Chapter 21

June 28, 1997 · Gone Two Days

IN RED GROVE ELEMENTARY,the young children sat on beanbags, learning their world. A redwood doesn't grow to be the tallest tree on earth alone, the teacher would say. Their roots reach down only six to twelve feet while their bodies reach up three hundred feet into the sky. So, little ones, how does a redwood grow so enormous, without deep roots?

It's because their roots spread shallow and wide, the children would say together.

How wide? the teacher would ask.

One hundred feet wide, the children would say, stretching their arms as wide as they'd go.

And does the tree stand up all on its own? the teacher would ask.

A redwood tree cannot survive without its grove, the children would say, their voices overlapping and singsongy. The roots intertwine with other roots and share their food and pass along the news, they would say, their voices twisting and rising together, their small fingers interlacing with the fingers of nearby children.

A redwood tree cannot survive without its grove. The childhood incantation looped in Luce's head, off-key, too loud even as she tried to stop thinking it.

Just as Luce was readying to head to Heartwood's office, where she was pretty sure that phone book lived, Boog stopped by. She was afluster, as usual, a bag full of newly jarred lotions and salves clinking as she walked, breezing past Roo and Luce to put two jars of strawberry jam into the cupboard. She'd been calling the theaters in Sacramento where Gloria used to perform, she said, in case they'd heard from her. No news yet. But—and here she hugged Roo in a sort of twirl that had them all marching down the hall toward Gem, still talking back over her shoulder—she and Una and others had decided to pull the community together to focus and coordinate efforts. They should come to Heartwood that afternoon.

"I'm staying to pamper Gem a minute," Boog said, pulling back the sheet covering Gem's leg and starting to massage her. "Go get some rest, Goose."

Standing in the entryway, Luce let her head fall against the doorframe. Boog began singing the old ballads she loved, humming when she forgot the words, pressing into Gem's muscles to keep the blood moving. Luce felt so tired all of a sudden. She wanted to talk to Boog, always did. As one of the people who, like Una, had been here longest, Boog was full of good stories. She had moved here when she was Luce's age. It had been her father. The whole of her childhood. And so as soon as she realized she could leave home, she did, not just Tuscaloosa but the whole of Alabama and then the entire South, making her way to the Red Grove and never looking back. She missed the South, she was fond of saying, only in her mouth. And so she made biscuits and corn casserole and fried green tomatoes, and there was no wondering whether you thought it was good when you tried it; she'd cut you out of her life if you didn't like her okra. Luce didn't much care for the okra and was smart enough to keep quiet about it. Now she wished she had the energy to say more, but the search for her mother was wearing her thin. So she just stood there, resting her head on the wood, watching Boog watch Gem, seeing Boog use the knuckle of her pinkie finger to wipe a tear from time to time—for Gem, maybe, for the lyrics to the old songs, perhaps, for her missing mother, because she, too, was embedded in the network of this forest. Boog felt the absence with the same ache, and her softness rippled into Luce, too, allowing in some breath because finally, with Boog here to help, with the community gathering in just a little while, someone would have some answers, someone would make an actionable, concrete plan.

Roo skidded his bike to a halt in front of Luce. They were on their way to Heartwood, and Luce was sure, she could feel it, that her mother would soon be found. A little flustered, sure, but unharmed. A redwood cannot survive without its grove. But Roo hopped off his bike, telling her to stop. He needed to follow another instruction from his phone call, he told her, pulling from his backpack a piece of paper on which he'd drawn a face, really much more an approximation of her mummy face than anything else. Across the top, he'd written LOST MOM.

Luce stifled a laugh—for the impossibility of anyone recognizing Gloria from his ridiculous line drawing, but also because who here in the Red Grove wouldn't already know she was gone? But he blinked up at Luce with his big, wet eyes and she saw how much he wanted to help, like he was canvasing the neighborhood for his lost dog, and so they taped up a few signs along their route.

