Dad: I miss you, too.

Dad: And I love you.

I stare at his message, my heart sinking at the image of him looking down at his phone, waiting, wanting to see the words I’ve kept to myself.

Dad: Good night, sweetheart.

Becca: Good night, Dad.

Journal

My mother loved me.

But love means nothing.

It’s an invisible, fleeting moment.

Somewhere between false adoration and pure hatred comes an emotion, a vulnerable need, a single desire.

It lives within the ones who miss it, who crave it, who know better than to expect it.

Love is relentless, even when the love turns to hate, turns to loathing, turns to death.

~ ~

I wake up early the next morning, my head clear from the alcohol consumed the night before, and get ready for my shift at Say Something. It’s a Saturday, which means it’s going to be packed with kids and scheduled activities. Dad finally taught me to drive without having constant panic attacks, and I barely scraped through my driver’s test. He celebrated his achievement by handing me keys to my very own car. It isn’t anything fancy, a silver Honda Accord the same age as me, but it’s enough to get me from A to B and to me, it’s perfect. I still catch the bus to WU because parking is a bitch, and so I really only use it to get to the center—a fifteen-minute drive away—and to get to therapy sessions when Dad’s not home. When he is, he likes to drive me around. He says it makes him feel needed.

I pull into a spot, just as my phone sounds with a text and I smile, knowing it’s either Pete or Dad checking in on me. My mind’s already reeling with smart-ass responses when I grab my phone from my bag. My breath catches when I see Josh’s name on the screen. I stare at the letters of his name, moving from one to the next, J, O… wondering what it is he could possibly have to say. He hasn’t communicated with me once since Grams’s birthday. Not a call. Not a text. Not a single e-mail. Nothing. And now… I inhale deeply, the cold air filling my lungs giving me the courage I need to open the message.

Josh: Hey Becs. I’m really sorry to bother you, but do you know where your grams is? I came home yesterday and knocked on her door, she wasn’t home but her car was. I left her a present at the door and when I woke up this morning it was still there. She’s still not home.

My heart skips, my thumbs shaking as I try to reply. I attempt to type the same word five times, failing each time, before I realize I’m holding my breath. I force an exhale and push back the panic creeping in my chest.

Becca: I don’t know where she is. She sent me a text a week ago. That was the last I heard from her.

Josh: I’m sure it’s nothing. She’s probably with Mavis or something. Don’t panic, okay?

Becca: You have a key, right? Go in the house.

Josh: I just did. She’s not home. TV’s on.

Becca: Did you try calling her?

Josh: Yeah. She left the phone on the kitchen counter.

I try to reply, but the shaking of my hands makes it impossible, so I run into the center, phone gripped tight in my hand. The second I see Sandra in her office, I call Josh’s number, set it to speaker, and sign to Sandra to translate for me.

With wide eyes, she nods, all while the sound of the phone dialing fills the room. “What’s going on?” Sandra asks, and all I can do is shake my head, tears filling my eyes. There’s a lump in my throat, threatening to escape in a silent sob, and the panic escalates with each continuous ring. I feel like I’m back in the hospital, Tommy in a room with a broken arm, and me pacing the waiting room trying to call Josh. The call cuts off, and I hit redial, tears falling, streaking down my cheeks. Finally, the call connects, and I can hear his fear in a single word, “Becs.”

“Uh. Hi,” Sandra says, her eyes on my hands—hands too weak to move. “I’m Sandra. I work with Becca, and I guess I’m going to translate for her…”

Josh doesn’t speak, but I can hear his rushed breaths, hear the sound of his footsteps as he moves around my grandmother’s house. Doors open. Doors close. “Ma’am!” he shouts.

In the background, I hear Tommy call out, “Ma’am. Where are you?”

“Hey, buddy,” Josh says. “It’s okay. She’s probably just playing hide-and-seek. Yeah. That’s what she’s doing.” He exhales loudly. “You stay in the house in case she comes out, all right? I’m going to look in the yard for her.”

What’s happening? I sign, and Sandra repeats it.

“I don’t know. I’ve searched the entire house. She’s not home.” The background noise changes, letting me know he’s outside. I hear the creaking of the gate to the back yard.