“No problem. I guess I just always assume everyone’s in the same mood I am. You know?”
John nods. “Yeah.”
“You here for a funeral?” Micah asks. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“No,” John says, and the cold he suddenly feels runs all the way to the soles of his feet. He points ahead. “You’re going to want to take a right in two blocks.”
“Yeah, I know. I got you covered. Don’t worry. You can just sit back and relax, okay? I’ll have you right to the door in about ten minutes.”
John sits back. But he does anything but relax. She could be home, he keeps saying to himself, even though Irene has not called him to say so. He hadn’t called her when he landed, either, because he didn’t want to hear Sadie was still not there.
When they pull up to Irene’s three-flat, John gets out of the cab and looks up at the second-floor window to see if Irene is watching for him. No. He pushes the buzzer to get let in the vestibule door but hears nothing. He pushes again. Damn it, the thing is broken. He goes to stand beneath the living room window. “Irene!” he yells. No response. He takes out his cellphone to call her—what the hell is she doing?
Maybe, he thinks, Sadie got home and Irene is in her bedroom with her, yelling at her, and doesn’t want to be interrupted. He hopes Irene is yelling at her; he hopes Sadie’s that safe. He does have keys, ones that were given him when Sadie and Irene first moved in, and he understood without being told that he was not to use them except in an emergency. Well, this qualifies.
He takes out his wallet and finds the keys stashed behind a picture of Sadie—she’s standing before this very place, grinning. It’s a recent photo, one she gave him when she last visited. Seeing her face unnerves him; his hands tremble as he puts the key in the lock. The hallway smells of something: rice? Behind one of the doors on the first floor he hears someone loudly talking on the phone: I’m telling you, they’re taking over the neighborhood; they’re buying the place up with cash! Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks what he always does when he comes to visit here: How can Irene and Sadie live so close to other people? Don’t they want their privacy?
He bounds up to the second floor and breathlessly knocks at the door, then lets himself in. He sees no one.
“Irene?” he says. “Sadie?”
He walks down the hall and comes first to Sadie’s bedroom door, which is cracked half open. He pushes it open all the way, hope in his throat, and there’s Irene, sound asleep. Asleep!
“Irene!” He says it loudly, cruelly, as he meant to, but Irene looks so frightened when her eyes jerk open that he regrets it.
“What are you doing?” he says.
“John.” She sits up, swallows, pushes her hair out of her eyes. She’s wearing a pair of yoga pants and a gray T-shirt; she’s lost weight since he last saw her.
“What are you doing?” he says, again.
“Well, I’ve been up all night. And I just lay down here for a minute, and I … you know. How was your trip?” She’s still half asleep; she must be, to ask such a ridiculous question.
“You might want to stay up, Irene. Our daughter is missing. You might want to be paying attention.”
She crosses her arms, her hands gripping her elbows tightly. “Oh, John, please. Don’t blame me. I didn’t do anything except let her go rock climbing, which I only did because you talked me into it.”
“Assuming that it was safe, Irene! Assuming that, since you’re the one who’s here, you would know if it was safe.”
She says nothing, stares at the floor, rocks nearly imperceptibly back and forth.
He drops his bag and goes to sit on the chair in the corner of the room. “Has anything else happened?”
She shakes her head.
“Anybody call about anything?”
“No.”
“I was thinking on the plane … What about Sadie’s computer, do you think there’s anything on there that can help us?”
“It’s not here.”
“What do you mean it’s not here?”
“It’s not here, John! I can’t find it! If you want to look for it, look for it! I’ve looked everywhere, and it’s not here! I don’t know; sometimes she takes it over to Meghan’s; once, she forgot it there.”
“Where does Meghan live?”
Irene doesn’t answer.
“You don’t know where Meghan lives?”
“They moved recently, and I …” She looks up at him. “No. I don’t know where Meghan lives. She and Sadie don’t have play-dates anymore.”
