Just Another Missing Person

by Gillian McAllister

But, the thing is, she wouldn’t love anything else. Not like she loves this. And nobody can have a balanced relationship with something they love.

I’ve never had the kind of brain that can deal with any kind of drudgery. I never ever knew what I wanted to do. Not at ten, not at twenty, not at thirty. I’ve gone on countless after-work courses, locksmithing, social media, mostly to forget about work. I’ve learnt all sorts, over the years, but nothing I really wanted to do.

It turns out you can stay off social media, you can never get into debt, into criminality, into any kind of strife. But sometimes circumstances come after you.

Julia is either hyperfocused, or not interested at all.

ABC: Assume nothing, Believe nothing, Challenge everything. One of the most important rules of being a detective.

We had absolutely nothing in common. She likes rich, salty Italian dishes and hiding her emotions. I don’t care about meals, will grab anything to fuel myself, and—as you know—I’m partial to freaking out, as you would say. She likes Booker winners. I like Lee Child. She likes twenty degrees and sunny. For me, the more dramatic the better: give me a storm, twelve inches of snow, a heatwave so mad it melts the pavements and gets on the news. She likes thoughtful, subtitled films. I like stupid action thrillers. But, nevertheless, we found, in that old-fashioned lift with its accordion doors, that we had that rarest of things: chemistry.

Erin’s husband is a restless type; he either likes to be planning a party or a renovation. They’ve moved four times in a decade.

Julia thinks of this as his middle-of-the-night face. Just a handful of months ago—eight, nine—they had been in bed together. It was the end of summer, the sky still pale in the window above them. He had leaned over and picked up his notebook, like he did every night. But something about that night had touched her. The sugared-almond sky above them. And the way he had reached for it, without even thinking about it, ready to take notes. “All right, number one: this missing woman,” she had said. Sadie. She had shown him a photograph of Sadie she kept on her phone, despite police protocols not to. “I just . . . I don’t know, I feel bonkers about it. Keep self-flagellating, sure I’ve missed something.” She had rolled to face him, looking at his features rather than the sky. He was tanned, the way somebody is who has spent all of the summer outside. His skin smelled of sap. “And,” she had continued, “I’m worried about Genevieve’s grades. She is so confident, but what if she’s wrong, and she gets disappointed? She thinks she’ll get As. And I think the seabass we had was out of date. Pan-frying doesn’t kill everything . . .” “Okay,” Art had said, “I have made the following notes . . . Bonkers: yes, you are, but you did your best. Genevieve: she is fine, and she probably will get As; besides, it’s next year, not this.” He had glanced across at her. “My final note is pan-fried. And it does. Kill germs. Okay? These worries are now mine. I will watch them.” And then: that smile. That...

This is what people don’t tell you about having a child: so quickly, so fast you almost miss it, they become a full, sentient, adult being. And this is when they need the most help, need the sacrifices. Breastfeeding versus formula feeding, crying it out versus co-sleeping, it doesn’t matter then, though the hormones would have you believe otherwise. The time when your baby really, truly needs your emotional heft is now: the teenage years and beyond.

Parenthood is beautiful, but hard, too. It’s tough to exist in the world when there is someone going about their business who you would die for.