What Makes a Family

by Colleen Faulkner

  Sarah kisses her grandfather good-bye and leaves him with a promise to be back as soon as she gets a break in her weekend field hockey schedule and the palindrome, a Santa dog lived as a devil god at NASA. Which Daddy seems to appreciate.

  I give Drum a kiss good-bye. Reed runs upstairs for a super-quick shower.

  When Daddy and I are alone in the kitchen, I pour him another cup of coffee, even though he doesn’t ask for it. He’s back in his chair at the head of the kitchen table, looking a little small. And lost. I slide into Birdie’s chair, watching him stroke Duke’s head. The dog seems to sense the abrupt shift in the world that’s taken place since Mom Brodie’s death. He appears as uncertain as we are at the changes in our roles in the family.

  “You going to be okay, Daddy?” I ask. “I need to take Reed to Philly, but I can turn right around and come back if you want me to.”

  He shakes his head. “Go home to your husband. We’ll be fine, your mother and I. Just going to take some getting used to, not having Mama here.” His voice takes on a gruff tone, but I think he’s fighting tears.

  I rub the back of his hand that’s now resting on the kitchen table. It looks like an old hand today. The hand of an old man. “Daddy, I know you’re not thrilled with Joseph’s and my decision to give Celeste part of Mom Brodie’s money, but . . .” I meet his gaze. “We feel like it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Your mother will be happy about it.” He reaches for his coffee, but he doesn’t pick up the mug. Instead he fiddles with the handle. “You tell her? Celeste?”

  I shake my head. “Not yet. She’ll want the money yesterday. Joseph says Clancy will be back sometime this week. Joseph wants to talk to him and the accountant, see the best way to go about it. I think you should just keep the will and the letter in your safe for now.”

  “It’s going to cost you money,” he says. “Taxes, likely. You can’t just give money away, even to family. Government wants a piece. They always want a piece.”

  I want to avoid the conversation about taxes this morning; otherwise we’ll never get on the road. “I know.”

  He exhales. “Sarah said she didn’t come home last night. Celeste.”

  “I imagine she’ll be dragging in any time.”

  He half smiles. “Sleep all day, probably. She didn’t say when she was going back to New York. Maybe she’ll stay a few more days.”

  I lean back in the chair. “Maybe. So what have you got planned for today? I guess you’re not going to church.”

  “Nah. Got things I want to get done. Fire department is coming midweek to burn the cannery. Joe thought we could salvage some wood. Loopy’s meeting me over there later, see what we can do with a couple of crowbars.” He hesitates, picking at a cuticle. “It was sure nice having everyone here this week. I know Mama would have enjoyed it. She always liked having a houseful.”

  I smile with him. It’s bittersweet. “She certainly would have.” I rise from my mother’s chair. “I’ll be back in a week or so.”

  He stares into his coffee cup. “I don’t want you to put yourself out, but . . . your mother will appreciate it. I know she and Mama didn’t always see eye to eye, but . . . but Mama loved her like she was her own daughter, and this is gonna hit Birdie hard. Once it sinks in.”

  I lean down and kiss him on the cheek. “Have a good day. Tell Birdie I’ll talk to her tonight or tomorrow.”

  He slurps his coffee and reaches for his Sunday paper. “Will do.”

  * * *

  Reed and I are probably twenty minutes behind Drum and Sarah, so I’m surprised to see Drum’s car at the top of the Brodie bridge. Parked, flashers on. Reed and I both jump out. Drum and Sarah are just standing at the rail, looking down at something in the water.

  “Everything okay?” I call. Against my will, I feel a little flutter in my chest. I’m not a worrier, but it’s not normal to see a car parked on the bridge. And certainly not one of our cars. There’s just one narrow lane going in each direction, no passing lane or shoulders. The bridge was constructed only as wide as necessary, to save on construction costs, I’m sure.

  “Everything’s fine,” Drum answers over his shoulder.

  “You can’t park on the bridge.” I cross the other lane. “It’s dangerous.”

  “It’s Sunday,” he argues good-naturedly. “There’s almost no traffic. Only one car’s gone by. One of your dad’s cousins. Jim? John? I can’t keep them straight. He just went around.”

