All That's Missing by Sarah Sullivan Page A

worried. Finally, a voice came on the line. It was a man’s voice on a recording. “This is the Gretzky residence. Our number has changed. If you need to reach us, please call . . .” And he gave a number.
    Arlo smiled. This was perfect. More than perfect. He could say anything he wanted, and no one would know the difference.
    â€œDid you get her?” Bernice asked.
    Arlo nodded. “Is that you, Gramma? Yes. It’s me. Arlo.”
    â€œTell her you’re on your way to see her,” Bernice whispered.
    â€œI’m coming to see you,” Arlo said, smiling at Bernice. “No. Mom couldn’t come. They called her from work. . . . Yeah. I know. It
is
too bad. She really wanted to be there for your birthday.”
    Bernice gave him a sympathetic look, and Arlo nodded sadly in return. It was working. He almost believed his grandmother was on the other end of the line himself.
    â€œThey told her it was some kind of emergency meeting,” he said. Then he paused. He had to leave room for somebody else to be talking at the other end, right? “That’s OK,” he said. “I met this nice lady.” He smiled at Bernice. “She and her son offered to give me a ride.” Even Tyrone looked like he believed Arlo’s story now. “See you soon. OK?”
Pause. Pause. Pause.
“What’s that? Oh, yeah. I love you too, Gramma. Bye.”
    Arlo had never given such a performance. He deserved a standing ovation. He deserved an Academy Award. Sweat dripped from his armpits as he handed Tyrone the phone. Getting away with the lie was all the reward he needed. If it helped him find Ida Jones, the lying was worth all the wear and tear on his body.
    Deep down inside, Arlo had known for a long time that he and Poppo couldn’t go on living the way they had been. Poppo was likely to poison himself eating food that came out of a Dumpster or from who knows where. He might set the house on fire by forgetting a pan on the stove. Some things you tried not to think about, especially if you were a kid and you didn’t know how to fix them. You waited and you hoped the problem would be fixed by somebody else. And then when it wasn’t fixed — when the problem only grew worse — well, then all you could do was hope you’d be lucky enough to figure out a way to fix it . . . eventually.
    And that’s where things had stood the day Poppo was taken to the hospital. And Arlo was working on a solution. So far things were going all right. Sure, he’d hit a few snags along the way, but nothing terrible. Not so far. And look what he’d accomplished. Twelve hours ago, he’d been at the children’s shelter, and now here he was, only minutes away from seeing his grandmother.
    She’d probably been waiting all these years to see her grandson, only she couldn’t on account of some stupid argument between Poppo and her about his parents “running off to get married.” Whatever
that
meant. There had to be more to the story, didn’t there? Whatever bad blood existed between Poppo and his grandmother, she couldn’t hold it against Arlo, could she? What kind of a grandmother would do that?
    Besides, he was sure there was a reason for his coming here, as if someone (or some
thing
) were guiding him. Maybe that was crazy. Maybe, on some level, he didn’t really believe it. But you couldn’t ignore the odd things that had happened or how lucky he had been to find Bernice the way he did. It was like one of Poppo’s stories, the ones where magical things happened. Arlo tapped the carving in his pocket. Was that a tiny vibration coming back at him? More likely it was his imagination working overtime. No wonder. When you were under this much stress, every part of your body kicked into overdrive. Of course he was sensing things that weren’t really there. He hadn’t had much sleep either. That was part of the problem. And, when you