c11

I don't go back inside to listen to what the detectives have to say. I already know. I can imagine, anyway. I've read through all the comments online, against my better judgment. I know it looks almost as bad for the people running the investigation as it does for my mom—for me, even, thanks to her implying that I knew about the podcast beforehand. But I imagine they'll survive the aftermath better than we will.

We. I hate that I'm thinking as a we again, that she's pulled me deeper into this mess, made it even uglier. That I'm lumped in with a person who would choose to do an interview like that, who makes it so clear that the worst things that happen to this family are just as much about attention and spotlight and money as they've ever been.

Darkerhad apparently released the episode outside of its usual schedule. This led people to conclude that the hosts thought it was important that people heard it right away—and that people heard all of it. It had been posted four hours ago, accompanied by a short bit of text that read: "The only thing that matters is finding Evie," paired with the same website, hashtag, and phone number my mom had mentioned for sharing tips. And from what everyone could gather, it hadn't been edited at all. Even the things that would have likely been easier for them to cut—the discussion of ad revenue, the criticism of the true crime genre, the clear lack of cohesion between the two hosts—were all left in.

There were some people expressing sympathy for my mom online, for our family. Who suggested that any normal person would be a wreck if their child had gone missing. Any normal person could snap at a stranger or make a poor decision. Any normal person would make choices to find their child, to get more information, that would seem desperate to someone else. But Erin Davis, others said, is not a normal person. Isn't that much obvious by now? Still others said, wait—was everyone letting Darker off the hook, too? Was what Erin said really that wrong? The stuff about selling bidets while selling stories about murder and rape? It might have been crass or aggressive, but was she really wrong? Maybe it's time we talked about that, too, people wrote in online discussion threads and through Instagram comments.

Most of all, the episode had seemed to set off an internet-wide panic that no one was really prepared for, even with all the rumors that had been swirling about my sister's absence from social media. Evie Davis was really, truly gone. Her lack of posts wasn't a social media fast or the prelude to a big rebrand, but a sign that she could be in serious danger. That the worst really could be possible. Everything is different now, and though part of me is relieved that more people know—that this doesn't just exist in our own miserable heads—another part of me hates it. It makes it real.

I've finally managed to put my phone down and take a deep breath of fresh air when I hear the back door close, and I look over to see my mom walk over where I'm sitting.

I'm not in the mood to talk about this. Not now.

She's drinking a glass of wine, and she hands me one, too, when she reaches where I'm sitting. I take it. We don't toast, which I'm grateful for. What is there to toast to now? Even surviving feels like failure at this point.

"Did they leave?" I ask, even though I heard the detectives' car pull out of the driveway twenty minutes ago.

"Yeah," she says. "They seemed more concerned with the podcast than the fact that they can't seem to figure anything out. Can't get the security footage. Can't get into the phone. ‘We're doing everything we can with the resources we have access to, ma'am,' they say. Well, you know, so am I. That's what that was."

The last four words all blend together, and I know then that this isn't her first glass. I wonder if she had poured herself one before they even left. I'm sure the detectives would have loved that.

I snort. "That's all that was? Come on, Mom."

She sips, sinking into the seat next to me.

"It was a train wreck," I say. "You sounded…unhinged."

"Yeah, well," she starts. "What makes more sense to you in our situation? Someone staying cool, calm, and collected…or someone losing their shit? Having a meltdown?"

What she's saying is so reminiscent of some of the comments I read, almost word for word, that I'm somewhat impressed.

She blinks into the string lights that hang above our patio chairs. "It was a human moment."

"But you lied," I explain. "I didn't know about the podcast, like you said. I didn't want to be there."

"And you weren't."

"But you told them that I wanted to be…you know how many of my friends listen to that podcast? It makes me look…"

"Desperate?" she says. "Like that isn't what we are? Look at us. We have nothing to do but sit here and wait. I couldn't wait anymore, Hazel. I couldn't just do nothing."

"So what about the money stuff, then? How could you even think of leveraging the podcast for cash, or connections?"

She shakes her head as if she doesn't understand how I'm not putting this together.

"Eventually, if your sister doesn't come home, if she isn't found, do you know what we're going to have to do? Hire private investigators. With our own money. And I'm just going to go out on a limb here and say that isn't really feasible for you right now, given your situation…"

My mind flashes to the balance of my bank account, barely enough cash in my checking account to cover rent for the next month. I take a sip of my wine, and we both sit there staring at the night sky for a moment, silent.

