Vanish

Chapter 5

Two weeks later, I let myself into the apartment and headed straight for my room, eager to check my emails. Something I hadn't done until I'd met Ronan. I relished my anonymity in New York City, having abandoned all my social media accounts after Noah died because of the vitriol my so-called friends had plastered online. No one back home had my new email address and I liked it that way.

What I liked more was corresponding with Ronan.

We'd struck up a friendship via email. Talked about music and life and stuff. I'd learned he was twenty-one, lived alone, worked in IT, but would rather be a full-time musician. He'd sent me videos and vlogs of his band and while I didn't like the old-fashioned music, I loved watching him.

The way he looked on stage holding the sax, almost caressing it, his eyes closed, his expression rapturous... I was surprised I hadn't worn out the return button on my keyboard, I'd watched him on repeat that many times.

Tomorrow was my last session filming him before I edited the footage and handed in my life studies assignment. He'd been so patient while I'd trailed after him, answering all my dumbass questions, oblivious to the fact I was more interested in his hotness than his music tutoring.

The annoying thing was, I could be myself when we chatted online but around him I turned into a shy, uncomfortable dork. Having a crush on an older guy was so cliché but I couldn't help it. He was that...nice. Laid-back, funny, charming, and fun to be with. And probably thought of me as nothing more than the girl who couldn't string two words together around him.

I unwound my scarf, took off my jacket, and flung them onto the chair in the corner of my room before sitting at my desk and opening my laptop. My gaze instantly fixed on the envelope icon along the bottom of the screen.

Nada.

Damn. I'd been counting on an upbeat email from Ronan before I performed what had become a bi-monthly ritual: calling Mom.

She didn't answer anymore and it hurt. A lot. I knew she was okay because Angie regularly spoke to her and gave me updates. Yet when I called the last few times, the answering machine picked up. I'd grown to hate it.

At first I'd been resentful and angry, and the messages I left reiterated that. But since then, each time that machine beeped when I called, sadness would make me choke up and I'd leave a few terse words that virtually said nothing beyond "why can't my own mom talk to me?"

Today, I'd try to reach her a different way.

I'd abandoned Noah, and he'd killed himself.

If anything happened to Mom...

I couldn't keep beating myself up over it but late at night when I couldn't sleep, with car horns and loud voices and thumping bass—the sounds of New York City—filtering into my room, I'd wonder if I'd done the right thing in leaving her.

Before remembering how crappy my life had been the last five years and knowing I would've gone nuts myself if I'd stayed any longer.

I hit the speed-dial number on my cell and waited, holding my breath, mentally reciting a plea that she'd pick up.

One ring. Another. Before the click over onto the machine, the perky message I'd recorded years ago played, and then the dreaded beep.

The air whooshed out of my lungs as I grappled with finding the right words to get through to her.

"Hey, Mom, it's me. Hope you're doing okay."

Yeah, right. She'd probably answer the phone if she was.

"I'm fine. Made some new friends."

I left out the part that Ronan and Seth were male. Not that she'd care. She hadn't cared about anything I did in a long while. But a small part of me didn't want her worrying about me hanging out with guys again, as she'd had a major relapse after Noah's death.

"And I have a new study partner, too, so my grades are good."

The trivialities exhausted, I launched into the latest way to get through to her: reminisce.

"I've been filming a music tutor at school for an assignment, and it reminded me of your bodhran. Remember how I loved drumming on it? You'd draw a chalk circle on the ground and gather your althame and candles and stuff for a ritual, while I pounded on it. It was the best fun."

And it had been. I'd loved Mom's Celtic bodhran, a flat Irish drum made from goatskin. She'd said drumming was a way to commune with the gods and goddesses, but I just liked the way it sounded and the fact I felt a part of Mom's rituals, even though as a kid I had no idea what they really meant.

Feeling like an idiot for babbling into the machine, I continued: "I've been burning your favorite essential oils, too. Lemongrass, peppermint and grapefruit. Reminds me of home..."

My voice hitched and I swallowed, willing the tears away.

"Angie's calendula and chamomile salves aren't as good as yours so maybe you could make some again?"

Mom hadn't made any salves in years but I wanted to jog her memory, wanted to snap her out of the stupor that was her life these days.

"Anyway, I have to go, Mom. Take care and we'll talk soon."

My hand shook as I hit the End Call button and flung my cell onto the bed. I had no idea if any of that stuff I'd said would make an ounce of difference, but I'd keep trying to get through to her.

Dashing a hand across my eyes to stave off tears, I wandered toward the kitchen in search of a snack. The scent of juniper hung heavy in the air, a remnant of the incense Angie burned for her rituals. Most of them occurred when I was at school, and while my aunt regularly tried to sway me to her Wicca ways when I was growing up, she'd pretty much left me alone since I'd come to live with her.

Thinking of Angie made me think of Mom, and made me sad all over again.

I needed a choc-chip ice-cream fix to cheer me up, and then I'd face the arduous task of editing the footage I'd filmed at school so far. It would take ages, because checking scenes featuring Ronan would be tough. I'd have to watch them over and over to ensure I got my assignment just right.

Beware...

I froze. Stuck my fingers in my ears, jiggled them, vowed to dry them better after every shower.

Because I hadn't heard a voice.

Had to have been the rush of air coming from the open window in the kitchen as I entered.

I couldn't fathom any other explanation.

Especially not the one that insisted the voice I'd heard during that final confrontation with Mom at home might just have followed me here.