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“Darcy?” I call out again, alarmed.Where is she?
I turn on lights as I work my way through the gloomy interior, trying not to scare her in case she’s gone to bed. I move quickly from hallway to the living room to the kitchen, each room revealing only stillness – and no Darcy.
I bolt up the stairs two at a time, my uneasiness rising. I head straight to our bedroom, hoping that I’ll find her asleep in our bed. The room is pitch black, and I feel for the lamp by the doorway, not wanting to wake her with the brightness of the overhead light.
But the dim lamp reveals another empty room. The bed is unmade, as it had been when I left this morning. Darcy’s flimsy robe is draped across one of the bedposts, and the windows are all tightly closed and shuttered. I run to the second bedroom and then to the bathroom, but all to no avail.
Darcy isn’t here.
“Where the hell is she?” I call out to the empty house.
Frantic now, I go back to our bedroom and search the closet. Her suitcase is missing, as are many of her clothes. A quick review of the bathroom shows me that her toothbrush and a few other items are also gone. In every room, the windows are closed and the shutters pulled too.
Did she go somewhere?It’s a staggering thought, because where on earth would she go?
Darcy doesn’t have any relatives. She doesn’t know anyone.
I sit down on the edge of our bed, my heart racing as a sweat breaks out on my brow. Darcy’s been alone for so long, isolated on this farm with only her dad for years. She’s brave and strong but completely naïve when it comes to life beyond her little world. The idea of her going off into some other town and something happening to her– I stop myself before I can finish the troubling thought.
Where is she?
I look around the room, full of furniture but filled with a strange emptiness. The entire house around me is quiet and empty and lonely. The only sound is the blood rushing through my brain in the dimly lit room. All the life and color of the place seems to have disappeared with my wife, the woman I love beyond words.
I don’t want to think it, to even say it, but I have the horrible feeling that Darcy has disappeared for good.
13
DARCY
Iwake up in the dimly lit motel suite, and sit up in bed, holding a hand to my head.Another day.
Each morning, I try to wake grateful and content, but I’m only kidding myself. Slowly, I make my way to the attached kitchen and turn on the old, stained coffeepot. The little machine whirs while I pour instant oatmeal packs into a bowl and fill it with water. Oatmeal in the microwave, I go back and sit on the edge of the mattress, waiting as I do every morning for something to be different.
Six months to the day, I think as I look at the small calendar hanging on the wall.Six months since I found out that my husband was a lying, no good son of a bitch.I wince at my harsh thought.
Anger is a different emotion, I console myself.At least it’s not loneliness or pity or tears this morning.
My reverie is interrupted by the incessant beep of the microwave, signaling that my bland breakfast is ready. Sitting down at the old card table that fills up most of the tiny kitchen area, I blow on the steaming oatmeal and let my mind wander to that horrible day just six months ago.
It’s bad enough that I learned about Ranger from his brothers, but what continues to hurt is the fact that Ranger lied to me for months about who he was.
Well,I correct myself, he more omitted the truth than lied.
Still, the pain of his betrayal continues to ache.
On that sad, painful day six months ago after I learned his true identity, I did the only thing I could think to do: I bolted. I took what little cash I had tucked away in an old shoebox and somehow found my way to the Greyhound station. I bought the first ticket I could afford with a destination far, far away. All I wanted was to distance from the farm, from Ranger, and from the pain.
I take a bite of my oatmeal and wince at the steaming food. At least I have food because my current situation won’t be holding up much longer. I’m in Montana at the moment, and it’s bizarre to be here. Tremble is a sleepy little town about an hour from Bozeman, and when I woke up from the bus ride and took my first steps outside, the town had nothing to recommend itself. It looked dusty, remote, and mostly uninhabited.Perfect.
I honestly can’t recall most of the trip here, I remember grimly. Sighing, I get up and pour myself some coffee, taking a moment to inhale its rich aroma. Sitting here safely in the small room, I shudder as I think back to that first night. I had been scared and heartbroken, still confused from the Ranger’s betrayal. The night had been as black as pitch and I had been in no condition to wander far. When I knocked on the motel door, I was dazed and confused, which can be very dangerous for a woman traveling alone.
But my timid knock was greeted by a tiny older woman wearing a red cardigan and cowboy boots. I got a room for the evening, wanting only to rest and see what the next day would bring.
And here we are: six months later.
It’s not exactly a sad thought, but rather a factual one. Six months ago, I had had no idea where I would go or what I would do, but now I have a roof over my head and a routine to help keep my focus off my horrific past.
I stride to the window and pull open the curtains as the motel room floods with morning light. It’s a meager space, clean but plain. The sheets are stiff with too much starch and the carpet has faded to an ugly brown. The laminate kitchen counters are yellowing with age, but fortunately stainless and tidy. The vase on the table is filled with wildflowers and now with sunlight pouring through the windows, the whole space is a little bit happier.