"It wasn't always like this," she says, her eyes still fixed upward. "Or I wasn't, anyway, I guess."

It's such an out-of-character comment that goosebumps rise on my arm. I wait for her to keep talking, wondering if she will.

"Before your dad and I left New Hampshire, all I could think about was art. Pottery, to be specific. And I was good. I made these beautiful things out of nothing, built these shapeless pieces of clay into forms and textures that were surprising. Bold and soft, warm and cool. It wasn't like painting, people didn't know how to talk about it. What adjectives to use. But I'd always watch people look at my work…see how their eyes lingered on a piece. This feeling of creating beauty for the sake of it…I knew that it was all I ever wanted to do, or at least that nothing I did would ever feel as good as that."

For the first time in my life, I try to imagine my mom as a teenager. A teenager who's in love with art. It seems impossible. I must look as confused as I feel, as awkward, because my mom catches my expression and laughs.

"I know," she says. "It's hard to believe."

It is, but as the thought sinks in, it starts to make sense. If there's one thing a successful career on social media requires, it's an appreciation for how things look. For making people stop and stare. A talent for sculpting an aesthetic that people want more of.

"I saved up for the first two years of high school for my own potter's wheel, so I wouldn't have to use the one at school. Eventually, I had enough to get one secondhand from a local community college, and then it was all I thought about," she goes on. "Your dad would sneak out at night and tap on my window only to realize that I was in the garage making things, one lightbulb hanging above the wheel. I never got tired there. I always told him that I couldn't talk, I was busy, and he'd wait. Just sit there and watch me quietly."

There's a sadness in her voice that I haven't heard in years, not since my dad's funeral maybe. I hadn't thought in years about the fact that my parents had been high-school sweethearts. In the beginning, though, it had been part of the whole narrative, the sob story. High-school sweethearts. Beloved father. Gone.

"I think I fell in love with him then, just seeing him sitting there, watching me be happy," she says, and for the first time in more than a decade, I remember them together again. The way he rooted for her.

"By the time I was set to graduate, I had a whole portfolio of pieces. Dozens of them. Maybe more than a hundred. It's all I ever did and where every cent of the money I earned from babysitting jobs went. But my parents were…I don't know. Practical, I guess. They reminded me so often that they had worked their way up from nothing, that they had to fight for every single dollar. And they didn't do that just so I could choose a career that wasn't a career at all. They had come from so little, and in their mind it was only natural that I move a step beyond what they had done. A doctor. A lawyer. Anything but an artist."

I try to conjure memories of my maternal grandparents, and all I can think of is stilted Christmas dinners, gray hair, scratchy sweaters. They lived far away and both died before Evie was born. I've had so few conversations with my mom about her childhood that this feels totally foreign. Uncomfortable. Like she's supposed to be saying it all to someone else, but I'm the only one here. The thought crosses my mind that maybe who she really wants to say all of this to is Evie, but I push it down with another gulp of wine.

"I had applied to this prestigious ceramic course in Italy and kept it secret, but my dad found some pamphlet in my room and freaked out. They both just…lost it. I told them that I'd handle it, but they just dug their heels in. They said it didn't matter if I would pay for it, because what would happen after? They said they certainly couldn't afford to support me when I was unable to get a job after I finished ‘arts and crafts.' It was a different time, I guess, with different expectations about what a career should look like, but…I don't know. It broke my heart, I guess."

I look down at my wineglass, now almost empty, and I am struck by a feeling of panic. Of knowing that if we were other people, this is the point when I would hug her, place my hand on her shoulder, offer comfort. But I can't get myself to do it, so I just sit and stare.

"I didn't know that," I manage.

"Why would you? I haven't talked about it in years," she says, throwing back the last drops of her wine. She gets up and walks toward the wine fridge attached to the outdoor kitchen, pulling out another bottle of sauvignon blanc. It's not the worst idea she's ever had.

"So…that's it, then? You decided not to go, just because they were against it?" I ask.

"Well, no, actually," she answers, pouring more wine in my glass. "I made a plan instead."

And suddenly I see a teenage version of my mother that I recognize.

