The kitchen clock ticks just past five in the morning. My eyes open suddenly and at the same time, a sharp pain shoots down my neck settling into my shoulder, a result of falling asleep in the living room chair, waiting for Robyn to come home.
I throw off the afghan I used to cover myself, my body rebelling at the sudden movement. I wipe off a sheen of sweat already gathered on my face. Instinctively, I know my daughter had not come home yet, and I fight down that bowel-wrenching panic that she lies dead in some gutter, or else unconscious in a hospital room somewhere. Thoughts that bloom in my mind like tenacious weeds; unwelcome and unbidden, yet doggedly persistent.
I realize, from Robyn’s previous disappearing acts, that she is probably sleeping at her friend Jenny’s house even though she hasn’t called and her curfew is midnight. My eyes fall to the overflowing laundry basket sitting on the edge of the couch as the air conditioner kicks on. We can’t afford to run the air. I stand up and walk to the thermostat, moving the dial up to 86. Pickles, our little tabby, regards me disinterestedly from the couch.
I move to my purse, plowing through its contents for my Rolaids to quiet the persistent burning in my gut. I dig out two from the roll and greedily chew them.
“Did you see this?” Rob growls, suddenly at the doorway to the living room. He is fresh from the shower; heading to work on the weekend after a full forty hours during the week; picking up extra shifts whenever he can. The idea was so that we could save to buy a house. But with the prices of everything, including housing out here, we might as well be trying to save to buy an island in Belize.
He holds his brush in the air as if it were a wounded animal. It is his good one, the one with boar’s bristles he bought last month at the mall. Rob is fastidious when it comes to grooming. But his brush has long blond hairs in it and most of the bristles look as if they’ve been matted down with some type of gooey substance.
“And the bathroom?” he says, a clear thread of anger woven in between his words. “There’s crap all over the place.”
I nod.
“From her getting ready last night.” I face him. “She hasn’t come home yet.”
Rob is still scowling at his brush. “Good,” he says.
“Rob,” I admonish him.
“I know,” he says, frowning.” But look at this room,” he adds, waving his brush in the air.
I look around and see evidence of our daughter everywhere. Clothes strewn on the surface of every piece of furniture. Barrettes and scrunchies and tubes of lip gloss dot the coffee table. Her school ID is partially obscured by a comb. A can of Diet Coke is on top of the TV. Even from here, I notice shiny splotches of spilled soda covering the screen like freckles.
“She thinks the entire house is her own personal closet,” he snarls. He shakes his head. “I can’t wait till she moves out.”
I sigh.
“The minute she gets home she cleans all this shit up,” Rob adds. He turns to head back to the bedroom and then stops and swivels around. “And you tell her she’s grounded. She’s supposed to call when she stays over at what’s-her-name’s.”
I drop my face into the palms of my hands, rubbing the sleep from my eyes with my fingertips. I need coffee.
I trudge to the kitchen, opening the cabinet over the microwave and pull out the bag of filters and a can of store brand coffee. I think about happier days. Days when Robyn, young still, would come into the kitchen while I was making dinner; or into the bathroom as I was hunched over the toilet with a scrub brush. She’d worn a smile as big as a silver dollar. “Hello, Mama,” was all she would say. And I’d feel my heart melt with love. Two little words that said everything.
Minutes later, Rob swings into the kitchen.
“I almost forgot,” he says, “There was a message on the answering machine. Your mother called. Again.”
A horn honks in front of the house.
“That’s Dusty,” he says of his coworker and drinking buddy who gives him rides into work so I can have the car.
He pecks me on the cheek, then dashes out the door, even before the coffee is finished. I hope he won’t use his ATM card to pull any more cash out of the checking account for Starbuck’s. I need every cent in there to pay the bills and buy food for the week. I mentally kick myself for not reminding him of this fact. My thoughts alight on Rob’s message from my mother.
I haven’t spoken with my mother in at least two weeks. She loves to call and give me updates on my sister Petra ’s perfect little life. Though Petra and I are separated by only two years, a gulf the size of The Hundred Years War lies between us. She stayed in Aztec, married right out of high school and a year ago just had her third child. Her husband, Larry, an accountant has the salary to afford Petra the luxury of being a stay at home mom. Their house is perfect. Their cars are new. Their school-aged children are on the honor roll and “The Baby” is so beautiful that Petra is thinking of having her model in baby food commercials. Mom calls me regularly to castigate me for not communicating with Petra. She also finds it necessary to list and catalogue all of her health problems, starting with numbness in her fingers to the ulcerating corn on her big left toe.
I busy myself with the task of making coffee, mentally going through my day. Print reports for work. Finish my homework that’s already late for my Excel class. Laundry. Walking across the kitchen floor, my bare feet stumble across an island of something brown and sticky. I add ‘mop kitchen’ to the list. I open the refrigerator door to get the half and half only to discover we’re out. I add ‘groceries’ to my ever-expanding list of tasks. I feel my body sag with fatigue.
And just then, I hear it. The quiet whoosh of the front door being opened with stealth. My heart flip-flops in my chest. Unconsciously, I take in a cavernous breath of relief.
“Robyn?” I walk to the edge of the kitchen and peer through the doorway. There, on the other side of the living room at the front door stands my daughter. Her mascara is smudged in thick, dark smears beneath her eyes, giving her face an innocent, panda-like quality. Her lipstick, too dark to begin with, has left her lips stained, looking almost as if she has a Kool-Aid smile. A tear the size of quarter scars the left thigh of her fish net stockings. In her hand, she dangles her shoes in the air by their straps. She looks tired and bedraggled. She meets my eye and in that first instant a jagged pain slices my heart. I find myself wanting to comfort her so badly I literally feel my arms ache.
“Hello, Mama,” she says.
I cross my arms in front of me.
“Where have you been, young lady?”
She scowls and rolls her eyes.
“I know,” she says in a suddenly snotty voice. “I’m grounded. Big deal.”
“Why can’t you at least call?” I ask. “Is that too difficult?”
“I told you I was going to Jenny’s. She had a party for me. You know I always spend the night at Jenny’s.”
“You do not always spend the night at Jenny’s,” I say. “And another thing. You ruined Dad’s brush. He spent twenty-eight dollars for that brush!” My voice rises with each word. In my head I see dollar bills whirling madly out an opened window.
