by Amber Garza
Feet shuffling on carpet.
Whispered voices.
“Shh, keep it down.”
Amelia?
She tried to hoist her body upward, to swim, but she was immobile, her arms and legs refusing to cooperate. Gravity won, water cocooning her. She was warm. So warm. The black nothingness beckoned her. It felt good to give in, to sink into it. To allow it to draw her farther under.
“Come on. Hurry.”
“I am.”
The voices again. Muffled. Far away.
Amelia!
Whitney flailed, grasping, clawing, but she gained no traction. Her fingers simply sliced through the water as she sunk farther. Holding her arms high above her head, her fingertips slid under the surface until she was completely submerged.
It was silent now, but she knew what she’d heard.
Her daughter. She was here.
A drawer slammed. More footsteps.
Whitney finally made it to the top, her head cresting the surface. The sounds were clearer now.
Her eyelids flung open.
Gasping, she shot up in bed. The light was on, the brightness shocking her. Blinking, as spots filled her vision. Rubbing her eyes, she wondered how long she’d been out.
The last thing Whitney remembered was putting on her pj’s after a hot shower. She’d been so tired. She’d rested her head on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. Her mind had been reeling, and she was attempting to make sense of everything. She hadn’t planned to fall asleep.
Hearing movement on the other side of her wall, her shoulders stiffened.
Maybe the voices weren’t part of her dream.
Heart leaping into her throat, she slid off the bed and raced into Amelia’s room. The hallway was dark. Amelia’s door was closed. It hadn’t been earlier.
Without wasting another second, she twisted the knob and shoved the door open. It was pitch-dark. She couldn’t see a thing.
“Amelia?” She walked inside with her arms outstretched. Fingers skating across the wall, she found the light switch, then flicked it on. Yellow light flooded the room.
Empty.
Whitney sighed. She could’ve sworn she’d heard voices and movement from in here. Stepping farther in, she lifted her hand to touch the bed. Her fingertips slid over the smooth fabric. That’s when she noticed the comforter had shifted. It was straighter, the sides more even than before. Had she tweaked it when she was in here last? Maybe the police had.
But why fix the bedspread?
When she noticed the closet door was open, she racked her brain, trying to recall if it had been like that all day. She didn’t think so. A few hangers were strewn on the ground, one right in front of the closet. That for sure hadn’t been there.
Walking up to the closet, she peeked inside. Amelia had never been good at hanging up her clothes, so there weren’t many in here. Most of the things she wore regularly ended up in the pile on the ground. But she did keep her jackets and bulky sweaters in the closet. Whitney couldn’t tell if any were missing.
She glanced at the floor. Amelia’s suitcase was gone. Whitney’s stomach bottomed out.
The floor creaked from somewhere in the distance. Holding her breath, she stood still. Was it Natalie? She listened while creeping forward. As she flicked off Amelia’s light and entered the hallway, she heard even breathing coming from the family room. Natalie must be asleep.
Another creak. It was coming from Whitney’s room.
She tiptoed forward, one hand on the wall to guide her in the darkness. She expected to be greeted by light when she opened the door to her room. It had been on when she left it. Now it was off. A breeze blew into the room, cool air brushing over Whitney’s flesh. Shuddering, she peered up at the open window.
A figure stood near Whitney’s bed, backlit by moonlight.
It only took a moment for Whitney to register that it was Lauren.
“Where’s my daughter?” Whitney stepped toward her.
Lauren held her ground. Something glinted in her hand. Shiny. Metallic.
Was it a knife?
“Tell me where she is,” Whitney demanded.
“She doesn’t want to be found,” Lauren said.
How dare Lauren talk to her like that? This girl had no right to keep her from her daughter. If Lauren knew where Amelia was, she needed to speak up now.
Lauren was backing up now, making her way to the open window. Whitney couldn’t let her get away. She lunged forward, both arms reaching out to grab her. But her hands only connected with air. Dazed, she blinked. Spun in circles.
Lauren was gone.
It didn’t make sense. She’d been standing right here. Whitney looked back at the doorway. She couldn’t have gotten past Whitney that quickly. And the window was only open slightly. Not enough to fit a person through.
Did she imagine her?
She thought of how no one knew who Lauren was.
Whitney had a strange, light-headed sensation. Lowering herself to the edge of her bed, she forced a few breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth the way Dr. Carter had taught her years ago. Her vision was swimmy as if she’d taken a few too many shots. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. When the dizziness remained, she squeezed her eyes shut.
When she woke again, her eyes met the ceiling. She was lying down on top of her comforter, head on her pillow. The light was on. Window closed.
Her eyes were watery, neck kinked. After hoisting herself up with her palms, she looked around. Nothing was out of place.
Was Lauren really here or had it all been a dream?
She slid off the bed and padded in her bare feet to the hallway. All the lights were on, the entire apartment lit up like a Christmas tree. She went to Amelia’s room. The door was open, light still on. Her bed looked exactly like it had earlier today, comforter askew, one side hanging lower than the other. And her closet door was closed.
It must’ve been a dream, then.
