When She Was Gone (15 page)

“There's the fucking ball,” said Banks. They had both jumped the fence. It wasn't that high, four feet at the point of the highest slat on the curve, but somehow, Geo had thought of it as impenetrable. He had wanted them to be too discouraged to bother him anymore. He had wanted to keep Cody's angry sorrow at a distance.

“Why the fuck didn't you just throw it back?” Banks was approaching him now, holding the football and a clump of white-and-green-striped hosta leaves. His mother loved her hosta. She called it her “hostile,” but she was proud of its yearly expansion.

“Busy,” said Geo, glaring at the leaves. He could smell their ruined green. How did Linsey have a brother like this? She might have gone to parties, like it said in the paper, she might have been drunk from time to time, but she wasn't spiteful or small; he knew from the way she looked in photographs.

“Dude, your neighbor is a prick,” Banks said to Cody, who was loitering by the fence, scrutinizing Geo with his bottle caps, a look of transfixed disgust on his face, as if Geo were dissecting a squirrel, slicing a live worm. Cody gripped a broken chunk of the fence in his hand, the fence from Geo's side, the triangle point up like a flame.

“I was busy,” said Geo. “You have your ball.”

“
You have your ball,
” mimicked Banks. He kicked at Cody, differed contempt.

“Fuck you,” said Cody, but as Banks climbed back over to the Steins', Cody walked over to Geo. He reached for the bottle cap in Geo's hand.

“That's mine,” said Geo, withdrawing, a cotton ball in his fist, the alcohol evaporating, chilling his palm. He didn't know what he expected next. His heart wasn't warning him, the way it usually did when someone was planning to hurt him, a kicking from within.

“Stupid kid,” said Cody, apparently so annoyed that he'd swiped air, so infuriated that Geo hadn't stopped his work to help them, so appalled by Banks's kick, that he had to hurt Geo. His mouth was horrible, a thin, straight line, but new pink, bud pink, worm pink. He pressed those thin lips together and dug his toe under the bottle cap mosaic, scattered Geo's work with three sharp punts.

Geo wanted to go over the fence, sometimes, but he didn't want them to come over to his side.

“Cut it out!” Geo grabbed Cody's back to stop him, keeping clear of the feet, but then Cody turned and struck him,
hard, in the neck, with the broken fence slat he still gripped in his hand.

•   •   •

“What's this?” Geo's mother asked, as Geo put the Mancala board away. She was drying her hands—she'd been cooking something and her hands smelled of torn greens. Geo stiffened, his neck hurt, he could feel the bruise through the collar of his polo shirt. He'd changed upstairs, buttoned up. He'd washed his alcohol-dry hands of dust. No blood on the surface, just pooling under the skin. He felt burned, raw to the air. His mother held up the note he'd found in the backyard a few days ago, the folded paper, water-stained then, only now it was just a linty mass from the laundry.

Geo sighed. He didn't have many secrets from his mother, just the ones that hurt her more than him. She'd seen the Linsey collage—they'd given it to the detective, too, another good print. She had real and artificial smiles. Geo felt almost possessive of her temporary joys, her unedited expressions. She had to be okay. It would ruin too many people's lives if she wasn't.

“That's something I found in the backyard. I couldn't read it. I don't know the writing.”

Geo knew handwriting. He knew his father's, which was almost as bad as a doctor's: a backward, lefty's scrawl. His mother wrote in stunning block letters, like an artist, the letters more about shape and space than instruction. She'd tried to teach him calligraphy last summer; they'd assembled on
the front porch in the slant green light of July. She shaped his name on a thick rectangle of clean white. He'd practiced; she'd given him his own Japanese brush and a smooth gray stone. Geo tried to compose lines as sure as hers, but he
wasn't
as sure; he couldn't bear letters that didn't hold up their own houses, sloppy lines, so he had decided to wait until his fingers were more confident. He hadn't told her that. He told her he'd lost his stone.

Geo knew which sister had left an unsigned note on the kitchen table from the writing. He knew Cody's and Toby's lettering, from sitting in seats close to theirs in school. They were
S
and
W,
alphabetical neighbors. These were the things he noticed, it wasn't his fault. He knew Cody bit his nails and that the dots he made for the lowercase
i
and exclamation points were little bubbles holding nothing. He knew Cody peeled off scabs. He knew Cody hadn't actually meant to hit him.

