Read Missing Pieces for Free Online Page B

treadmill, gradually increasing its speed until I was walking a brisk four miles an hour, my arms keeping pace at my sides, my mind peacefully blank. It didn’t take long, however, for my family to join me, their images attaching themselves to my arms and legs, like heavy weights, slowing my step, dragging me down.
    Leave me alone, I admonished them silently, trying to shrug them off. This is my time alone, my time just for me, to unwind, to refresh, to tone and relax. I’ll deal with your problems later.
    But instead of fading away, their images grew bolder, more insistent. My mother appeared in front of me, like a genie escaped from a bottle, pushing her face just inches from my own, her arms clinging to me in a suffocating embrace; my daughter jumped on my back, knees circling my waist, hands clutching at my throat, riding me as if she were a small child, both women pressing so tightly against me I could barely breathe. Why was my daughter skipping classes? What was going on with my mother? And why were these things
my
problem? Why was I the one caught in the middle?
    Don’t expect any help from me, Jo Lynn warned, invisible hands tugging on my ankles, so that it felt as if I were trudging through deep snow. You’re never there for me; why should I be there for you?
    I’m always here for you, I said, kicking at her prone image, almost tripping over my own feet. Who stood by you through Andrew, through Daniel, through Peter, through all the men who repeatedly broke your bones and battered your spirit?
    Yeah, but what have you done for me lately? she demanded, tightening her grip.
    Don’t bother with her, Sara admonished.
    You’ll deal with her later, my mother said.
    Me first, said Sara.
    No, me, my mother insisted.
    Me.
    Me.
    Me. Me. Me. Me. Me.
    I closed my eyes, anxiety tightening around my chest like a straitjacket. “This is my time,” I said out loud. “I’ll deal with you later.”
    The anxiety suddenly lifted. I smiled, took a deep breath. You see, I reminded myself, sometimes all that’s necessary is to voice these thoughts aloud. Almost immediately, however, the anxiety was replaced by a wave of heat so intense it felt as if someone were aiming a blowtorch at my brain. Perspiration soaked through my sweatshirt; my forehead grew damp; wisps of hair plastered themselves to the sides of my face. “Great. Just what I needed,” I pronounced, adjusting the treadmill’s speed, slowing it down too quickly, so that when it stopped, I almost fell off.
    Steadying myself against my desk, I grabbed a soft drink from the fridge, and held it against my forehead until the room stopped spinning and the hot flush grew tepid, then disappeared. When I next glanced at my watch, it was almost fifteen minutes after one o’clock and I was still in my sweats. I quickly peeked into the waiting area, but Donna Lokash wasn’t there. I was grateful, though worried. It was unlike Donna to be late.
    My sweatshirt was halfway over my head when the phone rang. I yanked it off and answered the phone, standing there in nothing but my underwear. Donna’s voice on the phone was garbled, crowded with tears. “I’m so sorry.I know I’m late. I was on my way out the door when the phone rang.”
    “Donna, what’s wrong? Has something happened? Is it Amy?” Donna’s daughter, Amy, had been missing for almost a year. I had a special interest in her disappearance, since Amy had attended the same school as Sara and had been in some of the same classes. I recalled the first time Donna Lokash came to my office, several months after Amy vanished. She remembered me from several parent-teacher meetings, she’d whispered, her thin frame hugging the doorway, eyes swollen almost shut from crying, further accentuating the grief-imposed gauntness of her face. She needed help, she said. She was having trouble coping.
    “The police just called. They’ve found a body. There’s a chance it could be Amy.”
    “Oh God.”
    “They want me to go