Gone Missing: A Contemporary Women's Novel

PROLOGUE:

COMMENCEMENT, 1997

The girl on line in front of Marjorie unzipped her graduation gown and slipped it off to reveal a bikini. She aimed an abundance of skin at the boy standing behind Marjorie, but the show was wasted on him, fixed as he was on the toes peeking through his sandals. Judging by the reek of him, Marjorie guessed he was too hung over to appreciate nakedness. She glanced from the bikini girl on one side to the boy on the other, thankful not to be that young.

Her fingers felt for the speech in her pocket; it was still there. Because she was a non-traditional student (the dean’s euphemism for old), she’d been asked to speak on Lifelong Learning. For weeks she’d honed the speech, determined not to sound patronizing, false and, most unforgivable of all, boring. She could hear her heart hammer. Never in her life had she addressed an audience of hundreds.

Bikini girl yanked her gown shut. She glanced at Marjorie as if remarking her existence for the first time. Gahd! We’ve been standing here forever. It’s like, I’m gonna pass out from the heat. Snapping open a cell phone, she thumbed a number and catalogued her grievances to the air.

Marjorie drew near; she hadn’t yet seen an actual cell phone. They’d only just come out but were already the rage. Mike proposed to get her one for emergencies. What if she was driving one day, he warned, and the car broke down or she got caught in a blizzard or some nut job tried to run her off the road? The catastrophes he dreamt up made her laugh, but she couldn’t help feeling curious about what might well be the last technological toy of the twentieth century. Beam me up, Scotty, she thought.

Marjorie had to agree with Bikini Girl about one thing: The line of graduates had stalled. She closed her eyes to think of something else, a gift she’d had since childhood. Whenever life threatened to overwhelm, she closed her eyes and went away. Opening them now, she caught the Rocky Mountains jagged against sapphire sky. It was easy, she reflected, too easy in the daily rush, to forget they existed. Ten times a day she oriented herself by those mountains; everybody who lived on the Front Range did. You could calculate your direction without fail, because the constant Rockies towered in the west.

When a flush of heat surprised her, she scolded herself for succumbing to the jitters. Still, she reflected, it was natural to have qualms about speechifying. Her audience contained family, all three generations of them, from complaining mother-in-law to teasing children. They’d come from as near as Denver and as far as Philadelphia to cheer her on.

Because Bikini Girl had turned her back, she did not notice when the boy darted out of line to be sick in the dogwoods. Marjorie rushed to him, offering help, but he shook her away. Instantly she regretted interfering: She was a fellow-student, not his mother! At length, the brass section tooted the first strains of Pomp and Circumstance, and the graduates oozed onto the football field, leaving the boy behind.

Marjorie was searching the stands in quest of a familial face, when a camera flashed and Mike erupted, Goddamn piece of shit. The flash wasn’t supposed to go off in daylight, he muttered. He tried again, the flash went off again and again he swore. She wondered how he’d eluded the security guard. Once the processional began, nobody was permitted access to the graduates. Perhaps he’d yelled; Mike usually got his way when he pitched a ft.

She saw him beaming at her, and despite nearly three decades of marriage, she was mystified. Mike blew up over trivia one minute and then, a second later, radiated adoration at her. Although she had majored in psychology, she was helpless to explain this extraordinary aptitude for mood change.

You’re going to be just fine, he said. It’s a terrific speech.

Her eyes welled with gratitude. He was crazy about her, still crazy after all these years, he often said. She kissed him.

When a faculty member glared at them, Mike shrugged in reply. The professor urged the graduates to hurry along. Switching cameras, Mike took a few seconds of film, then thumbs-upped a good-bye. Marjorie’s chest expanded, as though her heart meant to follow him. Bikini Girl, still on her phone, gave out with a shriek. Marjorie overheard something about a yeast infection, which the girl called the coolest new group ever. Surely that could not be the name of a band, Marjorie thought. Had the popular culture marched forward without her?

She scanned faces nearby for the boy who’d been sick in the dogwoods. When she did not see him, it struck her that one day she might counsel such a boy, once she completed her Master’s, finished an internship and obtained the necessary letters after her name. By then the world would be embarked on a new century, not to mention a new millennium, and she would be (It didn’t seem possible) fifty years old.