“Well have you noticed all his beard hairs in the sink?” she shoots back. “It’s hella gross.” She throws her shoes on the floor in a dramatic fashion. “Besides, you said when we moved that we’d buy a house with a swimming pool. And that I’d have my own bathroom. It’s not my fault we have to share. I hate Pittsburg!” she yells at me.
“Don’t you swear!” I scream back. I take a deep breath in a futile effort at remaining calm. “Yes, you are grounded. And I want this room picked up and the whites put away, as I asked you to do yesterday,” I say, looking at the laundry basket teetering on the armrest of the couch.
Robyn rolls her eyes again and huffs out a breath of disdain. The coffee machine hisses and coughs as if commiserating with her.
“Robyn,” I say, calmer now. “We can’t live like this. Not knowing where you are; who you’re with.” I fold my arms in front of me, feeling suddenly cold by images of an injured Robyn lying on a hospital gurney. “What if you get hurt? You didn’t even take your ID with you last night. If you were knocked unconscious or something, the police wouldn’t even know who to call.”
“I’m not going to get hurt! My God, is that all you do at night is sit around and like, think of all the different ways I could die? Get a life why don’t you?” She flips her hair back with a fling of her wrist. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
“Did you make it to summer school yesterday?” I ask.
She stops, dead in her tracks, a deep scowl on her face.
“Oh Mom. Please don’t start with school again.”
Her voice is bone weary.
“Robyn, your sophomore year starts in a month and a half and you’re already behind in English and Math. If you don’t get through these summer school classes you’re going to start the new year behind and it’s only going to get worse.”
“I hate school,” she says, an undeniable streak of resignation laces her words.
I know this. She has always hated school. Her learning disability has meant that every single day is an effort just to understand what is going on. Never mind about learning the material. Never knowing the answers in class meant frequent hurtful remarks by her peers. I can only imagine the teasing she has endured. At this point, she is sick and tired of the battle.
“I know baby, but you’re on the last stretch. Three more years and you’re done.” Even after all the years of struggle, my cajoling, helping, begging, and threatening Robyn, watching as she fought to understand a concept, so often failing, I still hold an irrational thought of hope in my head. “I could teach you some basic accounting skills or if you’d learn typing, combined with your high school diploma, you’d be able to find a decent job and”
“God Mom! I am not like you!” she says, her voice wavering. “I don’t want to be like you! I’m not some pathetic little bookkeeper. Don’t you get that?” She hesitates only a second. She is opening crying now. “I miss my friends.”
“What about Jenny?” I say. “She seems like such a nice girl. Don’t her parents have money?” I ask. I can’t help but feel that if Robyn associates with the upper crust, their good fortune will somehow rub off on my daughter.
“Besides, moving to California is a fresh start,” I begin. “You weren’t doing well in the schools in Aztec. They’re still in the twentieth century, for heaven’s sake,” I say, trying for a joke.
“But I was happy there,” she pleads.
“But you were failing.” I stop a moment and then continue. “And with Daddy out of a job, we didn’t have a whole lot of choice. Besides, we’re lucky he got this job. The whole economy is starting to get shaky right now.”
“I want my old life back,” she demands.
“I know, honey. But I’m just trying”
“Stop!” she screams, clenching her fists. The jangle of movement from her many bracelets underscores her plea. “Would you just stop trying?” she asks. “All of your trying is freaking choking me!” Her voice breaks.
She stomps away to her bedroom slamming her door so hard I feel the fillings in my teeth rattle in my head.
I check my watch. If I hurry, I can finish putting away the laundry before getting ready for work.
Robyn is in the bathroom, preening, cooling down from our fight earlier. I decide to put the laundry away for her. Clutching the plastic laundry basket, I stump into Robyn’s room, tsk-tsking under my breath. Why can’t she just get her chores done? I pluck out several pairs of her clean panties from among the washcloths and socks and yank open the top drawer to stuff them in. I shove the underwear into the drawer when the back of my hand knocks against something hard. I clear a space amongst the lingerie to find money, lots of it, held together by a rubber band.
“What are you doing?” Robyn’s voice sounds behind me, accusatory.
I spin around holding up the money.
“Where did you get all this?” I demand. I hold the wad of folded bills in my hand reminiscent, I imagine, of stashes exposed by DEA agents from nabbed drug lords.
“What were you doing in my room?” Robyn says, her voice dry and tight. She peers around, as if expecting to find that I’ve uprooted more of her things.
“I was trying to help you,” I say.
“By snooping through my drawers?” she asks incredulously. She is furious. She swipes at the wad of cash in my hand like an angry toddler. I yank back, retaining the money and frown deeply at her.
“I was not snooping. I thought I’d do you a favor and finish your clothes. I was only putting your whites away when I saw this in your top drawer.”
We stand confronting each other a second, as if neither one has read the script any further to know what the next move should be. I hold up the cash a second time.
“Where did you get this?” I ask again.
She leaps across the room, nearly falling on top of me and snatches the money out of my hand.
“It’s mine,” she says, recovering her balance.
“Where did you get it?”
“Doing odd jobs,” she says.
“What kind of odd jobs?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Raking leaves and stuff.”
This is such a bald faced lie it takes me a moment to formulate a coherent response. If my prim and prissy daughter, with her high heels, painted nails, and long blond hair has earned three hundred dollars raking leaves, I am a yak.
“Oh Robyn,” I say, shaking my head. I don’t want her to go on, digging herself any deeper. “Just stop, okay? Tell me the truth. Where did you get all that money?”
“It’s none of your business.”
She turns her back on me and walks over to her dresser, shoving the cash into her purse. She swipes the brush from the dresser and begins savagely brushing her hair.
“I can’t believe you’d go through my things like that,” she says.
She throws the brush onto the bed.
“Robyn, I told you, I was putting your underwear away,” I say defensively.
She whips around, facing me.
“You liar!” she screams. Her face is flushed by anger.
“I’ve had it,” she says. “You’re hella whacked.” She scoops up her purse and then turns around. She doesn’t even look at me, instead, marches over to her closet where she grabs a lightweight sweater.
I huff out an elongated breath.
“I have a right to know what’s going on with my own child.”
“Yeah, right. See ya,” she says between clenched teeth as she drifts by. A cat’s paw breeze of bubble gum and Hello Kitty lip-gloss floats in the air past me.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, trailing after her like a puppy.
