Leaving Time(43)

“What’s wrong?” my grandmother asks.

“Nothing.”

“I’ve spent an hour making this dinner for you; the least you can do is eat it,” she says.

“How come there wasn’t a search for her?” I blurt out and then cover my mouth with my napkin, as if I can stuff the words back inside.

Neither of us wants to pretend she doesn’t know who I’m talking about. My grandmother goes very still. “Just because you don’t remember, Jenna, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“Nothing happened,” I say. “Not for ten years. Don’t you even care? She’s your daughter!”

She gets up and dumps her plate—which is still mostly full—into the kitchen trash.

All of a sudden I feel the way I felt that day when I was tiny, and chased that butterfly down a hill toward the elephants, and realized I had made a colossal tactical error.

All these years I thought my grandmother didn’t talk about what had happened to my mother because it was too hard for her. Now, I wonder if she didn’t talk about what had happened because it would be too hard for me.

I know, before she speaks, what she is going to say. And I don’t want to hear it. I run upstairs with Gertie at my heels and slam my bedroom door, then bury my face in the fur at my dog’s neck.

It takes about two minutes before the door opens. I don’t glance up, but I can feel her there, all the same. “Just say it,” I whisper. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

My grandmother sits down on the mattress. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is.” Suddenly I am crying even though I don’t want to be. “Either she is, or she isn’t.”

But even as I challenge my grandmother, I understand it’s not that simple. Logic says that if I have been right—if my mother never would have willingly left me—then she would have come for me. Which, obviously, she didn’t.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out.

And yet. If she were dead, wouldn’t I know it? I mean, don’t you hear those stories all the time? Wouldn’t I feel like a piece of me was gone?

A little voice inside me says, Don’t you?

“When your mother was little, whatever I told her to do, she would choose the opposite,” my grandmother says. “I asked her to wear a dress to her high school graduation, she showed up in cutoff shorts. She’d point to two haircuts in a magazine and ask which I liked better; then she’d choose the one I didn’t. I suggested she study primates at Harvard; she picked elephants in Africa.” My grandmother looks down at me. “She was also the smartest person I have ever met. Smart enough to outwit any policeman, if she wanted to. So if she was alive, and had run away, I knew I couldn’t trap her into coming home. If I started putting her face on milk cartons and setting up a hotline, she would only run farther away, faster.”

I wonder if this is true. If my mother has only been playing a game. Or if it’s my grandmother who’s been fooling herself.

“You said you filed a missing persons report. What happened?”

She takes my mother’s scarf from the back of my desk chair, runs it through the sieve of her fist. “I said I went to file a missing persons report,” my grandmother says. “I went three times, in fact. But I never stepped inside the front door.”

I stare at her, stunned. “What? You never told me that!”

“You’re older now. You deserve to know what happened.” She sighs. “I wanted answers. At least I thought I did. And I knew you would, when you were older. But I couldn’t bring myself to go inside. I was afraid to hear what the police might find.” She looks at me. “I don’t know what would have been worse. Learning Alice was dead and couldn’t come home, or learning she was alive and didn’t want to. Nothing they told me was going to be good news. There wasn’t going to be a happily ever after here. There was just going to be you and me; and I thought the sooner we moved on, the sooner we could both start over.”

I think of what Virgil had hinted at this afternoon—the third option that my grandmother hasn’t considered: that perhaps my mother had run away not from us but from a murder charge. I guess that’s not exactly something you want to hear about your daughter, either.

I don’t think of my grandmother as old, really, but when she gets up off the bed, she looks her age. She moves slowly, like all of her is aching, and stands silhouetted in the doorway. “I know what you look up on your computer. I know you never stopped asking what happened.” Her voice is as thin as the seam of light that surrounds her body. “Maybe you’re braver than I am.”