Chapter 2 - THE GHOST OF SOMERVILLE: HOW MY FAMILY REALIZED THE CAGE WAS EMPTY
Back in suburban Massachusetts, the colonial house on Elm Street was waking up to its usual Sunday morning choreography.
The sun was climbing over the hydrangeas along the meticulously edged walkway, casting bright beams across the porch that my mother had already swept twice before breakfast.
Inside, the kitchen smelled of freshly brewed Sumatra coffee and perfectly buttered toast, arranged with geometric precision on bone-china plates.
Robert Wilson, financial adviser and professional referee of domestic peace, sat at the mahogany dining table reading the Sunday Globe, his reading glasses perched neatly on the bridge of his nose.
He wore a pressed button-down shirt and pressed slacks, even on a Sunday morning, because in Diane’s world, relaxation was a slippery slope toward barbarism.
Diane walked into the kitchen carrying a crystal pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, her platinum-blonde bob perfectly styled, her beige silk blouse without a single wrinkle.
She poured the juice into two crystal glasses, setting one down opposite Robert with a satisfied click.
“Amber didn't call last night,” Diane observed casually, sitting down and unfolding her cloth napkin with delicate deliberation.
Robert lowered the newspaper slightly, blinking over the top of his glasses. “Didn't she? I thought she’d check in after the dinner at Sorellina. You two... well, birthdays can be emotional.”
Diane took a sip of her coffee, her expression as smooth and unreadable as a freshly polished marble slab. “Emotional? Robert, Amber is simply dramatic. She always has been. That little publishing job has filled her head with romantic notions about suffering for her art. A clean break was necessary. For both of us.”
Robert sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose—a gesture he had perfected over decades of marital diplomacy. “She’s your only daughter, Diane. Sometimes you’re a bit... harsh. The South Sea pearls were quite expensive, you know. She saved for months.”
“She bought pearls to buy my approval, Robert,” Diane replied crisply, cutting into her toast with absolute precision. “Approval isn't for sale. It’s earned through achievement. When Laura Henderson made law partner at thirty-two, her mother didn't have to settle for cheap publishing salaries and third-rate apartments in Somerville.”
The subject was dropped, as all subjects involving Amber’s inadequacies usually were in that house.
By Monday afternoon, however, the first minor friction in Diane’s carefully curated universe began to show.
Diane had planned a Tuesday luncheon with the Garden Club committee, and she wanted Amber to handle the printing of the seasonal invitation cards—a task Amber had performed for the past three years out of sheer, desperate desire to please her mother.
When Diane dialed Amber’s Somerville apartment landline at 2:00 PM, the phone rang ten times before rolling over to a flat, automated voicemail greeting.
“You have reached the voicemail of Amber Wilson. Please leave a message.”
Diane frowned, tapping her manicured fingernail against the marble kitchen island.
She hung up and dialed Amber’s cell phone.
“The subscriber you have dialed is no longer in service, or the mobile device has been permanently disconnected.”
Diane stared at the phone screen, her pale blue eyes narrowing in irritation.
Disconnected?
She must have forgotten to pay her bill again, Diane thought with a sharp inward huff of annoyance. Typical irresponsible behavior. Living in that bohemian haze with roommates who probably didn't even use coasters.
By Tuesday evening, when the luncheon invitations remained unprinted and Amber had failed to return any of the three increasingly sharp voice messages Diane had left, a cold, prickly sensation of annoyance began to crawl up the back of Diane’s neck.
She drove her silver Mercedes sedan down to Somerville, parking illegally in front of Amber’s apartment building with her hazard lights flashing.
She climbed the wooden stairs, her heels clicking angrily against the treads, and pounded her fist against Amber’s apartment door three distinct times.
No answer.
She pounded again.
A door down the hall swung open, and a young woman with a messy bun and paint-stained jeans poked her head out, blinking sleepily.
“Can I help you?” the roommate asked.
“I’m Amber’s mother,” Diane announced, her voice dripping with chilly authority. “Where is she? Her phone is disconnected, and she hasn't answered my calls.”
The roommate blinked, leaning against her doorframe. “Oh. You must be Diane. Amber packed up her stuff on Sunday morning. Said she was taking a trip out west. Left a note on the fridge for us.”
Diane’s breath hitched in her throat, though her face remained frozen in a mask of rigid composure. “A trip? Out west? Where?”
“Didn't say,” the roommate shrugged. “Just said she needed some space. Handed over her share of the rent in cash for the next three months and walked out with two suitcases. Honestly, she looked... I don't know. Relieved.”
Diane stood frozen in the hallway, the words echoing in her ears like a slap.
May you like
Relieved.
Without a word of warning, without asking permission, without consulting her mother on her itinerary, her daughter had simply... vanished.
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