Kat Richardson - Vanished

The man stood up, bending to give her a quick kiss on the lips before walking toward me. He put out his hand as he got close. He was Hollywood’s idea of sixty-five and dressed like a 1940s gangster on vacation. I smothered a snicker.

“So, you’re Ronnie’s Snippet. I’ve heard all about you. I’m Damon.”

I took his hand, but I didn’t shake. His palm was warm and dry, but the gleam of energy around his body in the Grey was sickly olive green. Mother’s complementary green energy trailed after him like a thread raveling from his sleeve. I guessed he was the owner of the quarter million dollars’ worth of Mercedes in the carport.

My mother’s name was currently Veronica Geary, and she’d always hated the nickname Ronnie, so I had to assume that she was angling to make Damon into husband number five, or she would have chilled him to the bone for calling her by the despised moniker. I wondered if she knew there was something wrong with him, though whether it was physical or mental, inward or outward directed, I didn’t know. I only knew the size and color of his aura weren’t good. I didn’t like seeing my mother’s energy tied up to his that way; there was something squick-worthy about it.

“I’m sure you haven’t heard it all just yet. And I’d prefer ‘Harper,’ ” I replied. “I think I’m a bit tall to be a snippet.” And “Snippet” hadn’t always been an endearment, either.

His hand fell away from mine. “Ah. Well. I was on my way out, so I’ll let you two have some privacy, then,” Damon said, not quite frowning.

“Thanks.”

My mother waved and blew him a kiss. “Be good, Damon! Dinner at Marmont—don’t forget!”

“Of course not, bunny,” he answered, waving as he passed through the gate.

I just stood still until I heard the Mercedes purr to life and crunch away across the eucalyptus pods scattered on the pavement. I walked over to the table and stood beside Damon’s vacated chair—all the others were up against the cool white wall.

My mother looked me over, scowling. It didn’t become her. “Good God, baby, aren’t you sweltering in that jacket? Take it off; you’re making me sweat just looking at you,” she added, flicking her hand airily at me. Queen Veronica.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

She glared and leaned forward, all trace of the royal charm wiped away. “I said take it off, Harper.”

I shrugged and slipped out of the jacket, dropping it onto the back of Damon’s chair before I sat down on the seat.

My mother stared, aghast, at the holster tucked into my jeans. “Jesus, Harper! You bring a gun into my home? Into my home,” she repeated. She clasped a hand to her chest like someone from a silent film. I didn’t think it was the gun that offended her so much as my having it on my person.

“I bring a gun everywhere, Mother. I have a license for it.”

“But this is my home ! How could you possibly think you’d need a gun in my house? This is a safe place! Not a. a barrio pool hall.”

“I was killed in a ‘safe place’ two years ago.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Harper. You’re not dead.”

“How would you know? You’re listed as my next of kin, but I never saw you at the hospital, Mother. If you’d bothered to show up, they’d have told you I died for two minutes.”

“You were fine! I called.”

“Not while I was conscious.”

She waved my words away. “How did I raise such a drama queen?”

“Because that’s what you wanted. Twelve years of professional dance and every audition and road show you could get me into was kind of a hint. I’m sure you remember it as well as I do. Like, when I was ten and instead of summer vacation, I did fifty-four performances of Annie .”

“In the chorus! And if you’d only lost a little weight, you’d have been first understudy!”

“I am not fat and I never have been. But I was much too tall to play a ten-year-old orphan. I’m five ten, for heaven’s sake!”

“Well, you weren’t then.” She looked me over and snorted. “And you could stand to lose five pounds. ”

Since I’d worked hard to put on that five pounds of muscle, I disagreed, but I didn’t say so. Instead I answered quietly, “And, if we’re slinging personal criticisms, you could stand to gain a few.” A woman in her late fifties shouldn’t have the body of a heroin-addicted teenager. I didn’t like my mother, but that didn’t mean I wished her ill.

She glared at me and kept her mouth shut—score one for me. She picked at the pineapple rind that sat on her plate and sighed, exasperated. “You don’t know how hard it is to compete in this town, sweetie. ”

I shook my head and rolled my eyes.

“You don’t,” she insisted.

“Do we have to have this conversation?”

“It’s entirely your choice.”

I’d heard that before—usually before emotional blackmail. “Then my choice is that we don’t.”

“Fine.” “Fine.”

We sat there in silence for a minute as birds called and traffic grumbled in the canyon below. Finally, I leaned forward and said, “Look, Mother, I need to know some things about the past—things about me. And maybe you and Dad, too.”

“What? You have a medical condition or something? I assure you, sweetie, no one in our family—”

“That’s not it. I’m not dying of cancer or anything screenplay- worthy. There have just been a few. things lately that indicate something creepy or bad happened sometime in the past. Do you have any idea what that could be?”

She looked surprised. “Well, dear, of course! Your father killed himself.”

Sitting in the sunny perfection of her tiny mock- Mediterranean villa, I stared at my mother. “What?” I felt like someone had punched me in the chest and pushed me off a cliff and I was hanging in the air like Wile E. Coyote, waiting to fall. I stammered, shook my head, and kept repeating myself. “What, what, what?” It just didn’t make sense. My mind rejected it and everything sensible screamed in my head that it wasn’t—couldn’t be—true.

My mother grabbed my nearest arm and shook me. “Baby, stop that! You’re a trouper—we just go on; we don’t go to pieces over this sort of. thing.”

“ ‘ This sort of thing’?” I shouted, yanking my arm out of her grip. “What sort of thing? Suicide? Holy shit, Mother!”

She slapped me. “Don’t you talk like that, Snippet! I won’t have it! You’re not a filthy little street urchin to be using words like that. Buck up!”

I knew that phrase, that tone. What she meant was “Shut up and don’t embarrass me,” but I didn’t see anyone around who needed to be impressed by my restraint. I articulated with venom and care through my confusion and a sudden flare of rage. “I will not buck the fuck up, Mother. This is not an audition. I don’t need to be a little lady. You just said my father killed himself! Don’t you think that deserves a bit more explanation than ‘buck up’? You always told me Dad’s death was an accident!”

She rolled her eyes and waved my upset away. “Drama, drama, drama. He was a dentist. Dentists don’t have accidents. What would they do? Slip with a drill? Die from a leak in the laughing gas? He blew his brains out. It was just so. nasty, I never wanted to tell you. There. Is that awful enough for you?”

I just kept gaping at her. “What the hell.? My God, Mother. Do you know why? Did he say? Did he leave a note? Something?”

“He left a note, but it didn’t make any sense, and I don’t know why he did it. He was depressed. All dentists are depressed. If I’d known, I’d have married a plastic surgeon.”