“Friday morning. We get into Oakland around ten.”
Thirty-nine hours from now.
“Okay,” I said.
“Don’t get too excited.”
“I am. I am... I don’t know if you saw. There’s a new fire.”
“Oh no. How bad?”
“They’re saying it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
“Ugh. I was really hoping to come home.”
“I know. I so want you to.”
True. I ached to have them near.
And not true, because I didn’t know how I could manage the situation with them near.
I said, “We were concerned about the baby’s health. It sucks, but nothing’s changed on that count.”
“Fine, but can we agree that that was an overreaction? It’s not like hordes of pregnant women are fleeing the Bay Area.”
“Why don’t we see how things are in the morning?”
She scrutinized me. At times it can feel like being married to a mind reader. Only the fact that I was pixelated, on a five-inch screen, saved me.
“Okay,” she said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. Have a good night.”
Halfway home my mother called me. I let it go. She tried twice more and gave up.
Except she hadn’t. Coming up my block I saw her pinched shape pacing the front walk. I nearly made a U-turn. She spotted me and began bouncing on her toes, waving like a castaway. My father was there, too, on the porch, worrying the loose rail I hadn’t gotten around to fixing.
I got out of the car and she rushed at me. “Why didn’t you tell me Luke was missing?”
“Hang on a sec,” I said. “Who told you that?”
“I saw it on Andrea’s Facebook. I tried calling her but she won’t tell me anything. I don’t know what she expects me to do if she’s not going to speak to me... ”
She kept talking but I didn’t listen, hurriedly swiping my phone.
Attention everybody, my husband Luke Edison has not been heard from in three days. He left the house on Sunday to take a drive and now he is not answering his phone. I am very concerned.
I am asking everyone to please spread this information so that we can find him as soon as possible and bring him home safely.
I am attaching a photo, please feel free to repost it. He is forty-one years old. He is six feet four inches tall with brown hair and... See More
The post had garnered a hundred and nine reactions, including likes, dislikes, crying emojis, shocked emojis, hearts. It had been shared eighty-one times.
“Clay.” My mother gripped my sleeve. “You’re not listening.”
I ushered them inside and into the living room. “Sit down, please.”
“I don’t want to sit down, I want you to tell me — Clay. Stop walking away from me.”
I brought candles from the kitchen, lit them on the coffee table, took a chair. My father sat on the sofa. My mother stayed on her feet.
“When was the last time you heard from him?” I asked.
“You were aware this was going on and you didn’t think to call us?” she said.
“Please stop yelling.”
“Brunch,” my father said.
“Not since then?”
He shook his head. He looked at my mother, who grunted in frustration and took the other end of the sofa.
“I don’t remember,” she said. “A few days.”
“Check your phone.”
She did. “Thursday.”
“Do you remember what you talked about?”
“You should have called us.”
Back and forth we went, like badminton, me asking about Luke, his marriage, finances, the loan, the Camaro, his behavior, the possibility of a relapse, while she pushed me on what I knew, what I’d done, why I hadn’t called them, the police, other police.
“I’ve been busy.”
“With what.”
“Tracking him down.”
“How?”
“I’m doing everything I can.”
“You’re one person, Clay. You can’t — I just can’t believe you’ve been letting this go by and not once did you think to pick up the phone.”
“I didn’t because I knew this was going to happen.”
It was a dumb thing to say. I couldn’t help myself. I was barreling along rusty old tracks, any semblance of restraint and professionalism kicked aside.
“What’s that supposed to mean,” she said.
“We cannot panic.”
“Of course we should panic.”
My father sat there as though catatonic. I knew what he was thinking about: The night he threw Luke out over the stolen necklace. Luke walking off with his middle fingers raised. My father’s nose bleeding. My mother calling me up in tears, she and I driving the streets like deranged tourists.
This had happened before. Nobody called the police then, either.
Instead they called us, a week later, to tell us Luke was unconscious and what he’d done.
I said, “There’s things you don’t know—”
“So tell me!”
My father cut in quietly: “We’re worried, Clay.”
“Oh for God’s sake,” my mother said.
She shut her eyes and clasped her hands like a penitent. The bones of her forearm were prominent through crepey skin. She’s always been lean. She was a collegiate long-jumper and excelled in several high school sports, including basketball. In childhood photos she wears her hair in a long braid, better to keep it out of her face while she runs and jumps. It had since thinned, as had the rest of her, stuffing pulled out by stress.
It struck me that both Luke and I had married our mother — deconstructed. Her form was Amy’s. Her spirit was Andrea’s. I doubted any of them would admit to any of it. But it helped explain something I’d never quite understood: why it was me living six blocks from my parents, while Luke had withdrawn to the hills.
An Amy could get along with a Mom. An Amy could get along with an Andrea.
But Mom and Andrea? They were both battling for the same ragged soul, each convinced they knew what was best for him.
My father said, “Tell us what we can do.”
“What I need from you is to wait.”
My mother opened her eyes. “You want us to sit on our hands.”
“If you have a suggestion for where I should look, by all means tell me.”
“I need an Advil,” she said, rising.
I offered to bring it to her. She muttered that she was capable of getting it herself and went down the hall.
My father said, “I saw your email.”
“I was hoping you and I could speak first.”
“She feels a little deceived,” he said. “Your coming to me separately reinforces that.”
“You told her?”
“No. I didn’t want to upset her even more than she is already. I trust you have your reasons for going about this the way you are and that you’re doing the best you can. But — if I may offer a perspective?”
“Sure.”
“It does look like you’re dealing with a lot by yourself.”
“I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m not dealing with it. And you’re right. I have my reasons.”
“It might help if you shared them with her.”
“It also might not.”
He nodded. “That’s true.”
Unflappable. The veteran teacher’s badge of honor.