16

Harper

“Remy!” I rush into his office, my bag bouncing against my hip. “She’s gone.”

He looks up from his desk, over his thick, black Wayfarer-style reading glasses, but he doesn’t move.

“Georgina!” I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. I’ve already had one good cry. I’m fighting off the next.

I got home seventy-two minutes after I left. I could have been home in sixty-two minutes, but I had to swing by Ursuline and leave the check so Jojo could go on her field trip. When I walked into the house, Georgina didn’t answer me when I called her. I told myself not to panic. She’s probably just in the bathroom. But she wasn’t. I went to her room. The paint can was closed and the brush was wrapped in plastic wrap. It looked as if she didn’t do any more painting after I left. I walked all over the house, calling her name. Then I went outside to check the front porch, the garden, and the walkway in front of the house. No Georgina. I went back into the house and checked the notepad on the counter, thinking maybe she’d left me a note. Maybe she’d just gone for a walk in the park. It seems to be one of the things she actually enjoys doing.

I kept telling myself over and over again not to freak out, even though my heart was pounding and I felt as if I wanted to vomit. I kept telling myself she wasn’t gone. That this was nothing like what happened before. It couldn’t happen again. It was a mathematical improbability of infinite proportion.

I searched the whole house again. I even checked the walk-up attic. I called Remy and he didn’t answer. Then I called Ann. She didn’t answer. Then I called Remy again. When he still didn’t pick up, I drove to his office. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m parked in a no parking zone in front of his building. I’ll probably get towed.

“She’s gone, Remy,” I say, standing in front of his desk, my arms at my sides. “I’ve lost her again.” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I realize how ridiculous the thought is. It doesn’t make me feel any better.

He takes off his reading glasses. “Tell me what happened.”

“We have to look for her.” I bring my hands to my head, trying to force myself to breathe. I’m not going to let myself become the person I was after Georgina was taken. That irrational, overly emotional, hollow ghost of a woman. I take another breath. “I tried to call you.”

“I had meetings this morning.” He still hasn’t gotten out of his leather chair behind the big antique desk we bought off someone’s front lawn in Alabama. We got it on one of our weekend trips when we were still trying to pick up the pieces of our marriage. Before we admitted defeat. Before the divorce.

“I had to go to the office. I had to make some calls. Some lab reports came back and I wanted to call from the office so I would have the records in front of me. I . . .” I press the heel of my hand to my forehead. Just one hand, though. I’m calmer. I know Georgina hasn’t been kidnapped. She’s a teenager. And a smart one at that. She wouldn’t get in a car with a stranger. “She didn’t want to go with me. I thought . . . I talked to Ann and—” I meet his gaze, fighting my tears, afraid he’ll judge me, even though I know he won’t. Not for leaving her, at least. “She wanted to stay home, Remy. I was only going to be gone an hour.”

“Harper.”

“Ann thought it would be fine. I knew you would say it was fine.”

He gets up from his desk. “Harper.”

“I was trying to give her some space.” My voice cracks. “I . . . I was trying to—”

“Baby.” He comes around the desk and puts his arms around me. “She’s okay. It’s going to be fine. It was the right thing to do, to leave her home. Sixteen-year-old girls stay at home without their parents for an hour. We’ll find her.”

I rest my head on his chest. He’s wearing a green polo with an embroidered Tulane crest and I feel the roughness of the piqué against my cheek. “Should we call the police?” I look up at him. “We should call the police, shouldn’t we? But what if they call the social worker? What if people start questioning if we’re fit parents?”

He smiles his sad smile and I know deep inside that I’m the one responsible for that sadness. More than the kidnapping. More than the loss of our child. It’s a guilt I’ll live with the rest of my life. We Catholics, even the bad ones, are good at guilt.

He smoothes my hair. Kisses my forehead and then steps back, taking hold of my shoulders. “We shouldn’t call the police. Not yet. And no one is getting the social worker involved. Lilla’s our daughter; she’s not on loan. She probably went for a walk. In the park.”