As I walk through her room, I catch my face in her dresser mirror. I am shocked to see that I look so haggard. I run my hand through my hair, following Robyn into the living room. I clear my throat to get her attention.
“Anyway, it’s almost time for summer school. I can drive you,” I add, trying to change the subject. But Robyn is fuming. She stomps through the house towards the front door.
“You can’t just go through my things. Invade my life. It’s like, you know, I have no privacy at all.”
She stops in the middle of the living room, her face an odd mixture of fear and defiance.
“Are you walking to school?”
I ask this because normally Robyn loathes walking anywhere she can’t get a ride.
Already my mind is racing ahead. Today is Rob’s birthday; tonight after work, we’re all supposed to go to Red Lobster to celebrate. I still have to wrap his gift: a new brush with real boar’s hair bristles. I wanted this day to be a happy one for Rob. I wanted so badly for all of us to be in a good mood. Still, maybe by tonight Robyn will have cooled off.
“Remember, we’re going out tonight for Daddy’s birthday,” I remind her.
“So?” she retorts. She spins around and walks to the front door. Her hand reaches for the doorknob.
“Robyn. Don’t talk to me like that young lady.”
She opens the door and then stops and turns towards me. The crush of heat from the morning air rushes in, bringing with it a glimmer of the oppressive summer day to come. The lingering smell of exhaust floats into the house from nearby Highway 4. With an insolent glare she says:
“I want my own life.”
The front door shuts. She is gone.
Memories of fights with my mother come to mind. The exchange of angry words followed by the inevitable door slamming of my youth clang in my memory. I blink back the sting of tears. It is one thing to construct a barricade of anger to live behind. It is quite another to be on the other side of that barrier.
I have never been hated and despised with such an absolute, pure fervor by anyone before. I wonder if I can withstand the crucible of her scorn. I hope that I will emerge on the other side shined and purified. But fear wells within my heart that more likely I will come out a molten, misshapen charred carbon shell.
I look down at my watch. Almost eight. Already I am going to be late for work. I cannot think about any of this right now.
“No,” I say aloud, as I grab my car keys, my purse, and my tote, and head for the front door.
I hit the print button and check my watch, nearly seven. Everyone else has gone home for the day. Carmelita wants a vendor transaction list for every single vendor account on her desk when she comes to work in the morning.
From the corner of my eye I spot my poor houseplant I bought months ago to cheer up this dismal room and its flat, institutional gray walls. The plant, a coleus, is now mottled with drooping ocher and brown leaves. I can never seem to remember to water it regularly.
As I wait for the printouts I pick up my coffee cup and down its remnants. I frown slightly as I swallow because the coffee is so stale and cold that its taste reminds me of modeling clay. As awful as it tastes, the noxious liquid quells the burn that quietly roils in my stomach.
I had planned on dinner out tonight to celebrate Rob’s birthday. But he called at four this afternoon to tell me he was going to have to work late. His birthday dinner is ruined even before it got started. As I staple together the vendor reports I think about how Rob sounded on the phone. He sounded unhappy. Not unhappy about having to work late; just unhappy in general.
I look at my watch again. I bite my lip and pick up the phone, dialing home. I listen to a steady tattoo of thrums as the phone at home rings over and over. The answering machine does not pick up, which means one of two things: Robyn has turned off the answering machine, or she is on the phone and is ignoring the call waiting feature, figuring it is probably me on the other end calling to harangue her about something she’d rather not hear about.
I hang up the receiver and sigh, releasing an ordinary hope that she isn’t answering the phone because she’s too busy doing her homework.
I drop the vendor lists off on Carmelita’s desk and then head back to my cubicle. I gather my purse, my canvas tote, and my jacket, making sure my computer is off before leaving. The hallway is filled with shadow, lit only by tiny courtesy lights. It smells of cheap air freshener. I am struck by how empty this hallway feels and suddenly I find my thoughts shadowed by my earlier conversation with Rob and my nebulous, clouded feelings about him. Why is he not happy? Why is it that discontent seems to cling to him like shrink wrap? Like an automated recording, my head repeats these questions.
I strike out across the parking lot and unlock my car. Clots of bus exhaust languish in the air. A car alarm trumpets from a distance. I toss my bags and jacket into the passenger seat of the old, worn Corsica and head for home.
Pulling into my driveway I shift the car into park. From the corner of my eye, I spot our neighbor, Mrs. Cotillo gawking at me from behind her dogwood shrubs. I manufacture a smile as I crawl out of the car.
“Sure is hot,” I shout over the hedge, pointing out the obvious.
“um-hmm,” she responds weakly, not wanting to be drawn into a lengthy conversation about nothing in the stifling evening heat.
“Working late?” she asks, her eyes peer over gargantuan peach framed glasses.
“Just a little,” I say, gathering my things and shoving the car door closed with my hip.
She glances at the darkened windows of our house, one hand absently fluffing the back of her curly gray hair.
“First one home,” she muses.
I can’t tell if she means it as a statement or a question.
I manage a weak laugh. “It sure looks that way.”
She glances at her watch.
“Everything okay?” she asks. Her eyebrows knit in the hopeful anticipation that everything is not.
“Just fine,” I say over my shoulder as I clear my stoop and plunge the key into the lock of the front door.
Pickles is curled on one end of the couch. She meows once and then returns to her nap.
It’s now after eight o’clock. I flip on the living room light and peek at the thermostat; eighty-eight degrees. I jerk the lever down to eighty-three. I stand just beyond the closed front door and take stock. Along the air is the smell of old coffee. Just behind that, if I close my eyes, I think I can smell faint traces of Robyn’s latest scent. The perfume is too heavy for a girl her age, but I had been able to keep those thoughts to myself when Robyn brought the stuff home from Jenny’s a couple of weeks ago. I set down my gear and walk to the kitchen and the answering machine. It’s just as I had thought; off. My eyes scan the kitchen table and then the counters for a note of some kind, but the surfaces contain only the mundane detritus of our lives: unopened bills, pens, a couple of loose screws, and empty gum wrappers among other things. I grab a handful of Cheese-Its from the box on the kitchen table and move to the refrigerator. The salt from the crackers coats my tongue and makes me think instantly of wanting something cold to wash them down.
