Vanishing Girls

I take a cold shower, gasping when the water hits my back, and then throw on the coolest thing I own, a linen dress that Dara has always hated, saying it makes me look like I’m either going to a wedding or about to be sacrificed as a virgin.

Sergei’s is a ten-minute walk—fifteen if you go slowly, which I do, trying not to break a sweat. I go around the house and through the backyard, glancing, as always, at the oak tree, half searching for a red flag entwined in its branches, for a secret message from Parker. Nothing but leaves crowd along the heavy branches, shimmering emerald-like in the weakening sun.

I cut into the thicket of trees that divides our property from our neighbors’. It’s obvious that Dara has been sneaking out recently. There’s a straight path through the growth where branches have been snapped away and the grass trampled.

I emerge onto Old Hickory Lane two houses down from Parker’s. On a whim, I decide to stop by and see if he’s okay. It isn’t like him to flake on work. His car is in the driveway, but the house is quiet and I can’t tell if he’s home. The curtains in his window—navy-blue stripes, selected by Parker at age six—are shut. I ring the doorbell—the first time I’ve ever used it, the first time I’ve ever noticed the Parkers have a doorbell—and wait, crossing my arms and uncrossing them, hating that I suddenly feel nervous.

Upstairs, I think I see the curtains twitch in Parker’s room. I take a step backward, craning my neck for a better view. The curtains are swinging slightly. Someone’s definitely up there.

I cup my hands to my mouth and shout up to him, like I used to do when we were little and needed him to come down for a game of street stickball or to be our third for double Dutch. But this time, the curtains stay still. No face appears at the window. Finally I’m forced to turn around, backtracking down the street, feeling uncomfortable for no reason, as if someone is watching me, observing my progress. I turn around once at the corner; again, I could swear the curtains twitch, as if someone has just yanked them shut.

Frustrated, I turn away. I’m already late, but it’s still too hot to do anything but ooze down the street. In less than twenty minutes, I’ll be sitting across from Dara.

She’ll have to talk to me. She won’t have a choice.

My stomach is knotted practically to my throat.

And then, just before I get to Upper Reaches Park, I see her: She’s waiting to board the 22 bus, the one I take to FanLand, standing aside to allow an old woman with a walker to dismount. The halogen lights blazing from the bus shelter bleach her skin practically white and turn her eyes to hollows. She’s hugging herself, and from a distance she looks a lot younger.

I stop in the middle of the road. “Dara!” I shout. “Dara!”

She looks up, her expression troubled. I wave, but I’m too far away, and standing in a portion of the street swallowed by long shadows, and she must not see me. With a final glance over her shoulder, she slips onto the bus. The doors whoosh closed, and then she’s gone.

My phone vibrates. Dad’s calling, probably to scold me for being late. I press ignore and keep walking to Sergei’s, trying to fight a bad feeling. The 22 does run through downtown Somerville, but not before it’s looped north around the park. If she’s planning to show to dinner, it would be far quicker to walk.

But how could she miss her own birthday dinner?

Maybe her knees are acting up, or her back is bugging her today. Still, I unconsciously slow down, afraid that I’ll arrive and she won’t be there and then I’ll know: she isn’t coming.

It’s a quarter to eight by the time I get to Sergei’s, and my stomach turns over: both Mom’s and Dad’s cars are in the lot, parked next to each other, as if this is just another family dinner. As if I might walk in and get suctioned back in time, see Dad checking his teeth in the polished back of a knife while Mom scolds him, see Dara already flitting around the salad bar, concentrating, like an artist putting the finishing touches on a painting, and making sudden grabs for the croutons or the pickled green beans.

Instead I see Mom sitting alone at the table. Dad is standing in the corner, one hand on his hip, phone plastered to his ear. As I watch, he hangs up, frowning slightly, and dials again.

Dara’s not here.

For a second, I feel nauseous. Then the anger comes rushing back.

I weave around the salad bar and push through the usual crowd—kids pegging one another with crayons, parents slugging back mug-size glasses of wine. As I approach the table, Dad turns and gestures helplessly to Mom.

“I can’t reach them,” he says. “I can’t reach either of them.” But just then he spots me. “There you are,” he says, presenting his cheek, which feels rough and stinks of aftershave. “I’ve been calling.”

“Sorry.” I sit down in the seat across from Mom, next to the empty seat intended for Dara. Better to spit it out. “Dara’s not coming.”

Mom stares at me. “What?”

I take a deep breath. “Dara’s not coming,” I say. “We don’t need to save her a seat.”

Mom’s still looking at me as if I’ve just sprouted a second head. “What are you—?”

“Yoo-hoo! Nick! Sharon! Kevin! Incoming. Excuse me.”

I look up and see Aunt Jackie moving toward us, deftly navigating the pattern of tables, clutching an enormous, multicolored leather bag to her chest, as though to prevent it from rocketing off on its own and taking out water glasses. As always, she’s wearing multiple colored strands of big jewelry (powerful crystals, she corrected me severely, when I once asked her why she wore so many rocks), so that she looks a little like a human version of a Christmas tree. Her hair is long and loose, swinging halfway to her butt.