An athletic young man with ebony dreadlocks took the empty seat next to hers. Leaning her way, he pointed a finger and confided, My mom and dad are here. In the distance she saw a blur of faces. Like her family, his was no doubt swathed in sun block and smiles. She made a silent promise to remember this moment, when she and the young stranger connected over family pride. I’m the first college graduate in my family, he announced.

I’m the last in mine, she replied, and for no reason she could think of, her eyes watered.

The wind came up, ever a possibility in Colorado. Wind could bring thunder, lightning and blobs of rain, causing graduates and faculty to flee indoors. On the other hand, it might bluster off to Nebraska, leaving sunny river trails filled with joggers and bikers. Either way, the result would be as brilliantly blue as a Disney version of the heavens. Growing up in Chicago, she’d blocked the weather from consciousness, for it was invariably bad. Here in Colorado, even when it acted like a drama queen, weather remained faithful to the promise of sunshine.

She grabbed her mortarboard in time to save it from flying away. A few graduates were not so lucky and had to leap after theirs. Meanwhile, the university band blared The Battle Hymn of the Republic and America the Beautiful, followed by orators who reverberated speeches from on high. Tapping her foot restlessly, Bikini Girl shook the phone and slapped it. Marjorie figured its batteries had died. When her cue sounded, she moved to the podium. Her major professor introduced her with words of praise which made much of her age. She smiled: If the man was trying to make her feel old and decrepit, he’d flunked. Age meant she had things to say, and now was her chance.

Gown flapping, she took the lectern, then raised her eyes to the audience, which waited politely while she opened her paper. After the first paragraph, she could tell the listeners were getting her jokes. Her intonation lost its tremor, gaining strength. As her voice warmed, she could visualize the words issuing forth. With a thrill, she mounted to her conclusion, until an odd sensation seeped between her legs, a soppiness she hadn’t felt since she’d first begun to menstruate.

All at once, her abdomen surged. The final applause afforded an opportunity to glance down, but what she saw did not register. A thickness of blood covered her shoes and part of the podium, and though she was a full-fledged college graduate and the mother of two adult children, she worried she’d be in big trouble with the grownups for making such a mess.

SPRING, 2001

ONE

Jesus Christ, Marjorie.

After pouring a cup of coffee, she glanced at Mike as he carried his breakfast dishes to the sink. Though fifty two, he seemed a full ten years younger, with thick brown hair, silver at the ears; wind-tanned cheeks; long dark eyelashes his daughter envied; dark eyebrows, now bunched with anxiety.

I’ll be fine, she said. She’d known he’d worry.

Right. Like last time, when they took you away in an ambulance. Jesus Christ, Marjorie, don’t do that to me again.

Excuse me, I was the one they rushed to the emergency room. I was the one who had her uterus scraped. I was the one whose graduation was ruined. She set down her carton of yogurt.

He glanced at his hands. You don’t get it. I thought I’d lost you.

Her throat now softened. Hey, I’m still here. All you lost was your temper.

I can’t believe the doctor threw me out of the hospital. Again, he searched his hands.

He’d probably never seen anybody carry on like an angry mama bear. You frightened him. You frightened me and the kids. Even your mother was scared.

It was the worst day of my life.

Really, it’ll be okay. The doctor says it’s just menopause.

Instead of returning her smile, he folded and refolded a dish towel. You better warn the kids. This party they’re planning for your birthday could be ruined, same as the graduation. What if you bleed all over the place? What if your dress gets soaked and you pass out again?

I prefer to wait before I tell them. They’ll want answers, and I don’t have any at this point. Besides, the kids are really into planning this party, and I’m looking forward to it. Please stop looking like that. It’s menopause, not death.

He shifted his attention to the sink, mumbling a reply she couldn’t make out. Lately, she barely understood a third of what he said. Mike joked about the resulting misunderstandings. He claimed the two of them made a perfect couple: He mumbled and she was deaf. But to her it was a grievous thing not to be able to hear your husband of more than twenty five years. She blamed her defective hearing on menopause. Why not? These days she blamed it for everything.

