“You don’t know my mother,” I said, not ready to accept a new vision of her.
“Maybe not,” Tom said, “but I’m getting to know her daughter.”
* * *
The motel that night squatted close to the freeway exit. I offered to take the car, leaving the room to Tom. I needed to make a call anyway. This was already the fourth night away from Chicago, the outermost limit I’d set for myself. I was expected back in classes by Tuesday at the latest. Tomorrow. Taking this much time off was unheard of. A girl in my class had been out for a week with the flu last fall and ended up dropping out. I had a decision to make.
The pay phone was tucked around a corner, hidden from the road and the parking lot. A small square of concrete beneath the phone was all that differentiated it from the weedy lot that bordered the motel. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, a raw and lonely sound. At the far end of the empty lot, a greenish streetlight illuminated a patchwork of metal fence.
I listened to the endless ringing that I now associated with the Bowers, my chest tight with the hope that one of them would pick up. That they were safe somewhere. Talking about Bonnie’s attack had turned my fear more sticky and immediate, my head filled with blood, knife blades, heat. I just wanted to talk to the Bowers. Not only to hear that they were fine, but—selfishly—so they could tell me what had happened with the stalker, and maybe that, in turn, would lead me to my mother.
The truth was, I’d never imagined a world without my mother in it. I couldn’t let myself start now.
When the Bowers didn’t answer, I recycled another couple of quarters into the phone. It was late, and I wasn’t supposed to use his home number except in emergencies. But there he was: “Hello?”
“Dr. McCarter? It’s me, Josephine.” I added: “Morrow.”
“Jo,” he said, brightening. “Our little scientific anomaly. Where have you been? Any word about your mother?”
“Not yet. I’m calling because I still need a day or two to make sure she’s fine. Would it be all right if I came back on Wednesday—maybe Thursday—instead?” This was optimistic to the point of being unrealistic, but it felt good to say it, like maybe it would really happen.
Dr. McCarter was quiet for a moment. “Wednesday? We’re going over the maternal immune system in class tomorrow. Have you arranged with a classmate to take notes?”
“It was all … so sudden … I just—”
“You have an exam in my class in one week,” Dr. McCarter said. “I have your classmates covering for you at the lab, but they’re busy too. It’s not quite fair to them to force them to pick up your slack, is it, now?”
“Of course not. I’m sorry.”
A sigh. “Jo, can I be honest with you? There’s been some talk among my colleagues. Someone said we only accepted you as a publicity stunt.” He didn’t need to tell me: I’d felt this, reflected in classmates’ gazes and fleeting comments. “You’re bright, and usually you’re a hard worker. I absolutely believe you can do what you’ve set out to do. This is just a distraction from your work.”
“My mother’s home was burned down,” I said, “and she’s missing, and—”
“Family matters are tricky, yes,” he interrupted. “But couldn’t you let someone else handle this for a while?”
“It’s not like my mother has anybody else.” And neither did I. No brusque father to pat me on the back, no aunts to rush in with casseroles and platitudes. It was just me now: my mother and I divided and subdivided from our time at the Homestead. Eighteen women narrowed down to two, two down to one.
“I don’t want you to lose your place in the program for something you can’t help. I’ll speak to the committee about the quality of your work and make sure they understand these are special circumstances. Let’s prove those skeptics wrong, okay?”
“Thank you, Dr. McCarter.”
After I hung up, there was a sudden rustle behind me, the unmistakable crunch of a footstep against the gravel. I turned, embarrassed and irritable, expecting that Tom had followed me out here to listen in on my conversation. It took a second to locate the source—the cherry of his cigarette came first, floating in midair, the rest of him resolving around that spark. He ambled toward me, not as tall as Tom but thicker and loosely muscled. Something about his gait, the easy stride, set off a primal thrum of warning at the base of my skull.