Figure Eight Read online

  “She’s going to come home,” I say aloud, just to fill the silence.

  Noah doesn’t reply.

  Even though we’re canvassing, I feel like we’re wasting time. Short of calling the police, I don’t know what else to do. I can’t exactly call the police because my fear is that they’ll find her. They’ll find her and take her away from me. From her home. They’ll do one better than St. Mary’s and lock her up in an insane asylum. I know they will. With the exception of Noah, I can’t ask the neighbors. I’m too afraid that any questions I ask, they’ll repeat to the police.

  My phone vibrates. I jump slightly at the sound. My heart pounds as I look at the screen. My shoulders slump down when I see that it’s Sam.

  “You just don’t get it,” I whisper to the screen as I press the decline button.

  IF YOU FEEL like it’s been forever since we’ve been together you’re right.

  We measure the time differently. For you, it’s been days. Four, to be exact. I watch as you cross off the days and longingly stare at the calendar.

  For me it’s felt like years but that’s only because I’ve been tirelessly working on a way for us to be together. Not in brief fleeting moments like before, but forever.

  So when you think I’m playing games with you, just know that I’m not. I ache. I rage. I scream out for you, too.

  There are times when I watch you and I have to fight the urge to give in. To reach out and give you another present. Yet I dig deep. I find a sliver of determination I didn’t know existed because it’s for the best that we remain apart. For now. Until I find a way for us to be one.

  Trust me. It’s better this way.

  Right now, I watch as you pace the floor of your living room. You’ve been doing this for hours yet you can’t seem to stop. All your thoughts are focused on your mom. Abruptly you stop and drag your hands through your hair and pull. You pull as hard as humanly possible. You want to feel pain. You want a distraction from the hell that is your life.

  Close the damn curtains, I want to tell you. People might be watching you.

  But I don’t. See, this is what I’m trying to show you. You need me. You need me to protect you. To show you right from wrong. To reward you and make you feel good.

  I’ve been holding you up, slowly ushering you forward. It’s time that you take a few steps forward all by yourself.

  THERE ARE SO many rooms in this house and I know each one of them by heart.

  I know that the guest bedroom has a creaky floorboard. I once pulled it up and decided to grab an empty Folgers can and put some treasure in it. At the age of ten it sounded like an amazing idea. I told Sam about it and she surprisingly agreed and brought over some of her treasures. I think that Folgers can is there to this day.

  I know that the wallpaper in the dining room has been peeling in the upper right-hand corner for the past two years. It’s barely discernible to most people but it drives me crazy.

  I have a huge quilted rug in the middle of my room but that’s only because I decided to paint a chair white when I was a freshman in high school. I stood up to go to the bathroom and tripped over the bucket of paint. It went everywhere and I was too chicken shit to tell Mom. So I put a rug over it. She found about it, of course—years later when we were able to laugh about it.

  I know that there’s a small crack in the master bedroom window from a storm. Instead of getting the damn windowpane replaced we used duct tape. Sometimes, when the wind picks up, it whistles through the crack, making the house creak in protest.

  I know so much about this house but the crazy part is that these walls know so much more, and if I were silent—as still as a mouse—I could here them whispering.

  They talk about me. About Mom. They talk about our good and bad moments. Dissect them as though I’m not even here. I want to rage at them, scream at the top of my lungs that I’m still here. I can hear everything they’re saying, but I’m too afraid that they’re going to say something of value about Mom and I’ll miss it.

  But they say nothing of value.

  It’s too late, you dumb girl, the walls whisper.

  I pace the hallway and moan. “You don’t know that. You know nothing.”

  It’s too late. It’s too late. It’s too late.

  I bite down hard on my lip. I taste blood but I don’t let up. I’m talking to myself but it feels… good. Because I’m slowly going crazy not knowing where Mom is or having any answers. All I have are questions: what if someone has found her? What if they’ve hurt her? What if Mom left on her own free will?

  If I went to the police and reported her missing they’d probably laugh in my face because she’s a grown woman. Yet she’s not thinking clearly. She’s a woman who’s not of sound mind. That should count for something, right?

  Bile rises in my throat. I run upstairs while the house whispers, It’s too late, you dumb girl.

  “Shut up!” I scream.

  My words are met with silence. I walk into my room, intent on calling the police and getting help one way or the other. I pick up the phone, but when it asks for my passcode I pause. I toss the phone on my bed and start to pace. I can’t do it.

  Take your medicine, says a voice in my head. It will help you think clearly.

  “Why is this happening?” I groan in frustration as I grab my hair at the roots and pull.

  I walk into the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. Flecks of toothpaste sprinkle the lower portion of the mirror, but I don’t care. I lean in, stare closely at myself. I’m scared out of mind and it shows. My eyes are wild with fear. My face is pale, making the dark circles underneath my eyes prominent. It doesn’t help that I’m exhausted. I can’t keep going on like this.

  Before I can think twice I open up the medicine cabinet. The only thing that’s organized in this damn house is this cabinet. All of Mom’s medicine is neatly lined up, with the labels facing forward.

