had only partly taken the advice: Cal was Korean, but at least that was Asian. Not that it did jack shit to keep them together.
Poor Gerald. He’d been so eager to get Lily to the altar. How long had they actually dated? He had no idea of the full extent of her … eccentricities.
“Did your mom ever receive psych treatment?” Lee asked.
It was a question Rita had tossed around with her brother from time to time. Their mother needed help — professional help. Tom never denied the point. But they both knew she’d never go for it, so what were they supposed to do? Have her committed?
“My grandfather considered shrinks on par with witch doctors. Mom just has weak nerves.”
“Weak nerves, huh?” Davis laughed. “Nothing that smelling salts won’t take care of?”
They wanted to know whether Lily was on any meds. Gerald mentioned some pills she took for her thyroid. They went upstairs to the bathroom to search through the medicine cabinet and then moved on to the bedroom. The pills were nowhere to be found; it seemed she carried them in her purse. Everything of any importance was in that purse: reading glasses, makeup, facial cleanser, half-eaten sandwiches, vitamins. A survival kit, it was her life in miniature.
“Any recent disturbances or fights that might’ve pushed her to leave?” Davis said.
“’Course not, we’re newlyweds.”
“Rita, what about you? Anything you can think of?”
“Nothing comes to mind.”
“Were you guys close?”
“I don’t know. Things have been a bit bumpy since I split with my husband.”
“She didn’t approve?”
“My mother’s pretty old school. It’s like, if your husband’s not beating you, you should go back and give it another go. Particularly if he happens to be Dental Surgeon of the Year.”
Rita still remembered Lily’s ecstatic smile when she and Cal had first announced their engagement. All Lily’s features had sharpened and jumped up, rosy clouds diffusing across her cheekbones. That hunger in her face. Rita could see she was surprised to discover that her dreamy, dishevelled daughter had it in her, too. That hunger to have a man sweep her off her feet, take care of her. How it had irked Rita to give in: to be brought face to face with this thing inside her. This inner weakness she’d been ignoring all her life but, it turned out, she’d inherited from her mother. The truth was that she was just so fucking exhausted. Even back then, she knew she didn’t love Cal. She’d never loved Cal. It was a terrible admission. But he’d come along at a time when she was tired of being broke and adrift and her latest show at the co-op had only sold three paintings. What he offered was a chance to sell out, to trade in her sorry existence.
The only thing that could have pleased Lily more would have been Cal’s being a doctor.
“My mom pushed me toward dental school, too,” Lee said. “She said no good woman would marry a cop.”
“Any regrets you don’t spend all day in people’s mouths?”
“Just that I’m single.”
With a hesitant laugh, Rita wondered if this guy might be flirting. It had been a long time since anybody had flirted with her. A sudden rush of emotion, hot moisture bursting behind her eyes — not because she was glad she hadn’t lost her groove, but because the moment made her feel strangely close to her mother. As if Lily, having vanished, were all the more present, whispering tips in her ear about how to snag a good man and avoid the deadbeats. “I guess your mom knew best then.”
“Asian mothers.”
Two
As it started to rain, the windshield turned into a watercolour. Rivulets trickled down, caught flecks of coloured light, smeared into nothing. Cars honked, tires slid across the damp asphalt with a faint sizzling. Everything felt faraway and insubstantial, as if all of Rita’s senses had faded to the point they might fail altogether.
The thought that Lily was outside in this made Rita shiver. At least Lily had her car — if that was any comfort. Had she spent the night huddled in the back seat, parked in some dark alleyway? Where was she? Why weren’t the police doing more to find her?
Maybe she would burst through the door at any minute, lipstick smudged, hair fallen flat, confused about what had happened but unharmed and relieved to be home. Maybe she was there already.
But as soon as Gerald opened the door, it was obvious nothing had changed.
Their living room had aspirations culled from the pages of Good Housekeeping. A thick border of ivy and violets had been stencilled along the wall tops; needlepoint cushions adorned the floral chintz sofas. Dishes of potpourri that Gerald’s first wife had made herself had long since turned brown and brittle.
Strewn all over the coffee table: notepads, lists, dog-eared copies of the Yellow Pages and White Pages. A pizza box full of crusts. The place was starting to look like a call centre.
There was one trace of Lily’s presence, at least: a celadon ceramic dish full of white pebbles covered in water. Branches, leaves, and irises sprung up in an oddly intriguing, asymmetric pattern. Ikebana, Japanese flower arranging. The twilight petals were already wilted; by tomorrow, it would all be dead.
Gerald looked wilted, too, purple-grey pouches under his eyes. For the past three days, they’d been on the phone with neighbours, friends, Lily’s dentist, hospitals, homeless shelters. They’d received a good deal of sympathy, but no real information. And no one had a clue how to get in touch with the Japanese ladies she saw once a month at the Nisei Women’s Club.
So far, the only thing the police had told them was that Lily had withdrawn six hundred dollars on the day of her disappearance.
“It’s a joint account, could’ve told them that days ago,” Gerald said. “They should hand over their badges and lemme do their job!”
While Rita wasn’t quite as cynical, she had to admit she had doubts about how high a priority their case was. Officer Davis had mentioned that the Canadian Criminal Code didn’t prohibit a person from walking out of her life, provided no crime had been committed.
It was all so confusing. The officers urged them to call everyone under the sun, yet they also wanted a list, complete with addresses and phone numbers. Were they going to contact these people, too? Or would they only call if Lily turned up dead in the trunk of her car?
A press release had been issued. That morning while Rita was on her second Coke, the CBC news announcer devoted all of ten seconds to “Lily Takemitsu Anderberg, a sixty-year-old woman of Japanese descent, five foot four, 110 pounds, last seen at her home in Willowdale on Friday night.” The kind of bland filler news that usually didn’t even register on your groggy consciousness.
“These things take time,” Davis said. “It’s important for family not to get overwhelmed. Get rest, eat regular meals, and if you need to, don’t feel bad about going back to work.”
Rita almost wished it weren’t summer break. Toxic armpits, challenging stares, baseball caps on backward. Forget about
