Everything Looks Wrong in This Light
The man in the robe digs through a garbage can in the kitchen. The woman in the t-shirt and sweatpants sits at the kitchen table watching him. She wears glasses, holds a steaming cup in her hand. A newspaper is open in front of her on the table. When the man finds what he's looking for, a piece of paper the size of a small envelope, he sets it on the kitchen counter. He washes his hands in the sink, dries them with a towel. He picks up the piece of paper, reads both sides, leans back against thekitchen counter. He squints at the picture on the paper, holds it close to his face. The woman takes a sip from her cup.
What is it, Gary?
Gary looks up at the bank of fluorescent lights above him. He scratches the whiskers under his chin.
This light's really bad in here.
What are you looking at?
I think I saw this girl yesterday, in the picture, downtown.
He hands the woman the piece of paper.
What girl? These are car wash coupons.
No, Heather, the other side.
Heather flips the paper over, reads the caption out loud:
Have you seen me? Name: Stacey Lee Thomas. Date of Birth: October fourth, nineteen eighty-nine. Age: twelve. Height: five feet, two inches. Weight: one hundred pounds. Hair: brown. Eyes: green. Sex: female. Date missing: April second, two-thousand-and-one. From: Spokane, Washington.
Heather hands the piece of paper back to Gary.
That's sad, and she's really pretty, too.
I know. I'm positive I saw her yesterday.
Are you sure?
Pretty sure.
You just said you were positive.
I know, but this light is horrible.
Too bad the picture isn't in color.
I know, and it's so small.
Well, go outside and look at it.
Gary walks out of the kitchen, down the hallway, out the front door. The sky is clear and the ocean calm. He studies the picture in the sunlight, nods, goes back into the house. He stops in the hallway, glances at a gold-framed picture of a young girl wearing a swimsuit and swimming goggles. He shakes his head, walks back into the kitchen.
It's her. I'm sure of it.
Heather lifts up her cup.
Could you pour me some more coffee, please?
Gary takes her cup, fills it, adds cream and sugar. He stirs the coffee with a spoon, hands the cup back to her.
Thanks honey.
Where's Carmen?
At swim practice.
When did she leave?
Around six, like she always does. Why?
Nothing. Did you drive her?
No, honey, she drove herself like she always does. What's the matter?
Nothing.
Gary looks at the piece of paper in his hand again, scratches the back of his neck.
Heather sips her coffee.
Are you going to call?
Call?
There's a number on the paper you can call for missing children.
We really need to change the lighting in this kitchen, because it makes everything look funny.
Heather frowns, continues to read the newspaper.
You know that journalist is dead.
Who?
That journalist who was kidnapped in Pakistan.
I think I should call. She looked scared.
Who did?
Gary rubs his eyes, holds up the piece of paper.
This girl.
You should call then.
But what if it wasn't her?
Heather takes another drink, continues reading.
Jesus, they beheaded him.
I'm going to call. When does Carmen get done with practice?
She'll be home around nine, same as every Saturday.
What time is it now?
Heather leans forward, looks towards the stove. Gary picks up the cordless phone off the counter, stares at it.
The clock is right behind you, honey. I can't see it from here.
Gary turns around, looks at the clock on the top panel of the stove. The numbers glow green.
It's eight-thirty. God, everything looks wrong in this light. Aren't they supposed to be blue?
No, it said her eyes were green. You know, if you're not sure it was the same girl, then maybe you shouldn't be call that number.
They cut off his head? That's horrible.
Heather turns another page, continues reading. She sips her coffee. Gary puts the piece of paper in his robe pocket, rubs his eyes again.
I'm going outside to wait for Carmen.
So, you're not going to call?
Gary doesn't answer her. He walks out of the kitchen, down the hallway, out the front door into the sunlight.
He stands on the front porch, strokes the back of his neck, stares at the phone in his hand.
A dark cloud eclipses the sun.