The Wednesday Group (28 page)

“No,” Adam says. “It hasn't happened before.”

“Is that a real gun?” Sam asks.

Officer Kadlik smiles. “It is, but it's locked.”

“I want to be a cop when I grow up.”

“Sam, not now,” Adam says.

“Cute kid,” Kadlik comments.

“This is a picture of Alicia.” Hannah displays the photograph.

“I just have a few more questions before we get to that,” Kadlik tells them.

She's ready to scream. “Maybe someone else should be here to listen as well.”

“If you want, Officer Green is supposed to be back in like”—he looks at his watch—“twenty minutes or so.”

“No, we don't want to wait,” Adam says. “We want you looking for our daughter as soon as possible.”

He nods and glances at his clipboard. “She's not at home?”

“No,” Hannah and Adam say at the same time.

“And is someone at the house right now in case she comes home?”

“I called my mother,” Hannah says. “She should be there by now.” The walls are an asparagus color, the wrong shade for a police station. In fact, everything about this place feels wrong.

“Good. Because you want to make sure someone is there. In case—”

“Yes, we understand that,” Hannah says. “We need you to start looking.”

“As soon as I get the report,” he says. “Um … It's just that we have to tell you, when you file a missing child report in Massachusetts, DCF will automatically have to investigate,” he whispers, not wanting Sam to hear.

“DCF?” Adam asks.

“Department of Children and Families.”

“Why?” Hannah can't sit much longer.

“Possible neglect.”

“That's ridiculous,” Adam says.

Officer Kadlik shrugs. “Sorry, it's the law. That's why I asked you those other questions. Just wanted to make sure we had all the bases covered before making an official report.”

“She's not at home. We want to make a report,” Hannah tells him.

Kadlik nods. “Okay. What did you say her name was?”

“Alicia. Alicia Jenkins. She's nine, almost ten. She has blond hair. She's a little over four feet. Blue eyes. And she's thin.”

“How do you spell Jenkins?” he asks.

“J-E-N-K-I-N-S,” Adam overenunciates.

“Have you ever been in charge of a case like this?” Hannah asks.

“No, ma'am. This is my first … missing child,” he says carefully.

She flinches.

“I think we need someone with more experience,” Adam says.

“If you don't mind waiting.” Kadlik is about to stand.

“We do mind. Can we just get on with it?” she asks.

“Any reason you think your daughter might not have wanted to come home?”

“She was upset this morning. She overheard my wife and me having an argument.”

“About?”

Adam glances at Sam, then back at Kadlik. “Personal matters.”

“It might be better if just one of you gave the answers,” Kadlik explains. “There's a lot of, you know, private stuff. I have to know about all of her relationships. If there's anyone in the family who might want to cause a problem. Who doesn't like her, that sort of thing.”

Hannah turns to Adam. “Why don't you take Sam home? Check the houses on Forest Ave. I'll do this part.”

She answers all of Kadlik's questions quickly and efficiently. When her phone rings she jumps, sure it's Alicia. But then she looks at the caller ID. It's Bridget. Hannah can't talk. Not now. She'll explain to Bridget later that she wasn't trying to avoid her, that she's not angry anymore about what happened in group. Hannah ends the call and turns her attention back to the young police officer.

*   *   *

It's been hours. Not a word from anyone. Hannah paces from one end of the living room to the other as Adam sits on the couch next to the lamp, which projects a round glow onto the ceiling.

“I feel like we should be doing something,” Hannah says as she begins to bargain with God.
Take my life, just let my daughter be okay.

“I know. But they told us the best thing we could do is wait here. She could come home any second.”

“I just keep thinking of all the things I should have done differently.”

“Don't torture yourself like that.”

“I can't help it.” She stops in front of him. The dim lighting shades his eyes. “I've been grouchy and tense with the kids. Alicia's sensitive. I should have been more aware, not so wrapped up in my own pain. I should have—”

“Stop.” He stands to hold her, but she takes a step backward, as if he's about to strike. “Please don't blame yourself. If it's anyone's fault, it's mine. I put you in that pain.”

