Evan Hunter - The Moment She Was Gone

There is no return address on the envelope.

It occurs to me that in all of her journeys, my sister never gave us the names of people she was living with or renting from or traveling with. She would not even give us the name of a hotel or a B&B where she was staying only temporarily. If pressed on the telephone, she would say, “I don’t know the name.” If you told her that everybody in the world knows the name of the hotel he’s staying at, she would say, “This is just a small hotel, I don’t know the name.” If you told her to go talk to the manager and ask him the name of the hotel, she’d say, “I’ll do that tomorrow,” and then she wouldn’t call for the next month, by which time she would have changed hotels, and would claim she didn’t know the name of the new one.

There is no return address on the second envelope, either. I take the letter from it, unfold it, and begin reading:

Dear Mom:

Well, I’ve moved out of the big studio and am now living in the back of a little shop. There’s no shower, just a small sink in the toilet, but I can’t tell you how good it feels to be on my own after sharing a studio with a woman who went through my bags every night and scattered broken glass around my bed! I am making...

“Did what? ”

“Where are you?”

“Here. The broken glass.”

“I have no idea.”

... I am making some quite beautiful pieces and am exhibiting them in the window, but so far no one has expressed any interest in purchasing them, although they appear to definitely get people’s interest as they stroll by. I hope you had a wonderful holiday, full of Love and Joy. I will be in Amsterdam for another month at least, depending on how the shop goes, but I have to tell you some very strange people have been wandering by, including a couple of skinheads who made threatening gestures. Thanks for the birthday money. Will call soon. Much love, Annie.

“What’s this about skinheads?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“What do you mean? Some guys threatening her?”

“Her jewelry can be very provocative. Well, you know her jewelry.”

The stamp on the next envelope is most certainly from Indonesia, but again, there is no return address. The letter itself is very short:

Dear Mom:

I have been living in the ruins of an old temple. There is no electricity, but behind the temple is a long valley and a fresh water spring. One day a pink flamingo came to the valley and waded in the sea for an hour and then flew away. I love you and miss you. Annie.

“Are there flamingos in Indonesia?”

“If there are flamingos in Miami, there are flamingos in Indonesia. What are you thinking? That she was seeing things?”

The next letter is on lined paper torn from a spiral notebook. It reads:

Sunday

Dear Mom:

After our rather animated telephone conversation yesterday, I have decided that for your benefit I will consider accepting catastrophic health insurance. There are two conditions which must be met before I enter into such a contract. First of all the insurance would only be for medical and not for psychiatric. Secondly, I would have complete control over the choice of treatment and the power to refuse any recommendations from any doctors.

I know you are...

“When was this?” I ask. “Where was she?”

“Greece, I think. I’m not sure.”

“Which trip?”

“Look at the envelope. There should be a date on the envelope.”

I turn the envelope over in my hands. The stamp and postmark are indeed Greek, but the date is illegible.

I know you are very concerned that if I have a severe medical condition, you will be thrust into a situation where you can lose your financial security. Because I have great love and compassion tor you, I want you to have peace of mind.

“What severe medical condition were you worried about, Mom?”

“A young girl traveling alone, all over the world, who knew what might happen?”

“But Annie smelled mental condition, didn’t she?”

“I don’t know what she smelled or didn’t smell. I was only concerned that she have proper medical care if ever she needed it.”

Please look into this for me and see if my conditions can be achieved. I’ve enclosed a little sketch of a pin I hope to make as soon as I can find a place to work. Please accept it as a Mother’s Day gift. Thanks. Annie.

“Did you ever get that insurance for her?”

“I tried. Her conditions were impossible to meet.”

There was a postcard showing a lagoon and a white sand beach identified as Koh Tao, Thailand. The postmark on the Thai stamp was Ko Phangan. Annie had written:

Dear Mom:

Have been enjoying life here and am healthy and fit. Meeting many different kinds of people from all over the world. Many laughs. Traveling alone makes one open your heart to everyone because you just have to feel Love. Hope you are well. Love, Annie.

And lastly, there was a long undated letter that started with the words Happy Birthday, Mom! so it had to’ve been written in April sometime because that’s when my mother’s birthday is:

Happy birthday, Mom!

Tong Nai Pam is a large bay surrounded by dense jungle mountains. Two long white coral beaches separated by a tuft of peninsula and more mountain. A small path up the mountain and through the forest connects the two facing beaches.

The route takes about 15 minutes of walking time as it wangles its way here and there around large boulders, hanging vines, and crisp oval leaves, dried and layered on the jungle floor. It is quiet and peaceful here. An occasional rustle of lizard, the silent holes of some invisible unknown predator. I wonder what lives in those arm-sized holes, and whether they are sleeping or thinking about me thumping through their peaceful ageless gardens.

It is always a life and death walk for me. I have made it maybe 10 times now, each time alone, and each time knowing that if I am bitten by a King Cobra, I will end up fertilizer for some wayward palm before anyone either hears my fuzzy pleas for help or I crawl, poisoned, to my imminent demise.

A 15 minute death walk on a daily basis gets the blood flowing, pops the eyes open and wide. Feeling every root and vine with all my being, but just for the briefest of moments, before shifting to the next form, breathlessly anticipating movement. I have never seen a King Cobra on this path, but I swear I can hear them dreaming.

“Did you read this letter?” I ask.

“Of course, I read it. I read all her letters. There weren’t that many, you know.”

“What’d you think, Mom?”

“I thought she wrote very well. For someone who never went to college.”

“ ‘Shifting to the next form ’? What does that mean?”

“She probably meant ‘shifting to the next foot’ She’s walking through a forest, you know. Feeling every root and vine underfoot.”

“Shifting to the next form,” I say again, repeating the words as if this will help me understand them.

“A slip of the pen,” my mother says.

“Mm.”

“Why? What do you think, Professor? She’s Dracula changing into a bat?”

“Cobras dreaming,” I say. “She heard cobras dreaming.”

“That was simile,” she says, and shrugs.

I look at her.

“You know what simile is, don’t you, Professor?”

“Sure. It’s the same thing as metaphor.”

I point my finger at her like a pistol, pull the imaginary trigger.

“Gotcha,” I say.

Mama doesn’t even smile.

I slip the rubber band from my wrist and onto the envelopes again. I am thinking it is such a slender body of correspondence for so many mighty journeys. I hand the bundle back to her. Mama places it on her lap, sighs at it, as if it has let her down somehow.