Adam hears the crunch of gravel as a car pulls up in the driveway.
Dad’s home.
Adam pulls his eyes away from the screen. The dark of his room is startling. At this time of the year, the sun disappears around six in a blaze of orange sequins slipping swiftly behind the Kaimai ranges to the west, but today, absorbed in his game, Adam missed it. Now his room is cheerless and chilly. Adam scoots backwards and flicks the light switch, blinking as the corners of his room flood yellow.
‘That you, Dad?’ he calls.
‘Yep.’ Dad shouts back. ‘Where’s your mother?’
‘She went out for some milk.’
‘Milk?’
‘That’s what she said.’
‘It’s nearly eight o’clock. The dairy would’ve closed half an hour ago. What time did she leave?’
‘Um. I dunno. A while ago.’ Reaching forward, Adam puts his headphones on the desk. Then he links his fingers and extends both arms over his head in a good long stretch. ‘Just give her a call,’ he bellows.
‘No point. Her phone’s still here on the kitchen bench.’
Adam stands and hooks his fingers over the door jamb, dropping his bodyweight into the stretch. He pokes his head forward and looks down the stairs at Dad. ‘Want me to go look for her?’
‘No, no, you stay here. I’ll go. I left a car from the yard blocking the drive. I probably drove right past her on the way in.’
‘You’ll be in for it if you did,’ Adam quips. He swings casually in the door frame.
‘Lucky for me I’ve got broad shoulders. I’ll duck out now and pick her up. In the meantime, I think she’s left something in the slow cooker. My money’s on steak and kidney. What say you check on it, set the table?’
Half an hour later, Adam is putting the salt and pepper on the table when he hears the car pull into the driveway. Soon afterwards, Dad comes through the back door, pulling off his leather sports jacket—a reject from the eighties that would pass for retro if only Dad wasn’t wearing it. Adam swivels about, but Mum isn’t following. By the time Adam turns around again, Dad has thrown the jacket over a kitchen chair and dropped the car keys on the bench. Out of habit, Adam notes the key fob design. Standing lion. Peugeot.
‘I drove up and down the road between here and the dairy half a dozen times. There’s no sign of her,’ Dad announces.
‘Maybe she went to the supermarket. It’s open ‘til late.’
‘I thought of that. Drove down there, made a quick dash through the aisles. It’s possible I missed her, but I don’t think she went there. It’s too far without the car, and she would’ve had to carry the milk home. It doesn’t make sense for her to do that if the dairy was still open.’
Adam goes to the front window and pulls back the curtains. He peeks out. Across the road, black rooftops silhouette against the graphite sky. Further along, under the streetlight, a cat walks along the top of a retainer between two properties. The street is quiet and still. Adam lets the curtains swing back in a rustle of fabric.
‘It’s getting pretty late.’
‘It’ll be nothing. She’ll have popped in to one of the neighbours for a natter and lost track of the time.’
‘What if she’s twisted her ankle or something?’
‘In that case, she’ll be propped up on one of the neighbour’s couches while they offer her a therapeutic Chardonnay.’
‘Shall I call them, then? The neighbourhood watch list is in the cutlery drawer.’
Dad massages his ear. ‘What say we give it another half an hour? Then if she still isn’t home, we’ll call. We don’t want the neighbours to think we’re sitting here strumming our fingers waiting on our tucker, do we? You know what, let’s just go ahead and eat. No point letting it go to waste. We can always put a plate in the microwave for Mum when she gets home.’
They eat their steak and kidney on toast. After dinner, they fill in time clearing away the dishes and wiping down the kitchen table. Then Adam gets out the neighbourhood watch list, and he and Dad sit at the table and take turns calling the neighbours.
No one has seen her.
Adam glances at the oven clock. 9:42pm. Where is she? Getting up, he takes a couple of cups out of the cupboard and puts the kettle on.
‘Tell me again exactly what Mum said when she went out,’ Dad says, his eyes down, texting.
‘She said she was going for some milk,’ Adam says. He opens the fridge and lifts a plastic container from the shelf in the door. Holding it up, he gives it a swirl. ‘See? There’s hardly any left.’
He tips the last of the milk over the teabags and pours boiling water into the cups. Then he gives them a quick stir and drops the teabags in the sink. As the grind of the waste disposer tails off, Dad’s ‘message sent’ beep sounds.
‘Who’s that you’re texting?’
Dad immediately switches off his phone. He puts it on the table. Under the table, he wipes his hands up and down his thighs as if cleansing them of some contaminant.
‘No one. A client. Look, I’ve been thinking. Maybe your Mum was going to get the milk on her way home from something else. She might’ve had a meeting on. She probably told us, but we’ve forgotten. Could be it’s her PTA night.’
Adam carries the cups through and sets one down in front of Dad. ‘She quit the PTA last year, Dad. Said after three years it was time for them to get new blood in. Remember?’
‘Hmm, vaguely. Oh, I don’t know. What about the Alzheimer’s Association then? That’s on a Wednesday, isn’t it?’
