Elvis Takes a Back Seat

by Leanna Ellis

  Rae comes out of her bedroom. “Is there a problem?”

  “I don’t know.” Cautiously, I open the door to Ivy’s room and peer into the darkness. After my eyes adjust, I realize the bed is empty, the covers rumpled where she lay on it earlier. “Ivy?”

  There’s no answer.

  “Ivy?” I call louder.

  Rae touches my back. “She’s not here?”

  “Apparently not.” I feel my spine stiffen as my heart slides down it, landing with a heavy thud in the pit of my stomach. “Where could she have gone?”

  “Let’s check the bathroom,” Rae says. “No reason to panic.”

  But Ivy isn’t in the bathroom or anywhere else in the hotel suite. And neither, we discover, is her suitcase.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Why Me, Lord?

  What do we do now?” A ball of panic surges up from my heart and wedges itself in my throat.

  “Maybe she was hungry and went to eat.” Rae’s voice is a calm, soothing source of reason to hold onto. “Or to work out or swim.”

  Logical assumptions. Good. Yes. Let’s think logically. For a moment there’s a rim of light, then just as quickly it fades and my thoughts remain dark. “With her suitcase?”

  “I admit that would be odd.” The lines around her eyes seem deeper, or maybe it’s my imagination. “But there’s no reason to panic either.”

  My nerves snap with irritation. “Because you’re not responsible for her. I am.”

  I begin pacing, my breath seemingly racing my footsteps in the small sitting area. Rae sits on the sofa, her ankles crossed.

  “Let’s think this through. We know she didn’t take the car. She didn’t take Elvis either.”

  I glance back at the bust, cloaked in shadows. I’m not sure that’s a source of relief. I want to shake the bust until he tells me where Ivy has gone, what he saw and heard while we were away. As ridiculous as that sounds, I feel desperate enough to try it. I wish Stu were here. He’d know what to do. Actually, I stop myself because he wouldn’t. He always said, “I don’t know how Ben does it with Ivy. I wouldn’t have been a good dad. Not like Ben.” Disappointment rises like bile in my throat.

  I wonder if Priscilla cursed Elvis for his absence when she was trying to raise Lisa Marie alone. I rub my forehead, pushing against the headache gathering behind my eyes like a storm.

  “Maybe she needed more drugs,” Rae suggests.

  “You’re not making me feel any better.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You think she’d know who to contact for something like that? I mean, a drug dealer?”

  “They’re not difficult to find.”

  I’m not sure that would be the case for me, although I have to admit I’ve never tried to find one. Ivy doesn’t seem as inept as I am, which only pushes my concerns closer to the edge of fear.

  “Or she—”

  “Cell phone! I bet she took hers.” I race across the room to my purse. Pushing aside the Memphis map and Graceland brochure, I fumble with a tube of lipstick, half of a leftover apple tart, a pack of gum. My hands shake. Finally, I dump the contents out on the sofa and paw through the pile until I locate my cell phone. I arrow down the keypad where I plugged in Ben’s number along with Ivy’s, just in case.

  Doubt gives me pause. Should I call Ben first? But what if there’s a simple explanation? Tightness seizes my chest. What if there isn’t? What if Ivy started to feel worse and went to the hospital? But what if she’s down the hall getting ice? Taking her suitcase along? My thoughts zigzag to different possibilities. I feel trapped in indecision and confusion, fear and panic. I don’t want to cause Ben worry for nothing. But I also don’t want to delay seeking help when every minute might be crucial. Drawing a shaky breath, I release it with a pathetic huff of frustration.

  Cursing myself for going against my better judgment and leaving Ivy in the room alone, I dial her cell phone number then wait, tapping my finger against the ear piece.

  “Well?” Rae stands next to me, crossing her arms over her chest.

  One ring. Two. Three. I glance toward the bathroom, closet, bedroom, hoping, wishing, praying she’ll appear suddenly, mysteriously, miraculously. Four. Five. Six. Then over the line comes, “It’s me.” I recognize her overtly perky voice, which is not her everyday tone. “Leave a message and I’ll call you back. Maybe.”

  Maybe.

