The man brought home lunch. Cold sandwiches and a bag of potato chips. He said that after we ate he would take me back to town.
The power is still out. The phone still dead. The portable generator is running the boiler in the basement so we have heat and hot water. It also runs the stove. It has lasted all night and into this afternoon. Even without the gas. But maybe that’s not true. Maybe those cans were full.
Alice swings her legs as she eats. It makes her body bounce and her long hair swoosh from side to side. She wears a pink sweater with purple leggings that are too small. Bunny slippers hang from her swinging feet.
I try to eat. I feel the effects of the exhaustion and hunger and it is not productive. I hold the sandwich in my sore hand and bring it to my mouth. Chew. Swallow. But I am anxious to be done. I want to go to town and see for myself the things I’ve been told.
First, my car was not on the side of the road. He thinks it probably got towed somewhere. Everything is shut down and the police are too busy to check on it.
Second, he couldn’t find my purse. He said I must have left it on the side of the road. Or maybe in my car. But I know this is notright. I can still feel it clutched in my hand as I waved down his truck with both arms, over my head. The way I always do when I’m not thinking about it. It registers in my thoughts because Evan and Nicole find it embarrassing. I reason with myself that some people are not good at finding things, that maybe it is in the truck, under a seat, and that he just didn’t look hard enough.
Because, third, he called all the numbers I gave him but no one picked up. He left messages for them. John. Nicole. A few friends. He showed me his phone log—the numbers in black with the little arrow next to them. Then he showed me the voicemail box, which was empty.
I thought that this could not be true. But then I considered that perhaps it is true. Perhaps they didn’t recognize his number and did not pick up. We’ve been getting dozens of robocalls lately, and from all different numbers. Maybe there hasn’t been time for them to check their messages.
The man sits back in his chair, legs splayed wide, forearms on the table.
After dinner, we will go to town and call my family again. We will stop by the police station and ask about my car. I will have my clothes from the line. And that will be that.
“I’m sorry I got lost on my walk,” I say cheerfully. I direct my gaze at Alice and smile.
“I didn’t realize there were bears. That’s so scary,” I say. “Do they ever come up to the house? I’ve heard they can be very aggressive when they want food.”
Alice looks to the man who nods. Only then does she answer.
“One time they went through the garbage. But it might have been raccoons. They like the garbage too. And they’re so big!”
I don’t feel like talking, but I want to be polite. I make my eyes grow wide with amazement. “We have big raccoons where we live,”I say. “My husband put a lock on the garbage cans to keep them from coming. They gave up after a while.”
The man’s phone sits on the kitchen counter near his wallet. I glance at it now. I have to remind myself that there is nothing to check until we get back in range. Still, it reminds me that he tried to call and no one answered.
It was hard to believe without seeing the phone log. I didn’t even have to ask him—I think he knew how unbelievable it was.
I’ve been missing for twenty-four hours. They should be glued to their phones. They should answer every call—even the robocalls now. Wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t they answer every single call? Even though my husband doesn’t love me. Even though my daughter hates me. They would be desperate to find me. This sickens me, this thought of my family in despair.
And now another thought—maybe they don’t know I’m missing. Is that possible? That they haven’t even noticed I’m gone?
I struggle to make conversation.
“I saw smoke when I was lost in the woods. Are we close to the neighbors?” I ask.
Alice shrugs like she has no idea. I believe her. My kids never knew how far things were unless they got there themselves, by foot or by bike.
I stop myself quickly from having this thought. Annie was on foot that day. Running to catch the ice cream truck. She’d heard the bells. The jingle. She’d heard it pass by and knew where it would stop—on the corner of our street and the road that heads to town. Our town. There’s a small park on that corner. The truck would stop there and kids would come running from the park, lining up to buy ice cream. When I was home, I would walk with them. Down the driveway. Down the street. I would hold their hands and look for cars coming around the bend. We would cross the street to the sidewalk.
But I wasn’t home that day.
“It’s far,” the man says. “Too far to walk without getting eaten by a bear.” I wonder how he can say this when Alice is afraid of the bears.
“Alice said your wife got lost in the woods,” I tell him. The things Alice told me linger in my thoughts.That’s how my first mommy died.
The man looks at Alice now. Then back to me.
“It’s true,” he says. But when he hesitates, I know this is a lie he tells for Alice, and that he knows how ridiculous it sounds. “She went into the woods and never came back.” And that was that. His tone has a finality to it and I know to leave well enough alone. Still—he joked about the bears, didn’t he?
Finish lunch. Get to town.
Alice seems upset by this talk of her first mommy. I wonder if she was Alice’s real mother, and if she loved her. Alice is so hungry for love. It’s a hunger that could swallow a person whole.
