Read My Lost and Found Life Online
Authors: Melodie Bowsher
My Lost and Found Life
For Mia and Luca
And especially for my mother
⢠⢠â¢
Praise for
My Lost and Found Life
Five days before I graduated from high school, my mother embezzled a million dollars and disappeared.
Thinking back, I can't recall anything unusual about that day. No “funny feelings” tickled the back of my neck; no suspicions nagged my subconscious. Some time later, when I looked up my horoscope for that day, I found the stars provided no hint that I would never again feel safe or confident about the future. I would have laughed in scorn if anyone had predicted that I, the homecoming queen, the most popular girl in my high school, would soon be homeless and alone, bedding down in an unheated camper with a knife under my pillow.
Even now, five years later, I still wonderâif I had known, could I have somehow changed the outcome?
That morning began in the usual way. I ignored both my alarm and the sunlight streaming through my bedroom window and stayed burrowed in my warm bed. I was often late and sometimes skipped first and second periods entirely. I was an expert at imitating my mother's handwriting and always
wrote a plausible excuse for myself:
Please excuse Ashley's tardiness, as she wasn't feeling well, blah, blah, blah
. I wasn't fooling the school's attendance secretary, but she was obviously sick of dealing with me. The administration was pretty lax with the graduating seniors spring semester, no doubt in happy anticipation of our imminent departure.
That particular morning I managed to throw off my comforter at the last minute and rushed around, showering, applying makeup, wriggling into my jeans and favorite red tank top, pulling on my wedge sandals, and stuffing my gear into my backpack. A generous squirt of Obsession on my neck and I was ready.
As I dashed for the front door, my hair still damp, I saw that my mother was on the telephone. That, too, was ordinaryâshe was always on the telephone, speaking in a low, intense tone to someone. I assumed she was talking to her best friend, Gloria, or her loser boyfriend, Phil. I assumed that nothing my mother was talking about would be of interest to me. I was wrong about a lot of things back then.
Even if she hadn't been on the telephone, I didn't want to talk to my mother that morning. We'd had a screaming match the night before. To tell the truth, I didn't want to remember what I'd said or how my mother had looked, standing on the lawn with the rain pouring down, her nightgown soggy and clinging to her torso, her face twisted, tears running down her cheeks and melting into the rain. I was determined not to think about that. Pretending was a skill we both had perfected over the years.
School ended at noon all that week, and when the final bell
rang, I lingered to gossip about graduation and the senior trip to Hawaii, only five days away. That made shopping for the trip a priority. Mara was showing off her new bag, which she bragged was a Gucci, like mine. I gave her a scornful smile and whispered in my best friend Nicole's ear, “Oh, puh-leez. Who is she kidding? I can spot a knockoff a mile away.”
My boyfriend, Scott, tried to persuade me to go surfing with him and his buddies at Granada Beach. But I didn't feel like watching and cheering while he played jock all afternoon, especially since the coast is usually foggy in May. Instead, I told Nicole I'd go shopping with her at four, then steered my little red Jetta toward home.
Now that last night's storm clouds had cleared, it was one of those picture-perfect spring days. I put the sunroof down and felt a warm glow on my neck and shoulders. Every garden I passed seemed to be bursting with flowers. I could almost smell the blossoms.
As I drove, I sang along with Sheryl Crow on the radio.
Twenty minutes later I was stretched out on our redwood lounge chair, clad in my size 2 bikini and tropical suntan oil, with a diet soda by my right hand and cell phone at my left. My cat, Stella, was lying beneath my chair, lazily licking her orange fur while remaining alert for any stray butterflies or bumblebees that might need chasing. Thumbing through the latest issue of
Lucky
magazine, I began planning all the clothes I would buy to wear in Hawaii. I wanted to find a really hot red dress. I considered red my signature color, and not just because it looks fabulous with my shoulder-length dark hair. Red is center stage and that's always where I like to be.
I had the volume on my boom box cranked up. I guess that's why I didn't hear the doorbell. What got my attention was a head appearing over the back gateâa male head, a cop's head.
The cop barked, “If you turned down that damn music, you'd know I was ringing your bell.”
I glared at him and reached over to turn down the volume. I recognized him immediately and my defenses went up. He was the jerk who had given me a long lecture and a speeding ticket two weeks earlier. Anyway, there aren't that many cops in Burlingame, one of the many suburban communities strung along the bay between San Francisco and San Jose. Burlingame's finest regularly patrolled the neighborhood around the high school, so they were recognizable to all of us.
“My mother isn't home,” I said, hoping to deflect him.