  Would she call me back? I suck in a break, hoping for the courage I lack. “Hi, Ivy,” I say into the phone as cool and casual as I can manage, even though my heart pounds like U-2’s drummer. “Rae and I got back from the club.” I attempt a laugh that sounds fake. Rae arches an eyebrow at me. “You should have been there. You would have gotten a kick out of the Elvis impersonator. Anyway, uh, we’re back at the hotel. Where’d you go? We’re kind of hungry and thinking of grabbing a bite. So we’ll, uh, wait for your call.”

  I press the end button and snap the phone closed. Now what? Suddenly I’m cold. Very, very cold.

  “That’s called putting a positive spin on things.”

  “We can’t leave the room,” I say, my thoughts frantic, my nerves tightening with every second. I chafe my arms. “What if she returns or calls?”

  “But what if someone in the lobby saw her?”

  “You’re right.” I walk toward the door, then back. Crazy, irrational thoughts swoop in on me like vultures. “Okay, you stay here. I’ll run down to the front desk and check. See if anyone saw her leave.” I grab my camera, which holds pictures of all of us at Graceland. I can show a picture of Ivy to the person at the front desk. This is good. Movement. Activity. A plan. Good. We’ll find her. “Maybe she’s at the pool. Or in the Jungle Room bar.” Or not.

  Fifteen minutes later I’m back in the suite. When I ask if Ivy has called, Rae answers no, the lines around her mouth definitely deeper and more strained. For the thirty-third time I check my cell phone to be sure I didn’t miss her call. Nothing. No calls. No Ivy.

  This time I dial her cell again, more determined and more frightened with every unanswered ring.

  “Ivy,” my voice quavers and I bite my lip, taste blood, “I really need you to call us. Okay?” My voice gains strength, sharpens with anger. “We need to know you’re okay. So call me, okay?” Again, I repeat my cell phone number.

  Clicking shut the phone, I ask, “Now what are our choices?”

  “When can you call the police?”

  A shiver ripples through me. “She’s a minor, isn’t she? I don’t know. Yes, yes, she is. Anytime, I suppose. Do you think we should? I mean, do you think she’s really missing? Maybe I should call her dad first.

  “Oh, God.” I sink into the nearest chair. “He’s going to kill me. And I deserve it. What if I upset Ivy talking about her mother?” I brace my head with my hands. I would rather be dead myself than face the possibilities. “Why did I say all that to her? I should have just told Ivy to talk to her dad.”

  “You didn’t say anything wrong. More than likely Ben’s going to kill his daughter for pulling a stunt like this. That is, when we find her.” She puts a warm hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “And we will find her.”

  “Where could she have gone?”

  * * *

  AT A QUARTER to eleven, completely out of options, I phone Ben. My nerves are a jumbled knot of possibilities and fears. How can I tell my friend, my boss, that his daughter’s gone? I remember calling him the day Stu died. “Ben?” But I couldn’t say more. He knew. I thought that was the worst phone call, besides calling Stu’s parents. But it wasn’t. This is worse. Much worse.

  “Had a late night rockin’ and rollin’?” Ben asks when he picks up.

  “Hi,” I manage before my throat closes. I look to Rae for support.

  She sits beside me, takes my hand in hers. “Want me to tell him?”

  I give a slight shake of my head. “Uh, Ben … Ivy is, uh …” I can’t find the words, much less speak. Tears swell in my throat, choking me.

  “She�
��s not giving you a hard time is she?” he asks. When I don’t answer, he says, “Put her on, I’ll talk to her.”

  “When was the last time you did?” I ask.

  “What? Talk to her? I don’t know. This morning. Before y’all went to Graceland. Why?”

  “Because … uh … she’s not here.”

  “Have her call me when she gets back. Where’d she go?”

  “That’s the problem.” I try to put my words together logically, follow the time line as I explain the situation to Ben, but things keep getting jumbled in my head. Rae corrects me a couple of times. “Ben, I think we should call the police.”

  There’s a pause, as what I’ve told him sinks deep and spreads more fear. I can only hear the pounding of my heart. Ben makes no sound. No breath. No curse word. No reply.

  “Ben? Are you there?”

