Page 32 of Too Old for This
I pat Norma on the hand, waiting for the crying to stop. I know how hard it can be to accept that most people lie. And the reasons they lie make it worse.
Back when I was living in Spokane, a girl in Archie’s kindergarten class went missing.
Her cherubic little face was plastered all over the newspaper, on flyers, on local TV.
Everybody was interviewed—her family, neighbors, teachers, classmates.
The police spoke to anyone who had been in contact with that girl.
The first lie came from the girl’s older brother.
He was supposed to be keeping an eye on his sister.
The internet didn’t exist yet, but video games did.
While playing, he lost track of the time and of his sister.
For seven days, he lied about when and where he’d last seen her, because he was afraid of getting in trouble.
He wasn’t the only one who lied. A police officer found two cigarette butts outside the girl’s home, in the backyard.
Important evidence, they said, because no one in the home smoked.
But another cop did, and he had smoked outside that house.
He didn’t come forward for a long time, because he didn’t want to get fired.
Another child lied about loaning a toy to the girl, something that had become an important part of the search. And a neighbor told police she was at work all day and hadn’t seen anything. Except she had called in sick but never told her husband, because she’d wanted some time to herself.
The lies were exposed over time, a slow drip of news articles over a series of months. The girl remained missing.
Yes, people put their interests ahead of others’, even in times of tragedy. Accident, illness, missing child—it doesn’t matter. Self-interest always takes precedence. The people who are supposed to help, who get paid to help, will still choose themselves.
I learned that a long time ago. But this might be Norma’s moment of realization. Before I can offer another cup of tea, Norma excuses herself to the bathroom. She takes her bag with her.
When she returns, her eyes are still red, but her face has been washed. “It’s late. I’ve got to go.”
She heads for the door, leaving me hobbling behind her with my cane. It clunks against the floor in the hallway.
“Are you okay? Maybe we should—”
Norma whirls around, almost bumping into me. Her earlier sadness is gone, replaced by anger. “I feel stupid. Is that what you want to hear?”
“It isn’t your fault the police lied. You’re just trying to find your daughter.”
“Everybody lies, right?” she says.
“Maybe.”
“Then I shouldn’t believe anything you say, either.” She crosses her arms over her chest, waiting for my response.
“Ms.Dixon, I really am trying to help.”
She scoffs. Leaves in a huff and slams the door behind her.
The aftermath of killing Plum Dixon has grown into a giant, slimy squid. All those tentacles make it so difficult to contain.
Listen to me, getting poetic in my old age.
Norma and I were never going to be friends. That would’ve been too awkward. Still, I had hoped we’d end up on the same side: two people trying to find Plum. But the police made it impossible.
Instead, she hates me more now than when she arrived.
I head upstairs, hoping I’ll fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. So much work to do tomorrow.
—
Archie has been in contact a bit more often than usual, and most of it revolves around the wedding. But today he calls in the middle of the afternoon, which is almost unheard of.
“How are you?” he says.
“I’m doing well, thank you. Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. Just checking in.”
I don’t believe that. Archie doesn’t call in the middle of a workday to check on me. “Is something going on?”
Big sigh. I imagine him sitting at his desk, staring down at a leather blotter and picking at the edge, pulling out a thread. He could never sit still for long.
“Did you get Morgan’s text?” he finally says. “She sent you a picture.”
“Hold on.” I scroll through my messages looking for this picture. Morgan’s bridesmaid dresses are as unattractive as her wedding gown; her taste didn’t improve between those decisions. The process of zooming in makes me hang up on Archie.
He calls right back.
“Yes, I got the picture,” I say.
“Can you please answer her text? She thinks you hate it.”
“Hold on. If I hang up—”
“I’ll call you right back,” he says.
I type out a quick reply to Morgan.
Yes. Good.
Texting has always been laborious to me, which is why I keep my messages succinct and to the point. Something I appreciate from others as well.
“Done,” I say to Archie.
