Page 54 of The Locked Ward

I walk down the long private drive and make my way to Queens Street, not caring that I’m scuffing the delicate fabric of Georgia’s shoes against rocks or that sweat is dampening the nape of my neck. I’m so tantalizingly close to the missing piece of the puzzle. It’s infuriating.

I stumble against a loose stone, then kick it hard, wincing as my ankle twists.

The words I’m itching to yell at my parents swell up in my throat, feeling like they’re strangling me.

I want to demand to know why they hid so much from me.

Yet I still ache for them to hug me and reassure me everything will be okay.

I didn’t fight much with my mom and dad, even as a teenager.

One of our few arguments came the summer I was fourteen, a few weeks after my best friend, Melissa, moved to California so her father could start his new job.

Mel and I had been inseparable since elementary school—giggling through weekend-long sleepovers, getting our ears pierced together, and joining the same soccer team.

“You know, you two don’t have to do everything together,” my mother would say, only half teasing. “You’re allowed to have other friends.”

But I didn’t need anyone else. Why would I?

Then Mel was gone.

I couldn’t sleep that too-warm June night. The summer stretched ahead of me, endless and empty. My mother kept urging me to make new friends, like it was easy. She didn’t understand how hard it was to break into established cliques, especially for a teenage girl who felt awkward in groups.

After a few hours of lying awake, I decided to go to Mel’s house.

It was only a few blocks away; I’d walked and run and ridden my bike there a million times.

I tiptoed past my parents’ bedroom and crept downstairs.

I slipped out the back, easing the screen door shut so it wouldn’t slap against the frame.

Mel’s home was empty; the new owners hadn’t yet moved in.

Her bike was missing from its usual spot on the front porch, and the yard swing was gone.

The begonias in the window planters were brown and withered, and no lights were on.

Her house looked as hollow and forlorn as I felt.

I walked around to the backyard and climbed the steps to the treehouse her dad had built. Secretly I was hoping Mel had left me a note, or maybe dug a message into the soft wood walls. But there were only our initials, carved into the wood like a scar from years before.

I lay down on the floor and cried myself to sleep. I didn’t awaken until the sun was strong overhead.

I was a block from home when I saw the police cars converged on our street. My mother was sitting on our front steps, her head in her hands. I ran to her, shouting, “What’s wrong?”

When she looked up at me, I saw raw terror splashed across her face.

She’d awoken right after I’d snuck out—a mother’s instinct, more finely calibrated than an echocardiogram machine, sending a warning rippling through her slumbering brain that there’d been a disruption in the rhythms of her home. She’d checked on me and saw my empty bed.

I’d left the back door unlocked because I thought I’d be right back.

When she saw the unlatched door, she screamed for my father, and he came running.

They searched the house, garage, and yard, calling my name.

There was no sign of me. They knew I had nowhere to go.

Wild thoughts tore through their minds: Had someone crept inside and kidnapped me?

Maybe my birth mother, who’d somehow tracked me down, or a strange man who’d caught sight of me in the convenience store where I often walked to buy snacks?

My dad spent the rest of the night searching the streets, his car headlights illuminating shadowy cul-de-sacs.

When he got the news I was safe, he came running into the house in a T-shirt and pajama bottoms and sneakers, his hair sticking up, his eyes wild.

He hugged me so hard it felt like I was being crushed, his heart beating so powerfully I could feel it against my own skin.

Later, as we sat on the couch together, my mother stroked my hair and asked a simple question: “Why didn’t you wake us?”

“I tried to,” I began. “But you wouldn’t wake up.”

“Mandy.” My father’s voice held a warning. “We’re not angry with you. But we will be if you lie to us. Whatever it is, we can get through it as long as you’re honest.”

I bowed my head. “You wouldn’t have let me go,” I finally whispered.

That day, I promised to never lie to them.

Technically, I’ve upheld my word. It doesn’t mean I’ve always told them the full truth—I never told them the circumstances surrounding my roommate Beth’s departure from college, or everything that happened afterward—but I’ve tried to be as honest as possible.

You were the liars! I want to scream now. You lied to me about the most important thing!

My chest is heaving as I reach the bottom of the Cartwrights’ hill, and sweat is gathering beneath my armpits. I wrench my focus away from my emotions, concentrating on the facts in my possession.

My mother visited the Cartwright home long ago. In what capacity?

