Lost and Found

Chapter Eleven

 We were sitting in a cold waiting room, my mother, my father, and me. It is the first time I had seen my father in months, and he looked sickly, and horrible. He was still wearing his scrubs, tired from a long day at work. We are not together, for a good reason. Harper, was missing. She was with Adrian last night, and never came home. When my mother woke up, and found her child missing she panicked. Adrian, had also not come home. So here we were, in a police station waiting room. Waiting to be spoken too. A door opened, and a man who looked about my age stepped in.

"Hi, Mr and Mrs. Vause, my name is Detective Roy. From what you told, Detective Ross your daughter Harper went missing last night?" He asked, sitting down across from us. My mother, gripped my fathers hand tightly, so tightly he winced.

"Yes, she went out with her boyfriend last night around eight, and she said she would be home around eleven, and she wasn't." My mother said. Detective Roy, was taking notes.

"Has her boyfriend been in contact?"

"No, he, he is also missing."

"Have his parents filed a missing persons report?" The Detective asked.

"I'm not sure."

"What's his name?"

"Adrian, Jacobson."

"Right, and do you have a recent photo of her?" He asked. My mother nodded, from her wallet, she pulled one of the senior photos taken of Harper at graduation. She looked, so happy. Her beautiful hair curled around her shoulders, falling in perfect ringlets. She handed it to the Detective.

"What was she last seen wearing?" He asked. My mother took a moment.

"Light wash jeans, and a white shirt, with a black scarf, chifon. She had a pink headband on too. Detective Roy sighed, setting down his notes.

"Is it within the realm of possibility she could have ran away? With this boyfriend of hers?". I blanched, my mother shook her head firmly. True, it was within the realm of possibility, but, it wasn't something Harper would do, not willingly anyway. Then, then I remembered her bloody shoulder, the rape. All of which I knew, and said nothing about. What was there to say?

At home, I dialed Adrian's number, not once, not twice, three times. It had been less than forty eight hours, and the police said they would start searching for her after that. Me for my part, I had a sinking feeling in my gut, that something was wrong, very, very wrong. Still, I bit my tongue. When she hadn't come home, my mother had done everything by the book, contacted whomever she could that might know Harper's whereabouts, she had even gone to Adrian's house, only to find no signs of life. She had tried to track her phone, only to find her location had been turned off. So, we sat there, staring sadly into our chinese takeout. My mother clutching her phone, praying that it would start ringing any minute. It didn't. My father, for his part, had called every hospital within a fifty mile radius, inquiring about a Jane Doe that fit Harpers description. There were none. As I tried to fall asleep that night, I couldn't stop my imagination from creating stories, stories in which my sister was dead, or such horrible things. I tried to block it out, but I couldn't. So, from my dresser drawer, I pulled a little white pill, and swallowed it dry. I lay there for a long while after that, it felt, like I was floating. Like I was in the middle of an ocean, waves carrying me gently. I felt peaceful, and calm, I hadn't felt that way in a long time. I fell asleep, some hour later, and woke at seven am, to the feeling of nausea. I bolted for the bathroom, staring into the toilet bowl, I felt sicker than I had in a while. My daughter, was not making it any easier for me at the moment.

In the morning, she still hadn't come home. I woke, praying to hear the shower pipes in the wall, signifying her morning shower. But the wall was silent. I tumbled out of bed, and into the hallway. I wasn't sure how late, or early it was, but the sun was blasting through windows, and Harpers door was cracked open. I opened it, hoping to find her, sitting there on her bed, reading a book, or drawing something. But her room, was empty. I entered, slowly. Her room smelled fresh, and clean, a mix of cherry blossom perfume and a floral candle. On her nightstand, there was a journal. I glanced, around a habit. I know she would hate me for doing it, but I opened the journal. It fell open to the place she had been last, her last entry.