Luce knew that Heartwood would be buzzing with people. It was one of the beautiful things—the way the whole community gathered, as they did twice a week to share meals, though this time with the concentrated attention turned to finally figuring out how to find her mom. And sure, there'd probably also be food, the kitchen was open anytime they gathered, plus anytime anyone needed it. Part of being safe was not being hungry, Una would say, and oh, it would be so very welcome to see Una. What Luce wanted was to lay all this down upon her, let Una take over, go to sleep by herself in her own bed, and wake up to things returned to normal.

Luce walked into Heartwood's crowded industrial kitchen. Already the air was rich with spices and sweat, steam fogging up the corners of the windows, voices overlapping one another. There were six or seven women in there, Una in the center at a frying pan, the others chopping and stirring, one counting out plates, one squeezing lemons, one leaning on the countertop and telling a loud, animated story directed toward whoever made eye contact. There was music beneath the voices, and beneath that, further still, the familiarity of this moment, all these bodies gathered in this kitchen, the sway of their hair as they turned on the faucet, their fingers as they clutched a knife, how they gripped one another's shoulders or forearms to make a point, their voices of concern, the high, wild, cackling laugh, the low bray, the sorrow in one of their tearful voices, the shriek of delight, this tight and fierce and loyal camaraderie.

"Goose-baby," one of the women called, and they all turned to look at her. Nancy moved toward her first, and the others quickly followed, arms outstretched or lips puckered in coos, one with a ladle dripping from her hand, and they engulfed her in their arms. They squeezed tight. "I'm so sorry, honey," someone said, and "You poor thing," and "Any word from your mom?" and "Oh let me squeeze you" and "Oh I'm so glad you're here, I was about to bring over lasagna, and we're getting organized with a plan, don't you even worry." Luce did not mean to be happy, but she felt a twinge of it accidentally, possible only because of her duress, and so she loved it a little bit, her hardship, this pure, focused attention.

Something on the stove boiled over and broke the hug, and the women hustled back to their tasks. Una lingered a moment, and Luce, sucking in a big breath, asked if she could speak to her privately. She wanted to ask Una about the list of names she'd found in her mother's office, about the locket she found in the dirt, cold now beneath her T-shirt, about using the phone book in the office.

"Of course, my girl," Una said, and grabbed Luce's chin, patted her cheek. "We're gonna meet soon to figure out our plan, then eat, and then you and I can chat. Too much to do right now." She gestured at all the bodies moving quickly around the cooking space and turned back to the stove, where Boog sidled up beside her. They exchanged a quick glance, and then something appeared above them for a blink—dark, moving, shadowed, yes, a mass of flies. Luce blinked again quickly, something wrong with her eyes. Una wouldn't tolerate a swarm of flies in the kitchen. When she looked again, Luce saw no flies, though beneath the chattering voices, was there a faint buzzing? She tried to concentrate on the sound—the same as the buzzing at her house? Was she losing her mind?—but was distracted by Una's voice. "But the grove holds strong," Una was saying, stirring the soup and nodding her head as if in agreement with herself.

When Luce walked out onto the deck, heads swiveled to take her in. She'd never been on the receiving end of these looks before, the ones people gave struggling newcomers, faces that said, We are sorry for you, for all you've been through. They were afraid for her.

They were worried.

All her people's crinkled brows, their frowns, it all cinched the fear inside her own body in a way nothing else had—she realized she'd been relying on everyone else's casual response to her missing mother as proof that nothing so bad could really be happening. But now? The burn of all this pity and worry was smoking out her insides, and she also felt a wash of embarrassment—why hadn't she been doing more on her own?

But there was no room for her to flip out. That was a thing a stereotypical teenager would do right at this moment, and she was not that, would not be that. Women in danger only ever escaped their predators by keeping a cool head, coming up with a plan. She needed to get a grip. Her job in the Red Grove was to help guide the women away from fear, and that should not be different today, just because it was harder for her. Every single moment could be located on a scale from easy to hard. She called to mind Gem's swollen purple face, those first weeks when they did not know if she would live or die—that was hard. That's what was really hard. This? This was still just a question.