“Well, did you call Meghan’s parents?”
“They are unlisted.”
“Why are they unlisted?”
She only looks at him.
He takes in a breath to calm himself down. “Okay. Okay. You did call the police. You did manage to do that.”
“You know, John, I have been sitting here waiting and every second is like a day and I was so glad you were coming because I thought we could help each other, I thought we would console each other, but now—”
“Console each other? Console? Irene, I don’t even know how to respond to that. We need to focus on Sadie, not on making you feel better!”
“I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean me, I meant …” She sighs, shakes her head. “Why are you so angry at me? The police weren’t even concerned when I filed the report, it was like they were just trying to humor me. Oh, so what, an eighteen-year-old isn’t calling her mommy to report in. The guy at the desk didn’t even sit up straight! She’s not a minor; apparently she has the right to disappear. And everybody seems to think she’ll come back today and that I’m just being hysterical!”
She stands, grabs Kleenex from the box on the nightstand, and John sees a huge pile of used tissues there. She looks away from him to say, “They’d say you’re being hysterical, too, flying out here like this.”
“Do you think we are? Overreacting?” His voice is normal now, his anger dissipated. Why is he so mad at Irene? She didn’t do anything.
“No, I think we both know Sadie, and they don’t. This is not like her. There’s something wrong. I can feel it.”
“Do you think she’s hurt?”
Irene nods, miserably.
He does not want to ask this; he is afraid to, in part because he respects Irene’s intuitive abilities, but mostly because it is a horrible and impossible question that should never, never be asked about anyone’s daughter. But he hears himself say, “Do you think she’s dead?”
“No. No. I don’t think she’s dead.” She makes a gulping sound, swallowing. “Honestly, John, I really don’t. But I do think she’s in some sort of trouble, and I just wish so hard I could reach her. Or that I’d get some news of some kind that would at least let me know—”
The phone rings, and they both freeze. Irene looks at him, and he squares his shoulders, sets his jaw, and picks up the receiver. “Hello.”
“Dad?” Sadie says.
“Oh, thank God,” John says, and sits on the bed beside Irene. “Sadie! Where are you?”
“What are you doing in San Francisco?”
He has to laugh. He just has to. Irene snatches the phone from him. “Sadie,” she says. “Are you all right? Tell me! Are you all right?”
She listens for a while, smiling, her face radiant, and then her expression changes. “Get home right now,” she says. “Right this second.”
“What?” John says. “What is it?”
Sadie speaks again and John tries to put his ear next to the receiver so he can hear, too, but Irene pulls away from him. She gestures angrily into the air, as though she is pushing something away. “I don’t care. You get yourself home right now. And don’t you dare bring him with you!”
“What is it?” John says. “What happened?”
“I said I don’t care,” Irene tells Sadie. “You come here alone. You show your father and me the respect we deserve and you get home right now and you come home alone. I cannot even … You come hom
e right now. Please please please come home right now.” A pause while she listens to Sadie, and then she says, “Absolutely not. If you want to talk to him, you can do it here.” She hangs up and stares wild-eyed at John.
“What happened?” he says.
For a moment, Irene sits unmoving, her mouth slightly open. She looks like a boxer who’s just taken a hard blow to the head.
Then, “It’s bad,” she says.
“What happened?”
“She got married.”
“What?”
“I know. She got married. Oh, my God. She’s eighteen years old and she got married, John.”
“When?”
“Last night. In Reno. To some guy named Ron, whom I’ve never even met.”
“Irene, what the fuck is going on around here?”
She looks over at him for a long moment, and, in spite of his anger, he admires the little star of brown in her otherwise green eyes; he’d forgotten about that. But Irene is angry now, too. She stands and points to the bedroom door. “Get out.”
“Irene—”
“Get out!” Her voice cracks, yelling at him. “If all you can do is blame me, get the hell out of here!”
