CLEO

Cleo

FOUR HOURS GONE

My hands are shaking as I scroll through my mom's online dating profile, unable to process what I'm seeing. My mom. These men. There are chats on one side of the screen—with twelve different guys. Twelve. Peter, Matt, Oscar, the list goes on. Without opening them, I can see the beginnings of the conversations.

"Hi, how have you …"

"Hi! How's your week?"

"So great to meet you. So you're a lawyer …"

"Coffee was fun yesterday. Would love to do it again."

Again? My mom has met some of these people? My dad might stray … I could see that. He's distractible that way, and a guy. Not that that would make it okay, obviously. But my mom would never cede an inch of her moral high ground by cheating. And now she's hooking up with random strangers from the—now she's hooking up? I try to process this, but I really can't imagine it. She's so … not sexual.

Except there it is, in black and white. Her words. Those random men. It's like the opposite of her. She'd had the audacity to judge me when I told her I had sex with Charlie? Is she seriously this much of a hypocrite?

I click the first chat at the top. There are a handful of messages back and forth with this Oscar guy, beginning with my mom's opening line: Is that picture from Iceland? I recognize that—Vik Beach. I was eleven when we traveled to Iceland. My dad was filming there on the black sand. I feel a pang of betrayal, like my mom had handed this rando a piece of my childhood.

It is Vik!!

I click on his profile: 42. Leo. Active. Lawyer. The profile image is of a dark-haired man with intense deep-set eyes, looking back over his shoulder as he heads toward the setting sun, a surfboard under his arm. Not bad. I click on the next picture—the Oscar guy is now in a suit, cheek-to-cheek with a little girl in a frilly dress at a wedding or something. Except her face is blacked out, scribbled over as if with a marker. It's creepy as hell. The one after that is of him shirtless in front of a barbecue, holding tongs in one hand and a beer in the other, decent arms but a noticeable hint of a belly. Hard to believe it's the same guy with the surfboard.

This is my cell. Would it be better to text? is the last chat message from my mom.

She must have decided to give him the benefit of the doubt—more surfboard than scratched-out kid and potbellied tongs in real life. Ugh.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket. Not looking good for tonight, huh?

Will. I was supposed to have texted him hours ago.

Sorry. Something happened with my mom.

Is everything okay?

Not really. She's missing.

Seriously?

Yeah. It's bad. The police just left.

Holy shit. What happened?

No one knows. I'm kind of freaking out.

Do you want me to come?

Yes, that's what I want to say. Come hold my hand. I don't write that, though. Nothing with Will and me is that simple.

Not right now. I'm with my dad. But thank you.

Okay. Here if you need to talk.

"You find something?"

When I look up from my phone, my dad is in the doorway, looking like his usual warm and friendly, NPR-listening self—someone who definitely doesn't troll for women on a disgusting sex app while pretending he's some kind of monk. I slam the laptop shut.

"Where are your clothes?" I ask. No better defense than a good offense.

"What do you mean?" he asks, eyes wide and innocent.

I walk past him and open the drawers on his side of the bureau. "Your stuff is all gone."

My dad scrunches his face as he stares at the drawers. "Oh," he says, kind of dumbly.

"Please don't lie to me, Dad. I really can't—I need to know what the hell is going on here," I say. My dad is the king of the white lie: Be right there … I'm about to do it … Of course I remember. Usually, it's harmless, his way of keeping everybody happy. It's my go-to tactic, also. And one thing I've always known for sure: We've got each other's backs.

He shakes his head. "I told your mom this was a terrible idea."

" What was a terrible idea?"

"Not telling you." He drops down onto the bed, right next to my mom's incriminating laptop.

"Dad, what is going on? Where is Mom?"

"You think I know, Cleo? And what, I'm keeping it to myself? Why would I do that?"

"I don't know. But nothing here is making any sense." I gesture toward the laptop and regret it immediately as I register his confused look. He doesn't know.

"Wait, what did you find on here?" He reaches over to open her computer.

Be locked. Be locked. But then the screen lights right back up, and all of it is there—the little pictures of the men, the chats. My dad's expression is unreadable. He closes the laptop and runs a hand over the top. He for sure does not look shocked.

