Out of sheer guilt, I finally engage in the care and feeding of snakes.I’m not a herper.No matter how many times I gird my loins and head into the reptile wing, it doesn’t get easier; I’m still not convinced any snake is beautiful or has exquisite markings.
Petunia, on the other hand, has become one of my favorite roommates.Thus far, she’s resisted biting or clawing me, which puts her ahead of Piper the feral cat.And she’s definitely less frightening than Wolfie, the ginormous wolf spider who liked to creep around my cabin at night, snacking on unwary geckos.I do still miss my shy ghost-crab neighbor, Crabby, who brought me flowers.
While Daryl requires more time to recover from a belly full ofbuckshot, Aliah is released after twenty-four hours.She doesn’t offer any more information about the marking on her abdomen.She’s fine, she tells us when we try to coax her into staying at the compound so we can fuss over her in person.She just wants to go home.
I stop by in the afternoons and brew her green tea.After a bit of research, I splurge on an extremely nice saffron tea as a special treat.I seem to be operating mostly from a place of guilt these days, but at least I’m operating.
Aliah, of course, drills me about Zahra—where is she, what happened, what do I mean she’s already gone?I can’t even look at her as I mumble some cockamamie story about Dr.Richard having contacted Sabera’s family in London and their immediate desire to take in their long-lost granddaughter.Dr.Richard personally flew her over.Zahra’ll be safer there than here, etc., etc.
Aliah isn’t happy.She’sZahra’s family, too, except, of course, no one knows that.
Lilla, continuing her role as a behind-the-scenes master manipulator, organizes an immediate “burial” for Sabera.Following a brief tussle with the ME’s office, as per Islamic custom, a body is to be buried as quickly as possible.Captain Kurtz arranges for Isaad’s remains to be interred beside her.The gravesites provide comfort to Aliah, and I join her several times to pay my respects to Isaad, a man I never met but who clearly loved his family deeply.
The wounds on my face graduate from butterfly Band-Aids to long, thin scabs that Genni swears give me a rakish charm.I find myself fingering the raised welts in the middle of the night, when my nightmares are too vivid and my fears too real.
I stare at my phone a lot.Waiting for it to ring.Knowing full well I could call.Long, drawn-out debates with myself, the universe in general.
I failed, but not really.
I should move on, but I don’t know where.
Maybe it’s time to give this gig a rest.What else would I do?
As long as Bart’s away, I don’t have to make any decisions.While I might’ve taken this job primarily to enable me to search for Sabera Ahmadi, pet sitting remains my responsibility.
The house feels off without Daryl’s oversized presence.When he goes from the hospital to some chi-chi rehab center coordinated by Boy Wonder, Genni and I take to staying up later and later, sharing stories of her days on the street, my own misspent youth.We laugh a lot, marvel at the fickleness of a universe that allowed us to survive, when we probably shouldn’t have.One night we do mani pedis.Another she gives me a total makeover, complete with the Mary Ann pigtail wig.I look pretty good.
She offers to take me to her favorite bars, but I’m not strong enough to be around booze right now, and I know it.Instead, Genni makes us elaborate mocktails with dried strawberries and fresh basil or sliced apples and cinnamon sticks in sparkly water.Some of them are pretty good.
Then one morning I get up, step out onto the patio, and there’s Bart, lounging in the middle of the pool on the inflatable unicorn.
Just like that, my time is up.
HOW DO YOUdiscover little-known, generally unreported, often totally overlooked missing persons cases?How do you not.
There are entire websites now dedicated to calling attention to the vanished at-risk, minority, and socially marginalized members of our society, from small children on up.The numbers make for staggering and somber reading.
Then there are community forums and various chat rooms where neighbors, loved ones, family friends beg for assistance.
Bart asks me to stay for Daryl’s homecoming in a week, so I use that time to start reading and reviewing.I tell myself if nothing catches my attention, that’ll be a sign.But as is often the case, dozens of profiles immediately tug at my heart.
A fourteen-year-old boy here, a seven-year-old girl there, a young mother, a struggling college student.Black, Hispanic, Indigenous.Missing weeks, months, years.
There’s a whole world out there many will never know, and most will choose never to see.
I start to get that hum in the back of my mind, that jittery feeling in my limbs.Memphis, Austin, no, maybe Oakland.I’ve never been good at turning a blind eye.Maybe it comes from years of living on the fringes myself, or spending well over a decade sitting in church basements with fellow addicts where even when we look nothing at all alike, we know we are exactly the same.
Some people go through life thinking, why should that be my problem?I guess I’m more likely to think why not?
I show Petunia photos of smiling children and selfie-snapping teens.I read to her stats on various cities and communities.
By the third evening, she blows me off to watchThe Simpsonswith Bart.I take the hint.
I spend my last full day in the kitchen with Genni, cooking up a banquet of Daryl’s favorite foods.Aliah joins us with a feast of Afghan treats from her store, including firni pudding.I don’t care if Daryl’s the one who’s spent weeks recovering from a grievous injury.I grab a bowl of the rose-petal custard first.
Roberta shows up with both her husband and Detective Marc in tow, bearing a platter of tamales and jars of homemade salsa.Her husband proves to be much smaller than I would’ve pictured,perhaps even slightly nerdy.And yet there’s a quiet steadiness to him that’s immediately compelling.
Daryl might match Roberta quick step by quick step through a mad, passionate tango, but Luca is clearly her port in the storm.I get that.