23
THE FIRST TIME Mitch hit Millie, I told her she should dump him.
“You’re being melodramatic,” she said in response.
“Millie, he hit you.”
“It was an accident.”
“How does someone accidentally hit you?”
Flustered, she shook her head. “Well, I mean...it wasn’t an accident, per se. More like a mistake.” She waved away my concern with a flick of her wrist. “It was my fault, anyway.”
Oh, my God. “For real?”
“No, I’m serious,” she said firmly. “I went all batshit crazy on him. I kinda deserved it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He went out with the guys one night when you couldn’t come over. I begged for him to let me go with them, but he said no. That it was guys’ night. But then I found out later that girls were there, and I just sorta lost it.”
“I don’t blame you. That’s really shitty.”
“No, but that’s the thing. I was wrong. The girls weren’t with Mitch. He didn’t even know they’d be there.”
“Still, none of that explains why he hit you.”
“I told you, it’s because I was really mad and acting crazy, accusing him and stuff. And he hadn’t even done anything wrong.” She shrugged. “I pushed him into it. It’s that simple.”
“You’re never gonna convince me that it was cool for him to hit you.”
“Whatever.” A heavy breath escaped between her lips. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. It won’t happen again. He promised.”
“And what if it does?”
“It won’t,” she said, but when I raised my brows and opened my mouth to press her on it, she added, “But if it does, then I’ll break up with him.”
I wanted to believe her, but I didn’t. She was already in too deep, I could tell
.
But he didn’t love her. Not the way I did.
And I had to make her see that before it was too late.
24
SUNDAY, 2:30 A.M.
THIRTY-THREE AND A HALF
HOURS SINCE DROP-OFF
WHITNEY WENT TO the family room to check on Natalie. She found her curled up, fast asleep on the couch. After covering her with a throw blanket, she flicked off the family room light, shivering as darkness enveloped her. It was quiet. None of the usual noises sounded outside the thin walls of her apartment. No traffic or kids playing or people talking. It was a tangible indication of it being past the middle of the night.
Whitney would’ve given anything to go back in time. A year. A month. Even a week. Any time that wasn’t today. Any time when Amelia was home and safe.
When Amelia was an infant, Whitney savored every second. Watched her while she slept. Took dozens of pictures and videos. Those months were so clear in her mind. Every minute. Every detail. She was in awe of the miracle that her daughter was, never taking her for granted. Amelia felt like a blessing she didn’t deserve. She didn’t want to squander even one second of it.
But, eventually, the busyness of life took over. Days blended together. Memories became fuzzier. Photos and videos became scarce.
Today, though, life slowed down again. Every single detail was etched in Whitney’s mind with extreme clarity. Why had it taken this to get her to slow down?
She knew all the terrible things that could potentially happen to a missing sixteen-year-old but refused to let her mind go there.
Her throat was scratchy and dry. When was the last time she drank anything? Probably when Natalie made her tea. How many hours ago was that?
She went into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water. Food was probably a good idea, but there was no way she could force anything down. She was never one of those women who ate when she was stressed or upset. She was the opposite. When she and Dan split up, she got so thin people thought she was ill.
Bottle of water in hand, Whitney headed back to Amelia’s room. Her dream had stirred some questions in her mind. Given her avenues to explore.
After stepping inside, she set her water down on the dresser and then went straight to Amelia’s closet, opening the door. Several jean jackets and a few sweaters were all that was hung up. On the ground were a couple pairs of sandals, and a pair of tennis shoes. Whitney did note that her two favorite sweaters were missing. So were her Chucks, but she’d probably been wearing them on Friday. Next to the shoes sat Amelia’s suitcase. Behind it, a flash of red. She shot her hand out, closed her fingers around the stiff, coarse fabric. Emotion, thick like peanut butter, lodged in her throat as she held up the small white jean jacket, streaked with red marker. Crude slashes resembling bloodied, torn skin. Whitney brought the jacket to her face, rubbed it against her skin, inhaled long and deep.
She closed her eyes, remembering.
“Amelia, what are you doing?” Whitney stood in the doorway to her daughter’s room.
Eight-year-old Amelia hunched over her brand-new white jean jacket—the one her mom had saved for weeks to buy—holding a red marker between her fingers. Whitney hadn’t caught her in time. The damage was done. The once pristine jacket was now covered in red marker, a messy coloring sheet.
Amelia lowered her eyes as if unable to look at her mom. Her lower lip trembled. “I told you I wanted a red jacket.”
It was true. She had told Whitney that. Problem was, she’d waited until after Whitney had bought the white one. And after she’d taken the tags off. And worse, after Amelia had already worn it and stained one of the sleeves.
Anger rose within her. She didn’t have the money to buy Amelia a new jacket right now. Opening her mouth, she was about to scold Amelia. But Amelia’s forlorn expression stopped her. Pressing her lips together, she stepped into the room. Nothing she could say would be worse than what Amelia was already feeling. Regret painted Amelia’s face.
Whitney knelt next to her daughter, reaching out to touch the edge of a sleeve. The pads of Amelia’s fingers were stained in red, dotting the places where she gripped the jacket.
