Bella liked to connect.
She liked to telephone meat least once a day, tell me this, tell me that, check I was not about to visit her.
Friday, no telephone call from her, Saturday no telephone call, Sunday morning, no call either.
Husband and I were frantic. The calls we made to her phone? Went to voicemail.
‘What if she’s dead in her house?’ I said.
Husband’s colour drained from his face. ‘We’ll go and take a look.’
We got in the car, with silent hearts, like we were attending a funeral.
Her car was missing from the courtyard, we parked our car in its space.
Another stone dropped in my stomach, chipped the stone already there. We stood at the front door. Tension connected Husband and me. I turned the key in the lock. We went up the stairs to the first landing, all tidy, we went to the second landing, opened her bedroom door. Tidy, the bed made to perfection.
And breathe again, we did.
We travelled to her place of work, to see whether her car was in the car park, it was not. We drove past the top of Big I Am’s road. Her car was nowhere to be seen.
We came home, brewed cups of tea. My Sunday dinner went in the bin.
Where was she?
Sunday evening the phone rang–Bella.
‘Where have you been?’ I shouted.
She wanted to know what our problem was. She was an adult she didn’t need to check in with us.
‘No, but you always do, so when you don’t it’s a worry.’
She would not own up to the logic of this. She would not say, ‘Sorry.’