Missing Mom by Joyce Carol Oates Read Free Book Online Page A

away” in her sleep and she would not be allowed to see her.
    Mom had been in sixth grade at the time and would have to repeat the grade, everything she’d learned had been wiped away.
    “It was like a blackboard being wiped down. I just forgot everything.”
    Mom smiled wistfully. I wondered if it could be true: forgot everything? Her name, how to read and write? I doubted this.
    We were alone together in the kitchen. Mom was looking so sad, staring out the window at the bird feeder where a swarm of small birds—chickadees, sparrows, juncos, a flashy red cardinal and his olivish-red mate—were fluttering and darting at the seed. Yet she didn’t seem to be seeing them.
    I felt an impulse to hug her. But I was fifteen at the time, I wasn’t into hugging much.
    Anyway, the moment passed.

missing
    Two days after the Mother’s Day dinner, late afternoon of Tuesday, May 11, the phone rang and since I was finally working, after an all-day procrastination of epic-neurotic proportions, I tuned it out.
    A few minutes later it rang again. Somehow, the rings sounded like my sister Clare.
    “Nikki! I’ve been trying to reach you. Have you spoken with Mom today?”
    “Not today.”
    Actually, not the day before, either. Wally Szalla had re-entered my life, the man whom Mom had said was an “evil” influence on me. Wally and I had not been communicating for six days, fifteen hours and forty minutes, and so had catching-up to do.
    Not that I’d tell Clare this fact. Or Mom.
    Though that morning I’d called Mom, around eleven. Knowing she probably wouldn’t be in, weekday mornings were Mom’s busy times, at the YM-YWCA pool with her aquatic seniors, church committee meetings, garden club, library/hospital volunteer, lunch with women friends, crafts classes at the mall. Sometimes, just outside digging in her flower beds. Driving to my first interview appointment of the day I’d left a hurried message via cell phone Sorry I didn’t get to call yesterday, Mom. Mother’s Day dinner was terrific. Everyone had a wonderful time and the food was wonderful, I finished the corn soufflé for breakfast this morning, absolutely delicious, THANKS! Oh and hey, I think I’ve fallen for the Scourge of the Bugs. You were right, Mom, we’re a perfect match! We’ll name our firstborn little roach after you: Feather . Bye! Mom would know it was a joke, I hoped. Not adolescent sarcasm.
    Since Sunday, I’d come round to seeing the humor of the situation, and was feeling regretful that I hadn’t been very sociable after Mom and I had exchanged words in the kitchen. After the other guests left, Clare and I stayed behind to help Mom clean up; this was our usual routine when Mom invited us to dinner. We’d never let Gwen talk us into leaving her to a massive cleanup! But I hadn’t talked much; listening to Mom and Clare chatter about the party I’d tuned out; I’d been hurt by what Mom had said about drifting, drifting downstream, for possibly Mom was right, and I’d drifted now out of Wally Szalla’s life too, or he’d drifted out of mine, and I loved him, and wanted him to love me, and was feeling sorry for myself as you’re apt to feel on Sunday night preceding Monday morning and the hectic beginning of another work week, I’d left the house at 43 Deer Creek Drive as soon as the last rinsed plate was set in the dishwasher. (Mom had invited me to stay the night in my old room she’d converted into a guest room, but I’d declined. Had to escape!)
    Had I hugged Mom goodnight, I wasn’t sure.
    I thought so. Probably. Mom would’ve hugged me .
    Clare was saying, “Mrs. Kinsler, Mom’s friend from church, called me to ask if I knew where Mom was, they were supposed to meet at the mall for their crafts class this morning at ten-thirty, then have lunch with some other women. But Mom never showed up, which isn’t like her, and never called to explain, and hasn’t been answering her phone all day.”
    “Clare, it’s only a little