by Amber Garza
Then why isn’t he answering your phone calls or texts? She ignored the question that sailed through her mind.
Focused on finding the boy from the picture and the poem.
This was a more concrete lead.
She scanned the numbers on the doors across the way: 198, 200, 202. Aha. 204.
“There it is!” She shot forward, and within seconds was pounding on the door.
“What are you gonna say if he answers?” Natalie asked, catching up to her.
Whitney shrugged. “I’m gonna ask him if he knows where Amelia is.” She smiled, a thought occurring. “What if she’s here?”
“Okay.” Natalie frowned. “Don’t get your hopes up. It might not even be him.”
Natalie was always practical. Logical. Usually, right. But this time, Whitney hoped she was wrong.
She knocked a few more times. Waited. Cool night air whipped around her. Cars buzzed in the distance. The apartment was quiet. No movement inside.
“Nobody’s here.” Whitney felt herself withering, crumpling like a deflated balloon. Like she might sink to the ground and never get back up.
“I’m sorry, Whit,” Natalie said. “Let’s go back upstairs and you can call the police and let them know what you found. Maybe they’ll have better luck tracking this boy down.”
Whitney peered up at the black night sky splattered with twinkly stars that reminded her of those little LED lights Amelia sometimes liked to string over her bed frame. “I just really wish she would’ve come home by now.”
“I know, honey.” Natalie’s hand rested on her arm. “I know.” Her pocket rang. Throwing Whitney an apologetic look she pulled out her cell and answered. “Hey, Bruce.” She turned away from Whitney, phone pressed to her ear. Whitney stared at the door to apartment 204.
I’m not like you, Mom.
Whitney was starting to think Amelia was more like her than she thought.
“Sorry about that.” Natalie joined her. “It was just Bruce checking in.”
“It’s okay,” Whitney said. “You know that if you need to leave, you can.”
Natalie shook her head. “No way. I’m not leaving you. Bruce is just gonna swing by and drop off some of my stuff.”
“Really, you don’t have to stay,” Whitney said, but her words were weak and unconvincing even to her own ears. She couldn’t imagine being alone all night. It was getting darker. Later. The dreamlike quality the day had had was clearing out like fog when the sun broke through. Stark reality stared her in the face, grotesque and scary. Her hope that Amelia would come home any minute, her tail between her legs and an apology on her lips, had completely vanished.
“Let’s go back upstairs.” Natalie’s hand landed on her back.
Whitney glanced one last time at apartment 204, a chill running through her.
“Come on,” Natalie pressed. “You can call McAvoy, or what was the other detective’s name?”
“Sandavol,” Whitney said as they bounded up the stairs.
“Right. Sandavol. Well, you can call one of them and tell them about the poem.”
Whitney nodded as they entered the apartment. It was startling how much it smelled like Amelia. It was natural to grow accustomed to scents. They became like white noise, something she didn’t even think about. But today, they jumped out at her. Grabbed her by the throat and squeezed. Amelia’s peppermint lotion. Her vanilla shampoo. The floral hand soap Whitney had put in her bathroom. They all came at her in a rush, weighty and strong, a forceful wave. She had to choke back the emotions they carried with them, like algae sticking to her skin long after the wave receded. As Whitney walked farther inside, she struggled to catch her breath.
“Okay, you sit down and call the police. I’ll just make myself useful.” Natalie went directly to straightening things, picking up.
“My mom is like you,” Whitney mused, watching her friend. “She’s like this strong, take-charge kind of person. I’ve never been like that. Maybe that’s part of the problem.”
Natalie paused, eyeing her. “Part of what problem?”
“Why this happened.” She was speaking but it almost felt like the words were coming from someone else. Somewhere outside of her body. “Like if I’d been a stronger mom, a wiser mom, Amelia would still be here.”
“Whitney, stop,” Natalie said firmly. “You’re a good mom and this isn’t your fault.”