She made her way to a picnic table on the deck, people coming over to hug her or say hello, and she thanked them for being there, saying she felt sure they'd figure something out. Across the deck, Juan sipped from his tin cup and waved her over. "I keep driving the roads of the Red Grove, but I still haven't seen your mom's car, Goose," he said. She hadn't expected anything different. "How you hanging in, kiddo?" Luce shrugged. Juan lifted an arm, unsure where to put it, lowered it down, then lifted it again and patted her back. So awkward, Juan. "It's all right to be worried. I'm worried too," he said, and again it felt good to hear it out loud, even though the recognition of it also felt worse, scarier. He picked a piece of lint off a hot tamale retrieved from his pocket and offered it to her. It made her laugh, the gross stick of it still coated in grime. "I thought more about that list of names you showed me," he said. "I was right. It's kids who stayed for some time here, in Heartwood. And I've got another one to add that's not on the list. Samantha, the new girl. She stayed here too. Her mom wanted her here, under the Red Grove's protection, as soon as possible, so she was alone here for the first two weeks while her mom finished her old job and packed them up to move. So she might be a good person to talk to, just see if anything strange happened while she was here." Luce wanted to ask Juan more, but the crowd was all turning to face front.

Una climbed up on her bench. They were gathered, she began, to concentrate and organize community efforts in locating their beloved Gloria. Luce felt her cheeks redden under all the eyes on her. Una repeated the basic information they knew: Gloria had last been seen at the gathering of the lions. She'd been having a conflict with the son of the seeker who'd recently died.

Luce was about to add that they knew the calling man's name—she'd spoken to Ruby Wells, who knew about what was going on—but she caught herself. The guidelines were clear. No reporters. No outside attention, which might compromise the vulnerable women here. She could not repeat that her mother had been on the verge of meeting with a reporter. She did not want to be associated with that. Plus, she thought, it might make them less eager to find her, to help. Luce would have to move forward with this piece of information—Bobby Dalton—on her own.

They organized a phone tree, a food drop-off schedule for Luce and Roo. They divided into groups: a team to search the hills, another to get in touch with all known past acquaintances outside the Red Grove, another to figure out as much as they could about the calling man. Someone would call all the hospitals. Another all the jails. Nobody mentioned the police.

There were plans. Plans! The feeling of order they created was such a relief, even as all the unsettling things that had been happening seemed to shimmer just out of Luce's line of sight, with a buzz that told her—how?—that they couldn't be ignored. But she'd try. They had concrete plans. Plans were what made things happen.

Una called attention again. "It is in times of crisis that we must rely most heartily on our community and our strength, on each other. For that reason, I've asked Katie, who has been with us two months, if she'd be willing to participate in a reenactment today to energize us."

This was news to Luce—she was always willing to help guide a reenactment, of course, this was part of her training and practice, and she was always up for it—except for right now. Now? Wasn't the point here to focus on her own mother, to take action? But still—what could she say? She heard a few low murmurs, though she couldn't tell whether they were enthusiasm for a reenactment or, like her, for the unwelcome surprise. She nodded at Una, did her best to look encouraging—she could do this—but Una wasn't fooled. Una said that she was giving Luce a break, that for today only, she herself would narrate. A relief, at least, though also unsettling to have her job pulled out from beneath her.

Una went on. "Katie has directed today's reenactment to focus on a particularly challenging day in court and then move backward to an incident," Una said. Two people stepped up in front of the group, a man in khaki work pants and a black T-shirt, and Boog, wearing ripped jeans and a hoodie. A prickle on Luce's neck grew; she did not want to see this story right now, none of these stories. Boog sat down on a bench, said, to the assembled group, that for the first part of the reenactment, she'd be playing Katie. The man—Luce didn't remember his name—said he was playing an attorney, and towered over Boog as Katie. She pantomimed being sworn into court.

"Now ma'am," the man said, "I understand that you say you were very hurt by Mr. Conway, and I'm sorry to hear it. Can you please show the court the photographic evidence of your injuries?"

Boog, playing Katie, pretended to hand something over. "They're hard to see," she said.

"Hmm," the man said. He mimicked flipping through photographs. "Major injuries, as you call them, but they are hard to see?"

Luce glanced over at Katie, who stood in the front row of the crowd half-covering her eyes with her hands. Someone stood beside her, with her arm around Katie's shoulders, another squeezed her arm from behind. A sick twist in Luce's gut, imagining her mother as Katie, thinking of all the terrible things that might have happened to her, and what was everyone doing here in the past?

