 |
|
|
|
New Voices From San Francisco |
||
|
|
|
|
New Voices From San Francisco |
||
|
"SoMa
Literary Review" Author By Melodie Bowsher Review:
Special Preview!
Thinking
back, I can’t recall anything unusual about that day. No “funny
feelings” tickled the back of my neck; no suspicions nagged my
subconscious. Some time later, when I looked up my horoscope for that day,
I found the stars provided no hint that I would never again feel safe or
confident about the future. I would have laughed in scorn if anyone had
predicted that I, the homecoming queen, the most popular girl in my high
school, would soon be homeless and alone, bedding down in a unheated
camper with a knife under my pillow. Even
now, five years later, I still wonder – if I had known, could I have
somehow changed the outcome? That
day began in the usual way. I ignored both my alarm and the sunlight
streaming in my bedroom window and stayed burrowed in my warm bed. I was
often late and sometimes skipped first and second period entirely. I was
an expert at imitating my mother’s handwriting and always wrote a
plausible excuse for myself… Please
excuse Ashley’s tardiness, as she wasn’t feeling well, blah, blah,
blah. I wasn’t fooling the school’s attendance secretary, but she
was obviously sick of dealing with me. The administration was pretty lax
with the graduating seniors spring semester, no doubt in happy
anticipation of our imminent departure. That
particular morning I managed to throw off my comforter at the last minute
and rushed around showering, applying makeup, wriggling into my jeans and
favorite red tank top, pulling on my wedge sandals and stuffing my gear
into my backpack. A generous squirt of Obsession on my neck and I was
ready. As
I dashed for the front door, my long dark hair still damp, I saw that my
mother was on the telephone. That, too, was ordinary – she was always on
the telephone speaking in a low, intense tone to someone.
I assumed she was talking to her best friend Gloria or her loser boyfriend
Phil. I assumed that nothing my mother was talking would be of interest to
me. I was wrong about a lot of things back then. Even
if she hadn’t been on the telephone, I didn’t want to talk to my
mother that morning. We’d had a screaming match the night before. To
tell the truth, I didn’t want to remember what I’d said or how my
mother had looked, standing on the lawn with the rain pouring down, her
nightgown soggy and clinging to her torso, her face twisted, tears running
down her cheeks and melting into the rain. I was determined not to think
about that. Pretending was a skill we both had perfected over the years. School
ended at noon all that week and, when the final bell rang, I lingered to
gossip about graduation and the senior trip to Hawaii, only five days
away. That made shopping for the trip a priority. Mara was showing off her
new bag, which she bragged was a Gucci like mine. I gave her a scornful
smile and whispered in my best friend Nicole’s ear “Oh, puh-leez. Who
is she kidding? I can spot a knock-off a mile away.” My
boyfriend Scott tried to persuade me to go surfing with him and his
buddies at Granada Beach. But I didn’t feel like watching and cheering
while he played jock all afternoon, especially since the coast is usually
foggy in May. Instead, I told Nicole I’d go shopping with her at four,
then steered my little red Jetta toward home. Now
that last night’s storm clouds had cleared, it was one of those
picture-perfect spring days. I put the sunroof down and felt a warm glow
on my neck and shoulders. Every garden I passed seemed to be bursting with
flowers. I could almost smell the blossoms. As
I drove, I sang along with Sheryl Crow on the radio. Twenty
minutes later I was stretched out on our redwood lounge chair, clad in my
size two bikini and tropical suntan oil, with a diet soda by my right hand
and cell phone at my left. My cat Stella was lying beneath my chair,
lazily licking her orange fur while remaining alert for any stray
butterflies or bumblebees that might need chasing. Thumbing through the
latest issue of Glamour magazine, I began planning all the clothes
I would buy to wear in Hawaii. I wanted to find a really hot red dress. I
considered red my signature color, and not just because it looks fabulous
with my shoulder-length dark hair. Red is center stage and that’s always
where I like to be. I
had the volume on my boom box cranked up. I guess that’s why I didn’t
hear the doorbell. What got my attention was a head appearing over the
back gate -- a male head, a cop’s head. The
cop barked, “If you turned down that damn music, you’d know I was
ringing your bell.” I
glared at him and reached over to turn down the volume. I recognized him
immediately and my defenses went up. He was the jerk who had given me a
long lecture and a speeding ticket two weeks earlier. Anyway, there
aren’t that many cops in Burlingame, one of the many suburban
communities strung along the bay between San Francisco and San Jose.
