Read Missing Pieces for Free Online

and seven messages: three from clients seeking appointments; one from the guidance counselor at Sara’s school asking me to call at my convenience; two from my mother asking me to call as soon as possible; and one from Jo Lynn telling me she’d spent the morning in court, that Colin Friendly was even better-looking in person than in his photographs, that she was more convinced than ever of his innocence, and that I had to go with her to see for myself on Wednesday, a day I normally don’t go into the office. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and called my mother.
    There was a frantic edge to her voice I wasn’t used to hearing. “Where have you been?” she asked. “I’ve been calling all morning. I kept getting that stupid machine.”
    “What’s the matter, Mom? Has something happened?”
    “It’s that damn Mr. Emerson.”
    “What happened with Mr. Emerson?”
    “He accused me of trying to poison him with that peach crumble I made for him. He claims he was up all nightthrowing up. I’m so upset. He’s telling everyone in the building that I tried to poison him.”
    “Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry. You must be so disappointed. Here you went to all that effort.” I imagined her bent over her kitchen counter, arranging slices of peaches in the pan in neat little rows. “Try not to worry about it. No one there is going to take him seriously.”
    “Do you think you could talk to Mrs. Winchell?” she asked, referring to the retirement home’s administrator. “I’m just too upset, and I know if you phoned her and explained …”
    “I really don’t think that’s necessary, Mom.”
    “Please.” Again, that unfamiliar urgency clinging to her voice.
    “Sure thing. What’s her number?”
    “Her number?”
    “Never mind.” Clearly my mother was in no frame of mind for such details. “I’ll find it.”
    “You’ll call right away?”
    “As soon as I can.”
    “Thank you, darling. I’m sorry to be such a burden.”
    “You’re never a burden. I’ll speak to you later.” I replaced the receiver, took a few quick bites of my sandwich, and flipped through my address book for Mrs. Winchell’s phone number, deciding first to check in with my daughter’s school. The guidance counselor came on the line just as an enormous piece of tuna glued itself to the roof of my mouth.
    “Sara has been missing a lot of classes,” he told me without preamble. “In the last two weeks, she’s missed four math classes and two Spanish classes.”
    Oh God, I thought. Here we go again. Hadn’t we been through this last year?
    “I’ll talk to her,” I told the guidance counselor, feeling like a total failure, although I knew this was Sara’s responsibility,not mine. Still, I felt responsible. Some family therapist, I thought, swallowing the rest of my sandwich, feeling it awkward and heavy as it lurched its way down my esophagus toward my stomach.
    I called Mrs. Winchell, quickly explaining the reason for my call, and asking if she could pay Mr. Emerson a visit. Maybe he’d reached a point in his life, I suggested gently, when he needed to find a place that offered more supervised care. There was a moment’s silence before Mrs. Winchell spoke. I found myself holding my breath, though I wasn’t sure why.
    “It’s not quite as simple as that,” she began, then stopped. I tried to picture her on the other end of the phone, but her silence was distracting. It took several seconds for a mental image of her to take shape. When it did, she emerged as a woman about a decade older than me, ebony-skinned and pretty despite a receding chin line, with short black hair and an engaging smile. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to call you.”
    “Is there a problem?” I coached reluctantly.
    “We’ve had a few complaints,” she began, “from some of the other tenants.”
    “Complaints? About Mr. Emerson?”
    “About your mother,” she said.
    “About my mother?”
    A long pause followed. Then: “There have been some