Missing Pieces

by Joy Fielding

  I found a parking space at the front of the hotel between a black Rolls-Royce and a chocolate-brown Mercedes and walked briskly along the U-shaped driveway, past the large fountain of sculpted water nymphs, to the entrance of the grand old hotel, a magnificent structure that fairly shouted old money. I hurried past the valets and bellhops with their crisp white shirts and navy epaulets, noting the many luggage carts, golf clubs, and potted palms lined up along the portico as I followed the red carpet through the tall Ionic columns and glass doors into the long expanse of lobby, its vaulted fresco ceiling dotted at regular intervals by huge crystal chandeliers, the marble floor all but covered by richly textured area rugs. There were tapestries on the walls, enormous floral arrangements on tall marble stands, comfortable groupings of sofas and chairs, even small tables set up for chess and checkers. I walked toward the long counter of the registration desk, my feet cramping inside my high heels.

  I was early, I knew without having to check my watch. Robert wouldn’t be here yet. Even so, I glanced furtively around, careful not to make direct eye contact with any of the hotel’s many other visitors. I could spend the next half hour browsing through the exclusive boutiques that were located just off the lobby, or I could stroll around the grounds, visit the bar at the back, off the main dining room. Larry and I had come here for dinner once, not long after we’d moved to Palm Beach. Over the years, we’d occasionally talked of checking ourselves in for a weekend. We never had. Now, here I was, about to check in with another man.

  I lowered myself into a nearby antique chair, my body immediately obliterated by a hulking hydrangea plant whose bright pink flowers all but leapt into my lap. I heard laughter, turned sharply, the pointed end of a narrow green leaf catching the side of my eye. A young couple was standing not more than six feet away from me, wrapped in each other’s arms, their lips pressed tightly together, their bodies swaying to imaginary breezes, as bemused onlookers tiptoed gingerly around them, careful not to disturb their passion. Next to the registration desk, a young boy of about six was standing beside his mother, pointing at the couple and laughing. His mother admonished him not to point, then looked away, although seconds later I noticed she looked back, sad eyes lingering.

  That’s what I want, I thought, knowing she was thinking the same thing. To be young and desperately in love, to need someone’s arms around me so badly it hurt, to literally ache for the feel of his lips on mine, to be that desired, that carried away, that oblivious to the rest of the world. To be seventeen again.

  This was my fantasy: Robert and I in each other’s arms, his eyes gazing lovingly into mine, his lips delicately kissing the sides of my mouth, the bend in my neck, my fluttering eyelashes, my cheeks, the tip of my nose, his hands cupping my face, his fingers twisting through my hair as his tongue twisted gently around mine, our kisses growing deeper, yet softer, always softer.

  The reality would be different. It always was. Oh, there might be deep tender kisses, but they would be mere preamble to the main event, and they could only linger so long, time being of the essence. Sara was waiting for me at home; Robert, no doubt, had plans with his wife. We couldn’t be gone too long without arousing suspicions. And so, soft lingering kisses would give way to increasingly insistent caresses. Clothes would be unbuttoned, shed, and discarded. Limbs would entwine, flesh merge. A different flesh than I was used to, a different way of being touched. And it would be wonderful. I knew it would be wonderful. And when it was over, we would lie in each other’s arms, mindful of the moments ticking away, trying to avoid the growing reality of the wet spot beneath us.

  That was the difference between fantasy and reality. A fantasy contained no consequences, no mess. When it was over, you felt great, not guilt. Fantasies didn’t leave wet spots.

  That’s what I wanted. I wanted the fantasy.

  I didn’t need any more reality. I had too much as it was.

  I pictured Robert and me sitting on opposite sides of the bed, not speaking, no longer touching, struggling to get back into our clothes. I knew I’d feel awful. I felt awful enough now.

  “What am I doing here?” I whispered, catching a long leaf in my mouth, feeling it slither across my tongue. And then I saw him.

