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Vanished
10:45PM
Their daughter was fifteen minutes late, but they were sure she’d be home soon. After all, she wasn’t that late. Besides, they knew where she was and with whom she was hanging out. She’d even sent a text at 7:22PM which read, Barely made it! Back by 10:30! ILY!
Sure they knew some parents had worry about what their children did when they weren’t at home. But they didn’t. No. They didn’t because their daughter was a good girl with good friends. They all worked hard, made good grades, went to church, and even volunteered at a local outreach program.
And every Friday for months, they did the same thing: Watch a movie at the Mega-Cina-Plex after which they’d stop by !tza P!zza! to eat, gossip, and laugh the way kids do.
She and her friends were such regular customers, the owner even had a picture of them on the wall behind the register. Yes, their daughter was a good child who was polite and respected her elders. And when she said she’d be home at a certain time, she was.
Only, this time…she wasn’t.
But her mother and father were sure there was a logical reason. So, to ease their minds, they joked about the times they missed curfew when they were sixteen and how they must have worried their own parents.
Her father laughed, “My mother always said one day I’d know what it felt like to worry that something has happened to my own child. If she were here, she’d laugh out loud at us for getting flustered over fifteen minutes!”
Her mother nodded in agreement, “Isn't that the truth! We’re just being worry warts.” She paused a moment and grinned, perhaps a bit too much, to prove to her husband and herself that she wasn’t worried before she added, “You know what? I'll bet she’s stuck in traffic. That highway is so congested. Just the other day, it took me nearly fifteen minutes to make the turn to get out of the parking lot at the grocery store.”
Her husband took a sip from his water glass to soothe his suddenly dry mouth. “I know what you mean. Sometimes, I take that God-awful back road where they’re building the apartment complex.”
His wife stared at him for a moment as she pondered what he’d said. “Well I doubt she’d do that. It’s too dark and bumpy. No. I’ll bet she’s stuck in traffic. And she knows your rule. No phone when she’s behind the wheel. Ever.” There was a hint of condescension in her voice regarding her husband’s strict rules about their daughter’s phone.
“Right. Right. Engine on, phone off!” He looked at his wife and could feel a lump in his throat because at that exact moment he was hoping his daughter would break his damn rule and call or text to let them know she was okay.
But they knew she wouldn’t because they knew her. They knew she would worry that if she broke the rules, she’d lose her phone and the right to drive for a whole month. And the thought of losing either one of those two things was unthinkable to someone as bubbly as their daughter.
That damn phone.
Her father lectured every single time she left the house with the car keys in her hand, 'Remember, Sweetie, no call is so important that you have to take it when you’re driving.'
After which her mother would add, 'Daddy’s right. It’s not safe. And remember, no texting and driving. Understand?'
And when they were done laying down the law of the cell phone for the umpteenth time, their daughter would groan and say, ‘Mom! Dad! I know! I know! Engine on, phone off. See, I’m turning off the phone. Please, stop worrying. Honestly, give me a little credit.’
They weren’t stupid though. They knew she’d turn back on her phone once she was in the car.
Then, just as she always would do, she gave them each a kiss and said a quick ‘Love ya!’ before she dashed out to the car. And, thinking she was getting away with something, she did just as they expected and turned her phone back on.
11:00PM
The grandfather clock chimed. She was now thirty minutes late.
Her mother asked, “Do you think we should call the police?”
“No, no need to bother them. They’ve got other real issues to deal with. You don’t want us to be those annoying parents who call just because their kid is a few minutes late do you?
His wife frowned slightly but nodded in agreement, “No. I suppose you’re right.”
“And anyway, the movie let out at 9:25. Maybe it didn’t start on time. Remember when we went to the show and it took them ten minutes to realize it wasn’t even playing?”
His wife chuckled, “You’re right. Oh, Lord, I think I feel a wart growing on my nose.”
The two of them snickered as he picked up the TV remote from the arm of his comfortable chair and turned it on, “Or maybe she lost track of time at !tza-P!zza! You know how she gets around her friends. Talk, talk, talk. No, I say we give her fifteen more minutes. Then when she gets home, we’ll read her the riot act. No need to get worked up…yet. Save it for when she walks through the door!”
