Songs for the Missing (39 page)

He went on for a while about the difference between being lost and being found, and the idea of people searching for what they think they’re missing. Lindsay scratched at the stem of her rose, opening a green wound. She thought she should be feeling more, but she just wanted it to be over. She didn’t need him to tell her about carrying Kim around.

When he was done he hugged her mother and father. There was another set of prayers, and then—she should have predicted it—the funeral director cued a boom box and played the song Lindsay hated. She hated it because it was fake and because, though she wished she were immune, it made her cry every time. Her father, thinking she was sad, patted her back.

As the song played they were supposed to place their roses, one by one, on top of the casket. When it was her turn she wiped her eyes and stepped onto the astroturf mat. She looked down at the lid and pictured Kim that last day at the Dairy Queen, saying she’d miss her. Good-bye, she thought, and carefully set hers next to her mother’s.

She thought they would lower the casket, but no, a final prayer committing her to God’s mercy and that was it. The service seemed too short, somehow incomplete. She wanted to do it over, as if this time she’d get it right. They all hugged beside the casket, thanked Father John and the funeral director and headed for the limo, leaving Kim and the roses behind.

“I’m glad we got to do that,” her mother said on the ride back.

The rain held off until they were almost home, providing a popular topic of conversation, as if Kim or God had intervened, depending on who was talking. The Bonners were there, and the Naismiths, and the Finnegans. Her parents had invited the whole neighborhood and all of their friends from church. Lindsay had no idea what to say to them. They asked about her classes and how she liked the city, more out of politeness than any real interest. They were fascinated with the pictures of Kim, and all the work her mother had done. Aunt Carrie pointed out a shot of the two of them in which Lindsay looked exactly like Kim in this other picture. She ferried people across the room to compare them, and Lindsay retreated to the kitchen, content to help Connie and Jocelyn with dessert.

“You’re not mingling,” her mother said.

“I don’t feel like mingling.”

“Another hour, hour-and-a-half, tops.”

The promise only made it seem longer. Uncle Rich had had too much to drink and was loudly badmouthing the Democrats to Father John. Her father and Mr. Bonner were discussing the zoning of waterfront condos. She sat with her grandmother at the computer, watching the slide show. What surprised her was how intimately she knew Kim’s wardrobe.

“Is that you?” her grandmother asked, pointing.

“That’s Elise.”

“She looks like you.”

“Not really.”

“You’ll have to forgive me, dear. I don’t see so well anymore.”

“That’s all right.”

“This is you.”

“That’s Nina.”

Lindsay stayed with her until the party broke up, then helped her father walk her to his car. She clutched Lindsay’s hand through the window, letting in the rain. She’d see her again at Thanksgiving but said good-bye as if this might be the last time.

Over their objections, her mother sent Connie and Jocelyn home, saying she and Lindsay could handle things. Once they’d taken off, she sat down on the couch with her glass of wine and confessed that she just wanted everyone out of the house.

“So, kiddo,” she asked the graduation picture of Kim behind Lindsay, “how’d we do?”

“I should let Cooper out,” Lindsay said.

“Excellent idea.”

The good dishes had to be done by hand. Her mother sipped steadily as they worked. She fumbled a knife into the rinse water, chipping a coffee cup. “Come on, Franny,” she scolded herself. “Pay attention.”

It was past nine when they finished, and by then all Lindsay wanted to do was go to bed. Her mother thanked her and kissed her cheek, then sat back on the couch, surrounded by Kim.

“I’m just going to rest here a while, if that’s all right.”

In bed, with Cooper snoring beside her, Lindsay listened for her father’s car. She kept returning to the service—the limousine and the trees and Father John placing his hand on the casket like a healer. After all these years she hadn’t expected the funeral to make a difference, so why did it bother her? As she had so many times, she remembered that last day, driving around with Kim in her old car. It was sunny, and they stopped to park by the high school. She retraced their route through town, past the cornfields and nursing homes and the golf course, over the tracks, splitting off at some point to swing down to the park and the softball fields and the harbor, where they hadn’t been at all, and then suddenly she was the Cup, except when she looked out of the mesh square she realized she was dancing in the middle of the highway.

In the morning her mother woke her. She had to leave for work and wanted to say good-bye. After last night her recovery seemed superhuman. Lindsay was weak with sleep, and echoed her, saying she loved her.

“You be careful,” her mother said. “Please. I don’t want to lose you too.”

“You won’t,” Lindsay said, but, after she was gone, thought it was probably too late for that.

Her flight was at nine. She was dressed and ready by seven. It was done raining but gray, the tree trunks blackened. At school she’d thought of taking the puzzle box or some other treasure from Kim’s dresser. In the end she didn’t even open her door. She had her own roomful of crap she was trying to escape.

Her father drove her to the airport in the Escort, passing the Conoco on their way out, timing Erie’s minor-league rush hour perfectly. At the ticket counter he gave the agent an envelope to spare Lindsay from having to touch the death certificate. She showed her ID and signed a paper to make it official.

She kissed him good-bye at security.

“Fly carefully,” he said.

She dismissed the idea. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”

He stood there while she went through the metal detector, then waved to her all the way down the hall to her gate.

The other passengers were businessmen, busy with their laptops and their phones. No one was interested in her. She handed the gate agent her boarding pass, got on and took a window seat, grateful to be alone.

In the air she changed her watch, gaining back the lost hour. The pilot said they were fighting a headwind but he’d try to get them in on time. Beneath the wing, I-90 snaked through the brown panes of Indiana. The shore appeared, a dividing line, and smoky Gary, and then, after miles of sunstruck water, the towers of the Loop. They banked down, shuddering through tufts of clouds, the gear clunking beneath her feet. Below, in miniature, stretched the city where she lived, the unknown neighborhoods and boulevards and parks. As they taxied to the gate, the pilot apologized: They weren’t on time—they were early. At the ping she stood and took down her backpack. Slowly the rows ahead emptied, and then she was hustling up the aisle and ducking through the door, free and striding to keep pace. The gate was seething with people. She came out of the jetway and turned left with everyone else, joined the horde streaming for the concourse and disappeared into the crowd.

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to the Conneaut and Ashtabula, Ohio, Chambers of
Commerce and Visitor’s Bureaus for their invaluable help.
To Sheldon Calvary Camp for always giving me a place to stay.
And to Pizzi’s for torps and Covered Bridge for stromboli.

 
As always, constant thanks to my faithful readers:

 
Paul Cody
Lamar Herrin
Liz Holmes
Stephen King
Dennis Lehane
Lowry Pei
Alice Pentz
Susan Straight
Luis Urrea

 
Deepest thanks to Trudy, Caitlin and Stephen
for dealing with this nightmare come true.
My apologies for the scare.

 
And finally, grateful thanks to David Gernert, Stephanie Cabot,
Courtney Hammer and Erika Storella at the Gernert Company;
And to Josh Kendall, Sonya Cheuse, Clare Ferraro, Liz Parker,
Paul Slovak, Molly Stern and Veronica Windholz at Viking.