Chevy Stevens - Still Missing

You know, Doc, all along, even while you were giving me techniques to work through my fears or explaining what might be causing them, I still told myself they’d eventually go away on their own—especially after I read up on all that grief stuff. Then this week some dickhead broke into my house.

I came back from my morning run to find my alarm blaring, cops parked in my driveway, the doorjamb on my back door kicked apart, and my bedroom window open. Judging by the broken branches on my shrubs, that’s how the bastard got out. Nothing seemed to be missing and the cops said they couldn’t do much unless I figured out if anything was gone. They also told me there’s been a couple of B&E’s in my neighborhood recently, but they didn’t find any fingerprints at them either, like that was supposed to make me feel better.

After they all went home and my full-body shaking had subsided to occasional tremors, I headed to my bedroom to change. A thought stopped me in the hallway. Why would you risk going in but not steal anything? Something wasn’t right.

I walked around my house slowly, trying to think like a burglar. Okay, bust open back door, race upstairs, then what? Run to the living room—nothing small visible, stereo equipment and TV are too big to grab fast, especially if you’re on foot. Run down hallway to bedroom—search drawers for valuables?

I examined each one carefully. All were shut tight and my clothes were neatly folded. Everything still hung straight in the closet and the door was closed evenly—sometimes one side sticks. I stepped back and surveyed the bedroom. A hamper full of clothes I’d just taken out of the dryer was in the same place on the floor, the big T-shirt I sleep in still tossed across the foot of the bed. The bed.

Was that a slight indent near the edge? Did I sit there when I put my socks on? I came closer and inspected every inch of the bed. Examined every hair. Mine? Emma’s? I brought my nose close to the duvet cover and sniffed the length of it. Was that the faint traces of cologne? I stood up again.

A stranger forced his way into my house, was in my bedroom , looking at my things, touching my things. My skin crawled.

I stripped my bed, grabbed my T-shirt, dumped everything in the wash with lots of bleach, and wiped down every surface of my house. After I boarded up the back door and the window—house looked like an army bunker by the time I was done—I grabbed the cordless phone and hid in the hall closet for the rest of the day.

Gary, the cop I was telling you about, called me later to make sure I was all right, which was nice of him considering he doesn’t deal with robberies. He backed up what the other cops were saying, that it was most likely a random event and the guy raced in to grab what he could, then panicked and took the quickest exit out. When I argued with him, insisting it was a dumbass thing to do, he said criminals do a lot of stupid things when they’re scared. He also suggested I call someone to stay with me or go to a friend’s until my doorjamb was fixed.

I may have been scared to death, but no way was I going to my mom’s. And friends? Well, even if I wasn’t more paranoid than Howard Hughes, I’m not sure how many of those I have left these days. Luke is about the only one who still calls. When I first came back, everyone—friends, old coworkers, people I went to school with but haven’t seen in years—was making such a fuss over me, I just couldn’t handle it. But you know, people only try for so long, and if you keep shutting the door in their face they eventually go away.

Christina is about the only one I’d consider asking, but you know what happened there, or at least you know about as much as I know, because I still don’t understand why I reacted so badly to her. She’s probably just trying to be a good friend by leaving me alone now, but sometimes I wish she’d haul off and force me out into the light, bully me like she used to.

Of course, right away I thought about moving, but dammit, I love the house; if I ever sell, it won’t be because of some asshole burglar. Not that I could, anyway. How the hell am I going to qualify for a mortgage? I thought about looking for work. I have a whole new set of skills, but I’d hate to see what kind of job they’d land me.

All of which leads me to the call I got from Luke when I got home from our last session.

“My bookkeeper up and quit on me, Annie. Any chance you could take over until I find someone else? It would be just part-time, and—”

“I don’t need your help, Luke.”

“Who said anything about you needing help? This is about me, I need your help—I can’t make heads or tails of these books. I feel bad even asking, but you’re the only person I know who’s good with numbers. I can just bring the stuff to your house, you won’t even have to go into the restaurant.”

I think it was embarrassment that made me tell him okay, I could try it, before I realized what I’d just committed to. Later, it was a different story. I’m not ready for this! I almost called and canceled. But I took a few deep breaths, then told myself to just sleep on it. Of course the next morning is when my house got broken into. In the midst of all that drama and the ensuing panic attack, I forgot about my conversation with Luke. Then last night he left a message that he’s going to come over this weekend with an accounting program to load on my computer. He sounded so damn relieved and grateful, I couldn’t think of a way out. And I wasn’t sure if I really wanted one.

I tell myself it’s just a business thing on Luke’s part, but I’m sure I’m not the only person who could do his bookkeeping—the phone book is full of names.

Last Monday night I had a cold that was threatening to escalate and was sitting at half-mast on the couch in faded blue flannel pajamas and hedgehog slippers, a box of Kleenex in my lap, the TV on but the sound down. A car door slammed at the end of my driveway. I held my breath for a second and listened. Footsteps on the gravel? I peeked out the window but couldn’t see anything in the dark. I grabbed the poker from my fireplace.

Soft footsteps on the stairs, then silence.

Poker gripped tight, I peered through the peephole, but couldn’t see anything.

Rustling sounds near the bottom of the door. Emma barked.

I yelled, “I know you’re out there. You better tell me who you are RIGHT NOW!”

“Jesus Christ, Annie, I was just picking up your paper.”

Mom.

I slid open the deadbolts—when the locksmith came to repair the doorjamb I had an extra one installed. Emma took one sniff of Mom and headed straight to my room, where she probably crawled under the bed. I felt like joining her.

“Mom, why didn’t you call first?”

With a toss of her head that made her ponytail shimmy, she shoved my paper into my hand and headed back out. I grabbed her shoulders.

“Wait—I didn’t mean you had to leave, but you scared the crap out of me. I was just…dozing off.”

She turned around and with her big blue doll eyes staring at the wall over my shoulder she said, “Sorry.”

Well, that threw me. Even though the “sorry” did have a slight edge to it, I can’t remember the last time my mom apologized for anything.

Her gaze traveled down to my hedgehog slippers, and her eyebrows rose. My mom wears marabou-feathered high-heeled slippers, summer or winter, and before she could comment on mine I said, “Did you want to come in?”

As she stepped into the house to stand in the foyer, I noticed she was clutching a large brown paper bag to her chest with one hand. For a second I wondered if she’d brought some booze with her, but no, the package was flat and square. In her other hand she held a Tupperware container she now thrust toward me.