by Sienna Swan

 

            It is not as though nothing exciting has ever happened to me before. On the contrary, my life has been peppered with moments of minor exhilaration, of cheap thrills and bolts of electricity, with rushes of adrenaline and shots of fear. But nothing like this. This is the worst possible kind of excitement, the kind that comes with knowing that your whole world is crumbling apart, the sort of sick rush that accompanies the knowledge that the situation can’t possibly end well. My mother has been missing for 6 days, and I know she’s dead.  The police say that they are hopeful, but I’ve seen the way they look at my father. That is not the look of hope. As a 20 year old man, you’d think that I would be able to survive without my mother; and technically, you’d be right. But 6 days will soon turn into 30, and that will creep into 90, and the months and years will continue on until I forget that I ever had one at all, and I will be one of those half-orphans that you see alone sometimes, and that’s the thought that gets in my head and won’t leave. In some ways, I get pleasure from this situation. In a deep, not-so-subconscious way, I love the role that I play in this drama. This is the event I’ve been waiting for, the one that will change my life, the tragedy that will turn me from an unmotivated man-child into a victim. This feeling of satisfaction is the worst part of the whole ordeal, it makes me sick, it makes me ashamed, and it makes me giddy.

            They found her dogs the day after she disappeared. Someone was hiking along a fire trail in Tilden, and they saw 3 pairs of eyes watching them from the bushes. We used to have four dogs, but I think the fourth one died. The survivors are at home now, and it’s strange. I know now how much work my mother did, the mountains of trivial chores that filled her early mornings and late nights. I haven’t done any of them first hand; I’ve been bedridden with grief, drowning my sorrows in t .v and milkshakes. Neighbors, friends, and family have been taking care of the house, feeding us, cleaning, and comforting. I won’t lie, it’s been nice. They know she’s dead, and so do I. I think she was eaten by a mountain lion. I think that it was evening, and I think that it was warm out, and I think that it pounced from a tree and bit her neck. I think that she was dead quickly, and I think that somewhere right now, coyotes are eating what’s left of her. I think that’s just the truth; call me callous, but I can sense these things. Call it a gift.

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            I always knew Pamela would do this, it was just a question of when. My wife and I have been growing increasingly distant over the last few years; we seem to hate each

other most of the time, staying together just out of habit. It is not unusual for her to be late, but I knew she was gone when it had been 7 hours with no call. I don’t think it’s another man-I’d like to think that I know her well enough to see the signs of infidelity, and if anything, lately she’s seemed more bored and restless than usual. I’m mad at her for leaving, but I’m not surprised. What really gets my goat is that she took our dog, the good one. She leaves me here with 3 dogs, a deadbeat son, and a second mortgage to pay off. I can’t say I blame her, it would be hypocritical of me to lay any judgment. I’ve packed my own bags on more than one occasion, but I’ve never had the strength to leave. She said she was going on a hike. She’s always going on these hikes up into the hills of the east bay, taking hours and hours to herself. This was a bone of contention early in our marriage, when we were still trying; I thought she was trying to escape me, she thought I was smothering her. I went with her once or twice, and it was alright. On a nice day, the sun will filter through the trees, and the dust will rise up under your feet, and sometimes you will see a deer or a rabbit. But I got older, and the hills got steeper, and soon it was just her again, hittin’ the dusty trail, alone with her dogs.

            Knowing her, she’s gone somewhere weird, somewhere I would never go. Probably Montana, though she’s never liked the cold. Maybe the middle of Nevada. I’ve told this to the police, but they look at me like I’m deluding myself, so I’ve given up. As long as they don’t arrest me, they can think whatever they want. Her friends have never liked me, and I’ve never really liked them; she’s always drawn to these ‘strong women’ types, the ones that make a point of being loud and liberated. Most of them haven’t even called me, which makes me think that maybe she’s staying with one of them, Lisa maybe. You’d think that at least one would check up on us, on the abandoned husband and the motherless child, but I guess they’ve sided with her, which just shows you how their minds work. None of them have managed to keep a husband, either, so maybe that tells you something about them, too. If Pamela came home right now I would probably take her back, just to restore a little peace and order. “Pamela”, I’d say. “Pamela, you can come home, but don’t pull a stunt like this again. I mean it”. She’d promise that it was a onetime thing and realize the error of her ways, and the maybe our marriage would be off to a new start ; I’ll admit, I think I appreciate her more now, now that it’s me washing the dishes and tossing  Nate’s lazy ass out of bed every day. Maybe it’ll be one of those things you hear about in books, where she realizes that she can’t live without me and she comes home and covers me with kisses, and the woman I’ve  been married to for 25 years will be back again. I’m not about to go and chase her all over creation though.  I love her and all, but that’s just not the kind of man I am.