“But—”
“No.” Natalie shook her head. “Thinking like this is futile, and you know it.”
“Now you really sound like my mom.” Whitney smiled, and in that moment, she wondered if that was what had drawn her to Natalie in the first place. She was the version of her mom Whitney had longed for. A take-charge, no-nonsense woman who was also there for her. She was the best of both worlds.
She acquiesced. “Okay, fine. I’ll sit.” Sinking down into the couch, she got out her cell phone, deciding to try Amelia before calling McAvoy. Still not answering, and still nothing on Find My Friends.
We’ll ping her phone every forty-five minutes.
Whitney reminded herself that if it got turned back on, the police would be notified. Silently, she prayed that it would be soon.
There was a text from Dan asking for an update.
Nothing new, Whitney typed.
Picking up the card McAvoy gave her, she dialed his number and pressed the phone to her ear.
When he answered she told him about the poem, about her suspicions that this might be Michael.
He thanked her and then hung up, his voice giving nothing away. Frustrated, she lowered her phone to the couch cushion near her thigh. This was exactly why she’d gone down to apartment 204 in the first place. As much as she wanted the police to be right, she worried that they might not be. And if they were wrong, what then? If they were fixated on the fact that Amelia ran away were they even taking this very seriously?
Leaning her head back against the cushions, she stared up at the ceiling, at the crack that ran along the edge of it. The one the apartment manager had said would be fixed months ago. And this was actually the nicest apartment she and Amelia had lived in together.
When she and Dan were married, they had a nice home. Spacious. Clean. Great neighborhood. No cracks in the ceiling. After they’d split up, Whitney’s biggest fear had been that she wouldn’t be able to care for Amelia as a single mom. That she wouldn’t be able to juggle everything on her own. But, surprisingly, she had been able to.
At least, she thought she had.
Now she was realizing that even with how strict she was, how overbearing, there was still so much she didn’t know. So much Amelia had been able to get away with. Whitney couldn’t be home with her every second. She had a demanding job. A social life.
She thought of a crime drama she’d watched a few months back where a girl had been sold into sex trafficking by some guy she’d been talking to. Not even a creepy older guy online. But a guy she thought was her age whom she’d met through a friend. Apparently, he was a decoy.
As she watched the show, Whitney had thought about how lucky she was to have a daughter who was smart enough not to get involved in something like that. But was she? According to Becca, she’d been talking to two guys behind Whitney’s back—one of them an older man she’d met online. Not to mention the Snapchat Whitney had seen from Phil Lopez. That would make it three guys. Unless he was the older one?
Sitting up straight, Whitney reached for her phone. Behind her she heard Natalie shuffle down the hallway, close the bathroom door.
Thinking about Becca’s response to who Phil Lopez was, she googled the name. Yep. Becca was right. Phil Lopez was the name of the lead singer of the Hard Knocks. Whitney clicked on their website and then wrinkled her nose. Amelia had never been a fan of rock bands, so Whitney doubted that she listened to them.
And Phil Lopez was probab
ly a common name.
Natalie came back into the room, stood behind the couch, peering over Whitney’s shoulder. “Whatcha looking at?”
“About a month ago, Amelia got a Snapchat from a boy named Phil Lopez.” Whitney pointed at the screen. “This guy is also Phil Lopez, but clearly, not the same guy that was messaging my daughter.”
Natalie leaned over the couch. “You know that Snapchat handles aren’t usually a kid’s real name. Maybe it’s just the person’s favorite band or something.”
Whitney scrolled through the band pictures, the lead singer shirtless and often holding a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Her stomach twisted as she tried to picture the kind of boy who would make this singer his Snapchat handle.
An image appeared in her mind, and she realized she’d once known that boy.