Boog, as Katie, said, "My boyfriend ruptured my spleen. I had two broken ribs. I was internally bleeding."

Though it was dusk, a few dust motes caught some unknown light and orbited slowly between the reenactors. How did they look so peaceful? How did they stay aloft? "We make our sentencing declarations based on photographic evidence of injuries, ma'am—it allows for an unbiased look at hard evidence. You understand, it takes away the ‘he said, she said' mess of all this. And so I was glad to see only minor abrasions in your photographs. A little bruising, yes. But everything looked pretty minor."

"I was hospitalized. I couldn't—"

"Ma'am, we're going to refer you to a social worker and provide you with a telephone number to call should things get out of hand between you two again. We recommend calling before arguments escalate."

"How would I be able to know ahead of time?" Boog, as Katie, asked. Luce glanced around, and, strangely, people kept meeting her eyes, though they immediately looked away. Like they didn't want to be caught looking. Something felt hot at her neck. A little tight.

"That is the kind of emotional progress we hope the two of you can accomplish if you work together in counseling. Your Honor, are you ready to make a declaration?"

Una stood up on the bench, said, "Ninety days jail."

Katie burst out, "Such bullshit! If my injuries had been easier to see, his sentence would have been so much longer. It would have given me time to think and come up with a plan for how to leave, or get a job, and save up enough money to rent us someplace else."

"You're right, Katie, dear," Una said. "And it is your turn to say what you need to say. To do what you need to do." Katie stood up shakily. Sometimes, here, Luce would reach a hand out to the woman to help guide her into the role-playing. Somatic experiencing, it was called, where Katie would take over the role that Boog had been playing, finally playing herself, and this transition into it was the hardest part. But today Luce kept her arms by her side, tried to concentrate on Katie's story, though all she could think about was her mom. When would they be talking about Gloria?

Katie sat down beside Boog and looked up at the man. "I will not be hurt by you anymore," she said.

Movement blurred in the edge of Luce's vision, but she didn't look. She willed herself to stare at Katie, to anticipate the even harder moment that would come next, where the violence would be emulated. She did not want to see a mass of flies, a cow skull, wanted to hear no clicks. She wanted plans and order, she wanted this goddamned reenactment to wrap up and for them to get on with what they were doing to find her mother. But the movement continued, and in it there was a flash of blond, and so she looked. Between the trunks of the darkening trees on the far side of the crowd, Roo slipped into the forest.

Katie was changing her narrative, they were moving back to an incident, and Luce knew how important it was to bear witness to this, but Roo—where was he going? She slipped through the crowd, smiling at those who looked at her with concern—nothing wrong, no problem here—walking back behind the gathered group to the darkening forest where Roo had disappeared.

Luce caught sight of him up ahead. He was running. She ducked and wove between trunks and over ferns, following him. He finally stopped, clutching his heart. "I'm not sad," Roo said when she reached him. "I'm on a mission." Roo, my kangaroo, you hop my heart to the moon, Gloria would say to him when he was sad. Roo would try not to smile when she said that, but it never worked.

"It's okay to feel sad," she said, reaching to pull him to her, but he threw his shoulder to get her hand off. "It'll be okay—" she started, but she stopped as his eyes widened into orbs.

"I knew it," he said, staring past Luce into the trees beyond. A strange sensation rose in Luce's throat, something scratchy, ticklish, something that felt like it needed to be coughed out. Little things scraping her skin on the inside. Like there were flies in her throat, yes, and the idea made her start coughing, gagging, and she bent over, closing her eyes, hacking, and then there was a fly buzzing around her head. Oh god. Had she coughed it out?

Roo pushed past her, walking farther into the trees. She straightened, swallowed down the scratch and panic in her throat, and went after him. "Here," he said, pointing to the ground. In front of them was the spot where, a week earlier, a large patch of invasive bamboo had been removed, but now the hole was filled with dirt. On top of the dirt were the small redwood saplings community members had been growing to replenish the forest. It was strange, though, that they had already been planted. Normally the saplings would be bigger before they'd go in the ground.

