Read Online Missing by Becky Citra - Free Book Online

grandfather falls asleep. His head tilts forward and he starts to snore gently. No one else seems to notice, or maybe they’re used to it. I worry that he might topple over sideways but after a few minutes he wakes up. His faded blue eyes survey the table. “What are we talking about?” he says politely.
    For a second, Jane hesitates. “I was just asking Thea about the ranch,” she says.
    â€œWe used to work at the ranch,” says Heb. “I was a handyman and May was the cook. But I don’t remember when.”
    â€œIt was a long time ago,” says May gently.
    And then from somewhere Heb produces a nugget of information. “I was thirty-one years old when I started there. Your grandmother, girls, was twentyseven. When was that?”
    There is a pause. I sense that Van’s parents and May are trying to protect Heb from something. What?
    â€œIn the nineteen-fifties,” May finally says.
    â€œI don’t like Van going down there,” says Heb. He turns to Van and says sharply, “You’re not to go there anymore. They’ll blame you.”
    â€œGrandpa,” says Van.
    â€œThey never found her,” says Heb. “Never. They searched everywhere but not a trace.”
    Livia. He must be talking about Livia.
    A tickle runs up my spine. Van’s grandparents were at the ranch when Livia disappeared, they must have been. And then something shifts in my brain as Heb’s words sink in. Not a trace . For some reason I’d been sure that Livia had eventually been found. Maybe she had wandered away into the woods. Or maybe she had drowned and they had found her body.
    â€œNever found who, Grandpa?” says Ginny.
    â€œNever mind now, Ginny,” says Jane.
    And then Heb’s delicate hands, which were folded in his lap, start to flap. He says in a bewildered voice, “Why are we talking about the ranch?”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter,” says Jane. She looks at Martin and he stands up.
    â€œIt’s okay, Dad,” he says. “I’m going to set you up in your sitting room with your tea.”
    Heb allows himself to be led away from the table.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with Grandpa?” says Dawn, her eyes sharp.
    Van’s grandmother smoothes her hands on her apron and says calmly, “It’s just his dementia. He’s mixing up the past and the present. He’ll be fine in the morning.”
    Dawn persists. “Is Van allowed to go to the ranch?”
    â€œOf course he’s allowed,” says Jane. “I’m sorry about all that, Thea.”
    â€œThat’s okay,” I say.
    â€œWe’re awfully proud of Heb,” says Jane. “He’s usually as sharp as a tack. He knows so much about everything. He must have done too much today.”
    â€œHe’s never said that before,” said Van. “About me not going to the ranch.”
    For a second I think May is going to tell us something. Then her eyes flicker over the girls, who are finishing their ice cream, and she says simply, “There’s nothing to worry about. Van, why don’t you take Thea to see Grandpa’s birds? That will put him right.”

    Heb and May’s sitting room is at the back of the house. Heb’s sunk deep in an armchair with a red plaid blanket across his knees, drinking tea. He’s surrounded by birds: ducks and geese and a tall great blue heron, woodpeckers, robins and tiny little birds that I don’t recognize. They’re carved out of wood and delicately painted in vibrant reds and blues, pale smoky grays, rich cinnamon. They perch on tables and shelves and the sill of a big window that looks out on the lake. They take my breath away, they’re so beautiful.
    â€œDid you make these?” I say.
    â€œEvery last one,” says Heb proudly. He sets his teacup down and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “I don’t carve anymore. Hands are too stiff with this darn