We All Live Here

Chapter Four

The call comes at ten fifteen, exactly eleven minutes after she typed the first paragraph she has managed in months, and nine minutes after she allowed herself the thought that maybe she can do this writing thing again after all. She picks up her phone, still staring absently at the screen, so that she doesn’t see who the call is from.

“Is that Mrs. Brewer?”

“It’s Kennedy. And—and it’s Ms. now.” Mzzz. She hates the word. How much nicer to be Mademoiselle or Lady Kennedy, something elegant and fancy. It’s not like she doesn’t feel abbreviated enough already.

“Uh…oh, yes. Sorry, we did amend our records. It’s the school office. We just wondered if Celie had an appointment this morning we hadn’t heard about.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Celie. She was missing from first register. We wondered if maybe she had a dental appointment.”

Her mind blanks briefly. Has she forgotten an appointment? She checks the calendar on her phone. Nothing. “I’m sorry—what do you mean, missing?”

“She’s not at school.”

“But I dropped her off this morning. Well, not dropped her off, but I watched her get on the bus.”

There is a brief silence. The kind of well-worn silence that tells you as a parent that the person at the other end of the line knows you haven’t a clue.

“Well, according to her classmates, she hasn’t arrived. She’s had so many dental appointments lately we wondered if she was having further treatment that we hadn’t been told about.”

“Dental appointments?”

Another silence.

“She’s brought in notes excusing her from afternoon lessons…uh…three times this month.”

“She—she hasn’t had any dental treatment. I’ll call her. I’ll call. I’ll—get back to you.” There is a panicky feeling in Lila’s chest. Her brain is suddenly flooded with headlines Missing Girl Found Dead in Canal. Parents Say We Had No Idea.

She calls Dan, her fingers jabbing at the buttons. “Lila, I’m in a meet—”

“Do you know where Celie is?”

“What?”

“She’s not at school. They just called.”

“But she was with you.”

“I know, Dan. I just wondered if she’d said anything to you. Whether you had any kind of arrangement I didn’t know about.”

“No, Lila. I tell you everything.”

Not everything , she wants to say, but now is not the time.

“Okay. I’ll try her phone.”

She calls Celie, and Celie does not pick up. After the fourth time she sends her a text:

Celie, where are you? Please tell me you’re okay.

It is four long minutes before Celie responds. Four minutes in which Lila’s leg jiggles anxiously under the desk, four minutes in which every possible scenario has traveled through her body, sending her heart and nerve endings into overdrive:

Just needed some me-time. I’m fine.

There is a nanosecond of relief as Lila blinks at the message. But then panic is abruptly replaced by blind fury. Me-time? Me-time? Since when did a teenager need me-time? She takes a breath before she types again:

You should be at school. They called wanting to know where you are.

Can’t you tell them I’m at the dentist or something?

Where are you? You need to come home. Now.

She watches the three little dots pulse on the screen, and disappear. She stares at her phone. NOW, Celie. She sees the dots pulse again and then there is nothing.

···

In Lila’s whole childhood she had threatened to disappear only once. She had been eight or nine, and there had been some sort of altercation—she can’t remember now what it was about. Her mother had never been the type to worry about messy rooms (“It’s all creation! Even mess!”) and she hadn’t been rigorous with rules, so Lila’s memory is a blank. But she does remember packing a child’s rucksack and announcing rather grandly to her mother that she was leaving. Her mother had been gardening at the time, her knees on a little padded cushion thing that her own mother had embroidered. She had turned, one gloved hand above her brow, squinting into the sun. “You’re leaving? As in for good?”

Lila, furious, had nodded.

Francesca had looked down at the soil, thinking. “Okay,” she said. “You’ll need some food, then.” She peeled off her gloves and stood, then shepherded Lila through to the kitchen, where she started to rifle through cupboards. “You’ll need some biscuits, I think…Maybe some fruit?”

Lila had held open her rucksack while her mother bustled around the kitchen.

“I think maybe a plate too. Because it’s hard to eat if you don’t have a plate. What about a couple of paper ones from that picnic we had? Then they won’t be as heavy.”

Lila remembered the vague sense of disorientation she had felt as this progressed, the way her fury had dissipated, her mother’s practical enthusiasm, as if Lila had just suggested an entirely understandable adventure.

“I know!” Francesca announced, just as she was zipping up the rucksack, and Lila was starting to feel very unsure about what to do next. “Monster Munch! They weigh nothing, and you always love those. You don’t want that rucksack to get too heavy.”

Pickled onion Monster Munch were Lila’s favorite food. She nodded, as Francesca searched the cupboards, opening and closing the doors. “Oh, bum. We don’t seem to have any. Shall we go and get some from the corner shop?”

Lila can never remember what happened to the rest of her running-away plan. She does remember her mother walking to the shop with her, the heat bouncing off the pavement, then allowing her to choose several packets of Monster Munch, and announcing that actually she was going to have a packet too. They walked back slowly, eating the puffy crisps, talking about the fat tabby cat with one eye at number eighty-one, Francesca’s favorite episode of Doctor Who , and whether they should paint the front door red. Lila realizes now that not only had her mother diverted her, but she had done it in a way that gave Lila an easy way to back out. How did my mother always know exactly the right thing to do? she wonders. And then: Can you still buy pickled onion Monster Munch?