Adam’s Grandpa has Alzheimer’s. Mum used to help Gran look after him until about a year ago when Grandpa got too bad and had to move into a rest home. Finding herself at a bit of a loose end, Mum had stepped up her involvement on the local Alzheimer’s committee. Dad’s right: their meetings are usually held in the evenings. That’ll be where Mum is for sure.
‘I’ll check,’ Adam says, eagerly. He steps across the kitchen and opens the cupboard door where the family events calendar, a Christmas freebie from a local real estate dealer, is thumb-tacked to the inside. The July page has fallen down, the hole torn. Adam holds it above his head as he checks the page for August underneath.
‘Nup. Nothing on the calendar for tonight.’ Using his head to hold the pages up, Adam flips through the next couple of months and examines the boxes. ‘It looks like the Alzheimer’s meetings are every third Wednesday...’
‘You know what?’ Dad says. ‘I’ll bet she’s at your Gran’s. What time is it?’
Adam checks his watch. ‘Nearly ten.’
‘Mmm. Asking for trouble. Wynn’s likely to have a heart attack if we ring her at this hour and tell her we’ve misplaced your mum. You know what your Gran’s like. She’ll think the worst.’
‘Yes, but she’s not likely to jump to conclusions if Mum’s there, is she?’
‘You’re right, son. That school must be teaching you something. I must remember to pay the fees,’ Dad chuckles, reaching out to ruffle Adam’s hair. Pushing his fringe back into place with both hands, Adam feels a frisson of alarm. Dad hasn’t done that for years.
Dad’s already on the phone. Adam listens in while he stacks the cups in the dishwasher.
‘Sorry to bother you, Wynn. Is Tiff there with you, by any chance? She left her phone behind... Well, she did say she was going out, only Adam and I have forgotten where. Couple of duffers, aren’t we?’ Dad’s laugh is full of false humour.
‘... I wondered if she might have popped in to yours on the way home from her meeting? I thought I’d ring and remind her to bring home some milk, that’s all. Oh, is it? I didn’t realise it was after ten. No, of course she won’t drop in at this hour, she’ll come straight home. We’ll just have to do without milk at breakfast tomorrow... Really? UHT? Okay, well, I’ll remember that, Wynn. Uh-huh. Sorry to call you so late... Yes, you too. ‘Night, Wynn.’
When he gets off the phone, Dad doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t put the phone back on the charger either; instead, he carries it through to the lounge. Adam follows behind. Dad switches on the telly, and the two of them watch a police drama about a case gone cold years ago. The story’s a bit grim and there are almost no clues, but the pretty detective keeps going back and looking over the evidence again and again.
Adam notices that Dad is looking at his watch again and again too, each time rubbing an imaginary smudge on his wrist. Adam wishes he would cut it out. The fidgeting’s getting on his nerves.
‘Adam, will you quit shaking your knee? It’s driving me crazy!’
‘Sorry.’
At last, the pretty detective solves the case and apprehends the bad guy. The title music plays and narrow-font credits roll across the screen so quickly they’re impossible to read. Adam can hardly believe only an hour has passed. It’s after eleven.
‘What are we going to do, Dad?’
‘I don’t know, son. I’d better give Maria a call. What’s the number, do you know?’
‘It’ll be on Mum’s cell.’ Pleased to have something to do, Adam whips through to the kitchen and comes back with Mum’s phone. He scrolls through the address book to the M’s, then holds the display up for Dad, who punches in the number of Mum’s best friend.
Leaning back in his armchair, the phone to his ear, Dad uses his visitor voice, although Adam can’t imagine why as they’ve known Maria as long as Adam can remember. ‘Not there?’
‘Maria hasn’t spoken to her either.’
‘I checked the messages on Mum’s cell. There’s nothing to say where she might’ve gone. It’s nearly midnight. She’s never out this late.’
‘Let’s not panic, okay? She’s only been gone a couple of hours.’ Dad pulls at his ear.
Adam balls his fists, says quietly: ‘Six, Dad. She’s been gone six hours.’
That’s when the phone rings, startling them both. A wave of relief passes over Dad’s face. ‘Thank God! That’ll be her now... Hello, Tiff?’
But it’s clear from Dad’s tone the caller isn’t Mum. He’s switched to the voice he reserves for the time wasters who spend half the afternoon strolling around the car yard asking questions, helping themselves to coffee, messing up the brochures, with no intention of buying a car. And he’s pulling at his earlobe again. After a while, Dad ends the call. He shakes his head in disbelief.
‘That was Mrs Steele from across the road and one over. She saw our light still on and wondered if your Mum was home yet. Very concerned, she is.’ Dad does a pretty close impersonation of Mrs Steele’s old-lady voice: quavery with a dose of syrup. A giggle bubbles up inside Adam, but he pushes it down. ‘Nosy old biddy!’ Dad grumbles. ‘I couldn’t get her to get off the line. How is your mother supposed to contact us when she’s blabbering away, I ask you?’
‘Dad...’
‘It’s okay, Adam. I’m calling the police now.’