“What if I would have talked more about myself in group? What if I would have told them what was really going on? I'm so caught up in appearances.”
Please God, do anything you want to me, just don't let Alicia be hurt.

“We can what-if ourselves to death. It's not going to change anything.” He sits.

She begins to pace again. “I blame you. But I have a part in this too. I've been so ashamed of you, of us. So frightened of everything, of people finding out you might be gay, of the children learning.” She shakes her head.
I'll be okay with anything if she's okay.

“Hannah, I'm not gay.”

She doesn't reply. She keeps pacing, from the portrait of the children back to the light switch on the other wall.

“Hannah, did you hear me? I'm not gay.”

She stops and looks at him. “How do you know?”
He can be gay if Alicia is all right.

“I love you. I love making love to you. What I've done with other men isn't about you. It's a compulsion. Something I have to keep working out.”

“But will you? Work it out?”

“Yes,” he says without a beat or pause.

“And then?” She would give up her husband for her daughter.

“I don't know. Maybe we can move past this. Maybe we can't.”

“I hate the maybes.” She's moving again. “Maybe they will find Alicia. Maybe they won't. I need something more solid.”

“I love you. You're a wonderful, kind mother.”

“I'm going to call the station again.” She veers off her path, eyeing her phone on the glass coffee table.

“They'll call us the minute they know anything.”

“I have to do something.”

Adam stands. He puts an arm around her. “Let's go for a walk around the block.”

“What if she comes home?”

“Your mother is here.”

“I can't leave the house.” She wants to scream, kick the wall, smash the lamp.

“Okay, then we'll stay here. We'll pace together.”

“If they find Alicia, I'm going to call Bridget and Lizzy and Gail and tell them I'm sorry. Tell them I want to keep meeting with them. That I'll talk to them, work through all this mess inside of me. I'll volunteer more at Sam and Alicia's school. I'll spend more time with my mother. I'll—”

Adam wraps his arms around her. “Shush,” he says. “They'll find her.”

“You don't know that.”

He holds her tighter. “They'll find her,” he says again.

Her weight shifts into his. She believes him. She has to.

 

Lizzy

Lizzy and Greg have stayed in their respective rooms for the past few hours. She's cried, tried to rest, checked e-mails, thought about calling Kathryn, and even made a feeble attempt at meditation. But the knots in her stomach and her heart and lungs remain.

She feels like a prisoner, and then she thinks about a speaker who came to the high school a few months ago. He was wrongly incarcerated for seventeen years, until DNA proved his innocence. To Lizzy it seemed the worst of all fates, but he wasn't bitter. With his long white hair, he stood in front of an auditorium filled with teenagers, who were mesmerized as he told them that he decided that this was his journey, and he would use what he learned to help others. He didn't allow resentment and bitterness to win.

Neither will Lizzy.

She e-mails Valerian.
If you are still looking for volunteers, I would love to spend time helping. I am available immediately.

Next she e-mails Joe.
Now that I understand my situation, I will take your advice and stay out for the remainder of the year. I will return in August.

She signs onto the banking site where they have their mortgage and pays the next three months.

Valerian replies.
We would love to have you. Although we cannot pay anything, we are happy to provide room and board.
She wasn't expecting to get paid.

She cancels the phone, Internet, and cable. As her students would say, she gets unplugged.

Finally, she packs a bag with light clothes and a few toiletries.

Without Internet, Greg's central line has been shut off. He will go into a rage when he realizes it. It's not him. It's his addiction. She understands this. She also understands that it's time to leave.

The alarm clock next to her bed reads 8:43.

