Sabine wondered how many people had come to Anita Norton’sdoor over the last month, or called her on the phone.A lot, she surmised, though it would have fallen off lately as the mystery of Mallory’s disappearance dragged on.Anita would still have felt her heart skip and her stomach lurch every time the doorbell rang, but less so with the phone; if there was news, bad news, it would be communicated in person, and by someone in uniform.She might have been relieved to see only a woman of late middle age standing on her doorstep, holding a wool hat in her hands, a tasseled suede bag over one shoulder; relieved, and disappointed.
“Can I help you?”Anita Norton asked.
“I might be able to help you,” Sabine replied.“I don’t promise that I can, but I’d like to try.”
She reached into the bag and produced copies of two newspaper articles, one from years before, the other more recent.Both related to the disappearances of children and, ultimately, the retrieval of bodies.
“I’m showing you these so you’ll know who I am,” she said, “not because I’m suggesting Mallory’s outcome might be the same.My hope, like yours, is that your daughter is alive and may yet be found.In the past, I’ve been able to offer assistance in that regard—not always, not even more often than not, but I’ve had some successes.”
She passed the articles to Anita Norton, who didn’t read all the way through before handing them back.
“I’ve heard of you,” she said.“What do you want here?”
“To see your daughter’s room, if I may.”
“Why?”
“Because I have no proper sense of Mallory, not enough to be able to recognize her.”
Anita folded her arms: rarely a good sign, in Sabine’s experience.
“There are photographs,” said Anita.“Half the state knows what my daughter looks like.”
“I wasn’t speaking of her appearance,” said Sabine.“I was talking about her essence.All that’s the best of her, all that she is, will be present in her room.”The breeze carried one of the samaras onto the step, where it landed by Sabine’s right foot.She picked it up and sent it spinning toward soil.“But I understand if you’d prefer not to let me in.I don’t make a habit of approaching people directly.They tend to come to me.”
Sabine noticed that Anita was shivering.She was wearing a pink T-shirt over slim-cut jeans that might once have fit snugly but now had to be held up with a belt.How much weight had Anita lost since the girl had gone missing?More than she could afford.They didn’t eat, the mothers of missing children; didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, struggled to concentrate, neglected their other kids, if they were fortunate enough to have any.It was different for the fathers, Sabine thought, neither easier nor harder, but dissimilar in the character of the suffering.Sometimes she felt sorrier for the men because so many lacked the vocabulary to express their pain and make it comprehensible, even to themselves.All grief consumed, but it might be that certain men welcomed the consumption more than women.They cannibalized themselves into oblivion.
“You should go back inside,” said Sabine.“I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
She stepped down from the porch.
“Will you know?”
Sabine looked up.
“If she’s alive, I mean,” Anita continued.“Will you know?Will you be able to tell?”
“I might.”
The contrary held more true, Sabine being better attuned to the profundity of absence.This Anita Norton seemed to guess, because next she said: “And if she isn’t?”
“Again, I might.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll call her name,” said Sabine, “and see if she answers.”
It was that simple, and also that complex.
“And would you tell me if she did answer?Or if she didn’t, but you knew she was dead?”
“Only if I was sure.”
Sabine permitted herself the lie.When it came to what she did, certainty was a rare commodity, but even so, and should itturn out to be the case, it would not be for her to tell this woman that her child was gone.It would be for the police, and only when, or if, a body was found.For the present, it was too early even to conceive of such a conversation.
Anita opened the door wider.
“You can come inside,” she said, “but—”