He throws his hands up. “Well, what would you do, Irene? What would you do if all this happened on my watch? Wouldn’t you be angry at me? Wouldn’t you blame me?”
“No. I would not. I would blame Sadie. And I would try to help you. I would expect that, as her parents, we would help each other.”
She’s right. He knows it. He hangs his head, stares at his feet. She’s right. For all her faults, she was never someone quick to blame others. As he supposes he is. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I guess we should talk about what we need to say to her.”
“You know what, John? You know what?”
“What, Irene.” He apologized! What else does she want?
But she says nothing. She leaves Sadie’s bedroom, stomps down the hall to her own, and slams the door. He hears her sobbing.
From below comes the sound of someone banging on the ceiling, and a muffled “Keep it down! For Christ’s sake!”
He goes into the living room and sits in a chair by the window to watch for his daughter to come home. After a few minutes, he hears Irene stop crying.
“Irene?” he calls.
No answer.
“Irene! I just have to ask you something!”
Again, no answer.
He goes to stand outside her door. “Did she say how far away she is?”
“She’ll be here in about an hour.”
“Listen, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m sorry I blamed you. I was upset. I’m still upset. Jeez. She got married? Did you have a clue?”
Silence.
He rests his forehead against the door. “Irene, please come out.” He waits a moment, then tries the doorknob, fully expecting that it will be locked. But it is not. He opens the door, then knocks anyway. She is lying on the bed, curled around a pillow, facing away from him. He walks slowly over to her. Her eyes are open, but she won’t look at him.
Gingerly, he sits on the bed beside her. “You okay?”
“No.” It comes out Doe, from her crying.
“You want me to … do anything?”
She sits up. “Make some sandwiches? I’m so hungry.” Bake some sadwiches.
He starts to laugh, and then she does, too.
“Peanut butter and grape jelly?” he asks. Irene’s favorite. He has never felt such a peculiar kind of joy. It almost hurts.
“I like black raspberry now.”
“Should I make one for Sadie and her hubby?”
“Not funny.”
He shrugs. “A little funny?”
“No.”
“So, what do you think we should do? Ground her?”
“Go and make the sandwiches. I’ll wash up. And … I put clean sheets on my bed so you can stay here. Do you want to stay here?”
“Uh …”
“Not with me! I’ll sleep on the couch. But if you want to stay here, you can. This is kind of … It will be good to have you here for a while. This needs two.”
“Yes,” he says. “This most definitely needs two.” He heads for the kitchen, then turns back to say, “Still heavy on the jam?”
“Yes.” Her face softens, and she smiles. “Thank you for coming. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me, too.”
He goes into the kitchen and finds the peanut butter, the jelly, the bread, the plates, the knives. He makes four sandwiches. He knows Sadie better than Irene does. He always has.
22
Together, John and Irene stand at the window, watching Sadie come down the sidewalk. “She has him with her,” Irene says. “He’s coming with her!” She’s furious that Sadie has disobeyed her explicit instructions.
“Well, let’s just see what happens,” John says. “I kind of admire the fact that he’s willing to face the music.”
“I don’t want him to face the music!”
“Let’s just see what happens,” John says, again. He moves out into the hall; Irene goes to the door and opens it.
“You’ll have to leave,” she calls out to the young man, before she fully sees him. He and Sadie are rounding the stairs.
“I’m sorry,” he calls back. “Sadie asked me to come with her.”
Then he is before her and Irene crosses her arms and says, “Well, I’m asking you to leave. You go home, now.”
“Mom,” Sadie says, and then, “You can come in, Ron. Never mind. Come in.”
The young man steps just over the threshold, and Irene almost feels sorry for him. He’s a nice-looking guy in jeans and a blue T-shirt, worry all over his face.
“This is my husband, Ron,” Sadie tells Irene, pointedly. And then, “Hi, Dad.”