“It’s not so bad,” Whitney said. “We’ll just call it shabby chic.”
“What’s that?” Amelia asked.
Whitney laughed lightly. “It’s all the rage, trust me.”
But Amelia wasn’t convinced. She loosened her grip and the jacket fell to the floor. Then she chucked the pen.
“It was stupid.” She crossed her arms over her chest, pouting. “I just wanted to be cool like Eve.”
Whitney had heard a lot about Eve, the most popular girl in Amelia’s class.
“Let me see if I can wash the pen off, okay? I have some stain remover that might work,” Whitney said, hoping against all hope that she could salvage the jacket.
In the end, she couldn’t. Amelia had used a permanent marker, and while Whitney was able to get out some of it, she could never successfully get it all off. What started as a hard lesson for Amelia turned into an inside joke that lasted long after the incident.
Red jacket became their safe word. The one Amelia could use when she was scared or in over her head. Like at a sleepover when she wanted to leave, or at her dad’s and she needed her mom to make up an excuse to swing by for a quick hug and chat. All she had to do was call her mom and say anything with the word red jacket in it.
“Mom, can you make sure to wash my red jacket tonight?”
Or:
“I couldn’t find my red jacket earlier. Do you know where it is?”
Whitney always responded with a “yes,” which really meant, I’ve got your back. I’m here for you...always.
She dropped the jacket. Sniffed. Wiped a palm down her face. Continued her search.
On the shelf above her clothes were some hats, a few belts and a stack of computer paper. Whitney pulled down the paper and riffled through it, but the pages were all blank. Reaching up, Whitney slid her palm over the shelf to see if she’d missed anything. But all she succeeded in finding was dust. It coated her hand. She wiped it on her pants.
Next, she went to Amelia’s desk drawer, sliding it open. It squeaked in protest as if it hadn’t been opened in years. Papers sprung from it like an accordion being opened. She sifted through them.
Nothing interesting.
Some old school papers. Assignment sheets. Syllabuses. A few pages that looked like journal entries or letters but ended up being half-written essays. Her own smiling face peeked out from under some of the papers. She yanked out the strip of photos. They were ones she and Amelia took in the photo booth at Marc’s wedding a few months back. Smiling, her gaze slid down all four poses—in three of them they were in costume, giant glasses, big hats, reindeer ears, but in the last one they’d tossed the props aside, hugged each other tight and smiled broadly. Amelia’s skin was shiny, her eyes bright. It had been such a fun day. She and Amelia had danced and laughed together. They’d enjoyed themselves so much they’d been two of the last people to leave.
Desperate to sit with these memories a bit longer, Whitney clicked into her phone and went to Amelia’s Instagram account. She scrolled back through, searching for the photos of them from the wedding, but couldn’t find them. When she stopped, she’d gone all the way back to last summer. Confused, she swept her index finger back up. She knew Amelia had posted them. She’d seen them on her account. Amelia had been so happy with how she looked that day in her yellow sundress and gold strappy sandals. Had even said that her self-tan was “on point.”
As Whitney continued scanning the photos, her stomach lurched. Not only were the photos from the wedding missing, so was every photo Amelia had ever posted of them together.
Why would they be gone?
Had Amelia taken them down or had someone else?
Music blasted from the phone, startling her. Jay
’s name and picture covered the screen.
Oh, thank God. “Jay?”
“Whitney,” he whispered so softly she could barely hear him.
“Jay, what’s going on?”
“I need you to stop calling me.”
Whitney had to strain to hear him. “I’m just trying to figure out what the hell’s going on. I went to your place. You don’t live there.”
“I know,” he continued to whisper. “That’s my brother’s place.”
“Why would you take me to your—”
“Jay?” A woman’s muffled voice cut through their conversation.
“Just a minute,” he said loudly. Then whispered, “I’m married, okay?”
“What? I don’t—”
“Look, I’m sorry, okay? But this isn’t what I bargained for. You going to my brother’s place and the police contacting me.”
“The police contacted you? What did you tell them?”
“That I know nothing about where Amelia is. God, I can’t believe you’d even think I would.” A loud exhale floated through the line. “This whole thing was a mistake. I never should’ve talked to you at the bar that night. Don’t call me again.”
The line went dead.
Whitney sunk down onto the edge of Amelia’s bed, but it sloped beneath her. Pushing up with her toes, she scooted back slightly in an effort to stabilize herself. It didn’t work. Inside she felt anything but stable. Her stomach shook, her chest tightened and that funny fluttery feeling that she’d had since yesterday was getting worse. She did feel slightly relieved, assuming now at least he hadn’t used her to get to Amelia or steal her money. But married?
In hindsight, all the red flags were there. That apartment. His long hours and work trips—over weekends, really? Why had she refused to see them? But she knew why. It was because of how hard Amelia had been pushing her away. The distance between them felt immeasurable. She’d been so lonely. Needy. Jay filled that void, or at least a portion of it.
But Whitney should’ve been paying more attention to what Amelia was up to. When Amelia started pulling away, Natalie told Whitney that meant she was being a good mom. Doing her job.