  Sarah is staring intently over the rail at the water below. Reed and I both join her.

  “What you looking at?” Reed beats me to the question. He’s a carbon copy of his dad, but instead of being a Mini-Me, he’s a Big Me, now. He’s got Drum by at least an inch in height, and I’m not sure Reed’s done growing.

  “Nothing,” Sarah says dreamily. “Everything. I felt like we needed to stop.”

  “Wow, I didn’t know you could see the farm so well from here.” Reed shades his eyes from the sun. “Why haven’t we ever stopped up here before? The view’s incredible. You can see all the way across the island.”

  “Because it’s dangerous,” I say testily. I look to Drum.

  He makes kissy lips at me and taps on the steel rail with his palm. “Okay, let’s load up. See you at home this afternoon,” he tells me. I get another kiss.

  “Later, Dad,” Reed calls as he lopes across the street.

  “Have a good week. Don’t worry about the physics class. I know it’s not your thing, but you’ll do fine. You’ve got the groundwork.”

  Reed bobs his head. We climb back into the cars, and we’re soon on our way. After Reed makes a call to a girl who I suspect is either his girlfriend, or a potential girlfriend, he starts telling me about some kind of drama going on in the lab where he works.

  We have a nice drive up to Philly, without hitting too much beach traffic from the Delaware shore. We stop for an omnivore’s lunch of spicy wings and salads. It’s late afternoon, getting on to suppertime by the time I arrive home. When I walk in, carrying my overnight bag, I find Drum on the phone.

  “Here she is, Joe; just walked in.”

  I make a face of inquiry at Drum. My dad’s calling? My dad never calls. I call him. Or Birdie calls me and puts him on the phone.

  I set my bag on the kitchen floor and take the phone. “Dad?”

  “Abby.” His voice sounds strange. “I’m worried about your mother. She didn’t come home. I was wondering if you talked to her.”

  “Didn’t come home from where?”

  “Church.”

  “From this morning?” I look at the clock on the kitchen stove. “Dad, it’s almost six o’clock.”

  “I came home for supper, and she wasn’t here.”

  “Did you see her at lunchtime?” I ask.

  “She didn’t bring my lunch to the warehouse, but Loopy had plenty. We got some nice wide planks from the floor in the office. Not sure what I’ll do—”

  “Daddy,” I interrupt. I’m not worried yet. It’s Sunday. She’s busy some Sundays with various church events. I’m more concerned about my father’s memory; he hasn’t demonstrated any issues with it before, but he is seventy-one. “Think back. Did Birdie say she had something going on today? Did she tell you supper would be late?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  Now the slightest worry is beginning to creep into my chest. “Look in the fridge. Is there something there for you to heat up? It will probably have a sticky note on it.” My mother rarely misses meals. When she and Mom Brodie would occasionally have a commitment at church, Birdie would leave leftovers for Daddy with detailed instructions as to what he was to eat and how he was to reheat it in the microwave. “With all that food everyone’s been bringing all week, she probably left you something. She probably told you, and you forgot.”

  “She didn’t tell me she’d be home late,” he argues. “Let me look in the refrigerator, though.” There’s a pause, then he’s back. “Plenty of food in there, but no note. I was
expecting her home, Abby. Been waiting for her about two hours.”

  I keep my tone even. “Daddy, why didn’t you call me sooner?”

  “You were driving Reed to Philadelphia.”

  “I have a cell phone. You have a cell phone.”

  “I didn’t think anything of it. Got home, she wasn’t here, and I laid down a few minutes. Just woke up and no supper.”

  Something about the way he says it ticks me off. He seems more concerned about supper than Birdie. “Did Celeste come home?”

  “Nope. Checked her room.”

  “You try her cell?” I ask. My mother doesn’t have one. No need, she’s always told us when we wanted to get her one. She doesn’t go anywhere to need a cell phone.

  “I don’t call Celeste much,” my father says, sounding short with me now. “I’m not interested in what she’s up to, or with who,” he adds meaningfully.

  I sit down on the edge of a barstool at the kitchen counter. Suddenly I’m bone-weary. “Did you call Mrs. Larson? Birdie must have ridden to church with her. Birdie’s car was in the driveway when I left.”