The phone rang, and it was Gloria, out of breath. Marjorie nodded, said okay several times and replaced the receiver. Mike had sat down again with his newspaper. Gloria’s been called on a rescue, she told him.

I don’t know why the hell she does Search and Rescue. The woman has a full-time therapy practice. What are her clients supposed to do while she’s out rescuing? Shrink their own goddamn heads?

We’ve worked out a system, Marjorie reassured him. She did not elaborate because she’d explained many times before.

He shook his head. It’s not fair to you. You have to pick up her slack.

While a hot flash groped its way up her neck and cheeks, she tore off her sweater. Once she recovered, she approached the back of his chair, placed her hands on his shoulders and kissed the top of his head. Smiling, he took her hand. Before she could return the squeeze, she had to dash to the bathroom.

Fog along the canyon roads delayed Search and Rescue until the morning. When the team manager called Gloria to announce the wait, she talked him into letting her interview the subject’s family. Anything was better, she told him, than twiddling her thumbs. From the wife she learned the subject was an experienced snow shoer, well prepared for a spring storm; he’d never gotten lost before. Before leaving, she collected a scent article for the dog.

By the time her team boarded the van, the fog was lifting. Gloria could make out the granite canyon wall to the left and the half-frozen river to the right. The driver announced, Road’s still icy, and slowed the van to a crawl. Gloria gritted her teeth. She didn’t dare let on she was about to burst with excitement. The last thing Search and Rescue tolerated was what was known as a hot shot, a volunteer who wasn’t so much a sensible, methodical team player as an adventurer, a thrill seeker, someone who got high on danger.

Gloria filled in the crew: The subject had gone snow shoeing at Owl Point with his two teenage sons, who outdistanced him. When they returned to the trailhead, where they’d parked their pickup, he wasn’t there, and when at nightfall he had still failed to show, they called 911 from their cell phone. Although the father was equipped with food and water, the question was whether, at nine thousand feet in stormy conditions, he’d had the wherewithal to survive the night. Temperatures in the mountains had dipped into single digits, and there’d been more snow.

Probably took a short cut, one of the crew said.

Gloria nodded; too many people ended up lost, disoriented and frostbitten because they’d taken a short cut.

When the van reached Owl Point, the team was met by a dog and an S&R group out of Larimer County. Gloria turned the scent article over to the handler, wondering how much the dog would be able to sniff in fresh snow. She got to work setting up a command post at the trailhead. The subject’s sons helped too, though they looked exhausted. Gloria understood: Doing something, anything, was better than waiting around.

To her disgust, Gloria was assigned to follow Mitzi, the dog. It was a waste of time being on a dog’s team, in her opinion. Dogs slowed you down. You had to stop while they sniffed everything in sight. Worst of all, they usually ended up finding the subject, which, as far as she was concerned, took the search out of Search and Rescue.

Gloria tracked Mitzi along the lower trail, where the snow shoers had started out. Although it wasn’t steep, the fresh snow was slippery. At times, Mitzi smelled something, but then she’d sink into the snow or pause to lick her privates. Eventually the group reached a viewpoint. The sky had cleared enough to make visible any fires or other signals. The boys had said their father wasn’t carrying a firearm, so there would be no shots. The good news was the snow stood only about two inches on this part of the trail, which made it possible to cover more ground in less time.

Mitzi strained in the direction of Grey’s Meadow. Well acquainted with the terrain, Gloria took the lead. Although her lungs hurt with each breath, soon she left Mitzi behind, and because the leader didn’t reprimand her, she increased her speed. Consequently, she was the first to reach the meadow, white from last night’s storm and crisscrossed with downed twigs and pine cones. If a snow shoer had left tracks the day before, wind and snow had erased them.

Gloria began searching behind logs until her teammates caught up with her. If I was lost here, I might tuck in for the night, she said to a new teammate.

He nodded. There’s plenty of brush to protect from weather.

But if he tucked in deep, she went on, he might not see or hear us, even if we were practically on top of him. The new guy, who struck her as more than a little attractive, joined in when she shouted the subject’s name.

