Crystal’s machine picked up.
“Hi, you’ve missed me. Hopefully I’m on a daring adventure, but if all goes well, I’ll eventually make it home to call you back.”
“Crystal, it’s Bette. Again.” Her voice took on the high-pitched notes of early anxiety. “In case you forgot, we have dinner reservations, and we’re planting flowers on Mom’s grave tonight. You know, like we’ve done on June fourteenth for the last ten years.”
Bette hung up and stared at her clock.
Their dinner reservations were in ten minutes and obviously they wouldn’t be making it.
For another twenty minutes, Bette sat at the kitchen table, fuming, and silently willing the door to open and her free-spirited sister to come bouncing through with tales of rescuing a kitten in the road or driving a hitchhiker halfway across the county to make it on time for the birth of his child. Two stories which had actually happened, but never on the anniversary of their mother’s death.
Crystal had never forgotten their mother’s anniversary, and she’d never missed their yearly ritual.
As Bette tapped her foot and watched the clock, the sense of urgency in her stomach curdled into fear, and she realized that had been the root of her anxiety all along: not frustration that they’d be late to dinner, but fear. The fear crept up her legs and settled in the base of her spine. It clicked its fangs and tapped its sharpened claws. It would gnaw a hole right through her if she didn’t do something.
The fear was unwarranted. Crystal was only an hour and a half late, but it had gripped Bette in its talons just the same.
A photo of Crystal and Bette, arm in arm, sat on the bureau next to the kitchen table. The bureau was filled with dishes, things their mother had loved and that Bette, still living in her childhood home, had never been able to part with.
She gazed at the silver-framed photograph. Crystal’s red-gold hair hung long and wavy, flowing over each shoulder. Bette’s own hair, also long, was stick straight and dark.
“Where are you?” she whispered to the picture.
Unable to sit still another moment, Bette stood and grabbed the phone, dialing her sister again and slamming the phone down when the machine picked up. Next, she called her father, gritting her teeth when his voicemail clicked on.
“Dad, it’s Bette. Call me right away.”
Bette walked stiffly to her car and climbed behind the wheel.
Though less than two years separated Bette and Crystal, Bette had often felt like a much older sister. She was the practical, sensible one. At twenty-four, she had a serious job as a research assistant for an anthropology professor, and she was well on her way to receiving her doctorate.
Crystal, on the other hand, had spent the first two years after high school traveling the world. She’d finally returned a year before and enrolled at Michigan State University. She worked a series of minimum-wage jobs and refused to do anything out of obligation. She loved to say, “Should is not in my vocabulary.”
Bette let herself into Crystal’s apartment with her spare key, sweeping through the space quickly. Crystal wasn’t home, but Bette peeked into every room just the same.
In Crystal’s bathroom, she spotted a damp towel and a long t-shirt, probably what Crystal had worn to bed the night before.
A hand-scrawled note was stuck to the vanity mirror.
“The day I met you, a part of me dissolved,
Slipped into the earth and rooted beneath you, grew up inside of you,
You are always with me now. I am always with you.”
Bette read the words under her breath.
Weston Meeks hadn’t signed his name, but he hadn’t needed to.
Bette had heard how the man spoke to her sister.
The professor, who taught poetry at Michigan State University, had swept Crystal off her feet. Despite the age gap, ten years give or take, Crystal had fallen madly, stupidly in love with the man.
“Apparently, the feelings are mutual,” Bette said dryly.
A calendar hung in Crystal’s kitchen with a few notes scribbled in the small boxes. She didn’t post her work schedule and probably didn’t record half of her appointments. Crystal simply wasn’t a planner.
She had however, noted the anniversary of their mother’s death and written: “Evening with Bette.”
Except she hadn’t shown up, and her apartment was empty.
Bette walked across the hall to apartment four. It belonged to Crystal’s friend, Garrett. Bette had only met him once. He was a beautiful gay man who dressed impeccably, and often sat with Crystal in their little apartment courtyard drinking wine and lamenting his latest break-up.
Bette knocked on the door.
She could hear music in the apartment. It sounded like Michael Jackson.
The door swung open and Garett grinned at her. He wore gym shorts and a tank top, wrist and ankle weights adorning his limbs.
“Bette!” he exclaimed. “How are you? I’m just getting my exercise in.” He jogged in place, sweat glistening on his tanned face. “No Crystal?” he asked, making a sad face and peeking past her down the hall.
“No, she was supposed to meet me. Have you seen her?” Bette asked.
“Billie Jean!” he gushed. “This is my all-time favorite Michael Jackson song.” He snapped his fingers. “I saw her this morning. I think she was going for coffee. We didn’t chat long. I was itching to get a meatloaf in the crock-pot. My friend David’s coming over tonight, and I’m hoping he’ll see how domesticated I can be.” He winked at her.
Bette shuffled her feet and glanced back towards Crystal’s closed door. “Did she say she had somewhere else to go after getting coffee?”
He wrinkled his brow and shook his head.
“I’m afraid I barely let her get a word in edge-wise — hot date and all.”
“All right. Thank Garret. Tell her to call me if you see her.”
“Sure thing, Betts.” He grinned, giving her a salute and closing his door.
Bette left the apartment building and stood in the parking lot. Crystal’s blue VW Beetle was nowhere in sight.
Bette climbed into her own car and drove to the coffee shop.
Crystal worked at Sacred Grounds part time, mostly on weekends, but she was friends with the other employees and dropped by at least once a day for a cup of coffee or to chat with her friends.
Rick stood at the counter, wiping down the surface. Crystal had told Bette that Rick had an obsession with Nirvana and in particular Kurt Cobain. He’d even grown out and dyed his hair to match the singer’s dishwater-blond, uncombed look.
“Hey Bette, how’s it going?” he asked.
Bette glanced quickly around at the tables.
“Has Crystal been in?” Bette asked, moving closer to a booth in the corner where a redhead sat with her back to the coffee counter.
The woman laughed and turned sideways. Her laugh was deep and gravelly, not like Crystal’s at all, and when she turned Bette realized the woman was well into her fifties.
Rick nodded.
“She came in this morning and had a coffee and one of Minerva’s famous butterscotch scones. We’ve got two left if you’re interested.” He pointed at the display case showcasing the sugary treats.
Bette’s stomach felt like a block of cement.
“No, thanks. About what time was that?”
Rick turned and looked at the Cheshire-cat clock that hung over the trays of variously colored coffee mugs.
“I’d say nine-ish.”
“Okay, thanks.” Bette started toward the door and then turned back. “Was she alone?”
Rick scratched his stubbly chin and nodded.