Barefoot Beach (39 page)

An hour later, I was upstairs answering emails on my laptop when Scott unexpectedly Skyped me from Bethesda. He was checking in to arrange our lunch date in Tuckahoe for the following day. But first, he wanted me to see an apartment there he was considering. He walked his smartphone through a highlight tour of the place: nice-sized kitchen, walk-in shower with multiple body jets, great view of the downtown Row with its art theaters and outdoor cafés, and, he made sure to note, the rooms were flooded with light. He was telling me that he'd leave Bethesda early morning and swing by for me around noon when I looked up to see my son at the door, ready, I thought, to say good night. Then I realized, no, something more. He had trouble peeling his stare from the screen even after Scott had signed off.

He finally made eye contact. “Mom, I know Dirk is out of the picture, but please don't rush into anything else. This is probably not politically correct, but I'm going to say it anyway because you're my mother and I love you and I don't want you to make a major mistake.” He hitched his neck toward the blank screen. “You can do better. You know what I mean, right?”

Anger percolating, I began to inform him what I thought about what he meant. He backed away, hands up, palms splayed. “Okay, okay. Just saying.”

“No, you're not just saying, Jack. You really
believe
it. And you're wrong. I wish there were something Scott could do to show you what he's made of.”

“He's made of titanium, at least in part,” my son muttered, then added, “That wasn't a dig. It's the truth.”

“What you don't see is that he's perfectly capable.” I was barely containing my frustration.

“No, Mom, what you refuse to see is he's not perfectly capable. Not perfectly anything. You're crushed on him. I get it. You're all impressed by the hero stuff, but check out this scenario. I'll bet he goes to sleep without the leg on. No, don't tell me if I'm right.” He shuddered. “Really. I don't want to know. But say he does. So there's a fire in the middle of the night. He can't rescue you. He can't even rescue himself on one leg.
You've
got to drag
him
out, because what's he going to do, hop down the stairs?”

“He keeps a crutch on the side of his bed.”

“TMI. Jeez, Mom. Way TMI.”

“Jack . . . ,” I began, then faltered as he shook his head sadly and said, “I worry about you.”

I'd been his only parent for eight years. I was all he had left in that department. Of course he worried.

When he was a kid and about to throw a tantrum I'd tell him to use his words. Now he said, “I've used all my words. I'm done,” and, shoulders slumped, left the room.

Still at my computer, I turned back to the laptop screen where Scott's
image, like one more ghost, lingered on my Skype page. I leaned away in my desk chair; then I hunched forward, but I couldn't get comfortable in any position. Something painful was going on in my rib cage.
What happens,
I asked myself,
when your heart is pulled in two directions? Does it stretch or does it break?

I should ask WebMD.
I laughed, but laughing was painful too. I clicked off.

Sunday dawned weepy, a melancholy drizzle drifting down through ominous skies. The morning weather forecast predicted a squall hitting the beach midafternoon, so Scott had brought Sarge along for our lunch date. If the storm rolled in with thunder, he didn't want the dog to be alone.

Sarge had returned from Iraq with a mild case of PTSD. “Yes, dogs get it too, believe it or not,” Scott told me in the car on our way downtown. “In Sarge's case, he was spooked by loud noises. Understandable since he was in the thick of it over in Iraq. You can't imagine the noise level in firefights, and when explosive devices detonate it sounds like the end of the world. The exchange that killed his handler and wounded Sarge lasted a full five minutes.

“Back here, he went spazzy over thunder booms and freaked out over the Fourth of July fireworks, which are way up the beach. Even a car backfiring sent him running for cover. It killed me to watch him whimper. So last year, I signed us up for a session of retraining with a search-and-rescue police team in Philadelphia and they got him used to it by randomly firing blanks while he was doing other tasks. Eventually, he could tolerate the noise.”

“Aversion therapy,” I said.

“That's right.” Scott gave me an impressed nod. “He's pretty cool
with noise now. But I still like to be around during thunderstorms, just in case. I hope you don't mind an extra guest at lunch.”

I was always glad to have Sarge along. From the beginning, he'd picked up on Scott's emotions and adopted the only evaluation he trusted, that of his alpha man: I was one of the good guys. And he became more comfortable with me as Scott and I drew closer. Now on the dog-friendly patio of the Turquoise Café, its outdoor space sheltered from the elements by a paisley awning, the shepherd sprawled under the table, resting his chin on my shoe. We were pals.