John moves to embrace Sadie. “We were so worried about you!” he says. “I’m glad you’re safe.” He holds out his hand to the boy. “I’m John Marsh, Sadie’s father.”
“John,” Irene says quietly. He has no idea how to handle this situation.
“I’m glad to meet you, sir.” Ron turns to Irene. “I’m glad to meet you, as well. I won’t stay. But I hope I’ll see you again very soon.”
Irene stands still, waiting. She fears speaking; she’s afraid she’ll yell, or cry.
“I’ll call you,” he tells Sadie, gently, and puts his hand on her shoulder, then turns to leave.
“Ron!” Sadie says. “You don’t have to go!”
“It’s okay,” he says. “They need some time with you.”
He holds his hand up, a wave of sorts, and locks eyes with Sadie in a way that excludes everything else.
Irene closes the door and turns to her daughter. “Are you out of your mind?” she says.
“Irene!” John says. “Jesus. Can we sit down? Can we talk?”
What fills Irene now is a wobbly kind of rage. She doesn’t know who to be angrier at, John or Sadie. Easy for him to show up and be the even-tempered mediator! Easy for him to be the part-time parent who gets to say yes to everything because he never has to suffer the consequences of what he allows! She is the real parent, and she will handle this. She wishes he’d never come. He won’t be of any use at all. He will make everything harder. “You keep out of this!” she tells John. “You don’t even know what happened!”
“Neither do you, Mom!” Sadie says. “You don’t know anything! You never do!” She goes to her room and slams the door.
John and Irene stand there. “Nice going,” John says.
Irene goes into her bedroom and slams that door. There is silence, and then Irene hears John knocking at Sadie’s door and saying, “Sadie? Can I come in?”
A muffled “Yes.”
Irene sits on the edge of her bed, kneading her hands. What to do? Apologize? No. No. She is not the one who has done something wrong. That would be Sadie, who is now probably telling her father the whole story so that John can then absolve her of any responsibility whatsoever.
r /> She goes into the hall and stands outside Sadie’s closed door. Knocks.
“Not right now, Mom,” Sadie says. “Please.”
She opens the door anyway, stands there.
“Mom.”
Sadie is lying on her bed, John sitting on the edge, his head down, his hands clasped between his knees. He won’t interfere, then; she can say what she wants.
“I’m going out,” she says. “I’m going for a walk. When I come back, I want you to tell me exactly what happened. I want you to tell me what’s going on.”
Sadie nods.
Irene looks at John; he nods, too.
Irene goes for her jacket and her purse. She has no idea how these bricks have all just fallen on her head.
But Sadie is safe. And so she goes out the door and down the stairs.
She walks briskly around the neighborhood for half an hour, seeing nothing, really, but losing some of the tension that was making her feel she might fly apart into a million pieces. She goes up enough steep inclines that her legs are aching when she returns, and she climbs the stairs to the flat with some difficulty. She lets herself in and hears Sadie and John in the kitchen.
She finds them at the banquette, eating the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches John prepared earlier. Irene pours herself a glass of milk, grabs a sandwich, and goes to stand beside her daughter. “Scootch over,” she says, and Sadie does.
Irene puts her sandwich and milk down, then puts her arms around Sadie, squeezes her.
“I just got jelly on your blouse,” Sadie says, and Irene says, “I don’t care.”
“I sort of can’t breathe,” Sadie says, and Irene lets go.
“Tell me,” she says. “Please.”
Sadie sighs. She looks over at John, and he moves his hands in a small but expansive way that seems to say, “You have to tell her, too.”
“I was waiting for Ron,” Sadie says. “We were going to take a driving trip up the coast.”
Irene has to clench her teeth to keep from saying, “You told me you were going rock climbing!” But then Sadie tells her about the car that pulled over, the man who took her, all he did, and Irene sits still, her head empty of anything but gratitude for the fact of her daughter, sitting here with her, alive. Three people; a family, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, half-drunk glasses of milk.