  “Okay. Okay. Yes, do that. I’ve got to make a couple of calls. Friends of Ivy’s I want to talk to. See if they know anything. Then I’ll catch the next flight to Memphis. Don’t worry about picking me up at the airport. I’ll rent a car. Call me on my cell when you talk to the police or if you hear from Ivy. I’ll be in Memphis as fast as I can.” He rattles off a list of instructions as if somewhere in his brain he’s registered this emergency. But having worked for Ben for years, I know it’s how he operates. He’s a take-charge kind of guy.

  “Okay. Um …”

  “What?” He sounds as if fear has jump-started him with a blast of energy. My brain can hardly keep up.

  “Ben, I’m … I’m sorry.” A sob breaks in my throat. “I really am.”

  “It’s not your fault.” His tone is flat, serious, but not reassuring either. Nothing could reassure me, make me feel any better at this moment. Guilt resides squarely on my shoulders, weighs me down.

  I’m responsible. I knew something was wrong. I should have said something, warned Ben, tried harder to talk to Ivy. I click end on my cell phone, go to the bathroom, and vomit.

  * * *

  THE POLICE PUT out a bulletin on a missing teen, but they don’t seem as concerned as we are. Ben’s called me about twelve times since the first time I spoke to him, keeping me posted on his flight information and that he’s been talking to a friend of Ivy’s. He offers to e-mail pictures of his daughter to the police station, but the police have already downloaded pictures off my digital camera.

  The police say it happens all the time. There are millions of runaways from one coast to the other. I remember hearing the same thing from others when Stu was diagnosed with cancer.

  “It happens all the time,” the doctor said.

  “Lots of men get cancer and survive,” a friend said.

  “Look at Lance Armstrong,” someone else suggested.

  The hope their words instilled had kept me going at first. I had believed. We’d looked into drinking carrot juice and cod liver oil and envisioning a blue healing light inside Stu’s body devouring the cancer cells like Pac-Man one by one. I’d believed as best I could. But maybe I hadn’t believed enough; maybe my lack of faith failed Stu. I scrambled for something, anything, to believe. To avoid falling into a depression, I stayed busy. But the months dragged on, first one surgery then another. Stu grew weaker with each chemo treatment, and the doctor’s words became more dire. What little hope I had left withered.

  So now I find it hard to believe we can find Ivy easily, quickly, safely. It’s better to face it from the beginning than to believe, to hope, and be slammed with reality later on. Accept things. Handle it.

  But it’s harder to control my emotions, knowing I’m at fault.

  I stare at Elvis and think of Stu lying in the satin-lined casket, the white roses rounding over the base eliciting a sickly sweet scent, and I picture Ivy there. Too young. Lost forever.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I Feel So Bad

  Armed with pictures of his daughter, Ben arrives at the hotel at 7:30 the next morning. He spent half the night at the airport and took the first flight available.

  “Ben,” I hug him close. “I’m so—”

  With a tight squeeze he stops any apologies or excuses, lame though they might be. When he releases me, his eyes are red rimmed. Fatigue stretches his features. “The first thing I want to do is talk to the police.”

  “They discovered Ivy took the last shuttle to the Sun Records Studio tour last night. Right after we left her for Double Takes.”

  “What’s over there?” Ben asks.

  “Not much,” Rae answers. “We took the tour yesterday, and I don’t think she went back for a second look.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s not a far walk to Beale Street.”

  “What’s on Beale Street?”

  “A jumpin’ place at night. Bars—”

  “There’s a mall not far from there with lots of shopping.”

  “Perfect for a teenager,” Rae adds.

  Ben’s frown deepens. “I think we should split up and start searching the area, showing her picture around to the shops and stores. Somebody had to see her.”

  “That’s a good idea. But what did her friends say? Did you talk to them before you left?”

  “I spent over an hour at Kerry’s house. She and Ivy have been friends since third grade. She wouldn’t say anything at first, not wanting to betray Ivy. But she finally told me Ivy wants to find her mom.”

  “Her mom?” My knees feel weak, and I sit on the sofa.

