Missing Mom by Joyce Carol Oates

I’d reported a murder. “Do you mean, am I the one who made the call? Yes.” I was sounding excited, angry. Yet calmly the officer asked my name. “What does it matter, my name! My mother needs help.” Officers had entered the garage. I ran to join them but was prevented from entering. I pushed at arms, restraining hands.
    I could see where Mom was lying. Where she’d fallen. Strangers crouching over her.
    My cell phone was in my hand. I’d forgotten it. A small voice screamed out of it, “…Nikki? For God’s sake…” It was Clare. I told her that Mom was badly hurt, someone had hurt Mom and she must come immediately. “Mom is hurt ? How—is Mom hurt ?” I heard myself stammer that Mom was dead and the cell phone fell from my hand.
     
    The house at 43 Deer Creek Drive, Deer Creek Acres had been transformed. From a short distance, you would believe its occupants were being celebrated.
    The street was blocked by police vehicles. Residents of the neighborhood were being rerouted. When they asked what had happened they were politely told to move on.
    Vehicles, turned away, moved slowly and haltingly. Some stopped altogether. People were coming out of their houses to stand in the street, staring. Teenagers, younger children. There was a fearful wish to know: what was it? whose house? fire? ambulance? so many police cars—why?
    “Somebody has been hurt.”
    “Hurt—how?”
    “…Mrs. Eaton, in that house.”
    “Mrs. Eaton? Gwen? ”
    A chill was lifting from the grass. The air smelled damply of lilac. Strangers were asking me questions. The same questions were repeated. Wildly I thought, If Dad was here—! Dad would be the one to speak to the officers.
    I was feeling light-headed, dazed. I was not feeling adequate to the situation. It seemed to me a terrible thing, I had told Clare Mom is dead . She would hate me now. Between us now there would be the unspeakable Mom is dead .
    Yet it seemed to me plausible that I’d been mistaken. I wanted to interrupt the police officers to ask: “But is my mother really…dead?” The more I considered it, the more I doubted my judgment. Emergency room physicians might see that Mom was still breathing, her heart was still beating, oh why hadn’t she been taken to the hospital, why were they leaving her broken and helpless in the garage…
    In the confusion Clare came running. Clare was frightened as I had never seen her. She saw my face, and stumbled past me without a word, toward the garage. For it was obvious, what had happened to Mom had happened in the garage. “I’m her daughter! I’m Gwen’s daughter! Let me see her! Let me see her! ” Police officers prevented her entering the garage. I heard her sharp raised voice. I heard her scream.
    Later, we embraced. Like drowning women clutching helplessly at each other.
    My brother-in-law Rob Chisholm was trying to comfort us. My uncle Herman Eaton, Dad’s older brother. There was Lucille Kovach, my mother’s cousin. There was Fred Eaton. Other relatives, mostly men, I had not seen in a very long time. Gil Rowen, chief of Mt. Ephraim Police, who’d gone to school with “Johnny” Eaton and had known “Feather” Kovach in the old days when they’d all been young, newly married.
    Gil Rowen appeared deeply moved. Firmly he clasped my hand in his. He clasped Clare’s hand. He introduced us to one of the plainclothed officers, Detective Strabane, who would be heading the investigation into “your mother’s murder.”
    We were meant to shake hands with Detective Strabane. Oh but why!
    And then I was sitting down. I seemed to be sitting in the grass. Maybe I had fallen. Voices conferred over my head: “daughter”—“found the body.” It was suggested that I be taken to Mt. Ephraim Medical Center but I refused angrily.
    I saw that the knees of my jeans were stained with something dark. My hands were sticky. Vaguely I recalled, I had wanted to wash my hands. But I’d forgotten, and kept forgetting. There were