Her mother's lack of a response was a silent, albeit reluctant, agreement to her husband’s assessment of how to deal with the issue. She picked up a magazine off the coffee table and absentmindedly thumbed through it, looking up every so often at the image on the television screen, as he channel surfed trying to find something worth watching.
And so they sat in their comfortable chairs, both of them pretending to be engaged in the mindless drivel that was late night TV, while the minute hand on the grandfather clock made its way around and around the face of the ornate timepiece.
11:19PM
Fifteen minutes came and went. And now their daughter was forty-nine minutes late. This wasn’t like her. No. Not like her at all.
Her father’s heart pounded as he grabbed the phone, “Okay, now she’s gone too far! And we both know she turns on that stupid phone as soon as she turns on the car.” His abruptness caused his wife to stare at him with wide eyes.
His face had reddened with fear-fueled anger as he smashed the numbers on the key pad, “A little late is one thing. But this is more than just a little late! And she better have one damned good reason, too!”
He was so angry but as her phone rang, he prayed, Dear God, please make her answer. I promise I won’t be mad if she answers.
His wife tried to soothe him. “Calm down, Honey. Getting upset won’t get her here any sooner.” And yet, deep inside all she could think was, I need to hear her voice! Oh, God, please let my baby answer her phone.
He frowned at his wife as he waited to hear their daughter’s voice on the other end of the line. But when an elderly woman answered, he realized he’d pressed the '3' instead of '6'. He didn’t even say he was sorry for waking the old lady. He just hung up and dialed again.
Ring…Ring…Ring…
Hi! Can’t take your call! Leave me a message.
He grumbled, “Goddamned voicemail.” Then he barked, “Where are you? There’s no excuse for being this late! And the later you are the more grounded you’ll be!”
11:33PM
She was now an hour and three minutes late.
Her mother’s hands were icy with worry. But she sat calmly and flipped through the pages of another magazine trying to keep her mind from conjuring up all sorts of horrible scenarios as to why their daughter wasn’t home. Only it wasn’t working.
Her father was anxious, too. But unlike his wife, who needed to be still, he had to move. So, he paced. And as he did, he recalled the angry sounding message he’d left, Was I too harsh? Oh, God. I don’t want to make her afraid to come home. I’ll give her a few more minutes then I’ll try again.
11:43PM
Their daughter was now an hour and thirteen minutes late.
He dialed her number and glanced at his wife. And though he tried to hide his fear, she knew her husband’s heart ached with worry as much as hers did because she could see how deeply furrowed his brow had become.
Ring…Ring…Ring…
Hi! Can’t take your call! Leave me a message.
“Hey, Sweetie, it’s Daddy. Mom and I are waiting for you. Give us a call alright? Love you.” He sighed. “She didn’t answer.”
His wife replied, “No kidding? Jesus, do you think I’m deaf or just stupid? Of course I know she didn’t answer. God, you’re such an ass.”
Her tone dripped with worry-tinged frustration and she clenched her jaw so tightly, she thought her teeth might shatter. She didn’t mean to lash out at him like she had but she couldn’t stop herself. It just happened. And instead of telling him she was sorry or even attempting to feign the appearance of someone who regretted speaking so acerbically, she started to turn the pages of the magazine harsh enough that the edge of the paper, where it met with the thick glue binding, could be heard tearing.
“Well, maybe being I’m an ass because you’re being a bitch! And Christ! Will you put down that Goddamned magazine!” He yanked the fashion journal, whose cover was graced with the visage of some willowy starlet, from his wife’s hands and threw it across the room towards a small table where family photos were kept.
CRASH!!
The magazine slammed into a tall glass vase filled with flowers their daughter had picked from her mother’s flower garden yesterday causing it to fall backwards, off the table and onto the hardwood floor where it broke, scattering the flowers and glass around the table’s legs. Water oozed across the floor like clear blood where it was absorbed by the pages of the ruined magazine. But somehow, amid the mighty blow, the photos simply fell over and remained unbroken.