But his instincts and training always hovered beneath the surface. He gave off a growl as Selda strode over to take our order, then quieted at the brisk baritone “Stop” command from above. Selda squeezed out what passed for a pleasant expression for Scott. I was served a smile approximately the thickness of the flatbreads of the Turkish pizzas she'd just added to the menu. She slid a look at Sarge, her forehead working hard to suppress a scowl. According to Emine, Selda detested cats and dogs, but business was business. “And for the hound,” she said, “we have grilled Turkish sausage. Called
sucukizgara
.”

We ordered a couple of appetizer platters to share and were on dessert when Em approached the table. She looked like hell. The worry lines Merry had etched in her face over the last few years had deepened into grooves since her mother-in-law's arrival, and today she was deathly pale, as if a vampire had feasted on her blood.

“She only just told me you were here.” I knew that “she” was the vampire in question. “You enjoyed your lunch? And your dessert is good, yes, Colonel?” Em mustered a smile.

Scott looked up from spooning
kazandibi
, a vanilla-infused flan. “Mmm,” he concurred. To me, she twitched a hitch toward the door that led into the dining room. “You might like the chocolate pudding, Nora. It's just made and cooling in the kitchen. Come inside for a little taste.” I had a bad feeling when she added, “Please.”

Scott was appraising the weather beyond the patio. The drizzle had become teardrop rain and a briny wind ballooned the awning.

“I won't be long,” I told him as I pushed back my chair.

“Take your time. Far be it from me to come between you and your chocolate. And the sound of the rain is soothing. Listen to him.” Sarge was snoring musically. “If it gets worse, though, we'll wait for you in the car.”

I grabbed my quilted bag, the one commodious enough to hold two takeaway packages of Em's baklava. Jack was at Ethan's this morning, but when he got home we needed to have a calm conversation about his prejudices. A peace offering might help us get off to a good start. Peace, not at any price, but at $10.99 a pound, was a bargain.

Inside, Em transferred her tension hand to hand as she steered me past the kitchen and toward the steps leading to the Haydars' apartment.

When we were beyond hearing range of the customers in the dining room, she said, “Merry and Selda got into a big fight last night while we were getting ready for the baking. So stupid it was. Over how much filling to put in the
börek
. Merry was putting too much, Selda said. Merry answered with a fresh mouth. Selda grabbed her spoon. Merry pulled it back. I ran over. Merry was hysterical and shouting terrible insults at her grandmother. Adnan was out front so he heard, but by the time he saw, it was Merry yelling and running upstairs. That was last night. This morning her shift begins at eight, but she didn't show up. Still not. Erol thinks he heard a noise like someone on the stairs as the sun was coming up, but he could have been dreaming. I want you to see upstairs, the way she left it. Maybe you can tell me what I am supposed to do now.”

On the second floor, Em led me into the bathroom her children shared. Erol had discovered the message. In lipstick on the mirror, Merry had drawn two versions of the iconic happy face, neither of them smiling. The sad circle had an oval open mouth of pain and its eyes dripped a trail of tears. The mouth on the angry face was a downward curve lined with
triangles, shark teeth. Underneath, Merry had scrawled, “No More!!!” Underlined three times. She drew it like she felt it. Selda had gone too far.

“At least she can express her feelings,” I said, as my stomach churned at the display.

“She has no problem with that. Follow me.”

At fifteen, my son had pinned up posters in his bedroom of star athletes, especially baseball and lacrosse players. Merry's crimson walls—she'd insisted on painting over the childhood pink—framed posters of the most popular rapper, grunge, and hip-hop groups. Not that rare for a teenage rebel, I supposed. The shock for me lay stretched out on her bed.

The quasi uniform Selda had insisted she wear made a chilling collage against the chartreuse bedspread. The black skirt had been cut from belt to hem up the front and split like a lobster. Merry had also taken scissors to the prim white blouse, sheared it to ribbons, and, in what may have been a final burst of fury, torn what was left to shreds.

“This is a message for me. For Adnan, for Selda.”

“Have those two seen it?”

“He has. He wanted to clean the mirror and throw away the cut-up clothes. But I wouldn't let him. If she becomes a missing person”—Em's lower lip quivered—“they, the police, may want to examine this. And Selda, who started it all, my husband protects. God forbid she should feel responsible. She wouldn't feel such a thing anyway. She would go into another tirade about my—always mine, when Merry does something to displease her—my ungrateful, uncontrolled daughter. If something happens to Merry because of Selda . . .”