“Do you think—maybe? Do you think this note could've come from next door? Do you think?”

He hadn't been thinking about it at all when he pocketed the paper. He knew Linsey Hart was missing. He'd been the one to unfold the first flyer when it came in the mail slot a few days ago. He'd found himself wondering what the twins knew, wondering whether they missed their sister, whether they loved her the way he loved his sisters, like limbs, like body parts you expect to do their work without instruction, part of your whole. Linsey's weren't whole siblings, though, just halves. That made them more different than he was from his sisters; they shared full blood. Victoria, with her red wavy
hair, had the whitest skin he'd seen, almost blue. You could see veins through her skin. She also had eyes shaped like his, and her hands matched his, and her knees turned in a little, the way his did.

The newspaper said the whole family was in shock. It said Toby and Cody were close as can be to their half sister. He wondered why they bothered with pointing out half, if they were that close, who needed the distance of details? If one of his sisters disappeared, Geo would look for her. He wouldn't play in the backyard. He wouldn't get angry, but he would be really scared. He needed his sister, and he needed Linsey to come back, the way he needed to hear the final note of a song. Maybe he could help.

“It could be,” he said to his mother. And it could. It could be something. It could be evidence. It could also be the last of Linsey's high school homework, it could be Mrs. Sentry's note to her house cleaner, it could be from blocks away. He was touching his collar, an involuntary protection.

“I could take it over to them?” his mother said. Geo thought for a minute.

“Maybe we should call the police,” he mumbled.

“You think—hey, what is that? Why are you so dressed up? Geo?” His mother put her hand over his. She possessed him in the way only his mother could, and she pulled his fingers and collar back to reveal the damage. Then she gasped, as if she'd seen the blow.

26 SYCAMORE STREET

E
veryone knew, of course, there was nothing casual about the signs Frank had made and stapled to poles all over town. Linsey in her graduation attire, her grin slightly lopsided—she'd hated that photo, though Abigail thought it was perfect, showing ambivalence. Ambivalently, she went to the next house, and the next. She spoke to open faces—have you seen my daughter, Linsey, recently? Have you heard anything about her? Have you heard any rumors or anything unusual or have you seen anything suspect in the neighborhood?
Anything suspect
was the code for suspicious people. Mexican lawn workers, the black mail carrier when he was new. She hated that—
she
didn't mean that. The first person she spoke with, a new neighbor she hardly knew, said, no, no, no, sorry. That was it. The second offered her cookies. She couldn't eat cookies. She couldn't eat anything, but she accepted one anyway, a lopsided chocolate chip, and slid it into her sleeve instead of biting. The next house held a fight so loud she hesitated, but rang anyway. The man who was screaming stopped, answering the door. Mr. Corning, a lawyer. His face was fat with anger, his eyes bright. Was he crying?

“May I help you?”

“I'm sorry to intrude, but—”

“Oh, no, no problem,” he said. He was playing with something in his pocket. Change? A pocketknife?

“I was wondering if you've seen my daughter, Linsey Hart?” She held up her poster.

“This is NOT A GOOD TIME!” screamed Mrs. Corning from the other room.

“I'm sorry, I'll go,” said Abigail.

“No,” said Mr. Corning. He reached out and grabbed her arm, a quick grip. It hurt all the way to the bone.

“GO AWAY!” screamed Mrs. Corning.

“I'm sorry,” said Abigail. Mr. Corning had already retreated, patting her before pulling his arm away, incongruously gentle.

•   •   •

At Reeva Sentry's house, she had only just rung when the door swung wide open and Reeva, her mouth a slick plum, opened the screen and extended her hand. She touched Abigail's arm, and Abigail thought she might start sobbing, but this was not why she'd come. She and Reeva were never friends—Reeva had offered her some hand-me-downs from her boys for Abigail's boys, and Abigail had taken them all, afraid to offend by sorting through the six bags of beautifully folded navy blazers, long shorts, T-shirts with skateboard decals. Worn elastics, occasional grass stains, but expensive things, well made. She had donated most of the stash, because
Frank liked buying clothes for the boys. He took them to outlet stores on long weekends and braved the crowds and somehow the boys came home proud of their purchases, taking off the tags by themselves before putting the turtlenecks, polo shirts, thick cotton sweaters into the wash unasked. She suspected he bribed them with computer games or even cash, which was not entirely a bad idea.