I am so exhausted I can barely think. Grabbing three potatoes from the crisper, I toss them into the microwave and then move to the living room, giving a cursory look over the couch and coffee table for Robyn’s backpack, but it’s not there. Her purse is gone too. I frown and move to her room. All I see is the usual hurricane of clothing and CD covers, and a few empty cups from fast food restaurants. The brush she tossed on her bed this morning is gone. I survey the mess again and shake my head.
“Typical,” I say beneath my breath, as if I’m afraid that even her room might hear my disgust.
I find myself wondering how I have come to this place in time.
The day after Rob was laid off from Conoco, I had found myself at Angel Peak, a tourist spot for those passing through Aztec, New Mexico. This place is not the parched and barren desert region that most people think. Angel Peak has a rich and verdant quality that engages the senses. The rock formation is forty million years old and the variegated ribands of rock in acorn browns, and fir greens combined with the mysterious scent of history make it a magical, living place. The Navajo considered this place sacred; one rock formation in particular strongly resembles a kneeling angel with a broken wing. I had found this place not only sacred myself, but oddly appropriate. I stood and stared at that angel with her broken wing. Fighting back tears, I spoke one word aloud: please.
And yet here we are, not even a year from that day, and already something about our life seems spoiled. Rob stays out drinking nearly every night. Robyn appears to be on a path towards self-destruction and it seems the only thing I can do is sit and watch as each catastrophe unfolds.
I want so badly to excise this necrotic wound that is poisoning our lives, but I have no idea how to find it, much less remove it.
I trudge to my bedroom and strip off my work clothes, dumping them into the hamper, donning my favorite pair of old sweats and a T-shirt, wondering on the whereabouts of Robyn. I tug vaguely at the various food stains on my T-shirt idly wondering about the last time it was laundered. It smells of my body lotion, Jean Nate, combined with the odor of deep fried hash browns, though I haven’t actually made hash browns in years.
Rob said he didn’t expect to get home until after nine or later. And then there’s always the chance that he made a pit stop. I can’t remember the name of the bar he likes, though he has told me several times.
When we first moved to California, he told me he knew he needed to stop drinking. And, in fact, the first couple of months we were here, I began to allow myself to believe that he’d turned over a new leaf. But it didn’t last. One night he called about eleven thirty and said he and some of the guys from work had decided to get together. That was before I knew about his friend Dusty’s penchant for, as he calls them, “tittie bars”.
The microwave pings. Time to turn the potatoes. I sigh and plod to the kitchen.
The can opener resentfully grumbles to life as I open a can of cheese soup. It falls, in arsenic yellow colored globs, into the small pot. I realize, belatedly, that I forgot to spray the pot with Pam.
I tell myself not to mind the clock, but even before I’ve finished that thought my wrist has appeared magically in front of my face and my eyes fasten onto the tiny hands of my watch. Eight-thirty. I pour a can full of water on top of the cheese blobs, giving the whole mess a half-hearted stir before turning to my address book to look up Jenny’s phone number.
“Your daughter isn’t here,” Mrs. Kammish says.
Her curtness catches me off guard. I feel, by the tenor of her voice, that she does not approve of my daughter or me.
“Thank you anyway,” I say.
“I hope you find her,” Mrs. Kammish says.
I listen to the click as Mrs. Kammish hangs up the phone.
The microwave pings again. The potatoes are done. Not much of a birthday dinner, baked potatoes covered by cheddar cheese soup, but it’s the best I can do tonight. The kitchen reeks of hot, processed cheese that reminds me of a dirty factory.
I sit in front of my potato, soaking in the greasy, orange concoction but can’t make myself pick up my spoon. I wipe the sheen of sweat from my forehead and my eyes drift to the left. On the table are the magazines I bought at lunch. These women’s magazines seem the only thing that keeps me grounded in reality at times. The only things that tell me what’s real and what’s not.
I scan the headlines: “Look Twenty Years Younger Without Plastic Surgery”, “Stress Could Be Killing Your Teen”, “The Frightening Truth About Ketchup ”.
I flip to the article about teen stress. Your child is stressed out, the article says, because she is involved in too many activities. Swim team, ballet, student body offices, cheerleading practice, and the copious hours involved in doing homework to keep up that straight A grade average will all take its toll on the young teenage girl these days.
I shove the magazine away from me. This article is not about my daughter. I have always wondered about parents of children whose lives seem so perfect. I know, at least on an intellectual level, that these families have problems too. These teenagers struggle to find themselves too. Yet I imagine that from these mothers there resonates a certain satisfaction in the job they have done raising their young. A pleasure is derived in lingering over the good grades, the sports leagues and group activities.
I sit and stare, thoughts of Robyn cloud my mind leaving a smudge of despair. Somehow, without meaning to, I have raised a broken child. Within her psyche is a fissure of defeat. I have affixed that fissure there, as skillfully as a surgeon implants a pacemaker. I brush away angry tears because reparation seems as vague and blurred as a dream.
The phone rings. I snatch up the receiver thinking it might be Robyn.
“Hello?”
“There you are, darlin’,” Gladys, my mother says.
My shoulders collapse in exasperation. Why didn’t I look at the caller ID? I mentally kick myself.
“I was just getting ready to call you,” I lie.
“Well, I wanted to be the first to give you the good news,” she says.
“Oh?” I say, already trying to think of an excuse to get off the phone.
“Remember last time I told you that Petra was thinking of putting the baby into that baby contest?”
“Mmm,” I try, unsuccessfully to recall that conversation.
“Anyway, she won!”
“That’s great,” I say, doing my best to inject a little enthusiasm into my voice.
“Gerber called and they want Petra and the baby to fly to New York to film the commercial!”
“That’s great,” I say again.
She goes into painstaking detail about the “grueling” selection process, the “exhausting” day spent at the photographer’s studio, and the “fatiguing” effort required to complete all the paperwork. Next is the mind-numbing description of attire that Petra had to consider to adorn The Baby, until I just want to puke.
“I mean, I know that the baby is the cutest little darlin’ on the face of the planet; we all do. Now the world will see too!” Gladys exclaims.
Though The Baby is eight months old, I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mother use the child’s actual name. I’m not sure I even remember her name myself.
“That’s really great,” I try varying my response so my mother won’t think I’m just reading from a single cue card.
“How’s that little angel Robyn doing?” she asks. “Still captain of the cheerleading team?”