"You knew?" Relief and anger collide in my chest.

"I knew that it was a possibility," he says, scrubbing his hands up and down his face. "Your mom wasn't doing anything wrong. She was allowed to be dating people."

"Allowed?"

"Your mom and I have been separated for the past four months. I don't know the details of what she's been doing." He gestures toward the computer again. "And it's not what I wanted. But …" He looks up at me intently. "Your mother has been through a lot in her life. She's a good person, though. I think you know that. Whatever she's been doing—"

"A good person who took off with some new boyfriend?" I ask. "Is that what's going on here?"

"Come on, Cleo. She didn't take off, obviously," he says. "She'd never do that to you. And, what, left a bloody shoe to throw us off the trail?"

My brain is slowly piecing together how big this lie really is. My dad and I talk all the time, and, yeah, sometimes he's traveling. But apart from the occasional work trip, he's been acting like he was home the past four months.

"Where have you been staying, then?"

My dad winces, stares down at his shoes. His whole parenting brand has been I'll always give it to you straight. He's told me about his mistakes and his bad decisions, the time he almost failed out of college, all the drugs he did, how he once stole a hundred dollars from his best friend to go to a concert. How he's never been a hundred percent sure of anything because uncertainty is a part of life. It gave me permission not to be perfect every second of every day like my mom expected. And I've been so grateful for that. But being a straight-up liar? That's something else entirely.

"I've been staying at Dan's place in SoHo." He looks down at his hands. He's still wearing his wedding ring. "He's out of town on location."

"And you were never going to tell me?"

"I know it sounds bad," he says. When he looks up at me, his eyes are shiny. "Honestly, it was kind of a no-win situation. Your mom thought that …"

"Oh, so this was Mom's idea?" That's kind of hard to believe when the whole situation screams impulsive and immature.

He shakes his head. "No, no, that's not what I meant. Obviously, I'm an adult. I could have refused to go along with it. It was a joint decision. We're both responsible. But your mom, in particular, did think it would be better to wait until the end of the school year to tell you. After everything last semester with Kyle. You have your grades up now. She didn't want this to derail you."

I was on academic probation in the fall. But my mom was wrong about Kyle being the cause. It was a hard first semester, that's all. I had all my science and math requirements to fulfill. When I met Kyle, I was already drowning. I mean, did things eventually become bad between Kyle and me, really bad? Yes, in the end. But my mom was freaking out way before that.

"So you're saying you lied because of me?" I ask.

"Of course not, Cleo." He closes his eyes again. "There's no right answer here. Believe me. And your mom really thought—"

"Whose idea was it to separate?"

"I don't think it matters who—"

"Whose idea?"

My dad is starting to look a little pissed now.

"Your mom suggested the separation."

"I don't believe you."

"It's true, Cleo," he says. "You can ask her. When we find her, which we will, she'll tell you. You know as well as I do that she won't lie. She's incapable of it." This sounds like a criticism.

"Did you cheat on her?" That's the only possible scenario I can imagine that would lead to this.

"No one cheated on anybody. God no," my dad says quickly. I don't know if I believe him. "Of course not. Your mom wasn't happy. With me— I wasn't making her happy. And I don't like saying it that way because it sounds like I'm making it her fault. And it's not her fault. It's reality." He's quiet for a moment. "Your mom and I are really different. Like opposites. I'm creative, and she's … you know, she's analytical. She lives in her head. That kind of difference can be exciting for a while. But maybe it's not sustainable. Nothing is set in stone anyway. We aren't divorced yet. We're just taking some time."

"Right." But if my mom is already seeing other people, it seems like her mind is pretty made up. "Did you find out anything on the phone?"

"About what?"

"About Mom ? Come on, Dad, focus. Weren't you talking to her office?"

"Oh, right, sorry. This whole situation is … it's so shocking. Anyway, Jules doesn't know anything. They spoke around the time you were supposed to get here. Your mom mentioned you were on the way, that she was looking forward to seeing you. She had a call scheduled later with a client, some Vivienne something. She didn't pick up," he says.