  This isn’t the smartest thing I’ve done. In fact, if doctors could see me now they’d be cringing before telling me about the dangers of self- medicating. Addictive, they might say. Or perhaps dangerous. They’d be correct on all fronts. But it beats drinking myself into oblivion.

  It’s one little pill. How can it hurt?

  In paranoia I glance around the room, like the walls have eyes. I feel like I’m living a version of The Truman Show. Wouldn’t that be a trip—I go through this whole ordeal only to find out that it was set up this way, staged for the viewers?

  That’s not an option. But taking a pill just might be.

  “Fuck it,” I mutter before I toss a pill into my mouth and swallow it down.

  I cross my fingers that it kicks in fast and walk back to my bedroom. My body feels so heavy. It hurts to walk, to even function, but my mind won’t turn off. It’s the most infuriating feeling in the world.

  I lie on my bed and stare up at the ceiling, watching the fan blades slowly move. Within thirty minutes, I’m knocked out.

  I’M SO FOCUSED on finding Mom that it’s becoming increasingly difficult to function like a normal human being. It’s been days since she went missing.

  Yesterday I once again canvassed all of Wildwood, walked around calling out her name like I was searching for my missing dog instead of my adult mother. When I came up empty-handed I searched half of South Shores. I drove around Kroger’s parking lot, peering at every single person: moms pushing shopping carts, older ladies slowly shuffling to the handicapped parking.

  I drove slowly across the bridge, gazing at the railings. A chill went through me. Mom was confused a lot of the time, but she wasn’t suicidal. At least I didn’t think so. I kept driving around until my gaslight went on and then I turned around. It felt like a betrayal, driving back home.

  I sleep in small intervals. An hour here. An hour there. At night I pace the house and keep all the lights on, as if they’re a bat signal that Mom will see and then she’ll realize that it’s time to come home.

  Simple tasks like going outside to get
the mail feel like a marathon. I have to pump myself up. Take deep breaths. I think my heart is ready to collapse. In fact, I’m sure of it. I don’t know how much more I can take.

  It’s early in the morning and I’m not tired. Sleep eludes me. My heartbeat has slowly faded throughout the night. Staccato rhythm fades.

  And fades.

  And fades.

  I expect it to stop altogether when the sun rises. I almost pray for it.

  But the sun is up, doing its job.

  What exactly is my job in life? Not so long ago, I would say it was taking care of my mom. Now, I don’t know.

  Other times, I get the strangest feeling in my body. It’s exhausted, begging for much needed sleep. Yet my heart pounds and my mind races a mile a minute. And my thoughts? They’re scattered and make no sense. One second I’m thinking about Mom and all the ways I should look for her and the next I’m mentally compiling a list of all the things I need to clean up in the house.

  Sometimes they’re so grandiose I feel like I can conquer the world. I get this incredible surge of energy but that feeling only lasts for an hour. Two at the most. And then I crash. Hard.

  And when I do, it’s a black, dreamless sleep.

  IT’S BEEN SAID that the first seventy-two hours in a missing person’s case are crucial.

  Credit cards can be traced. Evidence hasn’t been washed away by rainfall or snow. If the media picks up on the story then the missing person’s case will reach more people. Your loved ones picture will appear on TV’s in thousands of living rooms. And the witnesses, if there are any, still have the events fresh in their memory. They can remember if they saw a white van driving around the neighborhood. Or a mysterious stranger who didn’t make eye contact walking down their street.

  I can’t help but ask myself: would Mom’s missing person’s case be considered high profile?

  I remember when I was a kid and I would leave the grocery store with Mom and we’d pass a bulletin board with all the missing children, from local all the way to Chicago. Mom would always stop and scan the faces and names. Sometimes she said nothing and other times she would put a protective arm around me and gesture to the board. “This is why I never let you leave my sight for a second. There are bad, bad people everywhere.”

  Never in a million years did I think her words would be ringing in my ears twenty plus years later to haunt me. Never did I think I’d be calling the police to say my mother was missing. I was afraid that if I called the authorities they’d find her and lock her away in a loony bin. She didn’t belong there.

  It was Noah who talked me into it. Noah who dialed 911. And Noah who handed me the phone.

  “They’ll take her away,” I blurted out. “They’ll put her in an insane asylum but at this point I’ll take it. I just want her to be okay.”

  I don’t know why I said the words out loud, probably more for my benefit than anything else. Noah stood beside me wordlessly. I hesitated for a second but then I pictured her lifeless, dead. Her body rotting and nothing but bones. It made me want to double over in pain.

  I closed my eyes and forced the image out of my head, and then made the call that I knew I’d regret.

  “You know what you need to do, right?” he’d said earlier this afternoon.

  I stared at him, stubborn. I’ve discovered that if you look someone in the eye long enough, if you shed your armor and reveal all your tragedies, they can’t bear it and quickly look away. But Noah resolutely stared back at me. If anything he leaned in, like he found my sadness fascinating.

  “I know what I need to do,” I finally said.

  So I did and here they are.

  The sky’s been a slate gray all day. Dark clouds seem to be coming toward me, threatening to swallow up the sky whole. It has all the makings of a good thunderstorm. Yet when the cops arrive, the clouds start to part. Ever so slowly. And the sun peeks out like it’s playing a game of hide and seek.