I have made it a practice of lying to my mother about my daughter since we left Aztec. Gladys was so certain that uprooting Robyn from everything she knew would be the worst possible thing for her. To admit to my mother that she was right requires something that I just don’t have within me at the moment.
Also, it hardly seems fair, between my nephew little Billy The Little League Phenom, and niece Cynthia, Flute Prodigy Extraordinaire, and now The Baby’s imminent ascendancy to movie stardom, that Robyn shouldn’t also have her own shining attributes. And now that we’re a thousand miles away it’s possible.
“Yes,” I lie again. “She’s really doing well. And she made Honor Roll again.”
“My, my. It’s plainer than a cow pissin’ on a flat rock; there must be something in that California water that agrees with that little girl.”
I cringe at my mother’s Southern euphemism. She hasn’t lived in Tennessee in over a quarter century, yet she still talks as if she just got off the plane from Nashville.
“Well-” I begin, trying to get off the phone.
“Before you go, I just wanted to tell you not to worry; not one single, little, itty-bitty bit.”
Here it comes: the health report.
“Worry about what Mom?” I say, playing the game.
“You know I been going to see that Dr. Dickenson, don’t ya?”
“Um-hm.”
“Well, I had to switch me doctors. Dickenson’s an idiot. If brains was grease, he couldn’t slick the head of a pin.”
“Oh?” I ask.
“You remember I had that cyst on my arm?”
“I think so.”
“You know; the one where every time I mash down on it, all kinds of puss come out of it?”
I shut my eyes and cringe as my mother goes on to describe the excruciating particulars about the cyst and its deviant behavior.
“Yesterday the thing got all speckled looking, like some kind of mutant bird egg or something.”
“I’m sorry to hear that Mom, I really am. Well, I better let you go so you can get some rest.”
“Oh darlin’ it’s fine as frog hair talkin’ with you.”
She keeps me on the phone for a few more minutes, trying to tease out of me the exact date and time of my next visit to Aztec to see her. I tell her what I always tell her: maybe sometime next year, and finally I’m off the phone.
I put away the food, such that it is, leaving the dishes in the sink and check my watch. Nearly eleven. I wipe down the counters with an old sponge that smells opaquely of mildew. Still no word from Robyn. We have fought before. No doubt we will fight again. I tell myself I am not worried.
I move to the living room, flip on the television and channel surf. The mindless chatter from shows I know nothing about dribbles into the room. I check my watch so frequently that after a while my eyes fail to register the time. My eyelids begin to feel heavy and I feel myself fighting a losing battle. As I drop into a reluctant fog of restless sleep, my mind wanders over the names of Robyn’s other friends with whom she might be with, and I realize I know nothing more than a handful of first names.
I awake with a start when I hear the front door open. The remote falls from my lap to the floor with a thud as I sit forward. But it is only Rob. Though he is across the room from me, I can smell him from where I sit. I check my watch, twenty after two in the morning.
“You’re drunk,” I say.
He waves me off, tossing his keys onto the small table near the door. They land with a clatter.
“So?” His voice is belligerent.
“Robyn took off,” I say.
“Good for her,” Rob replies.
The sarcasm in his voice launches me to sudden life.
“That doesn’t worry you? Don’t you care?” I say standing up. “She’s only fifteen, Rob.”
He gives me a look. His eyes are bloodshot and bulge, as if he drank so much he is now waterlogged. He holds his palms out in the air in a defensive position.
“What do you want me to do? Call the National Guard?” He shrugs. “She’s probably at what’s her names.”
“I already called Jenny’s house. Hours ago. They haven’t seen her.”
Rob frowns.
“Well then call the cops. I don’t know.”
He stumbles into the kitchen. I follow.
Rob reeks of booze and the sour odor of old sweat. His shirt and gray Dickies pants are grimy from a long day of working at the refinery. He pours himself a tall glass of milk. He grips the glass with a surprising intensity and knocks down the liquid in sloshy gulps. I don’t understand how he can drink milk at this point; the thought causes my stomach to hiccup with an acid flutter. I pat my sweats pockets for the Rolaids, but they are empty. I frown.
“Why do you drink so much?” I say. It is out of my mouth before I have time to think what I’m saying.
“Come on, Margot, don’t start.”
“No, I want to know,” I say. “You said you had to work late. And then you come home so drunk you can barely walk.”
I do not want to be carping on him like an old fishwife. But the lateness of the hour and not knowing where Robyn is has ground down all of my polite niceties.
I think of his birthday gift. A new hairbrush with genuine boar’s head bristles. I completely forgot about wrapping it, and it still sits in the bag it came in, tucked away on the floor of our closet.
“I worked my ass off today. I went out for one drink to celebrate my birthday. Is that a crime?” He wipes a patina of sweat from his forehead with his palm.
“Did you go out with Dusty?” I ask.
His face bunches into a look of disgust.
“Oh criminy,” he complains. He closes his eyes and expels a sigh.
“Never mind. I’m sorry.”
We stand silent a moment. I see the fatigue on Rob’s face and am suddenly overwhelmed by guilt.
“Happy birthday,” I say. “I’m sorry you had to work so late.”
His face smoothes. His frown melts into a slack-jawed smile as he reaches an arm out for me.
“I want some pussy,” he says.
I cringe inwardly at his crudeness, but I force a smile and walk towards him, shutting off the kitchen light. How did we arrive at this place where needs and desires have been stripped down to their barest essentials? “Let’s go”, “let’s eat”, “let’s have sex”. As if gentility and its preliminaries are wasted effort.
Rob draws me close, shoves a hand down my pants and coarsely reaches for me. It’s not that I don’t like sex; I do. It’s just the getting started part that seems impossibly difficult. When Rob and I first began having sex, he’d spend nearly an hour stroking me, whispering into my ear and kissing my neck. Then he’d make his move, but invariably, I’d hesitate, falter. “I’m not quite ready”, I’d say, and he’d begin again. As the years have evaporated, so too, has Rob’s patience with me until now we have come to this phrase in time: I want some pussy.
On the bed, Rob climbs on top of me. My hands go over familiar territory; my fingertips brush over his back, his buttocks. The closest I have come, in fourteen years, is to stroke his inner thighs. I cannot bring myself to touch his penis. It is such a bizarre and foreign thing to me. Like a specimen from outer space.
