Carissa Ann Lynch - My Sister is Missing

I tucked the kids into bed around ten o’clock. Shelley wanted to watch Elmo on her Tinkerbell TV set, but Ben insisted on me reading to him. I turned the DVD on for Shelley, and then I chose a book from one of the bookshelves in the family room for Ben. It was a tattered, old book called Where’s Goldie? The fading sticker on the front said it cost only sixty-nine cents. Sure enough, when I opened the cover, I found my own name inside, scrawled in sloppy cursive.

Peering at the shelves, I realized most of the books were either mine or Mom’s. I used to be territorial with my books. Well, I still was, actually, but back then, I used to scribble my name on everything. I took the book back to Ben’s room, relieved to see that Shelley was already asleep as I passed by. The tune to Elmo’s World rang out through the speakers.

Ben was pleased with my book choice and bragged that he always knew where to find Goldie, the naughty little yellow bird that hid from her perpetually perplexed owner, Maggie.

I had to do three full read-throughs before he even closed his eyes. I lay beside him for nearly a half hour, listening to the sounds of his soft breathing, like the purr of a happy cat. That tantrum today had sucked the life out of me, but Ben seemed perfectly fine now.

I listened for sounds outside, hoping I’d hear the Jeep pulling up in the driveway. My stomach churned as I realized I was alone again. With the kids asleep and Madi gone, I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. Something was wrong, I could feel it.

I might not know my sister as well as I once did, but she still wouldn’t leave me, of all people, in charge of her kids without saying something first.

Finally, I pushed myself out of bed, careful not to wake up Ben. I crept down the hallway, and walked through the house, turning off excess lights. Back in the living room, I flipped on the porch light for Madeline. All those late nights I’d waited up for her, so eager to hear stories about her night – parties with alcohol and boys who knew how to kiss … it wasn’t until later, in our twenties, that she confessed her stories weren’t true. Some of them, yes. But mostly, they were embellished. She wanted to impress me, but more than anything, she wanted the stories to be true. As a teenager, Madi could be a liar and a fantasist sometimes . Was that what was going on now? Would she show up at the door, like she did all those years ago, with some wild story to explain her absence today?

Sitting down in her office chair, I spun around in circles, feeling childish. I held my phone in my lap, staring down at the blank screen. My landlord had left a voicemail earlier, but I didn’t feel like hearing his wheezy voice right now.

I thought about calling my sister again, but then I thought better of it. I was acting like one of those babysitters that call every twenty minutes and ruin the parents’ night out.

But I’m not the babysitter. She didn’t even ask me to watch them. For the first time all day, I wondered if I should be seriously worried. If I should perhaps phone the police.

I considered the possibility that something really was wrong, some sort of desperate emergency. But I knew it wasn’t family related – Mom and Dad were both dead, the few aunts and cousins we had lived thousands of miles away, and we barely spoke to them anyway.

It must be something to do with John, I decided. But what if she got into an accident or got hurt somehow…?

Slowly, I strolled up and down the hallway, looking at our family photographs. Last night, it’d been too dark to see them all, but now the hall was lit, old photographs of my mother and father illuminated on its walls. There were so many pictures of the four of us – Mom, Dad, Madeline, and I. There were a couple of our grandparents, too, and toward the end of the stretch were pictures of my sister and John, and baby pictures of Shelley and Ben.

In their wedding photo, John and Madeline stood behind a giant white cake, John holding a silver knife as he prepared to make the ceremonial cut. A crazy thought flashed through my head – what if John had taken my sister? What if he’d hurt her?

‘I’ve really freaking lost it now,’ I muttered. I’d been watching too many of those true crime mystery shows on the Discovery channel. I was up late every night, and there wasn’t much else on besides those types of shows and info commercials.

I pulled my eyes away from the happy couple and headed for my own room to change my clothes. I passed Dad’s office on the way. Last night, I hadn’t paid it much attention, but now it sat stark and empty, even his old desk was gone. Instead the room seemed to be used for storage; boxes of books and paint supplies were stacked in one corner of the room and several see-through plastic tubs of old clothes.

I sniffed the air, half-expecting to smell my father’s aftershave and pungent cigar smoke floating in the room. He’s gone. Every last trace of him is gone. And I didn’t even go to the funeral to say goodbye…

Guilt festered inside me, but, like always, I pushed myself to move forward, to forget what I had or hadn’t done.

In the guest room, I gathered a change of clothes and then went back down the hallway to the bathroom. I was worried about being able to hear the kids if they woke up and needed something, so I left the door open a crack as I showered.

After scrubbing the dirt and sweat from my face and hair, I went back out to the living room, giving the driveway one last, wistful look, hoping my sister would return. It was nearly midnight by now. This was getting ridiculous.

Torn between irritation and concern, I fought the urge to text or call again. Finally, I made my way to her bedroom. It seemed wrong to sleep in her room, but the Mello Yellow room was too far from the kids. I didn’t trust myself to wake up if one of them cried out in the night or got sick. What would I even do if they got sick or hurt? I wondered.

As happy as I was to meet my niece and nephew, I didn’t know much about kids. And I definitely didn’t feel comfortable being in charge of them for this long.

My sister’s room was still pristine, and it smelled like some sort of cleanser – bleach, maybe? Turning on the fan to battle the fumes, I folded down her strawberry quilt, and climbed beneath the sheets. The bed was cold, like lying in an ice cube tray. Tucking the covers up to my chin, I flipped onto my left side like I always do. From this angle, I had a straight-on view of my sister’s closet. It was pulled most of the way shut, but there was a small gap in the white pocket doors. I could see a box labeled ‘Pictures’ sitting on the closet floor.

I flipped to my right side, staring at my sister’s billowy red curtains instead. Then it hit me – the balcony my parents used to go out on to smoke was off the master bedroom. Sliding the covers down, I emerged from the bed and pushed the curtains apart. Sure enough, the white door to the balcony was still there.

It wasn’t really a balcony since it was on the ground floor, but that’s what we always called it. My parents used to sneak out there and smoke cigarettes as though Madeline and I didn’t know what they were doing. The house would reek of it every night after we went to bed, but I never really minded. I always liked to imagine them out there kissing, like secret, star-crossed lovers, and the smoky fumes were almost a reminder, that my parents were truly in love.

But that wasn’t the case, was it? Their love was as fake as these loose-fitting curtains covering the door. It wasn’t real, none of it was.

The bolt on the door was stiff, as though Madeline hadn’t used the balcony in years. I gripped the metal latch and pulled on it until my hands burned. Finally, it snapped over, pinching the tender spot between my thumb and pointer finger.