I close my eyes for a second. He keeps calling her by that name. I press my lips together. Pick your battles. Pick your battles.

I open my eyes. “You really think she just went for a walk? She was upset this morning about something.” I close my eyes again, realizing that sounds ridiculous. Of course she’s upset. She’s been upset since she arrived. In her teenage mind, we kidnapped her. Not that woman. I’m beginning to see that now. Feel it. It’s the accusation I’ve seen in her eyes since she came home.

I look up at him again. “She was upset about something specific. She was painting her room. She’d been crying.”

“I’m telling you, I bet she went for a walk. She’s gone for a walk and then she’ll come home.”

“We should have gotten her a cell phone.” I shake my head. “Why didn’t we think about getting her a phone? How could she call us if she was in trouble?”

He chuckles, which makes me angry. This isn’t funny. None of this is funny. How can he laugh at a time like this?

“Harper, you haven’t let her get more than thirty feet from you since she arrived. Why would she need a cell phone?”

“She’s going to school next week. She needs a phone.”

“I agree. She needs a phone.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and steers me toward the door. “Let’s go find our daughter. She’ll probably be at home by the time we get there.”

* * *

But she isn’t. I search the whole house while Remy makes himself a sandwich. Upstairs in her room, I pick up the paintbrush that had been in her hand this morning. I close my eyes and try to feel her touch. After she was kidnapped, I did this for weeks. Months. I smelled her blankets. I laid my head on her little pillow in her toddler bed. I touched her toys over and over again. I kept a spoon she had used that morning, not caring that there was dried cereal and milk on it. Remy and I had a huge blow-up when he washed the spoon, knowing I didn’t want her touch washed off it.

I take a breath and put the paintbrush back where I found it. I glance around her room. It’s easy to tell what’s missing because she doesn’t have much. The canvas laundry container with a few pieces of clothing in it that she brought with her is still by the door. But the blue backpack is gone. And Remy’s Tulane hoodie. So maybe she did just go for a walk. If she’d run away, wouldn’t she have taken the clothes?

I go back downstairs, to the kitchen. Remy is sitting at the counter, eating a chicken salad sandwich on rye, a strange combination, and staring into space.

“She’s not here,” I say.

“I’ll check the park.”

“It’s too big.” I throw up my hands and let them fall. “What are the chances you’ll run into her?”

He lifts his gaze to meet mine. He’s trying to be patient with me. “She’ll be back. I think we just need to wait for her.”

I turn away from him and begin to pace.

“You want me to make you a sandwich? I made the chicken salad with pimentos the way you like it. And a little fresh garlic. Lilla’s contribution.”

“I don’t want anything to eat,” I say from between clenched teeth. At the refrigerator, I turn and walk back, my arms crossed over my chest. I’m seriously thinking about calling the police, with or without Remy’s say-so. What if Georgina ran away? The police said she and the woman lived in a lot of places. What if Georgina took off for Baton Rouge, or Atlanta, or God knew where? A sixteen-year-old walking through a park alone was one thing, hitchhiking I-10 was another. “And I wish you wouldn’t call her that,” I snap. “Her name is Georgina. We named her Georgina. She was baptized Georgina. She’s our child and her name is Georgina.” The last words stick in my throat. Choke me.

Remy puts down his sandwich, half eaten. He takes a sip from his glass of water. “You stay here. Call me if she shows up.”

“Where are you going?” I suddenly feel terrible for speaking like that to him. I know that tone of voice is one of the reasons he left. I don’t want to be that woman anymore. I don’t want to use that tone of voice with him. With anyone. I lower my head. “Sorry,” I murmur. “I’m just . . . scared.”

“I know.” He kisses my cheek as he walks by me. “I’ll have my phone.”

I watch him walk for the back door.

“But where are you going to look for her?” I call after him.

“Don’t call the police,” he says. And then he’s gone.