"And who was the other person you were talking to?" I want to know about the angry call. I want to know about this "fucking problem." I want to know everything, not just the stuff he thinks I can handle.

"Oh, right," he says, making a face like he's only now remembered. "Lauren."

My mom's best friend from law school. That wasn't who he spoke angrily to, though. Not a chance. My dad was careful around Lauren; he'd never talk to her that way. She already didn't like him. It was an out-in-the-open joke between them—except that it obviously wasn't a joke.

"Did Lauren know anything?"

He shakes his head. "No, unfortunately. She's shocked and confused, like us. She said she'd make some calls, mutual friends, that kind of thing. She's going to check back in later."

"And who was the other person you talked to?" I ask. "Besides Lauren and Jules."

"What?"

"I heard you on a call with a third person. Somebody from work?"

His face freezes for a second. Then he blinks and the look is gone.

"From work?" he asks.

"I don't know, but ‘We have a fucking problem. You and I both,'" I say, repeating his words. "You sounded pretty pissed."

"Oh, right, that … I, uh, am upset." He seems thrown or embarrassed or something. "Dealing with location permits at a time like this for a movie that will probably lose financing and never start shooting anyway? It feels very … wrong. But I had to deal with it—so I lost my patience."

"Right," I say.

"God, Cleo. Please stop looking at me like that. Lying about the separation was a mistake and I am sorry," he says. "So, so sorry. But it was to protect you. You're the most important thing in the world to me. I hope you know that."

"Right," I say again. But the word sounds hollow even to me.

I grab my mom's laptop off the bed and head for the door.

"Cleo!" he calls after me. "You can't take that." When I whip around, he looks as worried as he sounds. "We need to give that to the police."

"I will—first thing in the morning," I say, moving toward the stairs.

"Cleo!" My name comes out like a reprimand.

I turn to face him again. "You heard what the detective said. If we give it to them now, it's going to sit there until the tech guys have time. I'm not going to mess with anything. I just want to see if there's anything important on there. That way, I can be sure they know. Either way, I'll give it to them tomorrow."

"That isn't a good idea." He sounds even more nervous. "We're not supposed to get in the way—"

"I'm not going to get in the way. But I'm also not going to sit here and do nothing because someone tells me to," I say. "I'm going to do what Mom would do if I were missing. I'm going to help find her."

I stop at the bottom of the steps to grab my tote bag off the floor. I think of my mom's other computer so out of place on her office floor. Maybe I should check that room myself. After all, the police missed her personal laptop upstairs. Not exactly in plain sight, but still.

The drawers and cabinets in her office are all gaping open from the police search. It looks so chaotic, so messy. So not my mom. And just like that, there are tears in my eyes, and a sudden terrible wheezy feeling in my chest. I take a couple deep breaths until it starts to pass.

Opposite the desk is "the tiny bathroom"—that's what we've always called it. Only a toilet and a small sink. One of those old brownstone quirks, some illegal addition made before we ever lived there. It even has a lock with a little ancient key on the outside instead of within. Probably back from a time when it was only a closet. The lock works, too. I know that firsthand.

I'd just turned fourteen when I locked my mom inside.

I wanted to go with my friends to Gov Ball, the music festival on Governors Island, and she said I was only allowed to go if she came, too. She promised to remain out of sight so that no one would even know she was there. She just wanted to make sure I stayed safe. Not because she didn't trust me, she claimed, but because she didn't trust the world. And so she was going to hover, I don't know, in the bushes, watching me ? None of my friends' parents felt the need to do this.

"It's humiliating!" I can remember shouting after I'd already been at it for at least half an hour, following her from the bedroom to the living room to the kitchen. Even now the memory is so close—I can feel the way my heart was pounding as I chased her around.

"Enough, Cleo!" my mom had shouted that day, really angry, which wasn't like her, either. "I'm going to walk away now."

"So you get to decide we're done!" I shouted, still following her down the hall.

"Yes, I do get to decide," she called without turning around. "One of the very few things I get to do as a parent is decide when a conversation is over."

Then she disappeared into her office. I don't know if she had planned to go into the tiny bathroom or if she was trying to get away from me. But when I raced after her and she closed the bathroom door between us, I started to scream, "Mom! You can't do this to me! Mom!" And at that moment I hated her so much. It was like my skin was on fire.

