1
A phone call
"My mother is missing."
"How old is your mother? How long has she been gone?" The cop's voice was monotone, unperturbed, as if he got reports of mothers gone missing ten times a day. Who knows? Jules thought. Maybe he did.
"Seventy-nine. No, wait, that's what she tells everyone." She paused. "Eighty-four. It's been three days since any of us have heard from her."
"Do you talk to her every day?"
"No, but she always picks up when I call, and she hasn't been answering her phone all afternoon. So I called her hair salon, and she missed her hair appointment this morning. She never misses her hair appointment."
"I see. Have you been to her house?"
Jules bristled. "Of course not! We all live, like, three, four hours away. Well, Charlie's the closest, but he coaches his son's baseball team, and there's a tournament thing this weekend. Anyway, I called one of her bridge friends. He hasn't seen her either. And she recently-" She stopped again. Her mother had always been quite a private person, and Jules didn't feel comfortable airing her business to a stranger, but she supposed desperate times and all.
"Recently what?"
"Well, she received some . . . upsetting news."
The cop grunted. "Is it possible she just wanted to be alone?"
"No-I'm telling you." Jules's voice went high-pitched. Frantic, to match the feeling creeping from her stomach up to her throat like a vine. "Something's not right."
"OK, OK," he said, and Jules pictured him holding his hands up as if to tell her to calm down in the same condescending manner her ex-husband used to. If there was anything worse in life than a man telling you to calm down when you were upset, she didn't know what it was. "I'll send someone to check it out."
"Thank you." She unclenched her jaw.
"Anything else we should know about-any history of unpredictable behavior or dementia?"
She blew out a long stream of air and muttered, "Oh, just her entire life."
The man paused. "Ma'am?"
"Nothing diagnosed. She's fine. I mean, except she's missing. I think she's been kidnapped. Adultnapped. Is that a thing? Stolen. Against her will."
Though she knew deep down that Louise Constance Wilt had never done anything against her will in her entire life.
2
Ten days earlier
Louise Wilt stared at the letter.
Or rather, she stared at the envelope she had quickly stuffed the letter back into after reading it. It sat at militaristic attention on the sideboard, propped up by a Lladró figurine of a puppy peeking out the top of a woman's high-heeled boot. (Louise didn't collect Lladró or even like it, really-it was all a bit too precious for her taste, like a Hallmark Christmas movie-but she had found that the older she got, the fewer gifts she received that coincided with her actual interests.) The letter had arrived yesterday without fanfare, the way most letters do, in a plain white envelope; one of the long, rectangular ones that a bill might come in, shoved between a coupon for a $6.99 all-you-can-eat buffet at China King and the latest issue of Southern Lady-a magazine Louise felt certain someone must have subscribed her to in jest.
Thanks to a book she had read not too long ago, fittingly titled Letters That Changed the World (also a gift, but from whom, she could not recall), Louise was familiar with the idea that one letter could indeed change everything.
Abraham Lincoln grew his infamous beard based on the advice of an eleven-year-old letter writer, Grace Bedell, who stated directly and to Louise's delight, "You would look a great deal better for your face is too thin."
Tennessee House of Representatives member Harry Thomas Burn cast the deciding vote for women's suffrage thanks to a letter from his mother, Febb Ensminger Burn, admonishing him, "Don't forget to be a good boy."
Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote Uncle Tom's Cabin after receiving a letter from her sister urging her to "write something to make this whole nation feel what an accursed thing slavery is."
And while she found the anecdotes interesting, Louise didn't actually think she would ever be on the receiving end of such a letter. A life-changing letter, that is. She, of course, was not suffering under the delusion that this letter had the power to do anything as bold or sweeping as help upend the institution of slavery, but nevertheless it was upending her life considerably.
She eyed the letter again from where she sat in the tufted armchair-the one she had reupholstered with a pretty hummingbird fabric, draping the headrest with a pillowcase so the greasy dandruff from what was left of Ken's balding hair wouldn't ruin the new material when he sat in it to listen to his favorite operas. Ken had died five years earlier, but the pillowcase remained.
