Page 7 of Every Sweet Thing Is Bitter

You always imagine it will be a policeman on your doorstep to deliver the catastrophic news of a missing loved one. For me, it was a stilted phone call from a girl I used to love. Zoe had sputtered through thirty seconds of pleasantries before the words burst out of her: “Your mom is missing, Providence. I didn’t want you to see it on the news.”

She mistakes my silence for despair as I drink her in. “We’re going to find her. I’d bet you anything. Everyone in the county wants to bring her home safe.”

“I wish I was that hopeful.”

“Look at all these people,” she says. “When’s the last time you saw Annesville band together like this for anything?”

Her optimism scrambles my brain. No one with a lick of common sense expects to find my mother alive. I can’t tell if she’s blinded by hope or if she’s trying to comfort me. I change the subject. “How’s Congress? I always figured you’d be a teacher, something like that.”

“Beats my old law practice.” She shrugs. “Civil litigation got old fast. One more landlord-tenant dispute and I would have begged to be disbarred.”

In the distance, two figures snatch my attention. I’m not sure how I know it’s my sisters, but I do. Harmony and Grace walk shoulder to shoulder, their heads lowered in conspiratorial conversation. My father is nowhere in sight. If there is any moment to chase after them, it’s now.

But Zoe’s honeyed voice, scarcely above a whisper, draws me back in. “You look beautiful. Your hair especially. I alwaysthought you should grow it out.” She reaches for my hair, but instantly thinks better of it. Her face flushes so deeply it’s visible beneath her makeup. “I should get a flyer,” she says. “Maybe check in with Mrs. Capito. She’s been asking me about opening a VA medical office in Carey Gap for the last year. Her husband passed away in April—did you hear?”

“Is this really the time to catch up on local gossip?”

Zoe brings a palm to her forehead. “Some things never change. I always put my foot in my mouth.”

“Maybe you could make it up to me with lunch or—or coffee.”

The wheels in her head spin as she evaluates the political considerations. “I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.”

“Because of me or because of us?”

“What happened with your mom, that’s between you and God. But our history is a minefield.”

The religious invocation turns my stomach. “No one knows, Zoe.”

“Connor Crawford knows.”

“He doesn’t care. There’s nothing taboo about girls loving other girls anymore.” I pause. “Is this about your family?”

Quick as a bolt of lightning, she hardens. “Why do you think I’m a politician, Providence? Jehovah’s Witnesses can’t even vote. I was disfellowshipped.”

“I …”

“It destroyed my relationship with my family, whatever happened between us,” she says. “It can’t destroy my career too.”

Whatever happened between us, so insignificant it doesn’t deserve a name. How can it be meaningless for her? Does she not think of it at all? But she must, because if not, she could have defended herself and, cunning and charismatic as she was, saved herself from being disfellowshipped. I understand little about Jehovah’s Witnesses, but I remember Zoe telling me that with enough contrition for your sin, you can avoid being disfellowshipped. Herbrother narrowly escaped exile for shoplifting a pouch of beef jerky. All I can manage is a listless “I’m sorry.”

“It’s …” She squeezes her eyes shut, then shakes her head. When she opens them again, she has slipped into her politician’s skin. “We’ll bump into each other again before you go home, I’m sure.”

“I can pretend like I don’t know you, if that’s what you’re getting at. I don’t want to ruin you.”

“No, no. We can be civil. It—”

“It’s not you, it’s me, right?”

“Sweet Christmas, don’t tell me you haven’t moved on. I’m sure I’m not the only person you’ve loved.”

I’ve had other relationships, pretty girls all across Kansas City, and a few of them I even loved. But I’ve never carried a torch for anyone like I do for Zoe. “You don’t like knowing that you’re special to me?”

Despite herself, she smiles. She squeezes my shoulder as a goodbye before joining the masses, where an older couple ensnares her in a heated conversation. I’d take offense to them using my mother’s search as an excuse to corner their congresswoman for a screed about potholes or mail delivery, but really, I’m no better. While I groveled at Zoe’s feet, my sisters slipped through my fingers like running water. I look all around, but they’ve disappeared.

Daniel begins dividing the searchers into groups with arbitrary chops of his hands. One lackey distributes my mother’s flyers while another lectures us on search party protocol, his words drowned out by the murmurs. I join Sara’s group so I don’t have to be alone.

Our group is assigned to the nearby meadow. We march forward in a straight line, a dozen abreast. We are told to deviate from our path only if there is a tree or other impassable obstacleblocking our way. The deputy leading our group with an overeager search dog has forged so far ahead that we can no longer see him.

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