"What is buried must be uncovered," Roo said.

"I don't think that was, like, literal, Roo," Luce said. He crouched down, began digging in the dirt with both hands like a frantic little dog. Luce called his name to stop, said for him to be super careful, that they couldn't disturb the newly planted trees. He kept on, and then, with a gasp, stopped. Said he felt something. He grabbed the edge with two fingers, said he was going to pull it out, and yanked, tumbling back onto his butt. In his hand would be the skeletal fingers of her mother's corpse. But he held no bones. It was a stick. The bright mycorrhizal filaments dangled from the stick, they'd been dislodged from the underground network, but it was still just a stick.

"Oh," he said, letting out a little sigh.

"It's okay, buddy," she said, pulling him to his feet and brushing the dirt off his shorts. "We'll figure it out." She leaned in to hug him, but he slid out from her grasp and ran back toward Heartwood, shouting that he was going to find a shovel to dig more holes, and fine, let him feel like he was helping.

Luce walked slowly back through the redwoods, letting her fingertips brush against the rough bark, breathing in the deep, wet green smell of the forest. What's buried must be uncovered. Roo had heard something on the phone plugged into nothing, but she could not figure out what it was that would help them find Gloria. Perhaps the buried thing was the plan of the calling man, Bobby, and she needed to get to the telephone book and call him. Why hadn't anyone gone and knocked on his goddamned door? If she had some more time with Una, focused time, they could come up with a plan together.

She paused, still in the trees but close enough to Heartwood that she could see the reenactors fighting each other. These were her people, and fuck, she knew reenactments were important, but not like important important on the scale of a missing person. They were not actually doing any real thing to figure out where her mother was, not enough, not jumping into action with a solid plan, and for the first time, she had a moment where it felt as if she were seeing all of them from the outside—middle-aged hippies role-playing, acting, as if somehow it would help them in the real world.

Luce took a step backward and then a few more. This was who she was, slipping into the shadows of the tallest trees on earth, pressing up against the bark. She was a watcher, a hider, a shadow, and it was time for her to stop being anything else. She slipped her shoes off, walked silently along the forest floor, snaking between the trees, stepping along the paths she knew well.

She slid through the grove to Heartwood's far door, an emergency exit whose alarm had been broken for years. It was nearly dark. Nobody saw her. She knew where the spare key was hidden beneath a rock, and she slipped inside. The edges of sound made it in here, the trill notes of a few voices that carried, but this wing of Heartwood was hushed. She turned on no lights, stepping quietly down a hallway into one of the additions that had been built over the years. Past a window seat stuffed full of books and paperwork, alongside a filing cabinet. Finally, to the place she wanted. Heartwood's office.

There weren't many Bobby, or Robert, Daltons in the phone book, that was a bit of luck at least. Beside each one was a phone number and address. She imagined herself getting into a car, knuckles hard, tight angles around the steering wheel, fire pouring from her nose, driving through the redwoods and up and over the hill that enclosed the valley, passing the borderline with its rock wall, with the trees ringed in red yarn, her fingernails chiseling themselves into needles, until she finally reached his house. She'd show up on his doorstep like he'd shown up on hers, but she'd be sharp and aflame, terrifying, and he'd snivel and grovel and apologize, and her mother would be—where? Injured and left for dead in his backyard? Living with him to provide a continual channel to his father as a kind of atonement? His new lover? All the possibilities were ridiculous, and yet it had to be something, because two days, and she was still gone.

She'd start small. Picked up the phone and began dialing. The first number didn't go through, but the second rang. A man picked up after a few rings, youngish, gruff. "Hello," he said, and she saw his face out on her deck. It was her guy. She had not thought about what to say to this man, though, and she was usually a very considered person, a person who did not talk without having thought about what she'd say ahead of time. She was not brave. She did not think he'd actually pick up or that she'd call the right number. She hung up.