She sees Celie before Celie sees her. She is in the pedestrian triangle of the shopping area, where empty takeaway cartons catch on the breeze and a few desultory plastic tables and chairs try to mimic some kind of café culture. Celie is sitting on the wall of a raised flowerbed and her head is dipped as she stares at her phone. There is not much Lila finds to thank Dan for any more, but his text message reminding her that they had Find My Phone on Lila’s mobile elicited a heartfelt Thank God .

“Celie?” She sits beside her and touches her arm.

The girl jumps and flushes slightly at her arrival. There is a moment of vague confusion, then Lila sees Celie recall the Find My Phone and Lila wonders how long it will be before her daughter deletes it. “What’s going on?” She is out of anger now. Just desperately worried.

“I don’t want to talk.”

Lila gazes at her daughter, at her long black hair, so unlike Lila’s own. She wishes she smiled as much as she used to—those huge beams of light that once shone from her face. These days, Celie is a near-silent thing, holed up in her room or endlessly locked into her phone, somewhere unreachable by her now unreliable, inadequate parents. “Okay.”

She sits a yard away from Celie on the wall, and tries to think how best to handle this. What would her mother have done? Several hours go by in her head until she fumbles for the only question she can think of. “Are you okay?”

Celie’s voice emerges from somewhere near her chest, swallowed by the curtains of hair. “I’m fine.”

“Do you want to tell me why you’ve been bunking off?”

Celie doesn’t speak. After a pause, she shrugs. Examines something on her finger and gazes into the distance.

“You know the school called me about it.”

She sees Celie sigh slightly, perhaps at the knowledge that the school will be monitoring her closely from now. She lowers her voice. “It’s not a good time to be bunking off, my love. Not with exams coming.”

She pretty much hears Celie’s eyes rolling. They sit quietly. Celie has been biting her nails again—Lila sees that the cuticles are sore and ragged. Celie glances up at her, opens her mouth slightly. And then her phone rings.

“Lila, do you know where the silver polish is?”

“What?”

Bill’s voice is muffled for a moment, and then he says, “Silver polish. I brought your mother’s silver tea set so that we can have a proper tea. But it’s become rather tarnished and I can’t find any polish under your sink. Or in the back room.”

“I don’t think we have any. And I’m kind of in the midd—”

“No silver polish? But how do you polish your silver?”

“I don’t think we have any silver. Bill, I really have to go.”

Bill lets out a sigh of disappointment. “I suppose I could get some from that shop on the high street. Will they do it?”

Celie has turned away.

“I—I don’t know, Bill. I’ll have a look on the way back.” She ends the call and then, tentatively, puts her hand on Celie’s arm. “Is this about me and Dad?”

“Jesus, Mum. Not everything is about you and Dad.”

There is something odd about her voice, as if it’s just a fraction thicker, slower than it should be. She wonders briefly if Celie is struggling to hold back tears. And then she catches it, the faintest whiff, sweet and acrid. “Celie? Have you been smoking weed ?”

Celie shoots her a furious sideways look, but it tells her everything she needs to know. “What in the—Celie, you can’t smoke weed! You’re sixteen years old!” She feels, rather than hears, Celie’s muttered curse.

“What—Where did you get it? Is someone selling it at school?”

“Why? Do you want some?”

“What?”

“God, Mum, you’re such a hypocrite. I know you smoke weed at night. You’re acting like I’m some kind of freak but you do it.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Oh, my God. Don’t lie. I can smell it through my bedroom window.”

“I—I—That’s different. I just do it when I can’t sleep.”

“And I do it when I can’t relax. What difference?”

“You’re sixteen! And I’m forty-two!”

Her phone rings again. Bill. “Bill, I can’t take this right now—”

“I know, darling. I’ll keep it short. I just wondered if you’re going past the hardware store, whether you could also get me some Bar Keepers Friend?”

“What?”

“It’s a very useful polish. I couldn’t help but notice a few places in the kitchen that are a little…grimy. I know you’re very busy, so if you get me a pot of that I can get going and really—”

“Okay. Okay, Bill. I’ll get it.”

She puts the phone down, then on impulse reaches abruptly for Celie’s bag.

Celie snatches it back. “What are you doing ?”

“Where is it?”

“Let go!”

“The weed! Where is it?”

Lila tugs at Celie’s bag, but she pulls it back, and for a brief, almost comical minute, they are seated on the wall, playing tug-of-war with the canvas satchel.

“Oh, my God! Stop!”

Celie manages to drag the bag back to her, and jumps off the wall, her face puce with anger.

“You can’t smoke weed, Celie!”

“God, you’re so embarrassing! Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Because I’m your mother!”

She is still standing on the pavement yelling her daughter’s name as Celie shoves her bag under her arm and half runs, half walks away, back toward the bus stop.

“It’s my job!” Lila calls, and her voice is caught on the wind along with the empty takeaway cartons, and disappears.

It is at this point that Bill rings again. “You know, I was thinking I might bring some of my coasters from the other house. I noticed where the girls are leaving their drinks on the wooden tables there are some rather ugly ring marks. Could you get some furniture polish when you’re in the shop—the beeswax, not the awful chemical kind? I’ll make a start when you get back from the shop.”