The mess that was her life.
All alone, she had no buffer of distractions to take her mind off Lily’s disappearance. It intensified an old feeling. She always felt out of it for days after Kristen left on one of her month-long visits to her dad in Vancouver, yet the lulling, biscuity scent of the top of her head stayed behind, her hair still baby soft even though she was six now, grubby paw prints left all over the fridge and mirrors because Rita couldn’t bring herself to wipe them away. The solitude — the “me” time — she thought she’d been craving for months oppressed her with its quiet monotony until she would force herself to go to the gym, call up her single girlfriends, get dolled up and go out, drink too many gin and tonics, flirt with some dude who wanted to buy her another, go home with him maybe.
Kids were playing Hacky Sack in the park outside her window, their loose Guatemalan garb flapping like kites in the wind. She thought she recognized the kid with shaggy hair — hadn’t he been in her class a few years back? How surprised he’d be to see Mrs. Takemitsu here in Kensington Market. A sudden impulse to sneak up on him, bum a smoke. Her students probably pictured her in some prissy, oatmeal-bland house out in the suburbs, which wasn’t that far off from where she’d lived before the divorce. But this was where she’d always belonged, this was where she’d spent her happiest art-school days, amid the incense and rotting garbage and graffiti-covered alleyways. Throughout all those sham years of her marriage, her real self had remained right here, fingernails caked with cyan and sienna.
No doubt Lily would be less than impressed with Rita’s new digs. She wouldn’t see charm in how the sunlight filtered through the grungy bay window, showing off the stained glass panel. The chipped marble fireplace had been blocked off, unfortunately — it was a fire hazard to let your tenants roast marshmallows, the landlord had said with a laugh — but it would still be perfect for hanging Kristen’s stocking up at Christmastime.
If Lily were anywhere to be found, Rita would invite her over for dinner. She’d been meaning to do so for a while. For years, really. Right. Well, better late than never. Tears prickled her eyes. Something — some guilt or bitterness or regret — strangled her breath, the edges of the room fading, blurring. Chicken from the European butcher, rubbed in cumin. A tomato and avocado salad, everything perfectly ripened. She imagined them feasting and drinking wine until their cheeks were flushed and tingly, as though they were the kind of mother and daughter who did this all the time.
Three days earlier, the phone call.
“Rita, is that you? Is your mom there?” It was Gerald, his voice staccato.
“No, why would she be here?” Rita rubbed her eyes and sat up, the alarm clock a fluorescent blue blur. Her glasses slid on. 6:48.
“Lily’s gone — I can’t find her anywhere.”
A dull ache spread up the nape of her neck. Queasiness filled her stomach.
It was almost seven, no need to get alarmed. Lily might have just stepped out for milk. Maybe she’d stopped somewhere for a coffee and cruller. Normal people did such things.
Still, Rita skipped her shower. Just brushed her teeth, popped in her contact lenses. Her coffee maker was packed away somewhere, so she cracked open a Coke.
Her little white Dodge Colt made sputtering noises, but it had been doing that for a while now. The drive up Yonge had never been so fast, so quiet, the street like a deserted fairground. Willowdale, what a different world. Wartime bungalows interspersed with pseudohistorical, newer houses and a couple of horrendous hacienda-like mansions. Their house was fairly inconspicuous until you noticed the pair of lion gargoyles that Gerald’s first wife had had installed around the door before dying of cancer.
It had been a while since Rita had felt this fear and doom wrapping around her, nuzzling up, like an old pet. Lily was missing and this might be the beginning of one of her bad spells. Maybe this time she wouldn’t be okay. Oh, God. It felt so familiar, so horribly familiar. More normal than the state of something resembling happiness that Rita would experience upon driving her daughter to daycare and baking banana bread and standing in front of the chalkboard, thirty bored faces peering at her. Those moments frightened her with their precariousness, their porcelain fragility. What a fake she was. Living in a state of crisis came naturally to her (at least that’s what Cal had said at their last marriage-counselling session, right before they’d agreed to throw in the towel). Although Rita didn’t entirely agree — surely, the breakdown of their marriage also had to do with his overly close “friendship” with a certain platinum-blond hygienist — she could admit, in retrospect, a grain of truth. It was just easier, in her experience, to assume everything was on the verge of turning to shit.
And now, what did you know? It was actually happening.
Gerald greeted her at the door, his weather-beaten cheeks infused with fiery energy, blondish-white hair flying off in all directions. “The police just got here. Officer Davis and a Chinese guy.”
In the kitchen, the Chinese guy introduced himself as Officer Lee. Pretty hard to remember that name, Gerald. He had Buddha-chubby cheeks that made him look incredibly young. It was unusual to meet an Asian cop; Rita didn’t think she’d ever seen one before. She felt a pang of sympathy over the flack he’d had to take from his family for not going the med-school or MBA route. Officer Davis also appeared young. Muscular build, ice-green eyes, a sandy ponytail. Pretty in a plainish way, if a bit heavyset. She looked bored; they both did. These rookie cops were dragged out to house calls on the hour, placating people about their vandalized sheds and missing dogs — the dull stuff that never led to car chases or drug busts.
“So Mr. Anderberg was telling us about Lily’s disappearance,” Davis said.
“As I was saying, I woke up real early. Her side of the bed was empty. I thought Lily was just in the bathroom at first, but when she didn’t come back, I thought, okay, she’s down in the kitchen with a cuppa Ovaltine. You know how she is with her sleep troubles.”
“Yeah, it runs in the family.” Rita wondered what other sleep habits he’d discovered. According to Cal, she was no better, gnashing her teeth like she was chewing up eggshells.
“So I went down to the kitchen and Lily wasn’t there. Searched the entire house, even the garage. That’s when I discovered her car’s gone.”
“What about her purse?” Lee asked.
“Ditto.”
“So she went out somewhere.”
“In the middle of the night? Why’d she leave without telling me?” Gerald’s voice was anguished.
“Look, Mr. Anderberg, let me give it to you straight up.” This was Davis now. “In ninety percent of these missing person cases, the person shows up within a day, at a friend’s house or something. Went out, forgot to leave a note, that sorta thing. So the first thing for you to do is put together a list of Lily’s family and friends and start calling around.”
“I’m not familiar with her friends in the Japanese community.” Gerald looked over at Rita.
“Me neither. But if you give me Mom’s phone book, I’ll see who I can recognize.”
“That little black book’s always in her purse.”
Rita stared back at him, an ache forming across her forehead.
“In any case, you folks need to put your heads together,” Davis continued.
“Where’s Tom?” Rita asked. Stretched out in business class, a Caesar in hand, coasting to the other side of the world, most likely. Her brother had an amazing ability for being unreachable at times like this.
“No idea. Left him a message. Told him to get his butt over here.”
Bank and Visa statements fanned across the kitchen table. Davis explained that they’d be monitoring Lily’s accounts for withdrawals and credit card charges, which would indicate where she was spending money.