Louise had recognized the handwriting immediately-the small cursive slanted to the right, the bottom of each letter flattened, as if the writer had used a ruler as a guide. Though she hadn't seen it in decades, she would recognize George Dixon's handwriting anywhere.
And in twenty-four hours the letter had morphed from a simple missive to an animate object, as if it were a feral cat stealthily watching her every move. Or maybe as if it had sprouted magical properties and George could actually see her, the letter acting as a conduit of sorts connecting the two of them. But then, letter or no, they would always be connected, wouldn't they? Had always been connected. By what they had done.
The doorbell rang, startling Louise even though she had been expecting it. She dragged her gaze from the letter to the front door and grasped the handle of her cane with her clawlike grip to begin the painful process of standing and greeting her guest. For now, the letter would have to wait.
Though Louise wished it were not a universal truth, there were only a handful of women in this world who could pull off a bare face. The girl in front of her was not one of them.
No, Tanner Quimby was not technically a girl in that she was twenty-one. And yes, Louise was aware of the myriad ways society infantilized women by referring to them as girls-an entire spate of fiction was absurdly and indefatigably devoted to the practice. Yet, despite her age, Tanner was a girl.
A girl who was dressed in a way that suggested she hadn't planned on leaving her house today. (Sweatpants and a stained T-shirt. Mustard, perhaps?)
A girl who could have done with a little rouge on her sullen cheeks.
A girl who didn't want to be sitting in Louise's living room any more than Louise wanted her there.
And she wouldn't have been if that stupid Turkish rug that Ken had to have from Scott's Antiques hadn't curled up on the edge and caught Louise's toe, sending her sprawling on the hardwood, cracking her hip right in half. One surgery and two months of inpatient physical therapy later, and Louise's kids didn't think she was fit to live at home by herself any longer, even though she could walk just fine (with only minimal use of the tripod, rubber-tipped metal cane that resembled a medieval torture device). Louise had never much cared what they thought, but when Jules threatened to move in with her and Charlie started sending websites of home care workers, she chose the least of three evils: Tanner Quimby, a girl who needed a place to live, who was not a blood relation, nor did she wear orthopedic shoes. Thank God for Lucy-Louise nearly smiled thinking of her youngest-who always had been the most creative problem solver of the three, even if her executive functioning skills did leave something to be desired.
"My daughter tells me she went to high school with your mother?" Louise reached forward to pick up the dainty teacup from the coffee table, ignoring the twinge in her hip. The two had already been through all the typical pleasantries, though Louise thought it a stretch to call them pleasant, considering Tanner had thus far responded to all her inquiries with one word and as though she were sucking on a lemon.
"Apparently," Tanner replied.
Louise took a sip of the bitter brew and set the cup back on the table. She never much cared for tea but, seeing as it wasn't even noon, felt she couldn't very well offer Tanner the Finlandia on the buffet behind the sofa. "Well, would you like to see the room?"
"No. I'm sure it's fine."
"OK."
Silence overtook them once again. Louise focused on the sound of the familiar faint ticking of Ken's father's ancient grandfather clock in the hallway, startling only a bit as the first of twelve mournful rings of the bell heralded the top of the hour. Louise eyed the Finlandia bottle again.
"Why is it called a grandfather clock and not a grandmother clock?" her eldest granddaughter, Poppy, asked once.
"Because only a man would find the need to announce it every time he performed his job as required," Louise replied.
Poppy blinked, while Jules rolled her eyes in Louise's direction. "She's three, Mother. Perhaps we can wait to indoctrinate her against the patriarchy for a few years?"
"Never too early to start, dear."
Poppy was now twenty-four, and Louise had not the slightest clue whether she was indeed indoctrinated against the patriarchy, since she only heard from the girl once a year, on one of the days leading up to or away from her birthday-but never on the actual date.
Louise shivered, even though she was wearing her red Mister Rogers cardigan. She never imagined she'd own a Mister Rogers cardigan, much less six of them in various shades and fabric weights. But growing old, Louise found, was just one indignity after another.