Meanwhile Mitzi dithered out in the open. Gloria allowed herself a second of triumph but pushed it aside. The important thing, she reminded herself, was to find the subject and get him out alive. This was an S&R operation, not a competition with a dog. She smiled nonetheless.

The new team member approached. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, and despite the hard climb and altitude, hadn’t broken a sweat. He held a map out to her, his gloved finger aimed at a dot. I could search this culvert. The subject might have taken shelter there.

Great, she said. So we can have two lost souls to search for instead of one.

When he reddened, Gloria bit her tongue. After all, he only wanted to do what she wanted to do: take action. But he wouldn’t last a minute with S&R, she knew, if he separated himself from the group and got himself labeled a hot shot. She pointed to a stack of pine boughs which appeared as if they’d been piled deliberately. His puzzled expression told her he didn’t know what she wanted him to do. She called out to the leader and pointed again.

Check it out, he shouted, and her blood pumped. At last, the big moment, the one she had come for. She said to the new guy, Let’s go.

As they pulled away boughs, Gloria spotted a pair of snowshoes stowed underneath. Urgently he began clearing the rest of the brush.

Easy does it. Save some energy for the carry out, Gloria warned.

From his frown she gathered he’d taken offense again, but he took her advice. Soon they uncovered the boys’ missing father, disoriented and panicky. His face was colorless with moisture frozen on his nostrils, mustache and eye lashes. Luckily he was conscious and his pulse was strong. The extent of hypothermia would be determined at the hospital.

Gloria made way for the First Aid Support, which prepped for carry out. The manager got on his walkie-talkie and alerted the other search crew, while Mitzi, to Gloria’s pleasure, paused at a lodge-pole to relieve herself.

In the sunshine, the descent was slick; the litter carriers deliberated over each step. Gloria paused to take in the brilliant sky, rosy granite outcrops, frosted pine forest, and misty valley. Instead of the elation she usually felt, she experienced a sense of loss. It was all over. Just like that. Yes, she’d been useful: She’d found the subject alive; plus she’d outsmarted the dog. But something was missing.

A Flight for Life helicopter clattered above, hovering over the parking lot. During one of her early S&R missions, Gloria had tried to persuade a pilot to take her onboard, explaining she was a psychologist. Under his nose she’d flashed her Red Cross certification in trauma debriefing. He’d refused her request; against the rules, he’d said. Later he’d reported her and she’d gotten labeled a hot shot. She was still on probation.

Soon, she knew, the subject would be evacked to the hospital, and there’d be nothing left to do. By afternoon, she’d be sitting in her office, telling Marjorie about the rescue. There wouldn’t be much to tell, she reflected, but Marjorie would eat up every detail. She had romantic ideas about Search and Rescue.

The teenage sons reached the parking lot at a run. One went with the father in the helicopter; the other took off in the pickup. Mitzi and her handler headed back to town. Gloria was boarding the van she’d come in when she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was the new guy.

What’re you, on some kind of power trip?

She was struck by his cheeks, fiery against the blue sky. His eyes amused Gloria with their ferocity. She looked him full in the face and headed him off at the pass. How about when we get back to town, I treat you to a nice hot cup of coffee?

He looked confused.

At my place. I’ll light a fire.

His sails windless now, he conceded, I could use a cup of coffee.

Maybe, she thought, it wasn’t over after all. Maybe the day could still be redeemed.

When Gloria did not come into work, Marjorie called to see how the rescue had gone.

Never mind that, Gloria said. Mike says you’re bleeding again.

She shook her head, vowing to wag a finger at her blabbermouth husband. It’s just menopause. The doctor has given me medication. It should start helping soon.

Marjorie, that’s ridiculous. Women don’t suffer with menopause anymore. You should have a hysterectomy. You should have had it after the first episode.

Please, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The doctors are saying the same thing they said then: I should wait and see. Given that I’ve had no recurrence for four years, I plan to follow their advice.

That’s easy for them to say, Gloria protested. They aren’t the ones bleeding.

