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Fantasy Stories

The Mudlark

Written by Pat Cadigan

Illustrated by Maurine Starkey

A week and a half after my mother vanished out of the British Museum, I found her, purely by chance, picking up trash on a stretch of stony shore by the Thames.

By then I had gone from frantic to part jumpy, part dazed. The police had been kind; WPC Nadia Çihan, the officer in charge of the case, had introduced me to some uniformed officers she said had a lot of experience working missing persons cases. But I knew what she was really doing was handling me. Not that I blamed her. People go missing all the time in big cities—one eighty-seven-year-old American tourist was not a significant addition to the thousands of others already missing. I thanked WPC Çihan and the sympathetic uniformed officers and made sure they had enough recent photos. Then I wandered around London in search of her myself, trying not to feel helpless or hopeless.

It wasn’t until I spotted her moving slowly on the rocky riverbank with her cane in one hand and a plastic supermarket carrier bag hanging from her other wrist that I realized I had never expected to see her again.

I wouldn’t have seen her then if I hadn’t stopped to talk to a couple of women on the Millennium Bridge. They were taking photos of the skyline with St. Paul’s Cathedral behind me, where I had just been showing my mother’s picture to anyone and everyone I could though I was mainly targeting tourists. Or, to be precise, people with cameras, who I thought might have accidentally captured her in their recent shots of some sight or landmark and so would recognize her. I don’t know what put that idea in my head, and so far I’d had zero results but was still trying.

“Excuse me,” I said. Just as the women turned to me with identical polite, guarded expressions on their faces, a small bit of movement caught my eye, and I saw her down on the shore. I recognized her immediately by her bearing; she was moving in her usual slow, determined fashion, dressed in her beige raincoat, tweed hat, brown slacks, and walking shoes, the same things she’d been wearing when I’d lost her at the British Museum. “Good God!” I blurted. “What the hell is she doing down there?”

The two women glanced at each other. “Mudlarking,” said the taller one. She had shiny black hair with a magenta forelock.

I looked up at her, bewildered. “What?”

“Mudlarking,” said the other woman. She had very curly black hair with purple accents throughout. “Looking for any interesting bits of stuff that may have washed up on the bank.”

Her accent said she was from North America like me, but she might have been speaking in tongues for all the sense it made. “’Bits of stuff’? Like what?”

“Like shards of old china,” the second woman replied, shrugging.

“Trash?” I said, incredulous.

“Some of it’s over a hundred years old.”

I stared down at my mother, openmouthed. This was a woman who wouldn’t darken the door of a charity shop and turned up her nose at flea markets, and a stranger was trying to tell me she was picking trash out of the mud and slime by the Thames. Not even whole trash but bits and pieces.

As if to confirm that, my mother bent over, leaning heavily on her cane, and picked something out of the rocks. She examined it as she straightened up again, then dropped it into the plastic bag hanging from her wrist and kept moving, scanning the ground in front of her.

“See?” said the first woman. “Obviously, she found something.”

I shook my head, still dumbfounded. “But what could she possibly want with a piece of—of broken dishware, or whatever?”

“No idea,” said the first woman with a small laugh. “Mudlarkers are not us.”

“I’ll say,” the other woman added, and the two of them laughed together.

I didn’t bother to glare at them before running toward the end of the bridge—literally running, which is something I never do, especially as I’m past fifty. Just off the paved walkway that passed under the bridge, I found a long flight of stone steps leading down onto the riverbank and just barely didn’t take a header as I rushed down, afraid that my mother would somehow disappear again before I could get to her.

The best I could do on that stony shore, however, was a hurried stumble; running was impossible unless I wanted a broken ankle. How the hell was my mother managing with her stiff knees and arthritic hips?

“Mom!” I called, slipping and sliding toward her. She gave no indication that she’d heard me. I called again, louder; her head turned slightly in my direction, then away. Maybe she had lost her hearing aids or run out of batteries. But even as I thought it, I knew she hadn’t. She seemed to hunch in on herself, the way you do when you’re trying to make yourself inconspicuous.

“Mom!” By then I was only a few feet away so that she had no choice but to turn around.

“What?” she said in a heavily put-upon tone. Her faded brown eyes, magnified by her glasses, were weary and uninterested.

“What are you doing here? Where have you been? Answer the second question first,” I added quickly, looking her over. After ten days, she might have been in rough shape, dirty, confused, and ill, but she looked as impeccable as always. The raincoat was clean, her hair under the tweed hat was combed, and she still had her hearing aids as well as her gloves and scarf.