  I know I said earlier that the rain was starting to get old but at this moment I want thunder. Lightening. Rain. I want it all to match how I’m feeling inside. I want to know something, even something as big as Mother Nature, is on my side. And every time the thunder strikes it’d be saying: Hey, Selah. The world is a fucked-up place. I’ll rage right alongside you.

  There are only two police cars. They don’t pull up with lights flashing or sirens screaming. Nonetheless, neighbors filter out of their houses. Nosy Tracy boldly stands on her front porch. Thanks to her everyone and their dog will know that the police are here. But for once that might work in my favor. The quicker the news spreads that Mom is missing, the faster she can be found.

  Right?

  Right.

  “You don’t have to stay here,” I tell Noah as the cops walk toward the front door.

  “I’m not leaving.”

  To be honest, his presence has been… soothing and shocking all at the same time. In my mind I had built this image of him based on nothing but my own imagination. Maybe he’s not such a bad guy at all.

  When I step outside, I come face to face with a portly man with a perpetual line of sweat around his graying hairline. There’s a younger officer next to him. He’s tall and skinny with an eagerness about him that even I can tell screams, newbie. This doesn’t sit well with me. New translates into inexperienced. And inexperienced means mistakes. I can’t afford mistakes. I’m starting to realize that every minute I naively refused to call the cops and report Mom missing was a mistake on my part.

  I’ve lost so much time.

  “Ma’am, Officer Cooper,” says the portly man.

  “Selah Kerrington.”

  He holds his hand out to shake. It’s sweaty and I discreetly wipe the sweat off on the side of my jeans.

  We go through introductions, which just seem tedious. Instead of coming inside all four of us stand outside.

  The pudgy one is the first to begin asking questions. They start out harmless. Full name. Date of birth. Height. How about her weight? Can’t forget eye color. After that he went on to ask more pointed questions. When did I notice she was missing? When was she last seen?

  “March 6th… I think?” I say. “My brain is a little foggy on the exact date.”

  The officers share a look that I want to punch off their smug faces. “So it took you almost six days to report your mother missing?”

  “Look, it’s happened before and I just thought she would show up and—”

  “Wait,” the newbie interjects. “Has she left before?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Suddenly, they both become interested. I can’t stand the neighbors openly staring at me so I invite the officers to come inside. How many times?” the portly one asks.

  Shit. Why did I say that? They’re going to read into that—it sounds like Mom chooses to come and go as she pleases. Even I know there’s no crime for an adult to up and leave their house.

  “How many times, miss?” the older officer prods.

  “Two times,” I finally admit.

  “And did she come back home?” the newbie asks.

  “No. She was taken to the hospital and put on seventy- two hour watch.”

  “I see.”

  “And before you ask, I’ve already called DMH and St. Mary’s. Neither hospital could give out patient information. But if she were there right now, I should’ve gotten a call from one of the doctors taking care of her, and there’ve been no calls.

  The older officer looks to Noah, as to verify what I’m saying. When Noah nods, the officer turns back to me.

  “We can file a report but we need the most recent photo of your mom…” his words fade away as he takes in the state of the house. Sure, to someone new it might look messy. But I’ve been here long enough to know where Mom stores most of her belongings, and the pictures are in the spare bedroom upstairs and in the dining room.

  “Wait one second.” I hurry to the dining room, leaving Noah with the officers.

  I go straight to a box shoved against the
wall labeled TEACHING and thumb through dozens of class pictures that show Mom standing next to her small students, proud and tall, or sitting on a chair, her students flanking her. None of those are close-up photos, though. I find one of her in her last year of teaching; it’s with her student on the last day of school. She’s kneeling, one arm wrapped around a boy’s shoulder while he gave a toothy grin.

  I snatch the photo from the stack and rush out into the foyer. “Here!” I say triumphantly.

  Newbie takes the photo and scans it. Portly starts to ask me questions: did she have an abusive spouse? Was she in financial trouble? I think they call those push factors—things that would force someone to leave of their own accord.

  I answer each question as best as I can. There’s no time to think over the last question carefully because I can hear my phone ringing in the other room.

  “Hold on for one second.”

  I leave the officers with Noah again and run toward the direction of the ringing. It’s coming from the kitchen. I swear if this is a call from Mom and I miss it, I’m going to lose it. By the time I get there the ringing has stopped. When I check the screen, I see that it’s a missed call from Sam.

  She’s called almost every day and I keep forgetting to call her back. I shoot her a quick text, knowing that I’m a lousy friend for not answering her calls. Busy. Promise to call back.

  You better. Or I’m coming to visit this weekend. I’m concerned about you.

  I place my phone face down on the kitchen table and walk back into the foyer, only to see the officers leaving. Newbie turns towards me right before Noah closes the door. “Ma’am we’ll immediately get to work on filing a case report. You should hear from us within a day.”

  I stare at him, feeling a bit shell-shocked. Noah closes the door behind Newbie and gives me a weak smile.

  “What did they say to you?”

  “Pretty much the same thing they said to you. Filing a case report. Asked me a handful of questions.”