She told me she’d worked as a waitress until my dad bought Sweetbay’s. I no longer trust that’s true. But it’s been a long day, and I’m hot and thirsty. It can’t hurt to check out a local place and show her picture around.

I pull up the location of all the bars and restaurants within a few miles of the Cartwright estate.

There’s a fancy French bistro, an even fancier seafood place, a few chain coffee shops, an all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant, and a joint called The Penguin that has been serving award-winning fried okra and fried pickles since 1982, according to the website. That’s the place calling to me.

I order an Uber since I left my car outside Tony Wagner’s office. I don’t want to take even the slimmest chance someone can track my movements.

When the Uber pulls up, I climb into the backseat, grateful the driver is playing country music instead of soliciting conversation.

My outfit is probably all wrong for the bar, so I do what I can during the four-minute drive.

I take off Georgia’s jewelry and tuck it into her purse, tousle my hair, and wipe off my pink lip gloss with a tissue.

I use my iPhone’s camera as a mirror. I don’t look like me, but I don’t look like a Southern sorority girl, either. I’m somewhere in the middle, slipping between identities, like a glitching video game character.

“Miss?”

I look up from my phone and see we’re in front of the bar.

A heavy weariness seeps through me. Today I saw a dead man, one I spoke to on the phone only minutes before he ceased to exist. It feels almost like a dream, or a memory from long ago.

Adrenaline has propelled me through the past few hours, but it’s ebbing now, leaving a bone-deep fatigue in its wake.

I force myself to step out of the Uber into early-evening air that feels thick and warm. I push through the door to the bar.

The first thing that hits me is the sight of a long, gleaming wooden bar, the swell of conversation, and the tangy, slightly sour aroma of beer.

It feels like Sweetbay’s. Like home.

For a split second, I can almost see my dad pulling amber-colored drafts behind the counter and my mother wiping a table, a smile breaking across her face as she looks up and spots me.

My mom did that every single time she saw me: She smiled like she was opening a present and seeing the gift she’d always wanted inside.

There’s one empty stool in the middle of the long wooden bar. I claim it, grateful to sit down. The two guys next to me are hunched over drafts. They glance over, checking me out, but I avoid eye contact. They’re around my age. They won’t be any help to me.

The fifty-something bartender walks the length of the bar, pausing to grab someone’s crumpled napkin and toss it in the trash can. She stops in front of me. “What can I get you, hon?”

I have to drive home, so I reluctantly decide against whisky.

“A Sam Adams would be great.”

“Coming right up.”

She pulls it, leaving a good inch of foam, then sets it in front of me. I take a long sip of the ice-cold beer, feeling my body unclench a fraction. Then I pull my folder out of my purse and open it to the picture of my parents.

I don’t often feel lonely. But here in this bar, with nothing to do but look at their faces, an ache suffuses me. Losing my parents left a hole in my heart, one that might scab over but will never heal.

I close the folder and lay the picture of my parents on top. But I turn it around so that my parents will be facing the bartender. I wait for the bartender to make her way back to me.

Before she does, another text from Colby lands on my phone: Looking forward to seeing you soon! When are you free?

If I didn’t need information from him, I’d ghost him. He’s too aggressive for a guy I’ve only met twice. But I simply text back: Tomorrow night?

His reply lands instantly: Yes!

I don’t read the rest of his message because the waitress is approaching. I muster a smile.

“Anything else, hon?”

I slide the photo closer to her. “Actually, I have a quick question. I’m trying to find my mom. I was adopted.”

She looks at me, and I get the sense she’s an empath and can tell I’m feeling hurt, tired, and depleted.

She looks down at the picture. “This is her?”

I nod.

I watch as she studies it closely, taking in my mother’s long, wavy brown hair draped over her shoulder and her flowered dress.

Remember her , I silently plead.

But when the bartender looks up, I read only sympathy on her face.

“I don’t know her.”

“Can you look again?” I plead. “Maybe her hair was shorter then… this picture is ten years old. I think she knew the Cartwright family a long time ago. Like maybe thirty years.”

She bends back down. Stares for a moment.

“I’m sorry.”

Tears stings my eyes. I know she sees them when she looks up. She thinks I’m a young woman searching for my mother. She wants to help me, I can tell.

“Tell you what.” She reaches under the counter and pulls out a phone. She taps on it, then holds it above the photograph and snaps a picture of it. “I’ll ask around.”

She asks for my number. My mind feels sluggish, and it’s hard to know what to do. Is it safe to give it out?

I can’t decide. So I do it.