17
SIX WEEKS
BEFORE DROP-OFF
WHITNEY HAD WANTED to throw a party for Amelia’s sixteenth birthday. She’d been imagining it for months, pinning fun ideas to her Pinterest account—mason jars filled with colorful candy, pink fizzy punch drinks in champagne flutes with bows on the stems, a fancy charcuterie board, an array of healthy salads. Whitney had even secured use of the pool at their apartment for the Saturday after Amelia’s birthday, thinking it would be the perfect spot to celebrate.
When she brought it up to Amelia, she assumed she’d be elated. Instead, she immediately shot down the idea.
“Mom, I’m not turning six. I don’t want a pool party.”
Whitney was surprised, and honestly, a little embarrassed. She hadn’t considered that maybe a pool party would be childish. “Well, I mean, you don’t have to swim. I thought we could make it fancy.” She proceeded to share her Pinterest ideas with Amelia, who wrinkled her nose in response.
“Candy and punch by the pool? You’re right, Mom. That doesn’t sound childish at all.”
Well, when you put it that way.
“Okay,” Whitney said, seeing the error of her ways. “We don’t have to have it by the pool. We can maybe do it at the warehouse. I’m sure Natalie won’t mind. I can move our inventory to the side, decorate it real cool. It’s an awesome space.”
Amelia shook her head. “I don’t want to have it at your work.”
“I guess we could rent out space at a restaurant,” Whitney spoke slowly, in her mind already calculating the cost.
“Or we could just have dinner at a restaurant.”
“You mean, no party?”
“Yeah.” Amelia nodded. “I’m just not really feeling a party this year.”
A few weeks before Amelia turned eight, Whitney received a call from a parent of a girl in Amelia’s class, saying she was RSVPing for Amelia’s birthday party. Since Whitney hadn’t planned a birthday party for Amelia, she was confused.
Apparently, Amelia had made and passed out her own invitations. All without Whitney being privy to it.
As more RSVPs flooded in, Whitney realized she had no choice but to throw the party, even if she would have to scramble to have it ready in time.
Amelia’s birthday was something she generally looked forward to all year, and in Whitney’s experience, she had always been “feeling” a party. What had changed?
“Is this because of what happened with you and Becca?” she asked her daughter.
Amelia groaned. “No. God, can’t I just do what I want on my own birthday?”
“Of course,” Whitney answered swiftly, not wanting this to turn into an argument. “Where would you like to go?”
“Mikuni’s?”
Whitney should have guessed. It had been Amelia’s favorite the past couple of years. “Sure. That sounds like fun.” And, actually, it did. A night out having sushi with her daughter seemed like a lot more fun than facilitating a party with all of Amelia’s friends. “Want to do it on your actual birthday or that weekend?” The wheels were turning now. If they did it on the weekend, Whitney was thinking they could make a day of it. Maybe get mani-pedis and do some shopping before dinner.
“Um...let me check with Lauren.”
Whitney was taken aback. “Why would you need to do that?”
“To see what night works best for her,” Amelia stated like it was obvious. Whitney’s face must’ve registered her confusion, because Amelia said, “I can invite her, right?”
“Of course.” She pushed her lips up into a painful smile. It was silly for her to feel let down, anyway. She’d always assumed she’d have to share Amelia on her birthday. It was only disappointing after believing they might get a night out, just the two of them.
And that’s how Whitney found herself sitting in a booth at Mikuni’s alone on the night of Amelia’s birthday. Lauren and Amelia were in the bathroom. Again. They’d gone in there together no less than five times. At one point, Whitney went in there to check on them and caught them taking mirror selfies. She felt like a third wheel on someone else’s date.
Using her chopsticks, she picked up a piece of her crab roll, dipped it in her wasabi and soy sauce mixture, and popped it in her mouth, the spicy flavors bursting when she bit down. The first time she ate sushi was with Dan in college. Her family rarely went out to dinner, and when they did they had their rotation of places, which consisted mostly of diners, steakhouses and the occasional Mexican restaurant. Dan took her to a little Japanese place near the campus. When the waiter brought their rolls, Whitney had stared down at them, uncertain if she was supposed to pick them up with her fingers.