  He walked through the front door with a comfortable stride, long arms swinging casually at his sides. He was wearing navy pants and a white polo shirt, muscles impressively on display. His hair fell roguishly across his forehead. His lips curled into a natural smile. Could he look more beautiful? I wondered, as every muscle in my body cramped. Was it possible to want someone so much and like him so little?

  I gasped, quickly covering my mouth to prevent the sound from escaping, as the truth of my latent observation hit me square in the gut, like a boxer’s fist. And the truth was that I really didn’t like Robert very much, that I never had, and that was the reason I hadn’t slept with him thirty years ago. It was why I couldn’t sleep with him now.

  Robert strode confidently across the lobby, eyes straight ahead, looking neither right nor left. He didn’t see me. I wasn’t surprised. The truth was that I was invisible to Robert, that I’d always been invisible. How could you see someone, after all, when the only thing you saw when you gazed into their eyes was the glory of your own reflection?

  That was the truth. That was the reality.

  I watched Robert speak easily to the clerk behind the registration counter, then glance carelessly around the large lobby. Get up, I told myself. Get up and announce your presence, tell him you’ve had a change of heart. Instead, I burrowed in deeper behind the potted plant, knowing I was being silly, that even if I wasn’t going to go upstairs with him, at least I owed him the courtesy of an explanation.

  Except that something kept me rooted to that antique seat as surely as if I’d been potted myself. For despite my recent epiphany and newfound resolve, I knew that if I left that chair, if I confronted Robert, then I was lost, it was game over, I was as good as naked and lying smack in the middle of the wet spot. And so I remained in my chair, hidden by the giant hydrangea, watching as my would-be lover signed the register and took possession of the room key, smiling securely as he headed for the elevators.

  And then I raced for the front entrance of the hotel as if someone were after me, as if my life depended on it.

  Perhaps it did.

  Chapter 30

  I phoned Jo Lynn as soon as I got home. Her machine was still picking up, so I called the motel in Starke where she usually stayed. The manager informed me that she hadn’t seen Jo Lynn in several weeks, then hung up before I could ask her the names of other motels in the area. “Great,” I muttered, debating whether or not to call the police, maybe the penitentiary, deciding against both alternatives. What would I say after all? What could they do?

  “I take it she didn’t call?” I asked my daughters.

  They shook their heads.

  I thought of Robert, wondered if he was still waiting for me at the hotel, if he’d ordered champagne, if he was growing restless, bored, worried, angry. “Did anybody else phone?” I asked.

  “Like who?” Sara said.

  “Nobody in particular.” I noticed she’d washed her hair, changed into a pair of surprisingly presentable beige pants and matching sweater. “Still want to go to the movies?”

  “I guess so.” Sara’s voice strained for indifference, almost succeeded.

  “How about you, Michelle? Feel like a movie?”

  “Can’t,” she said. “I’m going over to Brooke’s, remember?”

  “That’s right. I forgot.” I looked around. “Where’s Grandma? Is she sleeping?”

  “She’s in her room,” Sara said. “She’s been acting kind of funny.”

  “What do you mean, funny?”

  “Hi, darling,” my mother said, as if she’d been standing in the wings, waiting for her turn to resume center stage. She shuffled into the kitchen, purse in hand. “Did I hear you say we’re going to the movies?”

  Sara selected a popular movie
, and the theater, at barely four o’clock in the afternoon on a beautiful sunny day, was almost full. We managed to find three seats together near the front. “Is this okay for you, Mom?” I asked.

  She said nothing. She hadn’t spoken a word since we left the house.

  “Was she this quiet while I was gone?”

  Sara nodded. “Except for every so often, when she suddenly screams.”

  “She screams?”

  “Every so often.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I did tell you.”

  “You said she was acting funny. You didn’t say anything about screaming.”

  “Sshh!” someone said, as the houselights dimmed.

  She screamed the first time during one of the previews. It was a piercing wail, like a siren, and it scared me half to death, not to mention the people around us, all of whom literally jumped out of their seats.

