morning. Everyone here has an iPhone. Their cords won’t charge my old Samsung.
I walk over to the bed that Remy and I put in the middle of the room so I could paint. I pull his Tulane hoodie over my head. I’ve commandeered it; that’s what he said. I like the word. I unzip the front pocket of my backpack, take out the money, including the quarters, and stick it in the front pocket of my jeans. I’ll need the cash for the streetcar. Exact change. If my phone was working, I could use the app that’s connected to Mom’s credit card and I wouldn’t have to use cash. I don’t know when her credit card payment is due, so for all I know, it might already be shut off.
As I go out my bedroom door, I look back at where I painted around the windows. It occurs to me that the paint will dry on the brush if I just leave it on the can there. I set my backpack on the floor and go downstairs. I only have to open two drawers to find plastic wrap. I tear off a big piece and go to the refrigerator. I grab a bottle of water and an apple. It feels weird to go into a stranger’s refrigerator and take something, but I guess it’s supposed to be my refrigerator now.
Back upstairs, I cover the paint can with the lid and tap it down with my heel. I don’t want to take the time to look for a hammer. I know there are tools in a drawer in the laundry room. I saw Remy get a screwdriver out of one, but if I’m going to go, I need to get out of here. In case the mom changes her mind and comes back.
I wrap up the brush and set it on the paint can. I turn off the light when I leave the bedroom, swinging my backpack with the apple and the water over my shoulder. The old guys watch me as I go down the steps. One of them reminds me of this grandpa rabbi at the temple where we used to go once in a while when we lived in Shreveport. Mom was never a super Jew or anything like that. She’d get on a kick and we’d go to temple a couple of weeks in a row, but it never lasted long. Organized religion was never her thing. She used to tell me that to her, being a Jew was more about history and her ancestors than about religion.
I feel as if the grandpa rabbi is watching me as I go down the stairs. And making me feel guilty for what I’m doing. Remy will be worried about me when he finds out I’m gone. And he’ll find out as soon as the Harper mom walks in and finds out I’m not here. She’ll lose her shit. She’ll cry. She might call the police. She’ll definitely call Remy, and maybe Aunt Annie, too. I hope she doesn’t call the police. I don’t think they can arrest me for going for a walk without permission from parents who have been my parents for all of a week. But I don’t know how an arrest record affects college applications. I don’t want to not get into Tulane because I took a ride on a streetcar.
At the bottom of the staircase, I think about leaving a note on the piece of paper where the mom left her cell phone number. I wonder if it’s the grandpa rabbi’s idea. But what would I say? I’m sure not going to tell her where I’m going. Saying “Don’t worry about me” seems silly. Clearly the Harper mom has got some serious anxiety issues concerning me. And Jojo, too, but mostly me. Obviously because I was the one who was kidnapped.
I ignore the grandpa rabbi’s advice.
I go out the front door and walk along the little road that runs beside the park. It’s a pretty, sunny day and only a little bit chilly. I walk out to St. Charles. There’s a stop in the downtown direction at Law Road. I can’t take the St. Charles streetcar all the way to Bayou St. John. I’ll have to switch lines. It will take a while; it’s not fast transportation, but that’s okay. I like to ride the streetcar.
I spot the familiar green streetcar coming my way. Green is the St. Charles line. I’ll catch the red cars to Mid-City. I smile.
Correction. I love to ride the streetcar.
16
Harper
“Remy!” I rush into his office, my bag bouncing against my hip. “She’s gone.”
/> He looks up from his desk, over his thick, black Wayfarer-style reading glasses, but he doesn’t move.
“Georgina!” I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. I’ve already had one good cry. I’m fighting off the next.
I got home seventy-two minutes after I left. I could have been home in sixty-two minutes, but I had to swing by Ursuline and leave the check so Jojo could go on her field trip. When I walked into the house, Georgina didn’t answer me when I called her. I told myself not to panic. She’s probably just in the bathroom. But she wasn’t. I went to her room. The paint can was closed and the brush was wrapped in plastic wrap. It looked as if she didn’t do any more painting after I left. I walked all over the house, calling her name. Then I went outside to check the front porch, the garden, and the walkway in front of the house. No Georgina. I went back into the house and checked the notepad on the counter, thinking maybe she’d left me a note. Maybe she’d just gone for a walk in the park. It seems to be one of the things she actually enjoys doing.