She should feel sad, maybe scared, but she doesn't. Instead she feels as if she knows exactly what to do, as if this was meant to be all along, and finally the turmoil inside of her is gone. She imagines a rock garden with a serene pool of water. Strange after all of this, after the nights of hoping Greg would make love to her, after the humiliation of sitting in Joe's office, after this morning's financial blow, she is neither ashamed nor disappointed.

She pauses at Greg's study door and holds up a hand, about to knock, but then lets it fall. His addiction owns him. There's no point in saying anything.

She switches on the front porch light and carries her one bag to the car. As she backs out of the driveway, she pauses to look at the home she's leaving. It's just a big yellow box. It's amazing she's lived in it for eighteen years and can't think of a thing she'll miss except for the blueberry bushes in the backyard.

She parks at the bus station and leaves the key under the driver's seat. Greg can pick up the car if he wants it. Eventually she'll write to him and let him know where it is. She buys a one-way ticket to Logan Airport and gets off at Terminal A, just a short walk from the Hilton.

At the hotel reception desk, she's tempted to take a suite but decides a double is more practical, and there's no need to waste money. No need to be like … But she stops the thought. Let go of the bitterness.

Her room overlooks the control tower that pulsates with red and white bursts of light. She unpacks a couple of things. When she puts her toothbrush and toothpaste on the countertop next to the sink, the room feels officially hers for the night.

And then her fingers begin to tingle a little. At first the sensation is stronger in her left hand, and she thinks it might be a sign that she's having a heart attack. But soon the sensation is in her other hand as well. The decision to leave Greg had come relatively easily, and she had naively expected the blush of confidence to last. On the ride to the airport, she imagined the peaceful solitude of an anonymous, temperature-controlled, sterile room. She did not plan for her nerves to suddenly kick in and her head to feel as if it were stuck in the static between radio stations. Electrical disturbances pulse like jagged peaks of interference.

She leaves her room and takes the elevator to the lobby, where she finds the hotel lounge. A few people dotted throughout scrutinize their phones or iPads. Lizzy has a moment of panic. What if she needs to get in touch with someone? What if someone needs to get in touch with her? But after a moment, sadness replaces the unease. There is no one that important.

She asks the waitress for a cranberry juice and vodka. The first few sips taste cool and refreshing. The static lessens. A couple walks in, and although the woman touches the man's arm as he leads her to a table, there is something terse about her, and Lizzy wonders if she's a hooker, and if the man is a sex addict.

She orders a BLT and another drink.

A man who appears fifty-something, with dark, hooded eyes, nods at her. She pretends to look for something in her purse, then stares at the round table. A few moments later, she glances up. He's paying the bartender. Of course she didn't want him to come and talk to her—what would she say? But she feels let down. He's wearing a gray suit that has an expensive way of hanging. It seems he's about to leave, but then he turns to look at her. She's caught watching him and lowers her head, giving him time to walk out in privacy.

Instead he approaches her table.

“Carlos.” He extends a hand.

“Hi.” She shakes his hand quickly, not wanting to seem eager or over-personal.

“May I?” He points to the chair across from her.

“Sure.” Her smile is as quick as her handshake. “I'm Lizzy.”

“On your way to somewhere?” he asks.

“Yes. And you?” She finishes her drink. Two is her limit, three will give her a migraine, although at the moment she doesn't care.

“Back home.” His short gray hair, spiked with gel, reminds her of a hedgehog.

“And where is that?” she asks, playing with the stirrer in her glass.

“Madrid,” he says. “May I buy you another?” He glances at her drink.

“Yes. Why not?”

He raises his hand. “A whiskey for me, and another for the lady. Whatever it is she would prefer.”

“The same,” Lizzy tells the waitress.

“So, you did not say where you are going to.” He has sleepy eyes, no wedding ring, and just enough of a belly to suggest he's not into any sort of extreme workouts.

“Peru. The jungle.” She likes the way it sounds. The waitress comes with their drinks, and Lizzy feels herself relax.

“For pleasure? Research?” he asks.