“I don’t know,” Ruthie admitted.
“Shouldn’t we call someone?” Fawn asked.
“What, like the police? I’m pretty sure you can’t even report a missing person until they’ve been gone for twenty-four hours. She hasn’t even been gone for twelve hours. And Mom would freak, Fawn. You know that.”
“But…it’s so cold out there. What if she’s hurt?”
“I looked everywhere she could possibly go. There’s just no way Mom’s out there. I promise.”
“So what do we do?” Fawn asked.
“We wait. That’s what she’d want us to do. If she’s not backby tonight, maybe we call the cops then, I’m not sure.” She ruffled her little sister’s hair and gave her best it’s-going-to-be-okay smile. “We’ll be fine.”
Fawn bit her lip, looked like she was about to start crying. “She wouldn’t leave us.”
Ruthie put her arm around her little sister, pulled her into a hug. “I know. We’ll figure it out. After breakfast, we’ll look for clues. People don’t disappear without a trace. It’ll be like playing Nancy Drew.”
“Who?”
“Forget it. Just trust me, okay? We’ll be fine. We’ll find her. I promise.”
Katherine
Sometimes, when Katherine woke in the night, she could almost feel them both there beside her. She imagined the other side of the bed was warm, and if she squinted her eyes just right, the pillow seemed to bear a soft indent where their two heads had lain. She’d roll over in the morning and press the pillow to her face, trying to catch a scent of them.
It wasn’t just shampoo, shaving lotion, and motorcycle grease. It was all of that blended together with something intoxicatingly spicy underneath—the essence of Gary. And Austin, he’d smelled like warm milk and honey, a sweet ambrosia that she could drink up and live on forever. In the soft hours of early morning, before the sun came up, she believed it just might be possible to distill everything a person was down to a scent.
Once she was awake, like now, sitting in the kitchen with a cup of French roast in her hand and still wearing one of Gary’s old T-shirts, she realized how silly the thought was, knew that their being in bed with her was only a dream, a body memory perhaps. Like a person feeling pain in a phantom limb.
How many mornings had they spent like that, Austin tucked between them in fleecy pajamas telling them grand stories about his dreams:“…and then there was a man who had a magic hat and he could pull anything you asked for out of it—marshmallows, swimming pools, even Sparky, Mama!”She’d ruffled his hair, thought it sweet that he could bring their dead dog back in his dreams.
The acidic coffee hit her empty belly with a snarl and a toothybite. She tapped her ring against the mug. Gary had given it to her two weeks before he died. She turned it around her finger, noticing the indentation it was leaving, as if it were slowly working its way into her skin, becoming a part of her.
She should eat something. She’d skipped a proper dinner last night, settling in at her worktable with a jar of olives and a glass of Shiraz. Since Gary’s death, she’d pretty much been living on canned soup and crackers. The idea of actually going to the trouble of cooking a proper meal for just herself seemed silly, not worth the effort. If she craved something more elaborate, she could go out. Besides, she’d discovered some pretty fancy canned soups: lobster bisque, butternut squash, roasted red pepper and tomato.
But she hadn’t been shopping yet, and the soup-and-cracker cupboard was empty; she’d have to go to the market today. She’d unpacked a few dry goods yesterday—oatmeal, baking soda, flour—but the pots and pans were in boxes. She’d been in the apartment for two days now, and other than setting up her artwork area in the living room and making the bed, she had done little to settle in.
The truth was, she liked the sparse look of bare countertops and shelves; the empty white walls felt like a clean slate. She was even hesitant to hang her clothes in the closet, preferring the vagabond feel of living out of suitcases. What did one really need to live? The thought excited her a little—an experiment in pared-down living.
Katherine looked around at the piles of cardboard boxes, neatly markedKITCHENwith contents written below: mixing bowls, steak knives, ice-cream maker, bread machine. But who on earth really needed an ice-cream maker or a bread machine? These, she decided, along with a great many other things in the boxes, would need to go.
Out in the living room were more boxes: CDs, movies, books, photo albums. The things that made up a life. But now, in their boxes, they seemed strangely unreal. A remnant from another woman’s life. The Katherine who had been married to Gary and once had a son; who had wedding china and photo albums and an electric knife sharpener. Now all these objects felt like toys, like she was a child in a playhouse trying to imagine what it was that grown-ups did.
Austin had died two years and four months ago—leukemia. He was six years old. And it had only been a little over two months since Gary’s death. Sometimes it felt like two days, sometimes twenty years. Her decision to move from Boston to West Hall, Vermont (population 3,163), had seemed absurd—concerning, even—to her family and friends. She claimed she needed a fresh start. After all, she’d just been awarded a Peckham grant: thirty thousand dollars to cover living expenses and art supplies, enabling her to work on her art full-time, to finish the assemblage-box series she’d been working on for the past year. For the first time in her life, she’d be an artist and only an artist—not a wife or a mother or the manager of a gallery. She gave notice on their Boston loft, resigned from her job at the gallery, and moved to a small apartment on the third floor of an old Victorian house on West Hall’s Main Street.
She didn’t tell anyone the truth.
Almost a month after Gary’s accident, she’d received his final American Express bill. The last charge on it, dated October 30, the day he died, was a $31.39 meal at Lou Lou’s Café in West Hall, Vermont. For some reason, he’d driven the three hours to Vermont, had a meal, then turned around and headed back to Boston. He’d taken the scenic route back, heading south on Route 5, which snaked its way down beside the interstate, I-91. It was snowing, an early-season squall, and Gary came around a bend too quickly, lost control of the car, and slammed into a ledge of rock. The state troopers told her he’d been killed instantly.
When she took the trip up to the garage in White River Junction to claim any belongings inside Gary’s car, she took one look at the deployed airbags, the smashed windshield, and the whole front end crushed like an accordion, and actually fainted. In the end, there wasn’t much to claim anyway—some papers from the glove box, an extra pair of sunglasses, Gary’s favorite travel mug. The thing that she was really hoping to find—the black backpack he used as his camera bag—was not in the car. She tried to track it down, pestering mechanics at the garage, the insurance adjuster, the state police, and the staff in the emergency room—but everyone denied having seen it.
Gary had left home at ten that morning with his backpack, saying he had a wedding to shoot in Cambridge and he’d be home in time for dinner.
Why had he lied?
The question plagued her, ate away at her. She searched through his desk, files, papers, and computer and found nothing out of the ordinary. She called his friends, asked if they knew of any buddies Gary had in Vermont—any reason he might go up there.
No, they all said, they couldn’t think of anyone. They told her he’d probably heard about a great antique shop, or just wanted a drive. “You know Gary,” his best friend, Ray, had said, choking up a bit, “a spur-of-the-moment guy. Always up for an adventure.”
