Read Until She Comes Home for Free Online Page A

Arie, short for Isabelle and Arabelle, when they tiptoe down Aunt Julia’s stairs. Both of them wear nightgowns yellowed at the seams where Grandma used too much bleach. They stare straight ahead as they pass through the entry so they won’t be tempted to glance at the telephone. Mrs. Witherspoon, Grandma’s neighbor, promised to call if their cat turned up. Patches is her name. She ran away from Grandma’s house two weeks ago. Grandma said it’s what cats do when the weather turns warm and not to worry. Now that Elizabeth Symanski is missing, the girls shouldn’t be concerning themselves with a cat, but they didn’t know Elizabeth all that well, and they’d had Patches for almost a year. One thing’s for sure, though. Staring at a phone won’t make it ring. Once in the living room, where Aunt Julia says they can all wait together until Elizabeth comes home, the girls sit. Their bare calves hang over the side of the loveseat, and their feet dangle, nearly touching the floor, but not quite. Next year, they’ll reach.
    Every summer since before they can remember, the girls have looked forward to visiting Aunt Julia and Uncle Bill. Back home, where the twins live the rest of the year with Grandma, they are almost never allowed out of the yard, especially when the weather warms up. It’s the polio, Grandma always says. No sense tempting fate. Now, here they are, cooped up just like at Grandma’s. Every other summer, Friday night at Aunt Julia’s meant an evening at Sanders. That’s the real reason the girls packed their store-bought dresses. They would sit, the girls, Uncle Bill, and Aunt Julia, at the Sanders counter, and as Uncle Bill ordered from the man wearing an apron and small white hat, Aunt Julia would scold the girls for twirling on the round stools. Then they’d all eat hot-fudge sundaes from fluted glass dishes.
    Outside Aunt Julia’s front window, streams of yellow thrown from flashlights drift back and forth across the lawn. Dry grass crackles under heavy boots, and as broad-shouldered shadows glide past the windows, voices call out to Elizabeth. Mostly men’s voices, deep and scratchy. Some are close, next door or down the street. Others are muffled, as if coming from a block or two away. The quieter voices are harder to listen to. They mean the men have traveled farther and farther away, thinking Elizabeth has done the same. The quieter voices come from someplace dark, where all the porch lights aren’t shining and the front doors don’t stand wide open. The quieter voices mean maybe Elizabeth won’t be found as quickly as Aunt Julia thought. The twins, and Aunt Julia, too, are waiting for silence, because silence will mean the men, whether near or far, have stopped shouting and Elizabeth has been found. Silence will be a good thing.
    “What will Elizabeth do?” Izzy says, turning her back on the telephone so she won’t be tempted to think about Patches or warm, bittersweet chocolate. Her stomach clenches and reminds her they skipped supper. Another great thing about Aunt Julia’s house is the food. She cooks as well as Grandma, maybe better, and never insists on clean plates and always makes enough for seconds. Food isn’t such a chore at Aunt Julia’s house. “When it’s time for bed,” Izzy says, “what will she do?”
    Izzy’s damp red hair hangs in strands over her shoulders, the ends frayed where she didn’t bother to comb through them after her bath. Grandma is always shouting—Izzy, get busy. Izzy, get busy brushing your hair. Izzy, get busy making your bed. Izzy, get busy. Arie’s hair is nearly dry because she is better about scrubbing it with a towel. No one ever shouts at Arie to get busy.
    “What do you mean, sugar?” Aunt Julia says.
    “What will Elizabeth do without a bed to sleep in?” Arie says before Izzy can answer for herself.
    Izzy stares hard at Arie and shakes her head. Grandma doesn’t like it when they do things like finish each other’s sentences