Burlingame’s finest regularly patrolled the neighborhood around the high
school so they were recognizable to all of us. “My
mother isn’t home,” I said, hoping to deflect him. Ignoring
my comment, he opened the gate and strode into the back yard. Behind him
the gate swung shut with a loud clang. He stomped over to my chair and
stood there, giving me the usual bad-ass cop stare as if I had just robbed
a liquor store or something. He was only 30 or so and sort of cute, but he
had that burly body and accusatory attitude they all have. “Now
how could you know I want your mother?” he asked. “Why
would you want me?” I said, putting on my impassive face, the one I’d
learned to use when dealing with my father or jerks like him. “You’re
blocking my sun.” He
didn’t move, just continued to stare at me. Why it is that cops always
make you feel guilty even if you haven’t done anything wrong? Finally, I
gave an elaborate sigh and reached for a shirt to pull over my bikini top.
His chilly gaze made me uncomfortable. It definitely wasn’t the admiring
stare I was used to getting from the opposite sex. Stella came out from
under the chair and rubbed up against his ankles and he knelt down to
stroke the soft fur under her chin. Cats have no loyalty. “Well,
it just so happens you’re right,” he said. “If your mother is Diane
Mitchell. Remind me what your name is again.” “Ashley,”
I said. “Ashley Marie Mitchell. Why are you looking for my mother?” He
ignored my question, the way cops do. “I’m
Officer Strobel, Ashley, and I need to talk to your mother right away.
Where is she?” “At
her office, I suppose. Look, I’ve turned down the music. That should
satisfy the old busybody next door.” I
picked up Stella and tried to stroke her, but she struggled to get free so
I let her go. She stalked away and arranged herself on a sunny patch of
grass just out of reach, her whiskers twitching as she actively ignored us
both. “I’m
not here about a noise complaint. I need to see your mother. Is she
here?” “She’s
at her office,” I repeated slowly as if speaking to a halfwit.
“That’s where she always is. The Simmons Company in Redwood City.” “She’s
not there and they’re looking for her. Any other ideas?” “Has
something happened to her? Are you trying to say she’s been in an
accident?” He was making me uneasy, though I didn’t want to show it. “There
have been no accidents reported.” I
waited for him to say something more, but he didn’t. What was he after? “Maybe
she had a doctor’s appointment or something. It’s not a big deal. Call
her cell phone. She always has it on.” “We
did. She didn’t answer.” His tone was flat, yet challenging. “It is
a big deal because we need to find her now.” With
an elaborate sigh I reached for my cell phone and dialed her number. After
six rings, I heard, “This is Diane. I’m not available at the moment.
Leave a message at the tone and I’ll call you back just as soon as I’m
able.” “This
is Ashley. Call me the minute you get this message,” I said and hung up.
“O.K., now are you satisfied? When she calls me back, I’ll tell her to
call you, officer.” “When
did you see her last?” “This
morning, before I went to school. Why?” “When
you saw her, did she tell you her plans for the day?” “No.” He
kept looking at me, so I added, “I was late for school and left in a
hurry.” “Well,
how about last night? What did she say last night about her plans for
today?” I
was starting to get uneasy in the face of his persistence. “Nothing.” “Your
mother didn’t say one word to you last night about her plans for today.
What did the two of you talk about?” I
wanted to say, None of your business,
but his stony look intimidated me. “Nothing
much. Just the usual stuff about school.” I was determined not to tell
this bully about the ugly fight we had. “Look, why are you trying to
find Diane?” “You
call your mother Diane?” “That’s
her name,” I snapped. “Most
of us call our mothers Mom or Mother,” he snapped right back. “Why
don’t you stop giving me attitude and tell me exactly what your mother
did and said last night?” “We
didn’t talk,” I lied. “I was at a friend’s house and came home
late. If you want to know what my mother did, try asking her best friend,
Gloria, or Phil, her boyfriend.” “I
will. You can give me their numbers in a minute. When does your mother
usually get home and start cooking dinner?” I
snickered. “Diane doesn’t exactly rush home to fry a chicken or bake a
cake. We both have frozen dinners or maybe pizza and not always at the
same time.” “Home,
sweet home,” he said. “She’s
busy,” I defended her. “She works long hours.” “Maybe
too long.” “What
does that mean?” I said,
scowling at him. “You’ll
find out soon enough. How old are you?” “Eighteen.
Why?” “Old
enough.” “Old
enough? For what?” I said, not even trying to keep the sarcasm out of my
voice. “Are you coming on to me?” He
snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself. Old enough means legally, you’re
an adult. How about acting like an adult and letting me look around
inside?” I
was flabbergasted. “Are you crazy? Do you think she’s hiding under the
bed or tied up in the closet? She’s. Not. Here.”
My voice rose on the word ‘here’ and turned it into a shriek. “Look,
either you let me look around or I’ll be back with a search warrant.” “What!
