A Visit to Emily's
Hi, moms!
Normally, I wouldn't go over to Emily's house without calling. I did try her landline. No one answered. Emily had given me her keys and asked for the keys to my house. I'd been so impressed because it seemed like such a sensible, grown-up, mom thing to do. Plus it meant we were really friends. We could use the keys in an emergency. Or even if we just arrived early for a playdate and the other wasn't home. This was an emergency. I didn't want to invade Emily's privacy, but I had to make sure that she hadn't fallen or hurt herself, or that she wasn't ill and in need of my help.
I couldn't bring the boys. What if I found something dire? My imagination was running wild. I imagined her house smeared with blood, Charlie Manson–style. I pictured her in a bathtub full of blood.
I decided to stop by Emily's on my way to pick up the boys at school.
Just pulling into her driveway felt dangerous and spooky. It was raining slightly; a wind was shaking the trees, and I felt like the branches were saying, Don't go there. Don't go there. I'm joking. I'm a sensible mom. I don't hear the trees talking.
I felt a lot better when I spotted Emily's housecleaner Maricela's car in the driveway. Maricela told me she was just finishing up, which was comforting. If Emily were dead or lying helpless somewhere in the house, Maricela would have noticed.
Maricela is an angel. I only wish she worked for us, but Miles and I can't afford her.
She said, "The senora said she'd be gone four days. She said I should come to clean and then again to see if the plants need water."
Four days! What a relief!
"Have you heard from her?"
"No. Why would I?" Maricela asked sweetly. "Senora, are you all right? Would you like something to drink? Food? The senora left beautiful fruit in the fridge."
Beautiful fruit was a good sign. Emily meant to return. I asked for a glass of water, and Maricela went to get it.
It felt strange to sit on the couch where I'd spent so many hours with Emily. Her big, comfy sofa felt suddenly lumpy and strange, like something you could sink into and never climb out of. Like a Venus flytrap couch. I considered searching the house for clues.
Why hadn't Emily said she'd be gone four days? And why didn't she return my calls? I knew my friend. Something awful had happened.
Being in Emily's house made me feel even more jumpy and scared. I kept expecting her to walk in and ask what I was doing. First I would feel relieved, overjoyed to see her, and then maybe guilty, even though she'd given me plenty of reason to drop by.
Where is she?I felt like whining, like a child.
I looked above the mantelpiece at the photograph of the twins. There were so many gorgeous things in Emily's home: Persian rugs, Chinese vases, iconic design pieces, masterpieces of midcentury modern furniture. Davis would have loved her house, if only he'd lived to see it. But Emily made a point of showing me the black-and-white photo of the two girls in their party dresses and hair bands, so oddly beautiful and so haunting, half smiling at some secret knowledge.
Emily said, "That photo cost more, and I love it more, than anything in the house. If I told you how we got it, our friend in the auction house would have to kill me. Which twin do you think is the dominant one?"
It was almost like déjà vu or a memory of another life. My other life—when I lived in the city and worked at a magazine. A home-decorating magazine you can buy at the supermarket checkout counter, but a magazine nonetheless: a cover, paper, text, photos. I used to have a life in which I met people who made odd comments and asked interesting questions and had beautiful, unexpected objects in their houses. People who talked about something besides what after-school lessons their kids were taking and whether you could know if the tomatoes were really organic. People who had fun!
"I don't know," I'd told Emily. "Which twin do you think?"
She said, "Sometimes I think one, sometimes the other."
"Maybe neither," I said.
"That never happens," she said. "There's always a dominant one, even in a friendship."
Was Emily the dominant friend? I looked up to her, I know . . .
Now my friend was gone. And there were the twins, still looking at me with their tender, inscrutable little faces.
The living room was perfect. Naturally. Maricela was here. On the coffee table—Davis would have known what midcentury modern genius designed it—was a paperback book. A Patricia Highsmith novel. Those Who Walk Away. Sticking out from the pages was a bookmark from our local bookstore. That was when it occurred to me—not quite in a flash, more like a flicker—that Emily might have walked away. Left her son with me and taken off. People walk away. It happens. Their friends and neighbors and family members say they never ever suspected.
I decided to read the Highsmith book for information I might have missed. Information about Emily. I couldn't take her copy. When she came back, she'd be annoyed. I'd order a copy if the library didn't have it. If I could just keep cool and stay reasonable, everything would work out. All this would turn out to be a bad dream, a mistake, a misunderstanding that Emily and I could laugh about, later.
Maricela brought me water in a polka dot vintage glass. The perfect glass. Even the glass was so Emily!
"Drink," Maricela said. "You'll feel better."
I drank the cold clear water. But I didn't feel better.
I thanked Maricela and left the house. I checked my phone. No texts or emails. I was sure that Emily wasn't one of "those who walk away." Something was very wrong.
I should have called the police. But I was still in denial, blaming myself for getting my facts wrong, for hearing my friend say something she didn't say.
Since then my subconscious has gone into overdrive, running horror movies about carjacking, kidnapping, murder, the corpse in the ditch, the blow to the head that's left Emily wandering around, amnesiac. Maybe someone has found her. Maybe someone will bring her home.
Which is why I'm posting this. We've all heard about those miracles that are the upside of the internet. They are the very best thing about social networking and blogging! So I'm asking the moms community to keep its naturally extra-sharp mom eyes open. If you see a woman who looks like Emily, ask her if she's okay. If you see a woman who looks like Emily and she seems injured or lost, text me immediately at the number at the bottom of the screen.
Thanks, dear moms!
Love,
Stephanie
