open the door and fly out of the van scarcely before Freddie has even come to a complete stop. My heart thuds in my chest as I fly across neighbors’ lawns and driveway bounding up the steps of my front porch. Mrs. Cotillo stands on her porch, clasping her jacket tightly to her body, peering intently at me. Her beady eyes remind me of a rat.
The front door hangs open, the wood at the top and bottom hinges splintered. Two policemen stand with Rob, their voices low, telling him something. As I walk into the room all eyes turn to me.
“Where have you been?” Rob asks, doing his best not to sound accusatory.
I look around. The living room is a shambles. Furniture upturned. The couch, lying on its side, sports a long knife-edged gash along the entire length of the backrest. The TV is gone. Mail from the kitchen along with various other papers lies ripped and strewn across the floor.
“What happened?” I ask. “Is it about Robyn?”
Rob shakes his head no. “Someone broke in,” he says.
* * *
I scoop the lamp up off the floor and deposit it to the easy chair. Then I right the coffee table, snatching up the remote control and TV Guide as well.
The police promised to interview neighbors to see if they saw anything suspicious, but all I can think about is Mrs. Cotillo’s accusing stare. I’m certain that this break-in was instigated by BLU-BOY or maybe his associates. I said nothing to Pittsburg’s finest out of fear of further recrimination, and more importantly, not wanting to put Robyn’s life in any greater danger than it was already.
“Where were you?” Rob asks.
The afternoon with Freddie at the gun range seems a million miles away at the moment. Rob’s question snaps me back into reality.
“When I woke up you weren’t here,” I answer. “I met Sister Margaret in the City.”
I move to the kitchen and grab the broom and then return to the living room and begin sweeping the shards of broken glass of the light bulb from the lamp. I choose to omit my outing to the Martinez Gun Club.
“Where have you been?” I ask.
“Meetings.”
“Meetings? What kind of meetings?” I ask.
“AA meetings.” He makes a step towards me. “Margot, there’s so much I have to tell you.” He reaches for my arm, drawing me to him. “Stop for a minute. Look, everything is exactly the way it’s supposed to be,” he says. The look of earnestness in his face defies logic.
I step away from him, spreading my hands over the air in the living room.
“That’s what you call all of this?” I ask, incredulous.
“I know, I know. But we have to accept things as they happen. Acceptance, Baby, that’s the key to everything.”
I move away.
“Help me with the couch,” I say. All I can think about is that if I can just get the house in order my mind will follow. The physical act of doing something mollifies the nearly palpable feeling of violation that is surging through my body. A part of me even sniffs the air to see if I can detect any odor of the persons responsible for the destruction.
Rob just stands there like a mute.
“Have you seen Pickles?” I ask.
He shrugs no. After I get this mess cleaned up I will have to look for the cat. If she got out, she could be hiding out somewhere afraid.
“Are you going to help me?” I ask.
“Nothing happens by accident,” he says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“I mean that everything happens for a reason,” he says.
I struggle with the armrest of the couch, trying to yank it upright, but stabs of pain at my surgery site prevent me from exerting any more energy. Rob makes another move towards me.
He grabs my arm. “Everything,” he says, his eyes shining with intensity.
I huff out a sigh of exasperation.
“Now that I’m sober, I see things so much more clearly.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean us, here. Robyn.”
“What about Robyn?”
“We keep looking and looking for her. But maybe she doesn’t want to be found.”
A sheet of red flashes before my eyes. I slap his face.
“She is a fiftten year old little girl,” I growl. “A child.”
“She hasn’t been a child since we moved to California,” he says. “Have you been blind to the fact that she’s been out of control ever since we’ve been here? The friends she hangs out with, the kind of clothes she wears? The way she talks to us, like we