He grunts his pleasure; his hands grab me on either side of my collarbone, nearly around my neck, pushing me down each time he thrusts upward. The smell of his sweat covers me. Somewhere deep in a place I cannot name I find this sensation pleasurable. As I begin to pant this is Rob’s signal that I am excited. His intensity rises and he growls, bear-like until he comes with a gasp and a long guttural groan. Did I have an orgasm? I’m not sure. I guess so. I must have.
Rob rolls off and lies next to me. We are barely touching. He sighs.
“I’m not happy,” he says.
I roll towards him, prop myself up on one elbow. My heart is suddenly pounding in my chest.
“What do you mean?”
“Our sex life,” he says. “I’m bored,” he adds.
I’m not quite sure what to say.
“Bored?”
“It just seems like it’s the same every single time.” He sighs. “Wouldn’t you like a little variety?”
“What do you mean, like me on top?” I ask, trying unsuccessfully to picture this acrobatic feat.
“Well, what about getting some movies, or maybe toys or something.”
His voice is dry and quavers; he is nervous. He has been thinking about this for a long time.
Pornographic movies? I don’t want to even begin to imagine what a sex toy might look like. A tickle of disgust crawls across my skin.
“Oh Rob, I don’t know,” I say, hesitating. My mind is on Robyn. Where she is; when she will be home? I don’t want to get into all of this tonight.
“Whatever,” he sighs. “It’s only our marriage.”
“Rob,” I begin, my stomach flops and then tightens. I fall back onto my pillow and stare into the inky darkness.
“I’m tired,” he interrupts.
The flare rises into my throat again, beginning from the angry, broiling cauldron in my abdomen. My hand reaches, instinctively, to my nightstand and the half empty roll of Rolaids. My fingers go through the familiar motion of peeling back the outer paper; then the soft, flimsy skin of foil to reach their prize. I pop a tablet into my mouth and chew hard. The chalky texture coats my tongue and teeth and throat.
I want to cry or to scream but feel girded only by worry over my daughter. My husband and his carnal desires seem trivial, at best.
“I’m worried about Robyn,” I say, my voice wavering.
“She’ll be fine,” he says.
August 5, 2002
“Like I said, I hope to be in before noon, Carmelita,” I say, trying very hard to keep the anger out of my voice. Why can’t this woman give me a break?
“There are mistakes on several of the vendor lists,” Carmelita says over the phone.
“What?” I say. “What do you mean mistakes?”
“Some of these purchase were in oh-one, I think. I don’t remember any of the associations having capital purchases this year. But you show that Alliance Heating and Cooling was paid five grand in March,” she says.
Carmelita is wrong, of course. Three homeowner associations out of the forty-five plus that we manage did have capital purchases. How on earth would a purchase from last year be posted to 2002? But I can’t think about that right now.
Right now I am thinking that it is nine-thirty on a Friday morning and my daughter is still missing. She never came home and the school called half an hour ago to report her absence. She has never, not once, been gone this long. I do not want to get into all of this with Carmelita.
“The payables have to go out this week. And I think you’ve used up all your PTO,” Carmelita warns.
I grit my teeth, knowing she is right. “I’ll be in the office in a couple of hours to check those accounts,” I say, my mind racing ahead as to what I need to do next.
After at last extricating myself from the phone and Carmelita’s disapproving tone, I sit for a moment in the kitchen. The refrigerator hums. A car honks in the distance. I detect traces of cold cheese soup in the air, from the dishes still piled in the sink.
The timer on the coffee maker clicks off, and the sudden noise jolts me into action. I head to Robyn’s room, my eyes taking stock. Nothing has changed since last night. Clothes are strewn across the floor. Dresser drawers stick out like tongues, and her bed is unmade. I make my way through the chaos to the dresser, scanning the surface for any evidence that might give me a clue as to where she has gone. Only the usual paraphernalia is here: barrettes, a Seventeen magazine, and a crumpled up bra. With an instinctive haste I snatch the bra from the counter and press it to my nose. Closing my eyes I am overwhelmed. Robyn’s scent, a carnation sweetness, floods my brain. I remember a day at the park when she was three or four; her running into my arms after a frightening tumble off the slide. How I had pressed her flesh close, inhaling the sweet perfume of the sweat in her hair, knowing with a luminous clarity that I would never love another human being with the same fierce abandon as I loved this child.
I clench my jaw, checking my tears. Stumbling over memory lane right now will not help my daughter. I fold the bra in half, letting the straps neatly nestle in the concave petals for cups and open her top drawer tucking the bra away. I rummage through all of her dresser drawers but find only clothes shoved in heaps, a few CD’s, the names of groups I’ve never heard of before, and in the bottom drawer, beneath an old pair of l.e.i. jeans, a battered VHS tape of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast; her favorite movie when she was young. I lift the dust ruffle of her bed but find only more dirty clothes, shoes, some socks, as well as the torn fishnet stockings she wore on her birthday a month and a half ago.
Her study desk holds two different brands of hair spray, a can of something called ‘hair wax’, and lastly, a few books and a couple of binders. I thumb through the books and binder paper looking for something that might have names or phone numbers on it. I mentally kick myself for not being a more involved mother. Why didn’t I insist on meeting all her friends? Calling their mothers? I rack my brain for names that Robyn has mentioned in the past, but besides Jenny, I come up empty. I swallow down a bolus-sized lozenge of panic and prepare to leave when, in the corner of my eye, I spy her trashcan. It is heaping to overflowing the wadded up papers, old magazines, and tissues. I drag it over to the bed and sit down, hunching over the paper sprawl.
One by one, I pull out every single paper, every note, and scan through the magazines. Near the very bottom, I find a scrunched up ruled piece of white paper. I unfold it, smoothing out the wrinkles. In the upper right hand corner is Robyn’s name, the date and below that, the word ‘Math’. On the front are numbered problems in Robyn’s handwriting. Several problems, whose solutions have been scratched out and re-figured appear on the front of the page. The last problem has nothing written next to it. I turn the paper over and see what looks to be hand written messages from two different hands, probably passed back and forth during math class. I read the messages:
“But what do you really think of her?” writes Robyn.
“Jenny thinks she’s bad because she’s rich. I think she’s a bitch.”
“She gets all the guys…”
“Yeah well, anyone can get guys if they’re willing to do nasty things… you know that!”
“ But Jenny likes me.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Come on Krista, don’t be such a bitch.”
