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When I opened the door, the look of shock and dismay on her face was apparent. She took a step back and then, grinning, corrected herself. She brushed by me. “You stink.”
“Hello. And welcome to you, too.”
I trudged along behind her as she dragged her rolling suitcase into the living room. She threw one of my shirts off the recliner in the corner and plopped down. She didn’t say a word, not for the longest time, but her expression spoke volumes. Her lips turned down more and more, the lower one trembling. Her greenish brown eyes welled and became glossy with tears.
The best she could do was mutter, “Oh, Sammy.”
We faced each other for a long while until at last she rose and held out her arms. I’d never seen a more comforting or welcoming sight, proving to me that we all stay children in our hearts when we’re around a caring parent. I all but collapsed into her embrace. We sobbed, clinging to the other.
The comfort and the hug seemed to last forever, but it was actually only for a couple of minutes.
At last, Trudy pulled away, sniffling and gasping for air. She rubbed at her eyes, smearing mascara so she looked like a raccoon, but I couldn’t bring myself to laugh.
“Are you okay?” she asked in a trembling voice.
“Sit back down.”
She did, and I grabbed a seat on the couch. “No,” I said. “Of course not. The world is now a nightmare. I keep hoping I’ll wake up and everything will be back to boring normal. I’m longing for boring normal, Ma, like it’s a place. I want it all back, though—Marc, never to have seen this guy who calls himself Jeb. I’m desperate for a do-over of the day I took the dog to the beach. I don’t want to run into Jeb again. And I don’t want to come home to an empty apartment and a bloody handprint on the front doorframe.” I nodded to the door, indicating the print. It was still there, faded to a dark rust color, a ghost of a crime.
At mention of the dog, Vito lifted his head. He lay at my feet, perhaps even more abject than I was. Although he probably didn’t understand the details of all that had transpired recently, he took his cues from me and also from Marc’s absence. He reflected back my trauma and longing. I could barely get the poor dog to eat, no matter what treats—chicken, steak, carrots—I put down for him. He rarely left my side. And when he did, it was because he heard a noise outside the condo—someone traipsing up the stairs, a delivery downstairs, a burst of music when someone opened or closed their door—and he’d run to the front door, tail wagging, expecting, I was certain, to see Marc. He’d jump up and down, nails scratching at the door and when I finally gave in to his excitement and opened it, his heart would break every time at the sight of the empty hallway.
“What can I do? Give me something.” Mom, for once, seemed lost and helpless, smaller somehow. She leaned forward and peered at me. “You hungry? I could make you something to eat. A sandwich?”
“Ah, spoken like a true mama.” I smiled, but the expression was weak, uncertain. “There’s probably nothing to make, even if I did have an appetite.” I stood. “The one clean room in the house is the guest bedroom, but only because I haven’t been in there. Why don’t we get you settled?”
“Okay.” Trudy got up to follow. “I think, under the mess, you have a very nice place, sweetheart. I hope you’ll allow me to tidy up.”
“I know I can’t refuse, not with you.” I smiled. “We’ll sort something out to eat after you unpack. There’s a little Mexican place around the corner on Clark; you’ll love it. Burritos the size of your head.” I spoke the words, even though my very empty stomach churned at the thought of food. But feeding my mother would give us both something to do, a place to be.
“And then, when we get back, you’re gonna allow me to clean this place up.” She eyed him pointedly. “And then we can have a good talk.”
II
We got back to the condo just in time. Over the course of our meal, we hadn’t said much beyond the pleasantries, skirting the trauma and horror of what my life had become over the course of just a few days. We also avoided eating more than a few bites. Predictably, neither of us had much of an appetite, although Mom managed to at least finish an enchilada.
Neither of us had sangria or a margarita. Somehow, drinking felt wrong.
We walked back in silence, other than noting how the temperature had dropped while we were inside Rosa’s Cocina. A fishy-smelling wind had blown up, skimming the surface of Lake Michigan to the east and wiping out the humidity and heat of the past several days. A flash of heat lightning on the horizon told me rain was imminent.
The storm arrived just as we got in the front door downstairs. The rain came down in lashes, a deluge that turned the evening outside gray and opaque.
We hurried upstairs, where Mom got into her pajamas and made us tea. “Glad to see you have Constant Comment,” she called from the kitchen. “It’s my favorite.”
I said nothing and busied myself with trying to tidy up the living room for us. I succeeded mainly in shoving all the discarded clothing into a pile in a corner. It was too much effort to put it into the bathroom hamper, let alone the washing machine. I slid some of the boxes and cans to one side of the coffee table to make room for the mugs.
Once we had our tea, steaming, in front of us, we both knew the time had come for us to talk. I sipped the tea, its spicy citrus scent actually enticing me a bit. “There’s not much to tell you, Ma. Four days ago, I came home from walking Vito down at the lakefront and he was gone. The only trace he’d left was the handprint.” I bowed my head. I couldn’t bear to look at it again, nor to acknowledge it in any way.
“You talked to the police?”
“Of course. At first, they wouldn’t even listen to me. A middle-aged gay man turns up missing?” I shrugged. “I guess it happens every day around these parts. After a couple days, they took me a little more seriously, even assigned a detective to the case after I filed a report, but I could tell there wasn’t much urgency. Marc’s disappearance was low priority. I don’t know if it was because we’re gay, or because we’re older, or because we’re in a long-term marriage, but I suspect they simply thought Marc left me.”
As I spoke the words, I felt an uncomfortable twinge in my gut as I had an epiphany.
Had he left me? Could it be as simple as that? The only thing I’m sure was gone was him.
His phone is here. I keep it charged, but very little has come through. We had separate closets and Marc had a lot of clothes. I supposed he could have grabbed an old suitcase and taken some things and I might not have noticed. It wasn’t like I had an inventory. And what if he had one of those—what do you call it—burner phones? And what if—and this notion was as disturbing as it was reassuring—what if the bloody handprint was tied to something as innocuous as he’d cut himself before leaving? A simple kitchen accident…
I looked up to find Mom studying my face. “What’s going on in there?” She tapped her own forehead.