I'd had practice fighting my own catastrophic thinking. I tried to head hers off. “First, you don't know that Merry has run away. She could be with friends. Or at a movie. Or shopping. Half a day off the premises is not a missing person. Second, let's say she has taken off. She has a history of
running, but she always comes back on her own. You remember the last time after the fight with the girl at the cleaning service. She turned up then, and the times before.”

“You saw the mirror and the bed, Nora.” Em wrapped her arms across her chest and rocked on her heels. “This is different.”

She was right. That arrangement in black and white was a sign of desperation, and with Merry you could expect desperate measures. I wasn't sure if I believed my consolation, but I said, “This could be a ploy to get your attention, to scare her father into getting rid of Selda. Merry has her say. She lets you stew. She returns to negotiate her terms.”

“That's what Adnan believes. I hope you're both right. He's out looking for her. He's not scared like I am. He's boiling with anger. Oh God, look at what's happening out there.”

The trees outside Merry's window were taking a thrashing from whips of wind. Rain battered the windows. “It's getting worse.”

“Did Merry pack a bag?” If we could find out her intention, we might be able to determine her destination.

“Her big beach bag is still here. Her backpack, this she always carries with her. It is gone.”

“Pajamas? A change of underwear? A jacket?” It had been cool at sunrise with the storm brewing. If Merry expected to be out at night, she would have taken a jacket.

“Who can tell what she took?” Em opened the door to the walk-in closet. Its floor was heaped with a mountain of clothing.

“More venting?” I asked, wondering if Merry had tossed her closet in a rage.

“No, this is the usual mess,” Em said. “At least since the cat, Sarman, and his litter box moved out.”

“Money. She'd need money for a long run.”

“What she earned from us and from Margo, Adnan insisted she
divide it three ways, some to her savings account, some to charity, and the rest she could spend on herself. Where she keeps the last part, I don't know.”

Adnan had riffled through emails on the computer the family shared. It looked like Merry reserved messaging for her new phone. She hadn't posted on Facebook in two days, though her last post was a rant against her grandmother accompanied by a photo of Oz's green-faced Wicked Witch of the West.

“She might have gone to the Driftwood. Have you called Margo?”

“She hasn't seen her, but she promised to get back to me if Merry turns up there or if she hears anything. That was a few hours ago. Merry doesn't answer her cell, of course. I left a message. I haven't called her friends yet. Do you think I should?”

“Let me talk to Scott,” I said. “He's had experience in search-and-rescue strategy, also at finding people in hiding. If Merry really has taken off, it would probably be to a familiar place. Email me a list of her hangouts and we'll check them out.”

At that moment, a lightning strike blazed the dark sky, immediately followed by a crack of thunder that seemed to shake the house on its foundation. The wind howled a wild alarm. I shivered. A chill had seeped in from the rage outside. Or maybe it was inside me. Whatever I'd told Emine to comfort her, the truth was, I was frightened.

Em rummaged through the pile in the closet and pulled out a windbreaker. “She could be out there in this weather without a jacket.” She handed it over. Her voice broke when she added, “In case you find her.”

I snatched a plastic bag holding one of Merry's sweaters, dumped the sweater, and stuffed and ziplocked the heavier jacket. “So it doesn't get wet if I get soaked in this deluge.” I shoved the plastic bag in my quilted tote. As I tamped it down, my cell phone rang. Em and I both jumped. Not Merry. Scott calling to let me know that when the rain started
pelting, he and Sarge had taken refuge in the car. But he didn't like how the storm was building and wanted to get me home. Us. He'd help secure my house. “Batten down the hatches,” he called it. He was parked out front. We'd really better get a move on.

Downstairs, I gave Em a quick hug. “You stay in the café so she doesn't come back to find only Selda here. And yes, I think, start to make a few calls. Her closest friends. Try not to drive yourself crazy with worry,” I said, knowing the futility of such a sentiment. “I'll stay in touch.”

I pushed against the door to the street, not making headway, feeling the power of a ferocious wind pushing back. I braced and pushed again, so it opened an inch before snapping shut. “Wait,” Em said, last minute. She unlatched the gold chain she wore around her neck. It carried the
nazar boncuğu
, the amulet against the evil eye. She slipped it into my pocket. “For luck,” she said.

We're going to need it,
I thought. Then I summoned all my will and muscle, gave the door a final furious push, and staggered out into the maelstrom.