My mother often disappeared. It was her greatest act, like a lady who volunteers to enter the box at a magician’s show before being spun round and round until the curtain drops, and everyone’s amazed to see that she has vanished.
Early in the morning, I’d hear the disruption of gravel in the driveway as she made her escape. Lying in bed, my stomach gnawing at itself, I would trace the trim on the ceiling with my index finger, straining to listen as the sound of her engine faded, wondering if she would ever come back.
Those days were spent in a quiet, crystalline state. My father would recede into his office and I’d stand outside his door, braiding the long, wiry hairs of the angry-faced mask that was tacked to it, or press against the door, holding my breath. Most often, though, I would wait on the front lawn, sitting on the swing, clutching its bristly ropes with two hands, straining my ears for the sound of a car in the distance.
When she finally returned, just after bedtime, she’d push our half-shut bedroom door open with a gentle greeting and perch herself on the end of my bed. As my eyes followed the ember tip of her cigarette in the darkness, she would tell us about her adventures out in the world, filled with a vibrancy that was almost alien to me. I would learn to cherish these glimpses of her. I loved her best when she was this way.
“I went to an abandoned community,” she explained one evening over plates of roast beef and mashed sweet potato, my father still entrenched in his office. My mother’s eyes were marvellously blue in the candlelight. They reminded me of a swimming pool, reflecting everything that dared to come close enough to gaze down, searching for the bottom.
“I went inside an old house,” Mother announced. “It was filled with all sorts of things. All sorts of treasures.” She looked at my sister, who was giddy with excitement, swinging her feet under the table.
“What’d you find?” Annabelle asked, clutching her fork.
“Well, the kitchen table was set with beautiful china dishes. Everything was perfectly placed.” She moved her hands around the table, indicating where each item lay, before turning to me. “You would have loved it, doll.”
My ears prickled with the mention of her there, thinking of me. That we appreciated the same sorts of things. We were similar, she and I, and that made me exceptional. I thought when she disappeared she forgot all about us.
“It was like the family had been right in the middle of dinner—” She stared down at her untouched plate of food. “Then, poof, they were gone.”