Like how she was always cold. Even in houses where the thermostat was set to a sweltering seventy-eight degrees. (And to think-there was a time when she would flash so hot her blood would nearly boil, her skin felt as though it could melt as easily as Velveeta. Oh, the irony!)
Or how despite a near-habitual intake of calcium supplements, her bones betrayed her anyway, turning fragile as a butterfly wing, snapping in half at the slightest jarring bump.
Or how her children began talking to her as though they were degreed medical professionals and she had not passed the second grade.
Or how, one day, as an eighty-four-year-old woman, she found herself in her own living room, surrounded by Ken's mother's antique furniture, interviewing a morose twenty-one-year-old girl to be her new roommate.
She glanced at the vodka again. And then at the framed photo of her late husband, who'd died before he could suffer all of these late-in-life indignities. Lucky bastard.
"So, like . . . you just need me to drive you to your appointments and stuff, and the rest of the time I can spend in my room?"
Louise gaped at Tanner momentarily, surprised by the sudden verbosity. And then was relieved that they both had the exact same arrangement in mind. "Yes, that would be fine."
"Cool," Tanner said and slapped her hands on her sweatpants-clad thighs. "Can I move in tomorrow?"
"Oh! Um . . . well." Louise hadn't anticipated the arrangement would begin so soon. She'd only just returned to her house yesterday and had been reveling in the solitude after so many weeks spent shuffling around in the nursing facility with all those . . . old people. Louise knew she should say other old people, but honestly. That would suggest she was one of them.
She put her hand on the rubber grip of her cane and once again began the painful ritual of pushing herself up when Tanner stood. Or jumped to her feet, more like it, as easily as she blinked. Louise didn't envy much about twenty-one-year-olds, but this? She would give anything to have that agility back. She leaned heavily on the cane and braced herself for the shot of fire through her hip, waiting for Tanner to say something polite like Oh, please don't get up. I can see myself out. But she didn't. And Louise couldn't decide if she was pleased to have not been patronized or horrified that the girl was so rude. Regardless, Tanner was at the front door before Louise could even fully straighten her spine.
Tanner paused, her hand on the knob, and looked back at Louise as if she'd just remembered something. "Louise, is there a TV, like, in the room? I need one, and my mom's not letting me bring mine." She hesitated. "I guess, technically, hers."
"It's Mrs. Wilt," Louise said, clenching her teeth as the fire ripped through her hip. She closed her eyes against the pain and then opened them.
"I'm sorry?" The girl tilted her head like a cocker spaniel. Good grief, were they still teaching girls to apologize for nothing?
"My name. It's Mrs. Wilt." If Tanner was going to be here under professional circumstances, Louise saw no reason to do away with formality.
"Oh. Right."
"And this is the only TV I own." Louise nodded toward the large flat-screen on the far wall across from the couch. Another gift, this time from the children-who apparently expected her to ooh and aah over the size, when the thirty-two-inch television she'd had for fifteen years worked just fine. The benefit of having Justin Farmer's head on the five o'clock news the size of an inflated beach ball was unclear.
"As long as it has A/V input and output, it will be fine."
Louise stared at her blankly, having no idea what A/V input and output was or if her television was in want of it. "You're welcome to check."
Tanner pulled a face, as if the two minutes it would take to check would be two minutes longer than she wanted to be there. "I'm sure it's fine." And then she was gone, before Louise could even say a proper goodbye.
Louise glanced around the room as if searching for confirmation that she was not the only person to witness that abrupt and ill-mannered departure.
Her gaze landed on Ken once again.
"Oh, shut up," she said to his smug smile. He would find all of this uproariously funny were he alive to witness it. Well, not the letter, she thought, her eyes falling from her husband to George's missive. He wouldn't find that funny at all.
She wondered if he'd go pale with shock or red-faced with worry first. That was the thing about Ken-he was always so transparent with his emotions. Left nothing to mystery, which made him eminently trustworthy. But Louise had always found full transparency in a relationship to be a little overrated. Left no room for wonder. Speculation. Excitement. To be perfectly frank, it was a little boring. Anyway, Ken wasn't here. So, like everything else, she was going to have to figure this out alone.
Copyright © 2023 by Colleen Oakley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