11:47PM
She was now one hour and seventeen minutes late. The grandfather clock kept ticking; rhythmically, monotonously. Damn that clock! If only they could think of something comforting to say to one another to dull the droning sound created by the swinging pendulum but they couldn’t, so the painfully tedious cadence continued.
Her mother quietly walked to the table and righted each photo, making sure they weren’t damaged and then placed them in their proper spots. Once she was satisfied the photos were just right, she got down on her hands and knees to clean up the mess on the floor.
Her husband watched in silence as she carefully picked up the larger pieces of glass, gently placing them atop the magazine. She stopped and stared intently at the vibrant flowers that lay on the floor. Her husband dared not say a word because he could see from the look on his wife’s face that she was lost in a moment that he didn’t have the right to invade.
She hadn’t really paid much attention to the flowers when her daughter arranged them the other day but now as she looked at them, she was overwhelmed with the memory of watching her daughter ever so carefully put each one in the vase. She’ll be so upset when she gets home and sees what has happened.
And even though she knew it was totally irrational, her mother could not control the urge to try and make the flowers look presentable. She gently picked up and shook each flower, making sure no slivers of glass remained on the delicate things, before she placed them in the glass of water she'd been sipping throughout the evening. She tried to arrange them as neatly as her daughter had done, but no matter how she moved them in the narrow drinking vessel, the flowers still looked battered and broken. But at least she’d tried to make it right.
After her mother placed the puny makeshift excuse of a flower vase in its spot on the photo table, she reached down to pick up the magazine but was stopped.
“No, no,” said her husband, coming to stand beside her. “I’ll get that. You sit down.”
She watched her husband leave the room then return with a plastic bag and a small kitchen towel. He threw the magazine and the large pieces of glass in the bag. Now all that remained was the puddle of water and the nearly invisible slivers of glass, which he mopped up as best as he could with the towel. Then he simply threw the towel in the bag and tied it closed with a knot. After surveying the cleanup that had been done, a phrase his grandmother used to say popped into his head, It’ll never be noticed on a galloping horse.
And in the background, the old grandfather clock ticked on and on.
11:53PM
One hour, twenty-three minutes late.
If only she would call, they’d tell her how happy they were to hear her voice. If only. Only she never did.
An hour ago, her father had pushed aside his wife’s desire to call the authorities because he didn’t want to be one of those parents.
But that was an hour ago.
Now he wished he hadn’t been so proud. He cleared his throat and puffed up his chest; an act of pure bravado in the face of the devastating realization that something had happened to his little girl.
He smiled at his wife, “I’m going to call the police.” His hands trembled as he went to dial the number. He looked at her with tender eyes and added with a nervous sort of chuckle, “Knowing our girl, she’ll pull in as soon as I hang up and I'll have made myself sound like an idiot.”
His wife could see his hands shaking. She knew his forced laughter was his way of trying to make her feel better so, in return, she smiled tenderly back at him. “That sounds about right.”
Suddenly an odd question came to mind and he looked to his wife for counsel, “Should I call the police directly or should I dial 9-1-1? I mean…is this an emergency? What if they say it’s not an emergency and to call back after she’s been gone a whole day like they do on TV?”
His wife was honestly stumped, “I…I…”
To them this was an emergency of unparalleled proportions . But as far as the police were concerned, would they think the fact that their daughter missed her curfew constituted an emergency? After all, it wasn’t like their child was a drug addict or anything. She was a good kid.
Would the police tell them not to worry? Would they tell them that she was being a teenager and sometimes teenagers do things like this? Or would they chide them and demand to know why they hadn’t called as soon as they knew something was amiss?
There was an awkward silence between them and then, as if drawn like moths to a flame, they glanced at the photo of their daughter on the photo table. And they knew in that instant that this was, indeed, an emergency.
Her father had just pressed the number ‘9’ on the keypad and was about to press the ‘1’ but he was stopped by the unexpected ringing of the doorbell.