“Oh, Mrs. Stein, come on in—,” said Reeva, wearing what Abigail could only think of as a hospital face, the expression you offer your great-aunt when she's septic and smells of plastic IV tubing.

“That's okay,” said Abigail, trying to stand her ground on the stoop, but Reeva tugged at her.

Abigail watched Reeva's face as she stepped in the door, thinking how Reeva had trusted Linsey, how Reeva had hired Linsey, how Linsey had relationships in this world she couldn't even imagine. The detective had asked about her laptop and her phone and was reviewing texts, and he had downloaded some files from the computer at the desk in the family room. Toby and Cody were angry with both mother and daughter: “He can see what I wrote to MY friends,” Toby said. “And he can see all my scores on my games,” Cody said. “That's so unfair.” But she knew they just felt strange the way they did. Her own messages were on that computer—messages to Frank at work; love notes; messages to the college friends she never spoke with on the phone anymore; messages to her friend Mel, whom she had sort of dated between marriages, about whom she had never been serious, but with whom sex
had been thrilling—she didn't know which messages the detective might be reading, and despite knowing she had to give everything up for her daughter, she resented that intrusion.

“You need tea or coffee?” said Reeva. She wore gold eye shadow; it made her eyes seem very dark, but it was lovely, Abigail thought, lovely in that way she would never attain, lovely as in put together. She didn't need to be put together. She needed her family together, that was all. “Or something else? I'll put on whatever you'd like.”

“That's all right,” said Abigail. “I just wanted to ask—”

“I wanted to tell you,” said Reeva, parking Abigail at her kitchen table and turning toward the electric chrome kettle on the counter. She had one of those instant hot water taps, something Frank wanted to get as soon as the boys were old enough not to mess with it—probably when they were twenty-four, Abigail had said—but she filled the kettle with water from a filter pitcher in the fridge. Cold to hot, thought Abigail.

“I wanted to mention, I mean, I saw something you might want to know about—”

“Did you see Linsey? What?” Abigail stood up.

“It's not
that
good, honey,” said Reeva, touching her again, hand on her shoulder: sit.

“I just noticed, well, I saw that Mr. Leonard when I was on a walk, I mean I was in the neighborhood, you know, near the Hopsmiths'?—I was on my way to a book group? You have one of those at the temple, don't you?”

Abigail nodded, though she didn't have any book group at the temple. She only really went to the temple on high holy days. It was just for Frank, it was her hypocritical indulgence. Maybe this was what had angered God; maybe she should go to confession.

“And I saw that Mr. Leonard, on a walk in the woods? And anyway, he had this pink sweatshirt? It looked a lot like one of hers; I know, because she babysat for me?”

“Oh. Thank you,” said Abigail, writing it down. Mr. Leonard? Mr. Leonard who saw them through the windows? Who sometimes waved, as if they were passing on a train? Mr. Leonard with his music early in the morning? Linsey had been to his house over the years. She'd sold him Girl Scout cookies; she'd walked his dog. Mr. Leonard had her sweatshirt? She imagined it, Mr. Leonard's thin arm raised to strike Linsey. Couldn't be, couldn't be, still, she reached for her cell phone—she was going to call Barq first, then the police.

“It's just that he's rather an odd man, and he's right next door to you—you know—Do you have any news at all?”

The sweatshirt. She caught herself, she was breathing fast, almost panting, dialing the phone without looking at Reeva. She didn't press Send, not yet.

“Are you sure it was her sweatshirt?”

“Well, it looked like it, but I wasn't that close—I was, um, just passing by the Hopsmiths'. It could've been someone else's, you know, the pink ones from the girls' swim team?”

Abigail paused in her dialing. She knew that sweatshirt.
She thought they'd packed it in the trunk, but then, she hadn't seen it for a while. For a few weeks at least. She looked at Reeva, who was still chattering, her mouth open, a fish, Abigail thought. She'd call it in, of course, but what was it really—just a rumor?