"I had all these pieces I had spent the last two years making. So I sold my wheel for gas money and convinced Dad that we could take his van on the road that summer. We would travel the country, camp when we could, sleep in the car other times, and I'd sell my pieces at flea markets, craft fairs, boutiques. Then, when it was all sold, I'd figure out what to do next. Maybe it was the Italy course. Maybe it was opening a studio. It was a good plan, really. It made sense. Your dad didn't want to work at your grandpa's furniture warehouse anyway. Neither of us thought college was for us. The plan fit. I think I was proud of us, even then, for taking the time to figure out what we wanted. I honestly believed that it would all work out, even if it didn't."

I almost say "that does sound like you," but instead I just nod, waiting for what I know must be coming. She closes her eyes, like she's remembering the moment.

"My dad found out the week before we were supposed to leave. He was angry. Furious, really, but I thought…you know, he'll get over it. He has to. And by that point, I was eighteen. It didn't matter what he wanted. I was leaving either way. He was still drinking then, though, and when we got into an argument the night before your dad and I were supposed to leave, it just all exploded. He said it was a slap in the face after all the time and energy they had spent on raising me, educating me. I still thought he'd cool off, though. That I would prove to him one day that it all made sense. That I was right. I would make him see."

"Did he?" I press.

She peels the label off the side of the sweating wine bottle, shaking her head.

"No," she says. "But I was so convinced he'd eventually understand that I walked out that night. Went to your dad's. I figured things would cool off by the morning. But when I got back, he had broken every single piece I had packed for the trip. Everything I had ever made, really. It was all destroyed. All of it…just gone. I'm still surprised he didn't trash the van, too."

I feel my soul deflate, all those broken pieces jabbing into my insides.

"And then…we left anyway. Drove away that same day," she says. "I never sat at a potter's wheel again, but I still left. And honestly, thank God."

She still hasn't really looked at me, but she raises her glass anyway as a dramatic final flourish to the story, a "good riddance," maybe.

"I don't even know what made me tell you that…I guess I just…I know you look at me and you see every mistake I've ever made. Every worst quality. And I know there have been plenty. There are plenty. I do. But none of us—not even me—are one thing. It's all more complicated than our worst decisions or the slow-motion trainwrecks that make up our lives. I know you've…"

She lets out a small hiccup, and it breaks the seriousness of the moment for a second, but she carries on.

"I know you've always thought that I've loved your sister more—"

I start to protest, to push back on the idea that I'm jealous, or needy, but she holds up a hand to stop me.

"Let me finish. I know you've always thought I've loved your sister more, but it's never been that. Not once. It was more like…Evie needed me, period, no matter what, and you…well, you mostly just needed me to be better. And I just…I couldn't handle that."

My head is swimming, the back-to-back glasses of wine not helping. I repeat in my mind what my mother has just said. It's the kind of honesty that I feel before I understand it.

Before I can say anything, though, she stands up, tucking the two empty wine bottles under one armpit.

"I need to sleep," she says. "Tomorrow is going to be…"

I think of what tomorrow will be like. The media frenzy. The endless calls.

"It will be a lot," I say. "But maybe you're right…"

She raises an eyebrow at me, like she can't believe what she's hearing.

"I just mean that despite the mess…maybe it will drum up some leads…maybe it'll help us find her," I say. "And then the rest won't matter."

"I hope so, baby," my mom says, turning to walk back to the house.

Baby. She's always called me this. Or honey. Or sweetie. Or doll. It's intimate sounding, personal. But even now, after everything she just told me, the word lands like it always has, the same way it does when a stranger says it at a restaurant or a gas station. A thing that comes from habit more than sentiment. It feels nice, even if it's not real.

She's almost inside when I call out, surprising myself. "Hey, Mom?"

She turns, her gaze expectant, illuminated by the warm glow of the kitchen.

"Did you know?" I ask. "About the videos, the statistics? What they said in the podcast. The fact that whenever she was dressed a certain way, the views went up…"

She waits for a beat, her gaze fixed on her reflection in the glass door.

"The only thing I've ever really known for sure is that I want what's best for our family," she says, her voice flat. She opens the door and walks inside before I can say anything else.

"So do I," I say into the darkness, to no one.

But that's not really true.

I just want what's best for my sister.