The Stager: A Novel (26 page)

When I come downstairs, the door, which is open, is still streaky white with the black seeping through, and my dad’s keys are dangling from the lock. The small silver tennis ball that hangs from the key chain that we bought him for his last birthday makes a clanking sound as it bounces against the brass part of the knob. I call my dad’s name, but he doesn’t answer. I worry that something bad might have happened. His phone is on the bottom step, and his suitcase is belly-down on the walkway below. It looks like a bug that got stuck upside down and couldn’t flip itself back over. The two new flowerpots the Stager brought yesterday are tipped over, and there’s dirt and flowers all over the pavement. The flowers are red. New red flowers to match the soon-to-be new red door.

I call Nabila, and she comes upstairs from her half-room in the basement with a basket of clean laundry. I point to the door. We both look at the keys and the suitcase and the flowers, and then at each other.

“What do you think this means?” Nabila asks.

I shrug my shoulders. “I guess it means my dad is back from London?”

“Yeah, but where is he? Is he in the house, do you think?” She sets the basket down and begins calling his name. “Mr. Jorgenson?” she yells up the stairs.

“You can call him Lars. He won’t mind.”

“Mr. Jorgenson?” she yells again, moving up the staircase.

I follow her all the way to the top floor, but there’s no one in my parents’ bedroom, and it looks exactly like it did the day before. Nabila pulls her phone from her pocket and pauses to read a message. “Stupid tea guy,” she says. “I already told him I don’t want any more.”

“Who is the stupid tea guy?”

“The guy who sold me that tea from Unfurlings.”

“The marijuana?”

“Stop saying that, Elsa. You are going to get me deported, like you did that cleaning lady.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask. I’m not sure what “deported” means, but I can guess, and I definitely don’t want that to happen. I’m completely terrified about the things that go on in the place where Nabila comes from, wherever that is.

“All I said was that the cleaning lady broke Molly’s horse’s stirrup! What does the tea guy want?”

“No idea. He keeps calling and texting.”

“Maybe he likes you, Nabila.”

She makes a face. “Enough of that. Let’s pretend we’re detectives. Let’s try to figure out what might have happened here. Obviously, your dad came home—he probably took a taxi from the airport, right? Then he put his key in the door, and … did you hear anything strange last night?”

I shake my head no.

“Weird,” says Nabila. “And creepy. I’m going to call your mom.”

We stand there while Nabila calls my mom. For some reason, Nabila doesn’t have her on speed-dial, and she screws up the number. The first time, she reaches a Chinese restaurant and gets a message asking her to press “1” if she wants to make a reservation and “2” if she wants to order food for delivery. She hangs up and tries again, and when she finally connects, my mom doesn’t answer.

“Maybe we should call the police,” Nabila says.

“I don’t know; my mom likes to keep stuff private,” I explain. “He’s probably fine. Maybe he went to Starbucks. That’s where he usually is when we can’t find him.”

“Yeah, but something isn’t right. Like, how would that have worked? He puts his key in the door, his suitcase falls down, he decides instead of picking it up he’ll go … to Starbucks? Besides, his keys are here, and, look, his car is still in the driveway. And what happened to the planters? None of this makes sense. Do you think your dad was mugged?”

“Probably not,” I say, “because, remember, his phone was lying on the ground? Plus, I’ll bet his laptop is still in his suitcase.”

“Let’s go see.”

We walk down the stairs and back outside. I see a van pull up and park across the street. It says “HGTV” on the side.

“I thought my mom said they weren’t supposed to film anymore.”

“That’s what she told me.”

“Well, why are they here again?”

“They’re not actually here, are they? I mean, who knows why their van is there. I can’t really say anything if they’re just sitting in their truck, right? Do you think? I mean, I could walk over, I suppose.”

I shrug my shoulders. “Maybe you should ask Amanda.”

“Good thought.”

I flip the suitcase over, which isn’t easy, because it’s ridiculously heavy, and unzip the front pouch. Dirty laundry spills out, and underneath the dirty socks and T-shirts is his computer.

“See? I told you! It’s still here!”

“Well, you may have a point,” Nabila says. “But, on the other hand, who would bother to steal any of that? The computer is, like, a hundred years old, and that phone is pretty pathetic, too. I think they stopped making those about five years ago. Still, if he was robbed, they would have come inside the house, right? I mean, the door is open and the keys are right there!”