And so on. Out of it I have a name: Krista. I take the paper and stand up, heading for the telephone. I call Jenny’s house. I first ask if there’s been any sighting of Robyn, but Jenny’s mother tells me no.
“Have you ever heard Jenny talk about a girl named Krista?” I ask.
There is silence on the line a moment and I feel my heart flip-flop in anticipation.
“No,” she finally says. “I can’t say as I’ve ever heard that name.”
I thank her for her time and then call the school. The school receptionist is particularly unhelpful when I inquire about information concerning my daughter’s math teacher. I eventually learn that his name is Mr. Thornton who is located in room 312. The receptionist asks if I would like to leave a message, but I decline the offer. I check my watch, just after noon. School gets out on Fridays at 12:45; if I hurry I can be down there before the kids get out. I look down at myself. I’m still dressed in my sweats and cruddy T-shirt from last night, but there isn’t time to change. I grab my purse and hurry out the door.
The end of the school day is a parade. Kids that look like really young versions of adults abound everywhere, laughing, running, and calling out to each other. In the parking lot, parked diagonally are two cars; souped up muscle machines with more gleaming silver than a pair of Boeing 747’s. All four doors on both vehicles are opened and a deafening hip-hop beat rolls through the air like a war cry. Young men, chests puffed out, swagger around the cars like prideful lions. Some have taken their shirts off and the oversized jeans make them look stockier than they are. Heavy chains ornament necks that will, I think, someday be burdened by even heavier broken dreams.
The hallway smells like reheated sloppy Joes, and the floor is covered by scuffmarks and spots of old chewing gum worn to the color of soot. At the end of the hall a cell phone chirps to the theme song of Winnie the Pooh and a young girl’s voice answers with the predictable, first words, ‘I’m still at school,’ fading away as I round the corner to find room 312.
Inside the classroom there is one student, a tissue thin young man with short cropped blonde hair and ears the size of potato chips stuffing books into a ragged brown backpack. At the front of the room, sitting behind the desk is whom I assume to be Mr. Thornton. He’s also thin, medium build with rakish red hair and sunken cheeks. Large, 1980’s style aviator framed glasses balance at the bridge of his nose. He stands to greet me, his movements turtle-slow.
I long to skip all the formalities, and simply rush to him, grabbing him by the lapels of his corduroy jacket, shaking loose the information I need. Instead, I swallow my anxieties and smile, holding out my hand as I approach his desk and introduce myself.
“We missed our Robyn today,” Mr. Thornton says as he shakes my hand.
His palm is clammy to the touch and his fingers feel limp against my own reminding me of string cheese that has set out too long.
“I was wondering if you could help me,” I say, deciding to get right to the point.
“My daughter has mentioned a girl by the name of Krista several times,” I begin, a lie forming in my mind as a talk. “I’m having a surprise birthday party for Robyn and Krista is the one friend of hers that I seem to have lost what information I had on her. You wouldn’t happen to have a last name and a phone number?” I ask, giving him a helpful smile.
“Is everything okay?” he asks.
I can’t go into it with Mr. Thornton.
“Everything’s fine,” I say. I force a brightness into my voice. “About Krista?” I finish.
He frowns deeply, creating an auburn-colored unibrow and looks upwards scanning the surface of the ceiling a few moments. I find myself wondering if this man is on Quaaludes.
After what seems an eternity his eyes find my own and he cants his head a little.
“Well, Krista’s last name is Jefferson, but I don’t believe that I have her telephone number. You might try the office,” he suggests.
I plaster a smile on my face and thank him for his time. Before I go I ask, “By the way, was Krista in class today?”
The unibrow breaks into two half crescent caterpillars. He adjusts his glasses, and I can see his cheek moving; his tongue working over his back teeth.
“Why, yes, I believe we did have the pleasure of her company this morning.” He smiles and folds his arms. “We were all about quadratic equations, and whether or not, ‘x’ equals the square root of-”
“Thank you very much,” I say, interrupting him.
I find the school office and try my ruse with the secretary, a pudgy, dour-faced woman with a permanent frown ironed to her chubby face, but it’s no use. I’m sure they’ve heard every excuse in the book. I am turned away with a polite but firm refusal to give out any information on any student. What. So. Ever.
I drive all over town, scouring the East County mall in Antioch, slipping into and out of its stores, hoping against hope I might find my daughter, playing hooky, skipping school to spend the day shopping and goofing off. No luck. Brendan Theaters in Pittsburg yields the same results.
It is now after five o’clock in the evening. The first thing I do upon my arrival is to check the answering machine for any messages from Robyn. But there is only a series of increasingly desperate messages from Carmelita as to my whereabouts.
I sit in the same kitchen chair I sat in this morning. Involuntarily, my hand reaches for the back of my neck, sponging the sweat from my skin. The house feels nearly ninety degrees but I refuse to turn on the air conditioner. The fading sun glares at me through the kitchen window, the sheer curtain worse than useless for the overpowering heat that radiates into the room. The freeway noises from Highway 4 throb against the quiet and I imagine I can smell the exhaust even though all my windows are closed. I have called and left messages for Rob but he hasn’t called me back yet. My chest is tight with exasperation. In three hours it will begin to get dark. My daughter is out there somewhere in the world. And I don’t have the slightest idea where to find her.
I debate with myself in my head. Am I being overly concerned? Too laid back? What to do next? Lurking in the back of my mind is the thought of calling the police. If I do call the police, I am admitting something. I am escalating this drama that is ticking on with each sweep of the second hand. Has she been kidnapped? Has she run away? And where the hell is Rob? I know the dispatch operator at Tasco transfers messages when they get them if it’s a family emergency. Why is he not calling me back?
I stump my elbows onto the table covering the bottom half of my face with my hands. I close my eyes to think. Something in my mind detonates. This moment in time is the turning point of everything that is to come. What if I do nothing? What might happen if I don’t call the police? My eyes fly open against a series of nightmarish images.
I rise and go to the phone and dial 9-1-1.
Two policemen stand in front of me. Surrounding them, like an aura, is the scrupulous scent of duty; their posture erect to the point of looking painful. The one asking all the questions is older, with graying sideburns and chapped lips. His cheeks glow with a robust effervescence, as if he has just returned from a ski trip. His thumbs are hooked into the waistband of his polyester pants, among a cornucopia of law enforcement gadgets, the most obvious being the gun; very black and very large, it seems to me. The faint smell of leather from their belts reminds me somehow of my father.
