Martha Tod Dudman - Augusta, Gone: A True Story

MY DAUGHTER LEFT three days ago.

Im not telling you where I am, she says when she finally calls. Dont try to find me.

I dont say anything.

Im safe. Thats all you need to know, she says.

Im glad you called me, I tell her. When are you coming home?

Im not ever coming home, she tells me.

She hangs up.

She calls back a little before five. Ive been crying. I try not to sound like Ive been crying, but she can tell.

Do you want to know where I am?

Yes.

Im staying with Jude. Shes really nice.

Shes Rains friend?

Yeah. Shes really nice. Shes house-sitting. Im not telling you where the house is. She has three kitties.

Can I have the phone number?

You cant come get me.

Im not going to. Id like the phone number.

She gives me the phone number.

Im not coming home, she tells me.

She calls me every day to tell me she is not coming home. I dont say much. I tell her I miss her. I tell her I love her. I tell her what we had for supper, that we went to the mall and got new socks for Jack, and a belt. I dont tell her about the crying. It feels odd, like being pregnant again, all this crying. How I used to just start crying when certain songs came on the radio. Dumb songs. Id say, right out loud sometimes, Oh thats so true! and then Id start to cry. So now at odd moments, on my morning walk, driving in the car, when Im just about to go to sleep, when Im brushing my teeth, I start to cry. I dont go on and on. I just cry a little. Its like I never get to the real cry thats in me. I just get the top layer. Im not sure I even want to go down into that inky cavern.

Instead I cry with my mouth open and dragged down at the corners like a tragedy mask. I dont make much noise. I dont want to scare my son, who might hear me and think its his fault. He misses her too, I remind myself. He doesnt say much about it, but sometimes he asks when shes coming home. I know they talk on the phone when Im not here.

One day I climb a wet mountain, going up over the old snow and half-melted ice. Its more treacherous, I suppose, in this half-boiled February light and just-above-freezing temperature than in the frantic deep cold of January. The slick of water on top of the ice makes it slippier than when its just frozen and cold. And the whole trail, really, is ice, like a stream ran down the exact trail and froze there. But I go up anyway. I fall down a few times, but not badly, each time managing to catch myself by grabbing the wet branches of the little trees along the path. Sometimes I go off the trail altogether and crash through dry little bushes and branches along the side, then rejoin the trail farther up. Its not too bad. Ive chosen a fairly easy mountain, knowing the steep ones would be too hard and Id have to turn back. And I really want to get to the top of something. I want to get to the top of this mountain even if theres no view. So I go ahead. I get the back of my pants wet falling down, but I pluck the damp fabric away from my skin and keep going. I make it up and head right back down again. If it were summer, or even if it were sunny, I would stop and sit on a rock and let the sun warm me. As it is the sky is that white gray of February and the colors are all the dark colors of Februarythe rocks, the leafless trees, the dry bushesso I just keep going. I think Ill make it all the way up and all the way down and I do.

I want to explain about my walk to my daughter when she calls the third day, but Im too tired. I keep waking up in the night and thinking that theres something wrong. There is something wrong. Shes not here. I wake up and I think the phone just rang. And I dont know who called. And then I imagine it was the police and shes in trouble. So I lie awake for a while and I cant get back to sleep and when I do get to sleep I dream strange dreamsthe telephone bursts into flames, the door flies open, the sky cracks.

The next day winter break will be over and school will start. She shows up in the middle of the afternoon. Ive just gotten back from the grocery store and Im putting away the food. I got the treats she likes, to lure her backcertain ranch-flavored crackers, almond-poppy muffins, big seedless oranges, watermelon Pop-Tarts, bacon, pink lemonade.

She looks smaller.

Hi Mom, she tells me.

Then she goes right by me and she goes upstairs.

I hear her go into her room. She comes out again.

Wheres Jack? she calls down.

Hes at Daddys, I tell her. Hes spending the night there.

Oh.

I can hardly hear her. She goes into her room.

I finish putting the groceries away. When Im done I want to get out of the house. I would like to go for a walk before it gets too dark and too cold, but I think I should say something.

I go upstairs. Its like sticking my hand into the garbage disposal. Thats how I feel with her.

Shes in her room. Shes not listening to music. Its quiet.

I go down the hall and I knock at her door.

Augusta, I tell her, I missed you.

Yeah, she says from in there.

I stand there, in the hall outside her room. I can see a little piece of her floor through the hole where she knocked out one of the boards two years ago when she was really mad. Sometimes I think shes crazy.

Do you need anything? I ask her.

No.

She sounds tired. Shes probably exhausted. Probably didnt sleep last nightout all night. Probably didnt eat anything all day. She doesnt like to eat in front of people, so when shes not home she usually doesnt eat.

I wish she could be little again. I would make her Cream of Wheat and read her stories. Story after story. Whatever she wanted.

Okay, I tell her. Im here.

And I feel as if Ive just put my foot on one of those little rocks sticking up out of the ice and I dont know if its the kind that holds steady or the kind that topples over or the kind that has such a thin layer of ice on top that you cant even see how treacherous it is till you try it.