  “When I went home,” Ben says, “I started digging through her room. I found a letter from Gwen—”

  “Ivy’s mom,” I explain for Rae. “When did she—”

  “After Gwen left, she wrote me a letter. I’d hidden it in my desk drawer and forgotten about it. But I guess Ivy found it. The return address was Memphis.”

  “So that’s why she was so eager to come on this trip.”

  “And could explain the car sickness,” Rae says.

  “What?” Ben asks.

  “She could have been nervous about this reunion she was cooking up with her mother,” Rae suggests.

  “What did the letter say?” I ask.

  “Not much.” Ben rubs the bridge of his nose. “Gwen wasn’t much of a writer. And she didn’t want to say why she left. Why she wouldn’t come back. I guess I’m glad for that now, for Ivy’s sake. She just said she couldn’t handle it, couldn’t be a mother.”

  “How awful,” Rae breathes.

  “Poor Ivy.” I reach sideways for a solid form, needing Stu’s strength. It’s something I’ve always done, reach out in my sleep for him, reach out when I need reassurance. But my hand touches cool plaster. It’s Elvis, not Stu. Anger thrums inside me. If Stu hadn’t sent us on this wild goose chase, then I wouldn’t have taken Ivy away from her dad. And I wouldn’t be responsible for her disappearance. She wouldn’t be on the streets alone. Lost. Maybe even …

  “Can you imagine what Ivy must think? That her mother didn’t want to be a mother to her. That it’s her fault!” I understand how it feels to be emotionally abandoned by a mother, separated by death from a spouse. Neither brushed me aside on purpose, yet the loss is the same. But I also know all too well how guilt eats away at the soul.

  “Not to mention if she knows the truth.” Ben curses.

  I lift an eyebrow in question. But when he doesn’t answer, I ask, “What do you mean?”

  “Doesn’t matter now. But I was wrong. This is all my fault. I should have told her. I should have—”

  I reach toward him, wanting to help but not knowing what to say or do.

  “We’ve got to find her.”

  “Could Ivy’s mom still be here in Memphis?” I ask.

  His jaw tightens. “No.”

  “We should tell the police. Just in case.”

  Rae looks at me, then back to Ben. “Do you know where her mother is?”

  “Yes.” His answer sounds curt.

  “Do you think she’d meet with Ivy?” I ask. “Maybe you should call—”

  “No.” His word
slams the door on that idea.

  “Did you ask Ivy’s friend, this Kerry, if Ivy was having any other problems?” Rae asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  I try to stop Rae with a slight shake of my head. I suspect where she’s headed. “Rae …”

  “What is it?” Ben’s voice sounds tight.

  “Does she have a boyfriend?” Rae asks. “Has she used drugs?”

  “Drugs?”

  “Rae!”

  “It’s a possibility.” She looks pointedly at me.

  I gulp, feel the weight of Ben’s stare. “We don’t know that for a fact.”

  “Forget it.” Ben grabs the door handle, then turns back to face us. “My daughter is not a drug addict. She’s an A— okay, B student. Now are you going to help me find her?”

  I glance at Rae. Without another word we go in search of a hurting young woman in need of a mother.

  * * *

  WE SPLIT UP, checking in by cell phone periodically, and spend the day traipsing up and down Beale Street. The sidewalk is uneven and awkward, perfect if you’re drunk and off-kilter but not so great if you’re stone sober and in a hurry. I’ve tripped more times than I care to admit today. Music spills out of doorways. Each building is playing a different song. It’s like walking through a life-size jukebox, the songs changing constantly.

  Anyone I see, I show them a picture of Ivy. Sad, curious, and concerned eyes meet mine. I hand them a flyer with Ivy’s picture that Rae thought to have made up and move on to the next pedestrian or shop.

  Pushing noon I find Ben near Dyer’s, a famous burger joint that boasts of using the same grease year after year. He’s speaking with the police, and I wait until he’s through. “Any news?”

  “None.” His fatigue has turned into a haunted look. “Where could she be?”

  “Have you eaten?”

  He looks at me like I’ve just asked him if he wants to dance.

  “Come on,” I take his arm and drag him into the burger joint, which smells of smoke and grease. The floor is sticky, as if someone spilled a soda on the brick-red tile. “If you fall over, it won’t do Ivy any good.”