“You don’t know how to use chopsticks, do you?” Dan had asked, watching her.
She’d shaken her head. “Maybe I should just ask for a fork.”
Dan had laughed. “No, don’t do that. I’ll show you.” Moving from his side of the booth, he’d slid into hers, so close she caught the faint whiffs of hair gel and soap. He patiently placed her fingers on the sticks and showed her how to move them. She didn’t quite master it that night, but eventually she’d gotten the hang of it. She’d shown Amelia at a young age. That way she wouldn’t find herself on a date one day, unable to use them.
The girls returned, giggling, cheeks flushed. The scent of floral hand soap swept through the booth. Amelia typed something on her phone while Lauren picked up her set of chopsticks. Swallowing down her last bite, Whitney reached into her purse and closed her fingers around Amelia’s gift. The night may not have gone exactly like Whitney had hoped, but she figured this gift would get things back on track. It had been months in the making and excitement pulsed through her, thinking about how Amelia was going to react.
“Oh, my God,” Amelia burst out, startling Whitney. Looking up from her phone, her eyes were bright, her mouth stretched into the largest smile Whitney had seen in a while. “Dad’s buying me a car!”
“What?” Whitney released the card and it fell back into her purse.
“Yeah. He said that once I pass my driving test, he’ll buy me a car.” She spoke so fast her words were all jumbled together. “And not even a used one, but a new one from a lot and everything.”
“How?” Whitney asked.
Amelia shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m sure he can fill out the paperwork online or whatever.” She turned to her friend. “Can you believe it? A brand-new car!”
Whitney thought about the card in her purse. The envelope of money hidden in her underwear drawer. She’d been saving all the money from her side gigs for the past year, hoping to have enough to buy Amelia a car for her birthday. She’d saved several thousand dollars. Not enough for a new car, obviously. She’d written it all down in the card, which she clearly couldn’t give Amelia now.
Smiling, she worked hard to drum up a happy energy. Amelia was happy. Really happy. And she deserved to be. So, Whitney would be happy too.
“Well, I don’t have your gift tonight,” Whitney said. “I thought I’d take you on a little shopping spree t
his Saturday, maybe get mani-pedis.”
“Ooh, I can’t this Saturday. I have that away meet, remember?”
“Oh, right.”
“But maybe Sunday?”
“Sounds good.” Whitney shoved the card farther down into her purse, while the girls went back to talking to each other, as if they were the only ones in the booth.
As if Whitney wasn’t even there.
18
WHEN MILLIE SMOKED POT, she acted nothing like those kids in the video I watched in health class. In fact, when she was stoned she was more fun.
Millie was prone to bouts of sadness. It scared me sometimes how dark she could go. How cold and reserved she could become. She’d practically fold in on herself, like a turtle hiding in its shell. When she got like that, there was no room for anyone else. But when she was drunk or stoned, she turned into this giggly, fun person. Mellow, yes. But it was a happy, contented mellow. I much preferred it to the sad, introspective side of Millie.
That was why the next time Millie offered me a joint, I took her up on it. It was only a couple of weeks after the first time she’d offered. I was over at Millie’s, and her mom was out. Working, I think. Or maybe on a date. I’m not really sure.
I inhaled correctly this time, having learned from my failed cigarette attempt. By the time I exhaled, I could already feel a warm, fuzzy feeling take over. It was way better than drinking. My body softened, my limbs melting like an ice cream cone on a hot day. I felt light and airy, my head fuzzy, but not spinning. We passed the joint between the two of us until it was gone.
When we finished, Millie put on some music. Giggling for no apparent reason at all, we danced around her room. I felt like we were moving in slow motion as we swayed back and forth. Millie’s smile was radiant, her fingers soft as they brushed against mine. When she threw her hands up in the air and twirled around, the sparkly rings on her fingers created a strobe effect bouncing light around the walls. It made me smile broader, laugh harder. Which in turn made Millie do the same.
