The Wednesday Group (27 page)

“Mom,” he yells. “I got a hundred on my spelling test.”

“Well, that deserves a treat. How about a brownie?” She made them for Alicia, to reward her for going to school after such a tough morning. But Sam could use one as well.

“Yay,” he shouts, and hops on a stool. She gives him a brownie and a glass of milk.

Adam is leaving work early. They're going to sit with the children and have a talk before dinner. It won't be a long, detailed lecture; rather they will explain that sex should be a beautiful, intimate act, not something you should watch other people doing. The hypocrisy of some of the things they plan to say isn't lost on Hannah. But she will do everything in her power to ensure Sam doesn't become a sex addict. With the explosion of accessible, anonymous Internet porn, she can't afford to shy away from these difficult conversations.

She watches Sam practically stuff the whole brownie in his mouth, then looks beyond him, expecting to see Alicia. She's not there. More than likely, she went to hide in her room. After everything that happened this morning, it's understandable.

“Looks like you need another one,” Hannah tells Sam. He gulps down some milk and grins.

“I'm going to get your sister, and we're going to water the garden. No TV or video games on the computer when I'm gone.”

“Why?”

“It's a beautiful day outside.”

She heads to Alicia's room. Surprisingly, the door is open.

“Alicia,” she calls, “I made brownies.”

Hannah walks in. The bed is ruffled from the morning, and although there are lumps, none seem big enough to be Alicia. Still, Hannah runs her hand along the comforter as she looks around the room.

“Alicia,” she calls. Her heart beats a little harder as she walks to the closet. The idea that Alicia may be curled up in some fetal ball is disturbing. But she's not in the closet either. She checks the bathroom, the den, her bedroom, Sam's, the guest room, the other bathrooms, and finally the laundry room. She must be outside.

“Come on,” Hannah tells Sam. “Let's go to the garden.”

Alicia isn't there either.

“Sam?” Hannah asks. “Do you know where your sister might be?”

He has already turned on the hose and is pointing it at her.

“Turn that off,” she shouts.

He blasts her face with cold water.

“Damn it, Sam.” She marches over to turn off the tap, then grabs his arm, giving him a good shake.

“I thought we were watering,” he whines.

“Do I look like a garden?”

He lowers his head. “No.”

“Have you seen your sister?” she asks.

“Nope.”

“Where did she go when you came home?”

“Dunno.”

“Think. Did she go to her room? The living room? Which way?”

“She wasn't on the bus.” He's distracted by a fly buzzing around his head.

“She wasn't on the bus?” Hannah asks.

He pulls up his shoulders so they're close to his ears. “I don't think so.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“She wasn't on the bus this morning either.” He looks like he's about to cry.

“You're right, she wasn't. And it's not your job to watch her. But are you sure she wasn't on the bus this afternoon?”

He nods timidly, and she feels guilty for being so snappy.

She checks her pockets for her cell phone. It's not there. She left it in her room. Alicia has probably been trying to call. Hannah runs inside. There are two new text messages. The first one is from Adam.

Just checking in. How are you?

The next one is from Bridget.

Can we talk?

Hannah calls the school.

“Pine Hill Elementary, may I help you?”

“Yes, hi. This is Hannah Jenkins. My daughter, Alicia, missed the bus. Is she in the office?”

“No. I don't see her here.”

“Well, could she be around there? Maybe waiting at the front of the building?”

“I can't see the front of the building from here, but if you'd like, I'll check around and call you back.”

“Yes, thank you. That would be wonderful. My number is—”

“I have it here. It came up on caller ID.”

“Right. Thanks.” Hannah hangs up, not wanting to waste an extra second when the secretary could be out checking. Poor Alicia. She must be panicked. After a couple minutes, Hannah can't stand the wait.

“Sam, we're going to drive to the school and find Alicia.” She hustles him to her SUV.

Slowing down is the most she can manage at the stop signs. She peels into the school parking lot and pulls in front of the entrance. As she hops out of the car, she thinks of Bridget. She'll call her as soon as she has Alicia.

“Out you go,” she tells Sam, and races into the building with him.

The secretary, she assumes the one she just spoke with, is staring at her computer.

“Hi, I'm here to pick up Alicia.”

“Oh.” She turns. “I was just going to call you. I couldn't find her.”

“Did you check the bathrooms?”

“Uh … no, actually. I thought she probably went home with a friend.”

There's no time for a discussion of what Alicia may or may not have done. Hannah grabs Sam's hand and tears into the girls' room.

“Mom,” Sam screams. “I can't come in here.”

“Jesus, Sam. You scared me. It's fine. We're just looking for Alicia.”

She pushes open every stall door. No one is in the girls' room. She races down the hall to the next bathroom. When she's checked them all, she looks in the boys' rooms, then goes back to the office. The secretary is packing up to leave.

“I can't find her,” Hannah says.

“Did you try her friends?”

“I'd know if she was going to a friend's house.”

“Maybe she forgot to tell you. It happens all the time.”

Possibly. But peeing on the bathroom floor doesn't happen all the time, nor does hearing your mother say maybe you shouldn't have been born. She yanks Sam's hand and runs back to the entrance. No Alicia. She checks the playground. There are a couple of children with their parents. No Alicia.

She drags Sam back to the car.

“When was the last time you saw her?” she asks him.

“Um…” He pulls the seatbelt strap across his chest. “This morning, I guess.”

“Can you just take a deep breath, close your eyes, and think really hard?”

He does what she tells him.

“What do you see?”

“My castle Legos.”

“Just focus on Alicia. Then tell me what you see.”

He shrugs. “Nothing.”

Hannah feels like bursting into tears. She calls Adam.

“What's up?” he answers.

“Alicia didn't come home from school.”

“Slow down. I'm sure she's fine. She probably just missed the bus.”