I kept telling myself over and over again not to freak out, even though my heart was pounding and I felt as if I wanted to vomit. I kept telling myself she wasn’t gone. That this was nothing like what happened before. It couldn’t happen again. It was a mathematical improbability of infinite proportion.
I searched the whole house again. I even checked the walk-up attic. I called Remy and he didn’t answer. Then I called Ann. She didn’t answer. Then I called Remy again. When he still didn’t pick up, I drove to his office. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m parked in a no parking zone in front of his building. I’ll probably get towed.
“She’s gone, Remy,” I say, standing in front of his desk, my arms at my sides. “I’ve lost her again.” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I realize how ridiculous the thought is. It doesn’t make me feel any better.
He takes off his reading glasses. “Tell me what happened.”
“We have to look for her.” I bring my hands to my head, trying to force myself to breathe. I’m not going to let myself become the person I was after Georgina was taken. That irrational, overly emotional, hollow ghost of a woman. I take another breath. “I tried to call you.”
“I had meetings this morning.” He still hasn’t gotten out of his leather chair behind the big antique desk we bought off someone’s front lawn in Alabama. We got it on one of our weekend trips when we were still trying to pick up the pieces of our marriage. Before we admitted defeat. Before the divorce.
“I had to go to the office. I had to make some calls. Some lab reports came back and I wanted to call from the office so I would have the records in front of me. I . . .” I press the heel of my hand to my forehead. Just one hand, though. I’m calmer. I know Georgina hasn’t been kidnapped. She’s a teenager. And a smart one at that. She wouldn’t get in a car with a stranger. “She didn’t want to go with me. I thought . . . I talked to Ann and—” I meet his gaze, fighting my tears, afraid he’ll judge me, even though I know he won’t. Not for leaving her, at least. “She wanted to stay home, Remy. I was only going to be gone an hour.”
“Harper.”
“Ann thought it would be fine. I knew you would say it was fine.”
He gets up from his desk. “Harper.”
“I was trying to give her some space.” My voice cracks. “I . . . I was trying to—”
“Baby.” He comes around the desk and puts his arms around me. “She’s okay. It’s going to be fine. It was the right thing to do, to leave her home. Sixteen-year-old girls stay at home without their parents for an hour. We’ll find her.”
I rest my head on his chest. He’s wearing a green polo with an embroidered Tulane crest and I feel the roughness of the piqué against my cheek. “Should we call the police?” I look up at him. “We should call the police, shouldn’t we? But what if they call the social worker? What if people start questioning if we’re fit parents?”
He smiles his sad smile and I know deep inside that I’m the one responsible for that sadness. More than the kidnapping. More than the loss of our child. It’s a guilt I’ll live with the rest of my life. We Catholics, even the bad ones, are good at guilt.
He smoothes my hair. Kisses my forehead and then steps back, taking hold of my shoulders. “We shouldn’t call the police. Not yet. And no one is getting the social worker involved. Lilla’s our daughter; she’s not on loan. She probably went for a walk. In the park.”
I close my eyes for a second. He keeps calling her by that name. I press my lips together. Pick your battles. Pick your battles.
I open my eyes. “You really think she just went for a walk? She was upset this morning about something.” I close my eyes again, realizing that sounds ridiculous. Of course she’s upset. She’s been upset since she arrived. In her teenage mind, we kidnapped her. Not that woman. I’m beginning to see that now. Feel it. It’s the accusation I’ve seen in her eyes since she came home.
I look up at him again. “She was upset about something specific. She was painting her room. She’d been crying.”
“I’m telling you, I bet she went for a walk. She’s gone for a walk and then she’ll come home.”
“We should have gotten her a cell phone.” I shake my head. “Why didn’t we think about getting her a phone? How could she call us if she was in trouble?”
He chuckles, which makes me angry. This isn’t funny. None of this is funny. How can he laugh at a time like this?
