His Personal Mission

“And,” Sasha added, “I know it’s hard to talk about it like this, because it’s admitting she’s gone and facing how frightening it is.”

And just like that she put her finger on the reason his mother had been acting like this was merely a social occasion. Or trying to.

“It’s horrible,” his mother whispered.

Hearing the pure pain in her voice, Ryan ached to ease it, to do something, but he didn’t know what. His mother was generally a cheerful, easygoing woman, always looking on the bright side. He supposed that was where he got his own usually sunny outlook.

And then his father moved, sitting next to her on the sofa, putting his arm around her. His mother leaned into him, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Then, as if she’d drawn strength from the gesture, she seemed to pull herself together, even sitting up straighter. That was all it took, a simple move by his father?

He realized then that, even had he tried, he couldn’t have comforted his mother so well. In an odd, abrupt shift of perspective, Ryan suddenly saw them as if they weren’t his parents. He saw them as a couple, a unit, still in love after thirty-two years. The size of that suddenly struck him, and it was a jolt. What must it feel like, that kind of permanence? He’d always thought of it as being tied to one person, limiting, confining.

But now he sat here in shock, thinking there were aspects he’d never considered before. Having one person who knew you, knew what you needed before you asked, who would go to any lengths to provide it, one person you could trust implicitly, who would ever and always have your back, one person who would always be there for you…

He snapped out of his reverie as Sasha switched into high gear. She asked for a copy of Trish’s senior photo, which his mother quickly got. Then the note Trish had left, and permission to take it with her; one of the experts at the foundation, an ex-cop named Bedford, had a knack for reading between the lines, she said.

“I’m sure you’ve been wracking your brains,” she said then, “trying to figure out if she said anything, mentioned anything you’ve forgotten.”

Patrick nodded. “I can’t believe she just did this, and we had no idea. I always thought we were a close family, but obviously we weren’t paying enough attention,” he ended bitterly.

Ryan didn’t think anybody paid more attention—often too much for his own comfort—than his parents, but that didn’t seem the right thing to say just now. He left it to Sasha to answer.

“That’s not necessarily true. From what Ryan’s told me, you had no reason to think she wouldn’t want a typical, fun-filled summer here before she headed off to college.”

“No,” Joan said, a tremor creeping into her voice. “No reason.”

“So let’s deal with other things. What did she take with her, and what did she put it in?”

“Her big suitcase is gone. She must have planned to be gone for some time.” The tremor strengthened. “What if she never comes back, what if we never know?”

“It’s way, way too early to even think about that,” Sasha said, then went on briskly. “This boy she dated for a while, have you spoken to him?”

“Troy? Yes. But they broke up when he transferred schools when his folks moved to San Diego. He hasn’t heard from her.”

“Have you looked through her closet? What clothes did she take?”

“Now that was odd,” Joan said, taking her cue from Sasha’s businesslike tone. “She left most of her summery things.”

“So she took fall clothes? Or winter?”

Ryan had no idea what that meant; to him winter meant you put on a jacket. But obviously his mother understood, so it had to be a girl thing.

“Warmer things. She doesn’t have true winter clothes, since she’s lived here all her life.”

“And we have no real winter,” Sasha agreed with a smile. “So, what else? Anything obviously missing, or not so obvious?”

“Her laptop,” Ryan put in. “She has a smart phone, but she took the laptop, too.”

Sasha looked at him. “What does that indicate to you? I mean, I know for you that means you’ll be gone for the afternoon, but for her?”

Ryan winced inwardly, but remembering her earlier words, didn’t react to the teasing. Besides, his mother laughed, and that was worth a lot. And when Sasha glanced at Joan Barton and smiled, he realized that had been her intent all along.

“She used the phone for day to day, I think. I got more texts than e-mails.”

Sasha nodded. Then she turned to his mother. “May I see her room?”

“Of course.”

They went up the stairs, and Ryan started to walk down the hallway.

“Right here,” his mother said, startling him as she stopped in front of the first door on the right.

“She moved into my room?” How did I not know that?

“A couple of years ago. She wanted the window seat,” his father said. “And it’s a little bigger.”

The window seat. That triggered a memory, of Trish saying something about that. So, maybe he had known, and had just forgotten?

More likely filed it under “unimportant,” you jerk, he told himself. And now she’s gone.

“And,” his mother said, putting a hand on Ryan’s arm, “she wanted to be in her beloved big brother’s old room.”

“Aw, Mom,” he muttered, in light of his own thought, much more comfortable with his father’s prosaic explanation.

Maybe that’s why they worked so well together, he thought. His father’s reality-based practicality balanced his mother’s rose-colored glasses outlook. The insight—something he suspected he should have realized long ago—again made him look at them in a new way.

And again he thought of the solidity of them as a team, together for over three decades, a united front, never alone in life…yeah, maybe there were advantages. He could even see himself wanting someone like that, that solid, unwavering, always-got-your-back kind of person.

What he couldn’t see was ever being that kind of person for someone else.

Stepping inside what had once been his domain was strange, especially given how different it looked. Gone were his posters of video games—where had Lara Croft ended up?—and the shelves full of computer gear and software boxes. The corner where he’d had his CD player and music now held hers, a unit that turned her portable into a full-on sound system. He had helped his folks pick it out for her.

Trish had painted the room a soft green, and the trim around the windows bright white. It looked, he had to admit, pretty good. Maybe his black wall—his mother had only allowed him to paint one—had been a bit oppressive. On the walls were some things he recognized, prints of horses running free, and framed photos.

He stopped in front of one in particular, a shot from the last vacation they had all taken together, the year before he’d graduated from high school. His parents looking amazingly, as they did now, Trish, a lively-looking child with a tangle of sandy brown hair the same shade as his own, and himself, thin, gangly and awkwardly teenaged, zits and all.

They’d gone to Yosemite, and while he’d groused mightily about the boredom of it, complained that he’d wanted to stay home and hang with his friends, the memories from that trip were among the most vivid—and best—he had.

The sights, from the amazing two-tiered drop of Yosemite Falls to the towering, unbelievable and almost otherworldly mass of Half Dome, were a dose of genuine reality he’d never forgotten, images no amount of virtual reality could match.

He hadn’t even minded the constant presence of then seven-year-old Trish tagging at his heels. He’d even been watchful of his little sister, out in the real world where big animals—the favorites of the already-set-on-her-life’s-path Trish—roamed and smaller critters milked the millions of visitors for all the free food they could get.

If there hadn’t been ten years between them, would they have stayed closer? Would he perhaps have seen some sign, some clue about what was to come? Would she maybe even have confided in him, the way she once had?

Or was it not the age difference, but his own fault, for being so wrapped up in his own life and world? Was Sasha right, had she been right two years ago? Was he truly that insular, that shallow?

He stared at the image of his little sister, at the way, in this photo, she looked up at him with what he couldn’t deny was childlike adoration. Had he taken what he had so for granted that he’d lost it?

Where the hell are you, Trish? And why?

His mother’s plaintive words echoed in his mind. What if she never comes back, what if we never know?

That wouldn’t happen. It just wouldn’t. He wouldn’t let it.

And Sasha wouldn’t.

He knew that, on some deep gut level he didn’t even question. If there was a way to bring Trish home, or at least to find her safe and explain all this, Sasha would do it. If there was one thing he’d always known about her it was that there was no way she would give up.

Ever.

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