“Is that
blood?
” I shriek.

Nabila and I squat on the ground beside the suitcase.

“I don’t know. It could be,” says Nabila.

“Or maybe he was drinking something red?” I say. “Cranberry juice? Or he also likes that Tazo passion-fruit tea at Starbucks.”

“Good God. Let me try your mom again. I’ll call her office directly. At least I can talk to her assistant.”

“My mom will be in a meeting, and anyway, she’ll tell you not to panic.”

Of course I’m right. My mom is in a meeting, but when we say my dad is missing, and then mention the word “blood,” her assistant says she’ll interrupt her and give her the message. Then she calls back a few minutes later and says my mom said to tell Nabila to wait about an hour, and if he doesn’t turn up, to call back.

*   *   *

THE UPSIDE OF
my dad going missing is that Nabila seems to have forgotten to take me to field-hockey practice, which is good because the coach had told me to be prepared to run two extra laps today to make up for the ones I’ve skipped out on all week. He says I’m lucky it’s only
two
extra laps, given that I’ve used the “just going to get my inhaler” trick three times. He insists that I bring my inhaler from now on; he wants to see it before practice begins. I tell him this might be illegal. Or harassment. Or something. And that my parents are paying a lot of money for me to go to this school—the annual tuition is more than the chair my dad once bought on eBay that had belonged to some famous dead tennis player. I heard my mom say this once when they were having a fight.

He looks unimpressed.

I haven’t bothered to complain to my mom about the coach, because I know she’ll just say that I should listen to my teachers and that a little exercise is probably a good thing. I sent a text about this to my dad, figuring he’d be more sympathetic, but he never replied.

I try to remember if Nabila was living with us the last time my dad disappeared, or if that was Adriana. Probably Adriana, because otherwise Nabila wouldn’t be so freaked-out. He goes off every once in a while, and then he comes back and adjusts his meds and everything is fine until it happens all over again.

The only thing different this time is that Dominique is missing, too. Our family members are disappearing one by one. I wonder if this is my fault. It makes me think about disappearing myself, maybe going back to Unfurlings to get another snack.

*   *   *

DIANA RECENTLY TOLD
me about something called blackmail. I liked the sound of this. It means that you know something that someone wishes you didn’t know, and you can make him do things for you so you’ll keep the secret. Here’s how it worked for Diana: She promised her mother she wouldn’t tell her father about the Golden Goose boots she’d just bought that cost twelve hundred dollars and came pre-rolled in dirt to make them look broken in. Her mother got her a new iPhone in return.
Then
she promised her father she wouldn’t tell her mother that she found his boxer shorts in the stable, even though she didn’t understand why that needed to be a secret, and he got her a pony that she named Iris. I couldn’t believe I’d never heard about this before, and when Nabila finally announces it’s time to take me to practice even though it already began, I decide to try something like this myself, even though I know there’s no pony in it for me.

“If you let me stay home, I won’t tell my mom about the bag of leaves,” I try.

“My goodness, Elsa. That’s pretty wicked. You’re totally obsessed with that bag of leaves, even though I’ve told you it’s just tea. Someone gave it to me. I didn’t remember I’d slipped it in my pocket until you swiped it. Where is it, anyway?”

“I don’t know. I think I threw it away.”

“You threw it away? First you steal it, then you throw it away without asking?”

“Well, if it’s only tea, why do you care?”

“So you think tea has no value? Maybe I want to drink it.”

“What kind of tea is it?”

“That’s kind of the point. I can’t answer that, because you went snooping through my things and then stole it before I even got to taste it.”

“I wasn’t snooping, I was cleaning. Anyway, who is this guy who gave it to you? Is he in love with you? How do you know he’s not a drug dealer?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but his name is Eton, and I already told you he’s that guy who sells wildflowers and produce outside the gate at Unfurlings. Your mom told me to pick up some fruit and honey there a few days ago, and he gave me the bag of tea. He said it’s compost tea, and he wanted to know if I thought it was any good.”

“Is it?”

“I don’t know. Remember what I just said?”

“Oh, right. Well, maybe can we try some later?”

“Maybe. Although that’s kind of your call, since you took it and I don’t know where it is. For now, let’s stop talking and get in the car.”

