Hannah waited twenty-four hours before calling the police, knowing her mother, Rokhl, would have been mortified: O mein Gott! The police! To bring yourself to the notice of the authorities was something to be avoided at all costs. It was one of Rokhl’s many unspoken rules. If she was in the car with Hannah and a siren wailed, no matter how far away, no matter what kind of siren it was – ambulance, fire truck or police – Hannah had to immediately pull over to the side of the road and stop the car. And no one was allowed to move until the sound had died away. “You never know…” was all the explanation Hannah ever got and for Rokhl, that was saying a lot.
On the day Rokhl disappeared, in the gloom of the beige hallway, on the edge of the wrought iron seat next to a phone that rarely rang, Hannah sat folding and unfolding the note Rokhl had left, as if by some magic its meaning would be revealed. I am not her. What did Rokhl mean by ‘her’? Was it a mistake? Didn’t Rokhl mean ‘I am not here?’ Not that it made any more sense. And if she could decipher it, what could it tell her except what was obvious? Rokhl had left home without her purse, no wallet so no means of identification and with no known destination in mind. Deep in Hannah’s belly a larva of worry was growing.
Hannah slid into the sweltering car. Almost instantly, sweat filmed her face and trickled down the curve of her clenched jaw. She stared out of the windshield at the front door of the duplex as if half expecting that by some miracle her mother would suddenly appear. For almost all of her forty-five years, Hannah could predict Rokhl’s every move, although never her motives, never the why. Now this. Nothing had prepared her for this. Not even the shocking...
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