“Has your daughter ever not shown up at night before?” He frowns.
I clear my throat.
“Well, sometimes Robyn stays at her friend Jenny’s house,” I say. “But I’ve already called there looking for her.”
The younger officer, not looking up to meet my eyes lets out a sigh.
“Several times.” I add, tucking stringy wisps of dirty hair behind my ears.
The older officer exchanges a glance with his younger partner who writes onto a form attached to his clipboard. I can imagine the thoughts that are darting through their minds. The wayward daughter; the absent, non-involved mother. A wave of guilt blooms red across my cheeks. I look down and see the flecks of food and dirt on my old sweat pants. I must look like a mess. I prop up one arm in front of me, one hand in front of my mouth, wishing I’d brushed my teeth before they got here.
“You have to understand,” I begin. “It’s not like my daughter to be gone this long. She always calls or comes home.” I bite my lip to stop myself.
The older officer nods, pursing his lips. He’s heard this all before, I am sure. His partner, the younger man continues scribbling notes. He hasn’t once met my gaze. I wonder what he is thinking.
“Any other friends she could be with?” His brow knits.
In fact, he frowns every time he finishes asking me a question.
“I’ve called everyone that I know,” thinking of my earlier endeavor of having called twenty-two out of the thirty-four Jefferson’s listed in the Contra Costa County phone directory before finally finding Krista Jefferson’s house. She said she hadn’t seen Robyn in over a day and had no idea where she might be. “But no one’s seen her,” I finish. My hand travels to my throat. The skin on my neck feels parched, like onion paper.
“Did you two have a fight?” The older officer asks, his voice is noticeably droopier, all Father Knows Best. He frowns.
I look down. Pickles is busy making figure eights between the older officer’s legs.
“No.” My eyes seem to involuntarily fill. I look up. “Well, yes, sort of. But we seem to fight a lot lately.” I swallow my tears, willing myself to stop crying.
I watch the younger officer’s nostrils flare as he breathes in. I want him to look at me. I think that if only he would see this anguish that is crushing the breath out of me, he would understand.
“I found some money,” I say; it’s almost a whisper.
This provokes the young policeman’s eyes up from his clipboard.
“A little over three hundred dollars.”
“Does your daughter have a job?”
I shake my head.
“Does she use?”
“Use?”
“Drugs, Mrs. Skinner. Does your daughter use drugs?”
My hands have found the armrest of the couch behind me. The fabric is scratchy to the touch from where Pickles has sharpened her claws. I back away from these men and sit in order to steady myself.
I must look as if I’ve just been slapped because the older cop’s face softens.
“I’m not accusing anybody of anything. It’s just when teenagers have that kind of money lying around it could mean they’re dealing in order to support their habit.”
I search my mind for any evidence that Robyn might have started recreational drug use, but I can’t think of a single instance where I either smelled anything on her or suspected as much.
“I don’t think so,” I cede.
There seems to be so much about Robyn that I do not know. My eyes travel back down to the floor. Flakes of lint and dirt swimming the surface of the carpet remind me that I can’t remember the last time I vacuumed. Why on earth would I worry about my carpet when my daughter is missing? I shove the thought from my head. I swallow down the acid burn that flickers in my stomach, wishing momentarily, that I had a Rolaid.
“You mind if we take a look around?”
I blanch inwardly at the request, but can’t make myself refuse. What if they find something I missed? Some telltale sign that might lead them to answer the riddle about where Robyn went that might help them find her?
“Sure,” I say, and lead them to her room.
“Anything missing?” The younger officer asks.
“Maybe some clothes,” I say, “I’m not really sure,” I add almost beneath my breath.
“Her purse here?”
“No.” I say.
I wince as they walk into Robyn’s bedroom. Traces of her sweet smell are soon obliterated by the sterile odor from their uniforms; probably chemicals from the cleaners. Their boots are heavy and thick on the carpet. Her room is just as I left it; in a shambles. I have the sudden thought that the state her room is in is in some way a representation of our life. Chaotic, messy, undisciplined.
Their presence in Robyn’s room seems somehow obscene to me as they mull about, pawing through her drawers, peeping beneath her bed, slipping meaty hands between box spring and mattress. In the middle of their search I hear the front door. The officers look up at me as I bound from the room.
But it is only Rob.
“What the hell’s going on?” he asks.
“Robyn’s still gone,” I say. I give him a rundown of events to this point as I lead him to where the police are finishing up their search of Robyn’s room.
The older cop is talking to us in measured tones. All about how Robyn will probably show up in a day or two, after she cools down. How kids this age can be impetuous, hasty.
“So, like I said Mrs. Skinner, we’ll put out a runaway bulletin. It’s local, but if anyone outside Coco County runs her name they’ll see our bulletin and give us a call. Since her purse is gone and maybe some clothes, she probably just took off. Here’s my card. Feel free to call me if you remember anything more or if she turns up back at home.” He thrusts his card into my hand and gives me a wink.
The young cop has stopped taking notes and is sliding his pen into his front shirt pocket. His thumb hikes to a thin, dark eyebrow and he scratches absently, eyes blank, his mind already far away.
“But isn’t there anything you could do?” I ask.
“In the case of a child that’s been kidnapped the F.B.I. would be called.”
“But maybe she was kidnapped,” I argue.
“From what you’ve told us, I think it’s much more likely she’s just angry and is hiding out at a friend’s house for a couple of days.”
He gives me a patronizing smile and pats me on the shoulder like he would the family cocker spaniel. “I wouldn’t worry too much, ma’am. I’m sure your daughter will be home before the weekend.”
“He’s probably right,” Rob says, staring at the front door after the cops leave.
I walk up behind him, slip my arms around his torso and lean my cheek against his back, breathing him in. He smells of sweat and cigarette smoke. My hands move upwards, finding his chest. Pressing him to me, the flesh of his chest feels soft, flaccid.
“Oh God,” I whisper and begin to cry.
Rob turns around. I can see that his jaw is tight. He’s gritting his teeth, damming up his emotion.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “She’ll be home soon.”
I nod but can’t talk as I swallow down the acrid bite of fear fiercely roiling in the pit of my stomach.
Beneath the tenor of his voice I hear an unmistakable note of doubt.