Chapter 3 - The Gas Station Payphone
When my tires crunched into the gravel driveway of my mother’s house, I didn't bother parking properly; I left my sedan half-blocking the neighbor's hedge, threw the gear into park, and vaulted out of the vehicle.
Clara was standing on the front porch with her arms firmly folded across her chest. She wasn't wringing her hands. She wasn't searching the bushes. She wore an expression of deep, irritated annoyance, as if my daughter’s disappearance was simply an inconvenient disruption to her afternoon card game.
"Mother, where is she?!" I roared, storming up the steps.
Clara scoffed, rolling her eyes toward the sky. "Oh, stop making such a melodramatic scene, Victoria. You’re coddling that girl, and this is the result. Maya just threw a little tantrum because she was asked to do basic household tasks. She needs to learn that family members contribute. She’s probably hiding behind the garden shed trying to get attention."
"She’s been gone for two hours, Mom!" I shouted, my voice cracking with panic. "She’s eight years old! This isn't a tantrum, this is endangerment!"
Behind my mother in the doorway, Chloe’s children had stopped laughing. Tyler, the older one, stared fixedly at the porch floorboards, his face pale and blotchy. Ten-year-old Chloe Jr. looked terrified, her lower lip trembling as she whispered something to her mother.
I ignored my mother, turning my attention directly to my niece and nephew. "Which way did she turn when she left the driveway?"
Tyler pointed a hesitant finger toward the corner of the neighborhood street—the direction leading away from our residential area and toward the commercial strip near the highway. "Toward... toward the Shell station. She was crying really hard."
I didn't waste another breath on my family. I spun on my heel, dived back into my car, and slammed the accelerator to the floorboards.
The drive to the gas station took less than four minutes, but it felt like an eternity. I drove down the route twice, screaming Maya’s name through the open driver’s side window, scanning the overgrown ditches, the parking lots of shuttered storefronts, and the rows of parked cars.
Nothing.
Desperation was clawing at my throat, threatening to choke me, when my cell phone suddenly rang.
The caller ID showed an unknown local number. I answered it instantly, my voice cracking. "Hello?!"
"Is this the mother of a little girl named Maya?" a calm, professional male voice asked over the line.
"Yes! Yes, that’s me! Where is she? Is she okay?!" I demanded, nearly swerving off the road before pulling hard onto the gravel shoulder.
"She’s safe, ma'am," the man said, introducing himself as a shift manager at the Shell station three blocks away. "She walked in here about ten minutes ago, sobbing uncontrollably. She wouldn't let anyone touch her at first, but she managed to recite your phone number from memory. She’s sitting in the employee breakroom right now with a bottle of water. But I have to tell you, she is terrified. She keeps saying her grandmother said you’re going to be furious with her for running away."
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Relief so profound washed over me that I dropped my head against the steering wheel and wept. "Thank God. Thank you. Please tell her I’m right around the corner. Do not let her out of your sight!"
I killed the call, threw the car back into drive, and tore down the asphalt.