  “Mom, what’s the matter?!”

  “Is everything all right?” the woman directly in front of us asked.

  “Mom, are you all right?”

  Wide eyes stared at the screen. She gave no reply.

  “She’s fine,” I assured those around us.

  She screamed again about ten minutes into the feature presentation, once again scaring those people in our immediate vicinity half out of their wits, and causing a general outbreak of nervous giggles in the surrounding rows, not to mention a pronounced smattering of “sshh’s.” Two people at the end of our row got up and moved.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered into the general darkness. “I’m very sorry. Mom, what’s the matter? Does something hurt you? Do you want to leave?”

  “Sshh!” someone hissed loudly.

  My mother said nothing, settled back in her seat, her demeanor outwardly calm, her demons seemingly exorcised. I tried to relax, to pay attention to what was happening on the screen, but it was a bit like waiting for the other shoe to drop. I sat stiffly, my body on full alert, poised to whisk my mother out of the theater at the next outburst. It never came. Instead, she drifted off to sleep, awoke as the final credits were rolling.

  “How are you?” I asked her as the lights went up.

  “Magnificent,” she said.

  At least she’d kept my mind off Robert, I realized, as we walked up the aisle. I wondered how long he’d stayed at the hotel, and whether he’d tried calling my house to see if I was there, if everything was all right. Had he checked the hospitals, called the police, contacted station WKEY for the latest in accident reports?

  As soon as we reached the pay phone in the lobby, I checked my answering machine for messages. There weren’t any.

  We went to a tiny Italian eatery in the same plaza as the movie theater. The restaurant was brightly lit and decorated in the colors of the Italian flag—red, white, and green. We ordered a large pizza with everything on it, and a Gorgonzola salad to share. “So, did you find a place for Grandma?” Sara asked as we waited for our food to arrive.

  “What?” I was staring out the front window into the parking lot, wondering where Robert was now, and what he was doing. I wasn’t really surprised he hadn’t called. Nor, I realized with no small measure of relief, was I especially disappointed.

  “I asked if you found a place for Grandma to live.”

  “No,” I said, staring across the table at the stranger who used to be my mother. The harsh light in the small room accentuated the blankness in her eyes, and gave the rest of her features an eerie glow. She looked almost otherworldly, an alien creature dropped into our midst. I recalled the promo line from an old horror movie: First they come for your body, then they come back for your mind. Except that, in this case anyway, reality seemed to work in reverse. It was my mother’s mind that had been taken, while her body remained reasonably intact. No, I thought, staring at the woman who’d given me life almost a half century ago, staring through her, this woman was not my mother. The porcelain-skinned creature with the empty, cavernous eyes bore no relation to my mother at all.

  We ate in silence, listening to a man at the next table loudly critique the movie we’d just seen. An interesting concept but a mediocre script, he pronounced, probably the result of too many writers and too much studio meddling. The actors were adequate, but no more; the direction lacked focus. There were too many weird camera angles, no real vision. Decidedly, a minor effort. Rating: C+.

  Sara made a face, took another bite of her pizza, dripped tomato sauce and cheese down her chin. “What did you think of the movie, Grandma?” she asked.

  “I didn’t know,” my mother replied, eyes growing fear-fill.

  “You don’t know if you liked the movie?”

  “I didn’t know,” my mother repeated, her hands leaving her pizza to scratch at the air.

  I reached across the table, clasped my mother’s hands in mine, brought them back down. “It’s okay, Mom. It’s okay now.”

  “What’s happening?” Sara asked.

  “I tried to protect you,” my mother said. “I always tried to protect you.” She rose halfway out of her seat.

  “I know that, Mom.”

  “It’s a mother’s job to protect her child.”

  “It’s okay, Mom. It’s okay.”

  “I would never let anyone hurt my babies.”

  “I know that, Mom. Sit down. Please, sit down.” My hands guided her back into her chair.