It felt as though Gloria was accusing her. As tranquilly as she could, she defended herself, I have no fibroids or masses, so they’re not pushing hysterectomy.

I can’t believe you’re putting up with this. March in there and tell them you want to be done with it.

Calm down. First of all, I’ve heard hysterectomy is over prescribed. Second, my doctor recommends hormone replacement therapy for now. We’re tweaking the dosage, timing and format. She’s confident we’ll hit on the right combination.

HRT! Studies are showing it causes cancer.

Why are you so upset? I’m simply following doctor’s orders. Besides, you aren’t anywhere near menopause. What makes you such an expert?

A pause, a breath, then, I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t stand it when you’re not your usual perfect self.

I am not perfect.

Are too.

Am not.

Double tampons and pads slowed Marjorie’s pace along the river trail. She stopped at the turtle ponds to wait for Gloria. In the west, Long’s Peak sat in a pearl gray haze. She inspected the twin cottonwoods to see if the eagle couple had returned. For a moment, she thought she saw a heron; it was a fine day when you spotted a Great Blue.

Gloria came running along the trail, her face moist and shining. Marjorie figured she’d run all the way across town. Pulling a water bottle from her pack, Gloria took a swig, after which she let out a satisfied sigh. How are the party plans coming along? she asked.

The kids know about the bleeding. Mike told them.

You should have told them yourself.

Well, you should marry George and have a couple of kids. Then you’ll understand.

I’m not marrying George, and don’t change the subject. I know this trick. I have a Ph.D. in this trick.

You said George was a dear. He sounds like a dear to me. Besides, you adore him.

Yes, but I don’t want to marry him. Plus he’s given me an ultimatum, and I don’t do ultimatums.

He only wants to shower you with jewelry, trips around the world and beach houses.

I can give myself jewelry and trips, and I like the mountains better than the beach.

He even agreed to move to Moraine so you wouldn’t have to give up your practice. What more do you want?

I’m breaking it off.

Marjorie gasped. She’d had such hopes for George. What, she asked herself, was the matter with Gloria? The woman had her doctorate, for heaven’s sake. She’d taken more additional training and seminars than all the Freudians, Jungians and Pavlovians together. But when it came to marriage and family, the woman had no clue. At age thirty-five she should have been settling down, growing up.

Marjorie stopped herself. She’d caught herself judging, a habit of mind she had vowed to conquer. You could wait and see what happens, she said gently. What’s your rush?"

Look! Gloria breathed. A fox.

Sure enough, a sleek red kit sauntered down the path. It flicked its bush of a tail before disappearing into the willows.

Cheeky fellow, isn’t he? Gloria laughed.

Don’t change the subject, Marjorie said. I know this trick. I have a Master’s in it.

TWO

Marjorie scolded herself for thinking what her son the New Ager called negative thoughts. They were self-fulfilling prophecies, he said, and he was right. So what if she was bleeding and tired and prone to night sweats, hair loss and weepiness? Others had it a lot worse. Carol Ann, for example, who at thirty three, had been diagnosed with MS; now, four years later, she’d learned she had liver cancer. During their initial visit, Marjorie had referred her to a psychiatrist who could prescribe medication if necessary. Waving away the suggestion, Carol Ann had said she had plenty of medication, enough to knock out the entire population of Moraine.

I was thinking of the pain, Marjorie explained.

Carol Ann had stretched her legs. Those ads on TV try to make you think pain’s the worst thing in the world. Well, it’s not.

Marjorie’s instinct was to ask, Then what is the worst thing in the world? But it was an absurd question to ask the dying mother of three small children. Consequently, she’d asked, What do you want our sessions to accomplish?

Just let me say what’s on my mind. Larry freaks if I tell him. The kids are too little, and my parents shut me off. It’s as if they can make the cancer disappear by ignoring it. Plus, I’ve just about used up my friends, and the support group depresses me. I’d feel better paying somebody to listen.

Now, opening the office door, she greeted Carol Ann, who settled into the sofa cushions and declared, It’s all pretty much gravy now.

For a woman with a death sentence looming over her, she seemed remarkably cheerful. Are you sure you need a therapist? Marjorie laughed.

