Moss - Miras diary: lost in Paris

W ho sends postcards anymore? I wondered when I saw it in the mailbox. How quaint, how old-fashioned. The picture was an old black-and-white photo of a gargoyle on Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, the kind you might find in a musty antique shop. Even the faded French stamp looked like it was from a previous century. Then I recognized the loopy handwriting and my stomach lurched, first in relief, then in boiling hot rage. So Mom wasnt dead, kidnapped, or suffering from amnesia. She was gone, plain and simple.

Dear David, Malcolm, and Mira,

I know this has been a shock to you all, but dont worry about me. Im doing what I should have done years ago. There is so much I need to learn, but believe me Ill be home as soon as Ive figured things out.

Gargoyles have always fascinated me. Just think what stories they could tell if we only spoke their language!

Take care of yourselves, and remember that I love you.

Serena (Mom)

I examined the cardfront, back, and sidewaysbut that was it. Shed left us, and all she said was dont worry about me ? I was furious! Such a tra-la-la, have-a-nice-day kind of message when shed thrown a bomb into our lives, blowing our family apart.

When we first realized Mom was really gone, I was terrified. We called the cops, filed a missing person report, waited with our breath held, andnothing. A big fat nothing. Funny how quickly I went from being scared that shed been hurt to wanting to kill her myself.

Dad was a wreck. He expected to get ransom demands from some mythical kidnappers for weeks. Every time the phone rang, hed practically jump out of his socks. As the weeks rolled by and he corralled us into therapy, he talked about Mom as if she was on one of her work trips that shed somehow forgotten to tell us about. She didnt answer her cell phone? The battery must have died. No email? She must be super busy. But after months went by, even Dad couldnt believe his own lie.

Still he swore he didnt have a clue that Mom was unhappy or that she wanted out of our family. He insisted something else had to be going on. Like what, my brother, Malcolm, and I wanted to know. Like Moms really a secret agent and shes on some hush-hush mission?

Malcolm is sixteen, a couple of years older than me, and his humor kept me from crying my eyes out those first days. Some people think hes too sharp, but to me his sharpness has a reason. Plus, he isnt mean, just scathingly right. Hes awkwardly tall and skinny, too smart to be cool, with unruly hair he proudly calls a Jewfro. Looking like that, you need a sense of humor.

Mom says hes just like her dad, with that same drive to succeed, that same need to prove himself, but minus the skill as a sculptor since thats what Grandpa did. I always thought Malcolm was her favorite. He gets better grades, takes harder classes, and actually thinks math is fun. So I knew Mom didnt want to abandon Malcolm. Me, I wasnt so sure about.

Secretly I always wondered if Mom was disappointed in me. Im not beautiful like her, though Dad says Im cute (but then, what father doesnt say that about his daughter?). Moms face is a smooth oval, her hair wavy, her eyes big and golden. I have her eyes, but thats about it. Im short, with wild kinky hair and a nose a little too big for my face. Kind of like Dad, I guess, but minus the John Lennon glasses.

What I really wanted to inherit was artistic ability. Not Moms, but her fathers, the one Malcolm is like. Grandpa was such a successful sculptor that he even had pieces in big museums. And Dad is an artist too with his photography. I try, but I can never get on paper what I see in my head. So instead of talent, all Ive gotten from Mom is a tendency for dark circles under my eyes. And now this postcard.

Dad didnt have any answers, but he said Mom loved us, would always love us, and someday wed learn the truth about why she left. Someday, as soon as she could, shed come back to us. I wanted to believe him, but it sounded so lame. Malcolm was probably rightMom had a boyfriend we didnt know about and shed decided to leave with him and not even say good-bye. No note, no phone call, no email even. Until six months after her disappearing act, this postcard came in the mail.

When I showed it to Malcolm, he was just as steamed.

Shes having caf au lait in Paris so she can study gargoyles? What kind of excuse is that? What isnt she sayingthat she has a French boyfriend? Ooh-la-la!

I know, I said. She acts like this is an itty-bitty bump in the road, not a slap in the face. I slumped into the big overstuffed chair that Mom used to cuddle with us in, used to read books to us in. I thought I knew her. She was my mother, after all. Now she sounded like a chirping stranger. I left the postcard on the kitchen counter with the rest of the mail for Dad to find. And I tried to forget about it, to forget about her.

But that postcard really got Dad going. He was sure it was a message. Slamming cupboards, chopping onions, he started making dinner in the noisiest way possible. That meant he was super excited. Whenever he won an award for one of his photographs, the kitchen looked like an explosion had happened, but it was just Dad making meat loaf to celebrate. That says something about Dadthat he thinks meat loaf is festive. Why was he celebrating now?

This isnt an explanation at all. And it doesnt sound like your mother. Something weird is going on here. I know it! Dad stirred the spaghetti sauce as if he could read the answer in its thick bubbles. She doesnt sound safe. Shes in trouble, or she wouldnt not ask about you guys.