“Thank you. Now, seriously, how are you? Everything okay?”
“It’s fine. How are you?”
“Good, good. And your hip? Have you decided about the surgery yet?”
“Oh, you know there’s a waiting list. Even if I decided to get it done, it would take a while.”
Silence.
“I was just wondering if the pain is getting worse,” he says.
“Same as always.”
Another sigh from Archie. So many of them today.
“If you need me to come up there, I will,” he says.
“No, no.” As much as I would love to see Archie, I can’t right now. The last thing I need is him fussing around, getting in the way while I’m dealing with Norma. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Call if you need anything. I can come up there if you need me.”
“I know. I will.”
It’s nice to have a son who cares so much. Except when he tries to tell his mother what to do.
Back to Norma. I need to understand what I’m dealing with, so a little research is in order. It never occurred to me that I should look into Plum’s mother. Not after Cole told me she was barely a part of Plum’s life. Another mistake that shouldn’t have happened.
It doesn’t take long to find her online.
There aren’t many Norma Dixons in the Seattle area.
She is fifty-one years old and single. She was married once, after abandoning Plum, but it didn’t last long.
Her work history is spotty and has mostly been in the service industry.
Waitress, clerk, sales associate, that kind of thing.
Norma switches jobs every couple of years.
I’m not surprised to discover she is active on social media. Her profile pic is a selfie of her sitting in a fancy restaurant with a view of the water behind her. She is holding up a full glass of wine.
Her recent posts are about Plum’s disappearance. Not surprising, but not what I’m looking for. I scroll back farther to see what her life was like before.
Cocktails. Dinner and drinks. Dartboards and beer. Bowling and more beer. Movies and margaritas. No cigarettes, though I spot a wisp of smoke in one of the photos.
Buried between the socializing and drinking, I find a few more gems. On occasion, maybe after imbibing a bit too much, Norma likes to share.
Riddle me this! You know I normally keep things light on here (cheers!), but today I want to change it up and talk about breakthroughs.
Earlier, I had an unpleasant experience at a store (DM me for name).
A sweatshirt I purchased started to fall apart after one washing.
ONE. The clerk would not let me return it.
Exchange only, he said.
If the sweatshirt was crappy the first time, why would I want another? And why was he trying to force it on me?
I don’t know what’s going on with this store or this sweatshirt, but something doesn’t smell right.
Just as I was about to get truly angry, I stopped. Was a sweatshirt that cost $9.99 worth raising my blood pressure? Was it worth making me upset and miserable all day?
Let it go. That’s what I said to myself. Walk away and let it go. And you know what? That’s exactly what I did, even though I was still angry.
But here’s my riddle: Is this one badly made sweatshirt? Or just another example of SO MANY badly made items we get these days, forcing us to spend more than if we’d bought something more expensive in the first place? Is that the plan here?
#RiddleMeThis #StuckInMyHead
Well. That post certainly tells me a lot about Norma Dixon.
I scroll down to read another.
We need to talk about saving. No, not money (but yes, money!) I’m talking about saving ourselves from everything—illness, heartbreak, stress, anxiety—basically, life! A friend of mine used to say she was trapped in this loop, always looking to others for help. She wanted someone to save her.
And you know what? So do I.
I know, I know. It’s not okay to say that. You’re not supposed to say the quiet part out loud, but dammit…maybe it’s not our fault. This whole idea that we’re helpless and need saving was pushed on us from birth. It’s probably part of our DNA.
We’re always looking to others for it. Parents, teachers, friends, spouses, our jobs, our leaders. Someone, anyone. Save us. Save ME.
I did that for a long time. Too long! And I looked in all the wrong places.
Maybe if I had looked in the right ones, I wouldn’t be where I am. Not that I’m complaining! I’m grateful. I really am. But don’t you always wonder about the paths you didn’t take?
I put the phone down and make some ginger tea to settle my stomach. I need it for what’s coming next.