  “Didn’t want to bother her,” he tells me.

  I take a breath. “Please call her, Daddy. I’ll call Celeste. Did you talk to Joseph?”

  “Been gone all day to Salisbury. Don’t know what he was getting into. Some kind of preseason football or something on TV. Meeting up with friends, I think.”

  I rub my temple. My father is always so sharp of mind that I’m a little disconcerted by the way he seems to be thinking. It’s as if he doesn’t understand that he should be concerned about his wife. Very concerned. Because never once, in my life, has my father not known where my mother is. Exactly where she is. She’s big on giving a full itinerary to anyone who will listen. Not only will she tell you she’s going to the market, but she’ll tell you what’s on the grocery list.

  “Call Mrs. Larson. Do you have her cell?”

  “Don’t know that I do. But I can call the house. Likely she’ll answer this time of day.”

  “Unless she’s at the church, Daddy. Working. With Birdie.” I make eye contact with Drum and roll my eyes. He’s busy at the stove, making something in the wok that smells delicious. “I’ll see if I can get ahold of Celeste. Call me back, Daddy, after you talk to Mrs. Larson.” I hang up and look at Drum. “My mother hasn’t been home all day.”

  “So I gather.” He turns to the kitchen island and begins chopping mushrooms. “And your dad hasn’t seen her all day?”

  I shake my head. “Of course, he didn’t notice she was missing until no one plopped his supper down in front of him.” I don’t hide my annoyance now. I get off the stool. “Sarah here?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “I have to pee,” I tell him. I call my sister on the way to the bathroom. It goes to voice mail. I don’t leave a message. Then I text her. No response. Next, I call Joseph. No answer there, either. I text him, Seen Birdie today?

  I’m on my way back to kitchen when he texts back, No.

  Where are you?

  Date with Gail.

  I scowl. Then feel guilty. Why would I be annoyed with him? I’m glad he asked her out. I saw them talking for quite a while after the funeral, longer than a hospice nurse talks with a client’s family member.

  I’m just frustrated with my father. And with my mother for not leaving a note or calling Daddy or something. Or telling someone her plans for today, last night. But last night, after the funeral, was crazy. People ended up coming back to the house. Maybe she did tell Daddy, or even me, and we just don’t remember.

  It all seems logical. She’s probably at the church. Or someone’s house. But I’m still worried. Somewhere in the back of my head, in the pit of my stomach, I have this nagging feeling that something’s wrong.

  Birdie’s missing, I text my brother.

  My cell rings thirty seconds later. “Missing?” Joseph says when I answer. “What do you mean, missing?” I can hear music in the background. And voices. It sounds like he’s in a bar. Or maybe a restaurant.

  “She never came home from church, and Daddy doesn’t remember her saying she’d be home late. She wasn’t there to make him supper.”

  “She’s probably still at the church,” Joseph says dismissively. “At a spaghetti dinner or something.”

  “Probably,” I agree. “Maybe. You hear from Celeste? She never came home either.”

  “That’s a little less surprising than Mom’s being late for supper.”

  “Right.”

  “You want me to go home? I can cut this short. Gail will be cool with it.”

  Drum brings me a glass of water with a slice of lemon in it. I smile my thanks. “Um . . . no, not yet. Daddy was calling Mrs. Larson. Birdie went to church with her this morning. He didn’t think to call her. So, I’ll text you after Daddy calls back. Let you know he found her.”

  While I’m waiting on Daddy, I call my sister again. This time, I leave a message. “Hey, can you call me when you get this?” I decide not to leave a message that Daddy’s misplaced Birdie. It will be moot in five minutes. Instead, I surprise myself by saying, “We need to talk about Mom Brodie’s will. There’s money, Celeste. A lot of money. I know you’ve been worried about your finances, but”—I find myself tearing up, and I have no idea why—“you won’t have to worry anymore. Call me. Love you.”

  It takes way too long for my father to call me back. I pick up on the first ring.

  “Nope,” he says in my ear.

  “Nope, what?” I come off sounding annoyed, but really I’m just scared.