She scribbled the address on a sheet of paper, grabbed Una's keys off the desk, and traced her steps out into the parking lot, taking care to stay out of sight of everyone gathered for the meal on the other side of the building. By the time she arrived at his house, she'd know what to do. To say. She climbed into the car, slid the key into the ignition, but didn't turn it. She should turn the car on. Now was the time to do it. A bundle of dried herbs wrapped in string on the dash was coated in dust, so too a hawk feather, a thistle. Do it now. She held the key between her thumb and pointer finger, felt her palms growing hot and damp, her throat tightening. Turn the key now, fill your head with fire, confront the man, she demanded of herself, but nothing. So what that she didn't have her license, she could drive well enough anyway. Just do it. The evening sun dipped lower, swallows dove for bugs. She did not turn the key. Because doing those things meant leaving the Red Grove. Like flipping her upside down, protective shell gone, soft underbelly exposed. It was too dangerous out there. I am a coward, she thought.

She tucked her hair behind her ears, tucked it again. Bravery meant being afraid and doing the thing anyway. She swallowed. But fear is also a protector. She slid the key out of the ignition, wiped her sweaty palms on her shorts. Back inside. Chicken. She heard the office phone ringing down the hall, regular life trilling on, and then voices coming, so she ducked into the bathroom until they were gone. A peal of laughter from out on the deck. She would not leave, could not. Coward. A swell of panic—who is she right now, how is she so incapable? This is life, and she is failing at it.

When the hallway was clear, she slid back into the office, shut the door. Just a minute here, to think. What was her problem, she thought this was hard? On the scale of things that were horrible? This was nothing. She needed a moment alone to think through what to do next, but the office phone rang again. She didn't let herself pause; she picked up.

"Finally she picks up, damn. I recognized the number," the voice said. Oh dear god. It was him. She didn't speak. "Thought maybe you were calling to give me something else and then changed your mind. Well, don't change your mind, I'm open." He laughed, open- throated.

It was Bobby Dalton, and he recognized the number. This number. And someone calling from this number gave him something. Luce's head swirled.

"Hello?" he said. "Don't tell me you're scared off now."

She could not be afraid. This was it. "Where's Gloria," she said. Her voice was not a mountain lion's.

"Who is this?" he said.

And because, once again, she could not figure out a convincing lie that would also get her the information she needed, she said, "This is Luce, her daughter. Is my mom there? You tell me or I'll call the police."

He let out a laugh then, the trail of sound getting a little quieter as he moved his face away from the phone. "This girl," he said to someone else in the room, or maybe himself, "thinking your mom is here. Ha. That's too funny."

"So where is she?"

"Your mom? I don't know anything about her," he said. "It was that other lady came through and worked everything out."

A buckeye in Luce's throat. Slowly. "What lady?"

"Hell if I know. She came a couple days ago, said she was there on behalf of the Red Grove, something formal like that. Repaid my dad's money plus a little something, and told me to leave you all alone. I wasn't gonna be paid off like that, especially after what you did, but hell, she was generous, and the autopsy on my pops showed he had a real blockage in an artery, so." There was a galaxy in Luce's head, trying to connect all the fragments. Someone had gone to him to stop him from calling. To keep him quiet. "Look, if you're not offering anything else, I gotta go, little girl. Don't call over here again and re-piss me off," he said.

"One last thing," she said, "please. The lady who came. What did she look like?"

"Like any other one of you hippie queers who live out there," he said. "You all look the same to me." He gulped something down. "All your fucking necklaces." He cleared something in his throat, spat, and hung up.

All your necklaces. There was only one person in the Red Grove who could be described that way.

So Una had gone and found him, somehow, convinced him to leave them alone—to protect them, she was sure, to keep Luce from being afraid. A couple days ago, he'd said. All that was wonderful, it was good, wasn't it, and Luce was grateful. She was grateful, and there was a growing buzz in her head, in the room around her, because she was grateful except for one thing.

Just yesterday, Una had asked if Luce was afraid of the calling man. She hadn't told Luce she'd paid him off, convinced him to leave them alone. It was like Una wanted Luce to be afraid.

She looked out the window. The towering redwoods all around. A mountain lion up in the hills, protecting her babies. It was all the same as it had been earlier today, yesterday, yet it looked different. Una hadn't been totally honest. No, god—revise. Bobby Dalton had nothing to do with her missing mother. So, say it. Una had lied.