“I have a much better idea. Let’s have a tea party! Maybe the Stager can come, too. It will be like that Mad Hatter’s tea party.”

“The what?”

“Don’t you know
Alice in Wonderland?
”

“Vaguely. Anyway, can we please stop talking about the tea already? I’ll be honest with you, I’d rather just forget about the whole thing, okay?”

“Okay. I’ll forget about it if you let me skip practice and play with the Stager again.”

“I told you, she’s only here to finish the front door and fix the flowerpot situation. She just got here a few minutes ago, because she had to swing by the garden store first. Your open house is tomorrow. Your mom said under no circumstances should you be playing with the Stager. They are paying her a lot of money to fix up the house, and she doesn’t have time to play with you. Your mom thinks there is something kind of strange about the whole thing. Plus, not to pile it on, Elsa, but given that you almost caused her to lose this job, why do you think she’d even
want
to play with you?”

“Fine. Maybe she doesn’t want to play with me, but she needs to fix my rug.”

“What are you talking about? She’s done with the inside of the house.”

“Did you see my rug?”

“No. Elsa, please don’t tell me…”

“Sorry! Sorry! My God, don’t get all mad about it. It’s just got some red paint spilled on it.”

“Did you do that on purpose?”

“That’s mean, Nabila.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“You are supposed to be my friend.”

Nabila and I lock eyes for a while, like we’re in a staring contest. Then she goes outside and asks the Stager if, when she finishes painting the front door, she’d mind coming upstairs to my room to take a look at my rug.

*   *   *

I CAN’T DECIDE
if the most fun thing to do with the Stager will be to bake, paint, or play with the dolls. She’s taking a very long time with the door. I go downstairs and ask how long she thinks she’ll be, and all she says is “a while.” She doesn’t even look at me. I wonder if there’s anyone in the world who isn’t mad at me.

I go back upstairs and stare at the mess. Molly is slumped over again, falling right back into her dinner plate, even though I sat her up straight last time we played. The American Girl food is still spread all over the floor. Maybe the Stager will be less mad at me if I clean up my room. It’s pretty bad, but maybe it’s like homework: Once you start, it doesn’t always wind up taking as long as it seems like it might. Except sometimes it does.

I open the toy box and scoop up a handful of plastic food—a fruit basket, some sunny-side-up eggs, a carton of orange juice—and drop them inside. Plastic food landing in a toy box does not make very much noise, however. I go to the other side of the room and begin to toss the pieces in one by one. When that doesn’t work, I shout to her.

“I’m cleaning up my room!”

“Good girl,” she says.

“Do you want to come see?”

“In a few minutes.”

“Why? What’s taking so long?”

“I don’t know, this paint isn’t the best. I’m not sure what’s going on. They may have mixed it too thin or something. It’s just not going on smoothly, and I’m having trouble getting the red to even out.”

“Do you want help?”

“No, thanks.”

“Do you want me to Google anything about how to make the red even out?”

“No, thanks.”

I turn on my iPad and Google “painting the door red.” Some of the same stuff the Stager has already told me comes up, along with a lot of stupid questions (if you paint the outside red, do you have to paint the inside red, even if the color doesn’t match?). Then, on the side of the screen, an ad pops up. It’s for an app called Staging 101.

“Oh my God, you’ve got to come see this!” I can’t believe there’s a stager app. Four days ago I hadn’t even known there was such a thing as a stager, and now there’s an app?

“In a few minutes, Elsa.”

“Hurry! You are not going to believe this! I’m going to download the stager app.”

“Okay, just behave. It’s hard to hear you from out here. Just give me a few minutes.”

It takes a long time to download, but when it does, the first thing I see is something called a cost calculator that tells you how much money you can make, or save, by hiring a home stager. I play with that for a while, but I don’t really understand how it works. Even though I’m good at math, this doesn’t make sense. If you spend between three and four thousand dollars on home staging, you can make between fifteen and twenty thousand, it says, which sounds like a mistake. I put in some more numbers to see what happens if you spend between thirty and forty thousand. Before it finishes calculating, a box pops up on the screen and a beautiful lady in a red dress who looks a little bit like Amanda Hoffstead but with blond hair and big earrings appears and says, “Let me stage your home and I guarantee you will make a five hundred and eighty-six percent return on your investment or your money back.”