  “She didn’t go with Mrs. Larson to church this morning. Didn’t go to church at all. Nobody’s seen her.”

  “Nobody’s seen her all day?” I’m perched on one of the barstools again, but I get to my feet. Something terrible has happened. I just know it. Birdie doesn’t skip church. And she would never not make Daddy’s supper. It’s not in her DNA.

  Drum comes around the counter, his face creased with concern.

  “Daddy, I’m headed back.” I walk to the back door where I left my flip-flops, trying to think. But I’m so scared that I feel like my brain is sludge. “How could she have gone anywhere? Her car’s in the driveway. Right? Her car is in the driveway?”

  “Sure is.”

  “And you’re sure she’s not somewhere in the house? Taking a nap maybe?”

  “Not in the living room or our bedroom or the den.”

  “Check all the other rooms, Daddy. Maybe she’s in Mom Brodie’s room.”

  Drum has picked up my overnight bag and is now following me out the door.

  “Why would she be in Mama’s room?” my father asks me.

  “I don’t know. Go check. I’ll wait. And check the sewing room, too,” I add. Then I cover the mouthpiece with my hand and look up at Drum. “I have to go back. He can’t find her. She didn’t go to church. Where the hell can she be, Drum?”

  “Want me to come with?” He opens my car door for me in the driveway.

  “No, you stay here with Sarah. She’s got practice in the morning. You’ll have to take her.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Would you go get Sarah? I want to give her a hug before I go. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Drum, what if she’s fallen somewhere, broken her hip or something, and can’t get up. What if—”

  “There’s got to be an explanation.”

  While Drum is gone, Daddy comes back on the line. “She’s not here, Abby. Duke and I looked everywhere. She’s nowhere in the house.” Now, finally, at long last, he sounds worried.

  “Okay, listen, I’m on my way. Joseph will be there in an hour. Less than an hour. I want you to call everyone on the contact list in your cell. Somebody has to have seen her today. And while you’re calling, go out and check the chicken house. Maybe she went out to feed the chickens, and, I don’t know . . . And check the dock,” I add.

  “You mother never goes down to the dock.”

  “My mother never misses supper either, Daddy. Ple
ase. Just do it. Call me on my cell. I’m leaving now.”

  We hang up, and I call Joseph back. He says he’s walking out of the bar. He’ll drop Gail off at her place and be on the road in ten minutes. I hand the house phone to Drum when he and Sarah come out to the car. I give Sarah a big hug.

  “Want me to come with you?” she asks, clearly understanding the potential gravity of the situation.

  “No,” I murmur, close to tears. Where could Birdie be? How did she leave? She couldn’t have just walked. Not with her feet. Her arthritic hips. I know something bad has happened. She’s too dependable. She’d never just go to a movie or something without telling us. And how would she go if she wanted to, if she didn’t take her car?

  The thought that Birdie could have been kidnapped, maybe even murdered, crosses my mind, but the idea is ludicrous. I’ve been watching too many crime dramas on Netflix. There’s been only one murder on Brodie in my forty-five years, and that was a wife doing in her abusive husband in what was basically hand-to-hand combat with oyster knives. She wasn’t even arrested.

  I just can’t fathom where Birdie could be. So I guess we’re going to have to look everywhere on the island.

  I kiss Sarah good-bye, then Drum. I’m at the end of my street when I think of something. Using the Bluetooth in my car, I call my father’s cell.

  “Is your old truck in the driveway?” I ask when he answers.

  “Sure is.”

  “Then go check the Caddy,” I say.

  “The Caddy?” he asks me.

  “Yes, Mom Brodie’s Caddy. Maybe Birdie . . . I don’t know, went for a drive. And took Mom Brodie’s Caddy. You told her she could have it, right?”

  “It’s in the back shed. Shut up. Covered.”

  “Please, Daddy.” I speak slowly, as if he’s a child. “Go look to see if Mom Brodie’s Cadillac is still there.”

  I’m out on Route 50 by the time he calls me back. “Damned if you weren’t right,” he says, sounding relieved. “She took off the canvas cover and backed her right out of the shed and closed the door again. She took Mama’s Caddy.”