“No. She's not fine. She didn't miss the bus. I'm at the school, and she's not here, and no one has seen her. I'm calling the police.”

“Hang on. Let's just think for a second. Did you call her friends?”

“I would know if she went to a friend's,” she shouts.

“Let's just try a few before we call the police. Do you have their numbers?”

“Of course,” she snaps.

“I'm leaving the office right now. Call as many people as you have numbers for. I'm sure we'll find her.”

“I don't know if I should stay at the school or go home.”

“Go home. She might have tried to walk there. I'm on my way out. Drive the route you think she might take, and I'll meet you in about half an hour.”

She hangs up and calls all the friends' numbers in her phone. No one has seen Alicia. She drives two miles an hour down the side streets. There are no young girls with blond hair. At home, she pulls out Alicia's class list. She calls all the numbers that she hasn't already tried. Mostly she gets voice mail. The few people who answer haven't seen Alicia. Two of them don't even know who she is.

Hannah runs to her bedroom and grabs a recent photograph of Alicia and Sam at the beach. She doesn't know what the rules or laws are, but she can't wait at home. The police have to help her.

Just as she's about to bolt, Adam walks in.

 

Lizzy

At this time in the afternoon, most of Lizzy's students are participating in sports or working at part-time jobs. She doubts many, if any, are studying for their chemistry final. Not that she should be worried about it, but she does wish she could have finished teaching the last unit. She sits in the living room, with the shades open, reading a book she found on the shelf the other day,
The Language of Letting Go.
If only it was as simple as learning a language, perhaps she could get somewhere. It just feels, at the moment, that there's far too much to let go of. Basically, her whole life as she knew it. The book is open to the chapter on grudges, but as she reads the words, her thoughts are elsewhere—on Greg's whereabouts, the missing money, finals, the group, pornography, the trafficking of underage girls … One of the tenets of the book is to let go of all the thoughts and worries that plague you, to live in the now—the present. She totally sucks at that.

The front door flies open. Startled, Lizzy drops the book. A few moments later, Greg stands in front of her, his forehead furrowed, his eyes particularly beady.

“What the fuck,” he says.

She hadn't expected him until tomorrow. After all, he'd already withdrawn his five hundred for the day. She holds on to the arm of the couch and scoots back as far as she can.

“How the hell am I supposed to live on nothing?” he asks.

“I couldn't take out any money when I went to the bank,” she replies. “How am
I
supposed to live on nothing?”

“You could have written a check to yourself and cashed it.” He walks to the other side of the room and kicks the leg of an armchair.

“We were supposed to have forty thousand saved. What happened to that?”

“What happened to that is bills and the mortgage and taxes. Who do you think takes care of all that?”

“I know. But I thought after those bills, we were going to have a good chunk to invest.”

“Well, I didn't account for some of the increases.”

“Over twenty thousand worth?” She stands.

“There's cable and phone bills. Car insurance. Health insurance…”

“Wait. I pay for health. And how much can phone and cable be?”

“That's not the point. You transferred all of the money.” His eyes look swallowed by rage.

“My money went into that savings.” She backs up so that she's close to the stairs.

“I paid bills,” he yells.

“Bullshit.” She stomps her foot. “Stop with the lies. I don't know what you spent it on, but you're not spending my money anymore.”

“How am I supposed to eat?”

“Get a job.”

“Fuck you.” He marches toward her.

She walks backward up a stair. “I have to look after myself too.”

“Then we're going to have to live in this house together,” he tells her.

“Is that a threat?” she asks.

“It sure won't be pretty with the two of us here.”

She holds the banister and continues stepping backward, feeling her way up to the landing. When she looks down at him, he is thin and hunched, no longer her handsome husband who looks fifteen years younger than his age. How can the man she always thought was perennially good-looking, blond with a boyish grin, suddenly be red-faced and gnarly?

“You can have your study and the guest room,” she tells him. “The bedroom is mine.”

“Trust me, I don't want to be in there with you.”

Considering the fight they've just had, his comment shouldn't faze her, yet it stings, and as soon as she closes the door to the bedroom, she cries. Quietly, of course, so he can't hear her.

 

Hannah

Hannah and Adam take separate cars to the station. Sam goes with Adam. They arrive at the same time and wait at the front desk. Two women officers nod but don't get up. No one comes to help.

Hannah raps her fingers on the counter. She can't stay in here for long. She has to keep moving, keep looking, get back home, try all the neighbors' houses. God, Gabby. How could she not have thought of Gabby? Of course that's where Alicia would go. Hannah takes her phone out of her pocket and finds Gabby's number.

She picks up after two rings. “Hi,” she says cheerfully.

“This is Mrs. Jenkins. Is Alicia with you?” Hannah holds her breath.

“No. I haven't seen her since the other night when I babysat. Is something wrong?”

“She didn't come home after school.” A policeman who looks about eighteen approaches. Adam makes a motion for Hannah to get off the phone.

They sit on the orange vinyl chairs in the lobby of the new station.

“My name is Officer Kadlik. I'll be taking the report.”

“Our daughter didn't get on the bus this afternoon,” Adam says. “We've checked everywhere, and we can't find her.”

Officer Kadlik has light green eyes, and his smooth skin looks like it has no pores. He would be easy to photograph.

“You checked with all of her friends?” he asks.

“Of course,” Hannah says. “We tried everyone.”

“And you're sure she's not asleep at home somewhere?”

“Yes, I'm sure she's not asleep at home.” Hannah knows she sounds snarky, but this guy doesn't seem to be getting the urgency of the situation.

“Ma'am, I need to ask. It's funny how many times the child is sleeping at home.”

Nothing is funny about this. “She's not home. I'm sure.”

“And has this happened before?”

Hannah glances around. They need someone older and wiser.