Ignoring my comment, he opened the gate and strode into the backyard. Behind him the gate swung shut with a loud clang. He stomped over to my chair and stood there, giving me the usual badass cop stare as if I had just robbed a liquor store or something. He was thirty or so and sort of cute, but he had that burly body and accusatory attitude they all have.
“Now, how could you know I want your mother?” he asked.
“Why would you want me?” I said, putting on my impassive face, the one I'd learned to use when dealing with my father or jerks like him. “You're blocking my sun.”
He didn't move, just continued to stare at me. Why is it that cops always make you feel guilty even if you haven't done anything wrong? I sighed and reached for a shirt to pull over my bikini top. His chilly gaze made me uncomfortable. It definitely wasn't the admiring stare I was used to getting from guys. Stella
came out from under the chair and rubbed up against his ankles, and he knelt down to stroke the soft fur under her chin. Cats have no loyalty.
“Well, it just so happens you're right,” he said. “If your mother is Diane Mitchell. Remind me what your name is again.”
“Ashley,” I said. “Ashley Marie Mitchell. Why are you looking for my mother?”
He ignored my question, the way cops do.
“I'm Officer Strobel, Ashley, and I need to talk to your mother right away. Where is she?”
“At her office, I suppose. Look, I've turned down the music. That should satisfy the old busybody next door.”
I picked up Stella and tried to stroke her, but she struggled to get free, so I let her go. She stalked away and arranged herself on a sunny patch of grass just out of reach, her whiskers twitching as she actively ignored us both.
“I'm not here about a noise complaint. I need to see your mother. Is she here?”
“She's at her office,” I repeated slowly as if speaking to a half-wit. “That's where she always is. The Simmons Company in Redwood City.”
“She's not there, and they're looking for her. Any other ideas?”
“Has something happened to her? Are you trying to say she's been in an accident?” He was making me uneasy, though I didn't want to show it.
“There have been no accidents reported.”
I waited for him to say something more, but he didn't.
What was he after?
“Maybe she had a doctor's appointment or something. It's not a big deal. Call her cell phone. She always has it on.”
“We did. She didn't answer.” His tone was flat, yet challenging. “It
is
a big deal because we need to find her now.”
With an elaborate sigh I reached for my cell phone and dialed her number. After six rings, I heard, “This is Diane. I'm not available at the moment. Leave a message at the tone and I'll call you back just as soon as I'm able.”
“This is Ashley. Call me the minute you get this message,” I said, and hung up. “Okay, now are you satisfied? When she calls me back, I'll tell her to call you,
officer
.”
“When did you see her last?”
“This morning, before I went to school. Why?”
“When you saw her, did she tell you her plans for the day?”
“No.”
He kept looking at me, so I added, “I was late for school and left in a hurry.”
“Well, how about last night? What did she say last night about her plans for today?”
I was starting to get uneasy in the face of his persistence. “Nothing.”
“Your mother didn't say one word to you last night about her plans for today. What did the two of you talk about?”
I wanted to say,
None of your business
, but his stony look intimidated me.
“Nothing much. Just the usual stuff about school.” I was determined not to tell this bully about the ugly fight we had. “Look, why are you trying to find Diane?”
“You call your mother âDiane'?”
“That's her name,” I snapped.
“Most of us call our mothers âMom' or âMother,' ” he snapped right back. “Why don't you stop giving me attitude and tell me exactly what your mother did and said last night?”
“We didn't talk,” I lied. “I was at a friend's house and came home late. If you want to know what my mother did, try asking her best friend, Gloria, or Phil, her boyfriend.”
“I will. You can give me their numbers in a minute. When does your mother usually get home and start cooking dinner?”
I snickered. “Diane doesn't exactly rush home to fry a chicken or bake a cake. We both have frozen dinners or maybe pizza and not always at the same time.”
“Home, sweet home,” he said.
“She's busy,” I defended her. “She works long hours.”
“Maybe too long.”
“What does
that
mean?” I said, scowling at him.
“You'll find out soon enough. How old are you?”
“Eighteen. Why?”
“Old enough.”
“Old enough? For what?” I said, not even trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Are you coming on to me?”
He snorted. “Don't flatter yourself. Old enough means, legally, you're an adult. How about acting like an adult and letting me look around inside?”
I was flabbergasted. “Are you crazy? Do you think she's hiding under the bed or tied up in the closet? She's. Not.
Here
.” My voice rose on the word
here
and turned it into a shriek.
“Look, either you let me look around or I'll be back with a search warrant.”
“What! You
are
crazy! What could you possibly want with my mother that would involve a search warrant? If you think she's some kind of drug dealer, you're delusional.”