  “I had to have a cesarean section, you know,” she said. “I had an allergic reaction to the surgical tape. My skin is very sensitive.”

  “I know.”

  Her hands began frantically pawing at her stomach. “I’m horribly itchy. I’m not supposed to scratch.”

  “I’m scared,” Sara said.

  “It’s all right, honey. Grandma’s just a little confused.”

  “Don’t be scared, Jo Lynn,” my mother whispered, her hand leaving her stomach to caress Sara’s cheek. “Mommy’s here. I’ll protect you.”

  After dinner, we guided my mother back to the car and strapped her into the rear seat. As soon as I started the engine, the radio came on, the sound of country music immediately filling the air. “How can you listen to this garbage?” Sara said, flipping through the various channels, eliciting a beat here, a chord there, each gone before anything had a chance to register on my brain. What difference did it make? I thought, catching a stray fragment of spoken word.

  He apparently escaped …

  Sara punched in another channel. The sound of heavy metal assaulted my ears. She quickly switched to another station. You can take my heart, my achy breaky heart …

  She switched again.

  “Wait a minute, what was that?”

  “Mom, please don’t make me listen to Billy Ray Cyrus.”

  “Not that. Before. The news.”

  “I don’t want to listen to the news.”

  “Sara …”

  “Okay, okay.”

  It took several seconds before we relocated the news, and by that time, the announcer had moved on to the weather. Another beautiful sunny day for South Florida. “Find another channel.”

  “What are you looking for?” Sara asked.

  “I thought I heard something.”

  “What?”

  “Just find the news.”

  We found it, then listened in stunned silence as the story unfolded. A dramatic escape took place earlier today at the Florida State Prison in Raiford. Colin Friendly, the convicted killer of thirteen women and the suspected killer of many more, escaped while being transferred to the neighboring Union Correctional Institution.

  “Oh God.”

  Officials are remaining tight-lipped about what exactly happened, but it appears that the notorious death row inmate was aided in his daring daytime escape by his wife, the former Jo Lynn Baker of Palm Beach.

  “Oh God, no. Please, no.”

  “Jo Lynn helped him escape?” Sara asked incredulously.

  Apparently, Colin Friendly was able to overpower one of his
guards with a knife that had been smuggled into the prison. Police have issued an all-points bulletin for the getaway car, a 1987 red Toyota, license plate number YZT642, that belongs to the killer’s wife. If anyone sees this vehicle, you are urged to call the police immediately. Under no circumstances should you approach the vehicle directly. Colin Friendly is armed and considered extremely dangerous.

  “I don’t understand,” Sara said. “Why would Jo Lynn do such a thing?”

  “Because she’s a moron,” I shouted, slamming the steering wheel with my fists, accidentally connecting with the horn, feeling its sharp blast like a stab to my heart.

  Once again: Colin Friendly has escaped from the Florida State Prison and is believed to be in the company of his wife, the former Jo Lynn Baker, who married Friendly in a recent jail house ceremony. They fled in the bride’s 1987 red Toyota, license plate YZT642, and were last seen heading northwest. Police have set up roadblocks throughout the state, and are advising that should you see the couple, you call them immediately. They are considered armed and very dangerous. Under no circumstances approach them directly. And now, in other news …

  “What’s going to happen now?” Sara asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think that’s why she wanted the money so badly, so that she could help him escape?”

  “It looks that way.”

  “Where do you think they’re going?”

  “I don’t know. Northwest, the announcer said. Alabama, maybe. Georgia. I don’t know.”

  “Do you think she’ll try to get in touch with us?”

  “I don’t know.” God, I was getting sick of saying that.

  “You don’t think there’s any chance they’ll come back here, do you?” Sara asked.

  “No,” I said, because I knew that’s what she wanted to hear.

  From the back seat, my mother started screaming.

  As soon as we walked in the front door, I called Brooke’s house and asked to speak to Michelle. I was going to tell her to take a cab home, or better yet, to spend the night with Brooke.