I don't remember deciding to lock the bathroom door. But I do remember doing it. Turning that key so hard and fast, it left my fingers throbbing. And I remember staring at the door after it was done, breathless and scared but maybe also a little thrilled. Then the sound of my mom's voice calling through the door, trying to hide how nervous she was: "Cleo, please unlock this door. Unlock it right now."

She went so fast from calm to mad, then really mad, then frantic and, finally, terrified. Her voice cracked as she started to beg. I remember knowing that my dad wouldn't be home for at least two weeks. That she didn't have her cell phone in there. That I had all the power. In the end, I only let her out for totally selfish reasons. I needed money to meet my friends at the tarot card reader on Fourteenth Street. Otherwise, I can't say for sure what would have happened.

Another person might have removed the key permanently from the bathroom after that. Not my mom. Maybe she left it in the lock because she wanted me to know that she still trusted me. But every time I saw that key it always felt like she wanted me to remember what I'd done. That she was shaming me. And yet, somehow, I never really felt that terrible about the whole thing. Even now it feels … complicated. The way everything always is with my mom.

I turn my attention to a cabinet, filled, it turns out, with neat rows of law school textbooks. Another cabinet has files with labels like Tax Returns and Medical Records, with different years. Cabinet after cabinet of boring, responsible, predictable nothing—nothing that could explain where my mom went. It isn't until I reach the tall cabinet in the corner that I find anything even remotely interesting, a box labeled Haven House.

It's heavier than I expect when I pull it out and set it on the floor. Inside are some school papers (all As) and some notebooks and a few photos of my mom as a kid, looking so much like me at that age, it's creepy. I've seen some of these pictures before, when I asked to see my mom's childhood photos. I remember my mom explaining why she was with so many other kids in every picture; she'd lived in a group home for a bit before she was adopted by Gladys, who maybe had some issues but also sounded like a total character, warm and kind and silly. So not a normal childhood, but not horrible, either. But I've never seen these pictures before. She's so much younger in them. She was a little, little kid, at Haven House, and she stayed all the way until she was a teenager? She lived there a lot longer than I realized.

At the bottom of the box is also Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass —I've never known my mom to read poetry in her life. There's even an inscription on the first page: Promise me you'll be a writer, Katrina. God gives the gift to few. xx Reed

A writer? And my mom never thought to mention that when all I've ever talked about is wanting to be a writer myself? Classic.

Under the book, I find what looks to be a journal. My mother's journal. I stare at it for a minute, feeling a mix of intrigue and dread. I smooth my hand over the cover a couple times before I flip it open to the middle and begin to read.

Olivia took my soap and my towel and then she called me a fucking cunt. Because that makes sense. It's not even like she kept them for herself. She threw them in the garbage AFTER putting them in the toilet. She put my washcloth in the toilet, too. Then tried to shove it in my mouth. I got away, though. I really thought about telling on her this time, but to who? Silas? Anyway, she has that broken spoon.

I snap the journal closed. A broken spoon?

"You're still here?" My dad's voice in the doorway. "I thought you were—Did you find something?"

He comes closer, looks over my shoulder into the box. I tuck the journal into my bag. I'm not sure why I don't want him to see it, only that I don't.

"How long was Mom at Haven House? I thought she was adopted by that woman Gladys?"

He shakes his head. "But not until she was a teenager—she was at Haven House for years before that. Longer than most kids. There were issues in her earlier foster homes. Bad luck mostly." I can see the lightbulb go on. "Wait, you don't think …"

"Don't think what?"

"Well, I guess, I'm just saying … that kind of childhood. Maybe your mom was struggling more than we realized."

"So now you're saying she did leave?"

"No, no, of course not. I'm saying … Your mom's had a hard life. Maybe all of this is related somehow. I don't know."

But I don't want to think about that. I only want to think about her coming home.

"Listen, I'm tired. I need to go." I stand up and walk toward the door. The journal and computer feel so heavy in my bag.

"Are you going to be okay?" he calls after me.

"Yeah," I say. "As soon as we know where Mom is."