Insurance pays for it; or at least forty percent. Hey, you’re not going to fire me if I don’t start complaining, are you?

Tell me about the gravy.

Well, I’ve done everything I ever wanted. I really wanted to get married and have kids and I did. I love Larry, naturally, but he’s also a nice person to be around, you know? And the kids, I love them so much. Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes I think I’ll go crazy if I don’t talk to an adult, which is another reason why I see you twice a week.

Marjorie smiled. She remembered when life was like that.

So I’m starting to get the house set up for Larry and the kids. I want things to be in place for them. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a control freak.

What do you want to control?

What do you mean? Carol Ann unpinned her legs, sitting bolt upright.

Marjorie noted the body language; she’d touched a nerve. Do you expect to keep Larry and the children from grieving when they lose you?

I thought you were talking about my bowels. When I lose control of my bowels, that’ll be the worst.

They spent the session discussing Carol Ann’s bowels.

Betty did not answer the doorbell. Marjorie peeked through the garage window and saw the maroon Buick. If the car was home, Betty must be home.

Her mother-in-law shouldn’t be driving, Marjorie thought for the thousandth time. Betty’s reflexes were poor. Tense and overcautious, she drove at a dangerously slow speed. She’d nearly sideswiped a child on a bicycle the other day.

Mike got upset whenever she brought up the subject. Taking away his mother’s car keys was out of the question, he insisted. For one thing, she’d flip out. For another, he had no intention of being her chauffeur. Marjorie felt they shouldn’t wait until Betty had an accident and killed somebody, but Mike shut her off.

She rang the doorbell again, and when there was no sign of Betty, used her key. Inside, the blinds were drawn, lights off. It took a second to adjust to the darkness. Betty had gone down for a nap, Marjorie figured. Then she noticed her, sitting on one of her old mahogany dining room chairs. She seemed immobile.

Oh, there you are, Marjorie said as she touched Betty’s shoulder.

Betty looked up at her. Her lips twisted to one side.

Are you all right?

Contempt crossed Betty’s face. I was waiting for you and you didn’t come.

Turning on the light, Marjorie checked her watch. I’m early, she said.

You always come at five o’clock.

It’s only ten to five now.

I hate it when you’re late. Where the hell were you?

Making a circuit of the living room, Marjorie opened the blinds, letting afternoon sun fill the rooms. The windows framed green foothills backed by silver peaks.

I can’t find my checkbook. It’s not where it’s supposed to be. Did you take it?

Marjorie scrutinized her mother-in-law. Drool threaded from a corner of her lips.

Betty pushed herself up to a standing position and walked unsteadily to the kitchen counter, where she shuffled through a disarray of papers, complaining, Where in the hell did you put it?

Her mother-in-law’s telephone featured enormous round buttons punctuated with enormous numbers in bold black. Marjorie dialed.

Mike, I’m worried. There’s something the matter with your mother.

Shit, what now?

I don’t know. Maybe she needs to see a doctor. She told him about the disorientation, the slack mouth, the drool.

Jesus Christ, Marjorie. I don’t need this. He let out a breath of disgust. Okay, call her doctor and we’ll bring her in.

It occurred to Marjorie that Mike probably ought to be the one to arrange the appointment, but she made the call.

The doctor asked Betty how she was feeling.

You’re the doctor, you tell me.

Feisty, eh? Good for you.

He examined Betty, then shook his head. Far from worrisome, Betty’s vital signs were excellent. Her blood pressure had actually improved since the last visit. He suggested Mike and Marjorie keep an eye on her diet. Sometimes elderly people did not get enough protein, or they forgot to eat altogether. Finally, he gave Betty a simple test, asking what month it was, who was President of the United States, and what plans she had for the rest of the day. She answered without hesitation: April, George W. Bush and, I’ll tell you one thing, I’m not going to some goddamn old folks home!

The doctor told Mike and Marjorie they were lucky. Their mom was healthier than most women her age.

On the drive home, Mike’s face was swollen. Marjorie moved as far from him as she could. It was just a matter of time, she knew. After they took Betty home, she waited. She