You are crazy! What could you
possibly want with my mother that would involve a search warrant? If you
think she’s some kind of drug dealer, you’re delusional.” “Why
would you mention drugs?” He gave me a menacing look. “Are you afraid
I might find some inside?” “No,
I’m not.” I said. Suddenly I was tired of answering his weird
questions while he avoided answering any of mine. “O.K., fine. Go ahead
and look all you want. You won’t arrest me for not making my bed, will
you?” Without
replying, he crossed the deck and walked in the back door. I took a swig
from my diet Coke can and followed. Officer
Strobel gave the kitchen a cursory look. “Oh,
look, there’s her favorite coffee cup,” I said, pointing to a mug on
the gleaming granite countertop. “Maybe you should have the contents
analyzed.” Mr.
Cool Cop ignored me and walked through the dining room and into the living
room. We had redecorated just a few months ago and I was proud of our
elegant new furniture, silk drapes, and Oriental rugs. “Very
nice,” he said. “You live well.” “Naturally,”
I said, with the nonchalant air of a duchess speaking to a dog. “That
must have set you back a few bucks.” “I
wouldn’t know,” I said frostily. “It’s a matter of taste, not
price tags.” He
was impervious to my scorn. Glancing around, he pointed to the side door.
“Where does that lead?” “We
hide our washer and dryer out there.” He
continued down the hall, glancing into the guest bathroom and then the
family room, where we kept our computer and new flat-screen television. At
the doorway of my bedroom, he stopped and stared at the chaos of clothes,
papers and books strewn across the bed and floor. “Looks
like someone already tossed this room,” he smirked. I
pushed past him and closed the door in his face. “She’s
not in my room.” When
he reached my mother’s room, he surprised me by walking across it,
opening the door to her walk-in closet and stepping inside. I perched on
the edge of the bed, pretending to study the red polish on my toes, and
called after him, “You forgot to check under her bed.” “Where
does she keep her suitcases?” he asked. “On
the floor on the left side of the closet.” “There
aren’t any here,” he said. “Of
course, there are,” I said impatiently and pushed past him to stare at
the place where her matched set of dark green luggage should have been.
The suitcases were gone! I stood there, my mouth gaping. My mother
wouldn’t go on a trip without telling me, would she? No, she wouldn’t,
I told myself, trying to erase the memory of last night’s hysteria from
my head. Suddenly I didn’t feel like being a smart-ass anymore. “She
must have put them in the garage,” I muttered, more to myself than to
him. “Is
there anything else missing – any clothes or shoes or toiletries?” he
asked. “How
would I know?” I responded, gesturing toward the bulging clothes racks. He
studied my face for a moment and asked, “Can I use your phone?” Without
waiting for an answer, he picked up the receiver next to my mother’s bed
and dialed. “Hey, Donahoe. I’m at the Mitchell house. No, she’s not
around. Uh, huh, just the daughter. She says she doesn’t know her
mother’s whereabouts. Looks like she might have skipped.” “Skipped!”
I repeated, staring at him in shock. Glancing
at my horrified face, he turned his back to me and added, “Uh, huh.
I’m going to talk to the boyfriend and then I’ll come back to the
station. It’s early yet.” The
minute he put the receiver down, I screeched, “Why did you say skipped?
What the hell is going on?” “There’s
some money missing from your mother’s office, a lot of money, and we
want to find out what she knows about it.” “You
mean you think she stole it,” I hissed. “Well, you’re out of your
mind. My mother wouldn’t do something like that.” “Maybe
so,” Strobel nodded without conviction. “In the meantime, I need those
phone numbers you mentioned. By the way, what does your mother drive? “A
Mercedes. Blue.” “Do
you know the tag number?” I
looked at him, confused at the question. “The
number on her car’s license plate,” he added. “No,
I don’t know it.” “That’s
O.K., I can get it from DMV,” he said, snapping open his notebook.
I
gave him both Gloria’s and Phil’s phone numbers and protested once
again that he was crazy for even suspecting my mother of wrongdoing. Strobel
closed the notebook. “That’s all for now. If your mother comes back,
tell her to call the police department right away. She should ask for me.
Tell her it will be a lot better for her if she calls us.” He
gave me another bad-ass cop stare and left, pausing only to give the
driveway a searching look as if he expected to see armed thugs hiding
behind the rhododendrons. “Asshole!”
I mumbled under my breath as I watched him walk away. The minute I shut the door, I bolted for the telephone and called Gloria myself.
Copyright © 2006 Melodie Bowsher |
|
|
Reproduction of material from SoMa Literary Review pages |
|
New Book! Special
Preview