“Harper, you haven’t let her get more than thirty feet from you since she arrived. Why would she need a cell phone?”
“She’s going to school next week. She needs a phone.”
“I agree. She needs a phone.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and steers me toward the door. “Let’s go find our daughter. She’ll probably be at home by the time we get there.”
* * *
But she isn’t. I search the whole house while Remy makes himself a sandwich. Upstairs in her room, I pick up the paintbrush that had been in her hand this morning. I close my eyes and try to feel her touch. After she was kidnapped, I did this for weeks. Months. I smelled her blankets. I laid my head on her little pillow in her toddler bed. I touched her toys over and over again. I kept a spoon she had used that morning, not caring that there was dried cereal and milk on it. Remy and I had a huge blow-up when he washed the spoon, knowing I didn’t want her touch washed off it.
I take a breath and put the paintbrush back where I found it. I glance around her room. It’s easy to tell what’s missing because she doesn’t have much. The canvas laundry container with a few pieces of clothing in it that she brought with her is still by the door. But the blue backpack is gone. And Remy’s Tulane hoodie. So maybe she did just go for a walk. If she’d run away, wouldn’t she have taken the clothes?
I go back downstairs, to the kitchen. Remy is sitting at the counter, eating a chicken salad sandwich on rye, a strange combination, and staring into space.
“She’s not here,” I say.
“I’ll check the park.”
“It’s too big.” I throw up my hands and let them fall. “What are the chances you’ll run into her?”
He lifts his gaze to meet mine. He’s trying to be patient with me. “She’ll be back. I think we just need to wait for her.”
I turn away from him and begin to pace.
“You want me to make you a sandwich? I made the chicken salad with pimentos the way you like it. And a little fresh garlic. Lilla’s contribution.”
“I don’t want anything to eat,” I say from between clenched teeth. At the refrigerator, I turn and walk back, my arms crossed over my chest. I’m seriously thinking about calling the police, with or without Remy’s say-so. What if Georgina ran away? The police said she and the woman lived in a lot of places. What if Georgina took off for Baton Rouge, or Atlanta, or God knew where? A sixteen-year-old walking through a park alone was one thing, hitchhiking I-10 was another. “And I wish you wouldn’t call her that,” I snap. “Her name is Georgina. We
named her Georgina. She was baptized Georgina. She’s our child and her name is Georgina.” The last words stick in my throat. Choke me.
Remy puts down his sandwich, half eaten. He takes a sip from his glass of water. “You stay here. Call me if she shows up.”
“Where are you going?” I suddenly feel terrible for speaking like that to him. I know that tone of voice is one of the reasons he left. I don’t want to be that woman anymore. I don’t want to use that tone of voice with him. With anyone. I lower my head. “Sorry,” I murmur. “I’m just . . . scared.”
“I know.” He kisses my cheek as he walks by me. “I’ll have my phone.”
I watch him walk for the back door.
“But where are you going to look for her?” I call after him.
“Don’t call the police,” he says. And then he’s gone.
17
Lilla
I sit on the front step trying not to cry, chewing on little bits of dry cuticle. It took me longer to get here than I thought it would. I took the St. Charles streetcar line all the way to Canal. Then I got on the Canal Street line and got off at City Park. I walked to our shotgun from there.
It was such a nice ride on the streetcars. They weren’t packed like they are some days. I listened to the dinging whenever a car pulled across the tracks in front of us, and I waved at some little boys standing with their mom on the street. I hung my head out the window and felt the breeze on my face as the streetcar rattled down the tracks. Some old lady asked me to shut the window because she was cold, but after she got off, I put it down again.
Riding the streetcar, I pretended Mom was sitting beside me. Like she did when we first got here. We had a whole Saturday together that day. She explained to me the layout of the city. She told me which way the major highways ran. Where the French Quarter sat in relationship to the rest of the city. She explained to me how the Mississippi River ran through the city and what the deal with the levees was when Katrina hit and they broke. And why places like the Ninth Ward went underwater and the Quarter didn’t. My mom is really smart.
Finding Georgina Page 11
