Leaving Time(6)

There’s another page about my mother’s hair color (red) and eye color (green); about whether she had any scars or deformities or tattoos or artificial limbs that could be used to identify her (no). There’s a page that lists the clothing she was wearing when she disappeared, but I had to leave that blank, because I don’t know. There’s an empty page about possible transportation methods and another about dental records and one for her DNA sample. There’s a picture of her, too, that I scanned from the only photo in the house my grandma hasn’t squirreled away in the attic—a close-up of my mother holding me in her arms, in front of Maura the elephant.

Then there’s a page for the police contacts. One of them, Donny Boylan, retired and moved to Florida and has Alzheimer’s (you’d be amazed at what you can learn from Google). The other, Virgil Stanhope, was last listed in a police newsletter for being promoted to detective at a ceremony on October 13, 2004. I know, from my digital sleuthing, that he is no longer employed by the Boone Police Department. Aside from that, it appears he has disappeared off the face of the earth.

It’s not nearly as uncommon as you think.

There are entire families whose homes were abandoned with television sets blaring, kettles boiling, toys strewn across the floor; families whose vans were found in empty parking lots or sunk in local ponds, and yet no bodies were ever located. There are college girls who went missing after they wrote their numbers down on napkins for men at bars. There are grandfathers who wandered into the woods and were never heard from again. There are babies who were kissed good night in their cribs, and gone before the light of morning. There are mothers who wrote out grocery lists, got in their cars, but never came home from the Stop & Shop.

“Jenna!” My grandmother’s voice interrupts me. “I’m not running a restaurant!”

I shut down my computer and head out of my bedroom. On second thought, I reach into my lingerie drawer and pull a delicate blue scarf out of its recesses. It doesn’t work at all with my jean shorts and tank top, but I loop it around my neck, hurry downstairs, and climb onto one of the counter stools.

“It’s not like I have nothing better to do than wait on you hand and foot,” my grandmother says, her back to me as she flips a pancake in the skillet.

My grandmother is not the TV grandmother, a cuddly, white-haired cherub. She works as a meter maid for the local parking enforcement office, and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen her smile.

I wish I could talk to her about my mom. I mean, she has all the memories I don’t—because she lived with my mother for eighteen years, while I, on the other hand, had a measly three. I wish I had the kind of grandmother who showed me pictures of my missing mom when I was little, or baked a cake on her birthday, instead of just encouraging me to seal my feelings inside a little box.

Don’t get me wrong—I love my grandmother. She comes to hear me sing in school chorus concerts, and she cooks vegetarian for me even though she likes meat; she lets me watch R-rated movies because (as she says) there’s nothing in them I won’t see in the halls between classes. I love my grandmother. She just isn’t my mom.

The lie I’ve told my grandma today is that I’m babysitting for the son of one of my favorite teachers—Mr. Allen, who taught me seventh-grade math. The kid’s name is Carter, but I call him Birth Control, because he’s the best argument ever against procreation. He’s the least attractive infant I’ve ever met. His head is enormous, and when he looks at me, I’m pretty sure he can read my mind.

My grandmother pivots, pancakes balanced on a spatula, and freezes when she sees the scarf around my neck. True, it doesn’t match, but that’s not why her mouth pinches tight. She shakes her head in silent judgment and smacks the spatula against my plate as she sets down the food.

“I felt like accessorizing,” I lie.

My grandmother doesn’t talk about my mother. If I’m empty inside because she vanished, then Grandma’s full to bursting with anger. She can’t forgive my mother for leaving—if that’s what happened—and she can’t accept the alternative—that my mother can’t come back, because she’s dead.

“Carter,” my grandmother says, smoothly peeling back the conversation one layer. “Is that the baby who looks like an eggplant?”

“Not all of him. Just his forehead,” I clarify. “Last time I sat for him, he screamed for three hours straight.”

“Bring earplugs,” my grandmother suggests. “Will you be home for dinner?”