11:56PM
One hour and twenty-six minutes had passed since their daughter should have returned home from a night of fun with her friends. But the sound of the doorbell ringing ripped through their hearts because they knew their daughter wouldn’t have rung the doorbell.
No. She would’ve pulled into the garage and would’ve entered the house through the kitchen. They glanced at one another and then at the door and saw someone standing on the other side of the rippled glass. Their now jagged, torn hearts knew that whoever was on the other side of the door was a harbinger of doom waiting for them to respond.
The doorbell rang again followed by a knock and a voice, “Sheriff’s Department. Anyone home?”
They didn’t want to answer the door because if they did, then the terror they’d been trying to keep at bay for the last hour and twenty-six minutes would become real. But they had to do it. They had to open the door to the truth that waited on the other side of the partition.
11:58PM
They mustered the strength to go hand-in-hand to the door and were greeted by two men in tan uniforms. One of them held a bejeweled phone and said, “Evening, Sir. Ma’am. My name is Deputy Auberge. Do you recognize this? It was with a car registered to this address.”
Her mother replied, “Yes, it’s our daughter’s. Is she alright? Was there an accident?”
The deputy hated these sorts of calls. Because he knew these parents had no idea that if their child had been in an accident someone either on the scene or at the hospital would have called to let them know what had happened. “Accident? No, Ma’am. We found it outside an abandoned car on a back road off the highway.”
The color drained from their faces as they recalled her father’s comment about the road he often took to avoid the congested highway.
“Sir, is your daughter home?”
Her father whispered, “No, she’s not.”
12:00AM
The grandfather clock chimed the start of a new day. But for these parents, their nightmare had only just begun because their child was gone.
Vanished.
About the Author
L. Avery Brown is a former secondary level educator with over a dozen years devoted to the fields of history, special education, and curriculum development. Since 2007 she has become a devoted writer, something she's loved to do for as long as she can remember.
Professionally speaking, when Avery isn't busy working on her own writing projects, she is a freelance editor, publishing consultant, digital media promotions consultant, and literary liaison. She also prides herself in being a solid reviewer of books and maintains a website called The Magnolia Blossom Review devoted to offering writers, especially independent authors, honest, in depth reviews.
For fun, she has a personal observation and humor blog called 'When a Southern Woman Rambles...' which helped set the backdrop for her series of When a Southern Woman Rambles... books. Avery has an extensive background in US and European history. She also is an accomplished orator and thespian in both standard theatre and musical theatre.
As an author, Avery does not feel it is necessary to pigeon hole herself as a 'this kind of ' or a 'that kind of' writer and prefers to simply write the stories that she feels need to be written. Someimes they are amusing...'snort-worthy' even. Other times they are deeply sentimental and have been bring her to tears as she reads them. And then there are her full-length novels which have taken years to grow from inklings of ideas that became brief tales one day and many years later have turned into full-fledged 'Modern Literature' written for readers who want to feel a deeply personal connection with the characters in the stories. Her first full-length novel, Fly Home, Earli Byrd, is available to read right now...for free as it goes through the final editing stage and will then be queried off to several agents.
Born and raised in 'The South', Avery, a Southern Belle by birth, currently resides in Austin, TX with her family. All of her stories, the silly, the sweet, and the sentimental, have elements of her native region woven throughout them which was done wholy intentionally.
You can contact L. Avery Brown at labrown@whenasouthernwomanrambles.com She loves to hear from her readers and tries to reply to all the messages she receives. To check out her other titles, you may find them at http://www.bookrix.com/-laverybrown/ To purchase books - simply click on a title and you'll automatically be redirected to an eBook vendor.
www.whenasouthernwomanrambles.com
www.magnoliablossomreview.blogspot.com
http://brownhouseprintworks.blogspot.com
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Impressum
Texte: L. Avery Brown
Bildmaterialien: Cover Graphics by L. Avery Brown
Lektorat: Preston Randall and Judy Colella - Thank you both so kindly!
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 19.08.2012
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Widmung:
To anyone who has ever had that horrifying dream wherein their child disappears.