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            Pamela Pamela Pamela. Pamela of the mouse brown hair and the fear of heights, with the short fingers and the chipped tooth. Pamela and Lisa, it rolls off the tongue. I guess you could say I’m a little surprised. We were still in the honeymoon period, only 7 months along, and I was a fresh new form, still exciting; uncharted territory. We’d been friends for years, but there’s always been electricity in the air, we both knew what would eventually happen. She’s married to a total tool, so it is no surprise that she turned to me, to soft hands and smooth skin, to someone who listens. She hasn’t visited me as much lately. She says we both need our distance, but I don’t think I do. I asked her about her distance, and if it was the same amount of space as my distance, and if maybe our distances could be reconciled to make a short distance, but she brushed me off in that nice way of hers, telling me to let a distance be a distance.  I have a deep fear that I was too clingy, to insistent on everything turning out to include “us”. She never said so, but sometimes I think she considered me as just another child; I’m younger, more emotional, and my voice tends to quaver like a kid’s might whenever I lose control of a situation. The voicemail I left her sounded like it was left by a boy on the cusp of puberty; my voice a series of gulleys and pitches, asking her if we needed to talk, if she was ever going to call me again. I’ll admit, I went a little overboard; the last thing I want to do is smother her, but she knows I get worried. It’s her right to have a little alone time, I suppose, but I just wish she’d call me. I could use a little vacation too, I guess.  We could lie on towels next to each other, on some cold beach, laughing together about how ridiculous it was to come here at this time of year. She would like the comical unpleasantness of it all, and I would like it because she would like it.  I just hope she hasn’t found someone else.

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            Pamela Scott, aged 43, average life, no history of this behavior. Her husband isn’t so worried, he thinks she’s trying to prove something to him. I try to tell him it could be serious, but he won’t listen. 18 years on the job, you’d think I’d get a little respect. I’ve seen Pamela hundreds of times, dead in every gruesome way you can imagine. Not her, personally, but her in the broader sense; women stuffed in trunks, women splattered across a wall, women crumpled in tall grass, buried in shallow graves. The husband doesn’t seem to understand that she probably won’t be home. We’re at dead end as far as a motive; I don’t believe her husband or son did it; too lazy to commit a  murder. Too self absorbed and sloppy. We would have found her by now; they’re the type who would just stick the body in the basement and wait for it to disappear. Someone found her dogs up in Tilden, but we’ve searched the area and have turned up nothing.  No one saw anything, or at least anything they’re willing to talk about. My guess is that someone saw something he liked in Pamela, and acted on it. A woman alone up there is easy prey, even with dogs; people will do sick shit, and when they do, nothing will stop them. I wish I could say I thought she had run away, and was livin’ the life in Napa or wherever it is that these people go. It would be a welcome change to track her down, to tell her that although she was having fun, her family missed her very much, and she really had to go home. It would be great to see the look on her face as she heard this, as she got in her car and sped home to her loving husband and kids. As it is, all I can see in the future is cold white meat, found in the brush; caution tape and  paperwork, a stunned husband and a traumatized hiker. It’s not the way I want it to go, but sometimes you just have to play with the cards that life deals you.

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            I turn the dogs loose so they have a chance. No way am I leaving them with Don and Nate; they’d starve in a week. Dogs are dogs, they’ll survive until someone finds them. Maybe someone will take them home and love them. All of them out of the car and into the park, leaping through the bushes after a deer, all but Ace. I want him with me. I drive out to Heart’s Desire beach, out in Point Reyes. It’s foggy; that dense, grey fog that makes your skin clammy and fills your lungs like it’s solid. Me and Ace sit on the beach for a while, but he’s not as good company as I had remembered. I think a little bit, but not for long. That would be dangerous. Everything in moderation. I worry about catching a cold, then laugh at myself for fretting.  We walk down the beach, trudging through the hard wet sand towards the remains of a bonfire. Nobody is on the beach; it’s too cold, and besides, it’s a weekday. I sit down, then get straight back up; what’s the point in waiting? Why deny myself any longer? I  take off my shoes and head towards the water, letting it hit my knees. I jump over the crests of the waves like a jump rope. Ace follows me in. I inch my way into the water; it’s cold, but not as cold as you’d expect, and soon I don’t feel it at all. I climb in deeper and deeper; soon, I am up to my neck and past the rough swells of the beach. It’s calmer out here, but colder, and the water is more dark and sinister. Ace has given up and headed back to shore; he stands on the sand, barking. From this distance, it just looks like his face is one big pair of ears, pointed straight at me. I lie on my back and let the saltwater float me like a buoy. Ace’s barks are getting softer and softer, and now there is just the gurgle of the water as I submerge my ears. I doubt they’ll find me here.