“Where have I been?” she said, emphasizing the I very slightly. “Oh, just around.” She turned her attention back to the rocks and started to move away.

“That’s not an answer!”

She glanced up at me briefly. “No? You didn’t used to feel that way.” She poked the end of her cane into a small pile of stones and levered them apart. “’Where did you go?’ ‘Out.’ ‘Who were you with?’ ‘Nobody.’ ‘What did you do?’ ‘Nothing.’”

“That was different,” I said, exasperated.

“How?”

“I was fifteen, not eighty-seven, and I never went missing for a week and a half—”“

“I beg to differ, madam. If you add up all the hours I didn’t know where you were, who you were with, or what you were doing, I think you’ll find it comes to quite a lot more than ten days. Months. Years.”

“But I didn’t do it all at once!” I was getting angry, as much with myself for letting her cloud the issue as with her for disappearing. “And that’s got nothing to do with this. I’ve got the police looking for you, I’ve given your photo and description to every hospital and shelter in London, I’ve been running around like a madwoman accosting strangers in the street, asking if they’d seen you, imagining you lying unconscious in some alley or wandering around disoriented, unable to remember anything—”

“Amnesia?” My mother actually threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, bitch, please. That’s strictly TV-movie.”

I caught her arm as she started to move away. “What did you just say?”

She hesitated, looking blank, then laughed again. “Oh, that. Sorry, I wasn’t actually calling you a bitch, it’s just an expression. You know, like ‘far out’ or ‘groovy’ or ‘off the pigs.’ Whatever.” She shrugged, then laughed a little more. “That, too.” She shook off my hand and batted me aside with her cane so she could continue searching the shore.

“Mom!” I stumbled after her. “Are you trying to tell me that you went missing to get back at me for stuff I did over thirty years ago?”

“Well, revenge is a dish best served cold.” More hearty laughter. “Oh, the look on your face. I’m kidding, honey. For God’s sake, lighten up. And try to remember that everything isn’t about you.”

“All right, so what are you doing?” I asked.

“Mudlarking.” Her smile was sunny. “That’s when you—”

“I know what mudlarking is, a couple of tourists explained it to me. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why not?”

“Because you wouldn’t be caught dead in the Salvation Army store back home, nor would you go to a flea market if I put a gun to your head. But here you are picking rubbish out of the mud. How about Dumpster-diving? Do you do that too, now?”

She gave me an unreadable look and kept going.

“But never mind all of that,” I went on, still following her. “You were missing. For a week and a half. Then when I find you—completely by accident—you act as if nothing’s happened. So what’s going on?”

“Nothing. And I haven’t been missing for a week and a half—”

“No? Then what would you call it?”

She talked over me. “—I’ve been missing for twenty-five years.” Those faded brown eyes had turned hard. “It wasn’t until ten days ago that you finally noticed I was gone.”

****

It isn’t easy to argue with a statement like that, but I wasn’t about to let it go. She turned away again and resumed poking at the rocks with her cane.

“That’s bullshit!” I said to her back.

She paid no attention.

“Bitch, please.”

Then she looked back at me, amused, but kept on going. I stumbled over the rocks and caught up to her.

“Bitch, please what?” she said with a heavy sigh.

“Bitch please don’t start with that cliché about old people being invisible and everyone ignoring them,” I said. “Because I haven’t been ignoring you for the past twenty-five years, and you can’t tell me I have.”

Her mouth twitched slightly. “Maybe I didn’t do it all at once.”

I glared at her. “You are very close to experiencing shaken-mother syndrome.”

“Ha, ha, that’s a riot,” she said in a flat voice as she batted me aside with her cane. “Careful you don’t lose your balance and fall here. These rocks are pretty slippery.” As she moved past me, the plastic bag brushed against my leg, and I snatched it up.

”What’s in here?” I asked.

To my surprise, she let me dig around in it instead of trying to pull it away. I pulled out a few fragments of broken china, none larger than the ball of my thumb. Each one had a little bit of pattern on it; nothing I could identify. I looked up at my mother. “This is it? This really is it?”

“What were you expecting—gold doubloons? Blood diamonds?”

I shook my head. “The people I talked to said this was what you were after. They also claimed that this cr—stuff is supposed to be over a hundred years old, but I don’t know how anyone could know that.”

“Well, I found a few pieces of ceramic pipe stem as well,” my mother said. “Nobody’s made those for about that long. Those were pipes for smoking tobacco, not blowing bubbles.”

“I know that.” I dropped the stuff back in the bag. “Mom, no matter how old it is, this is trash. You’re picking up other people’s trash.”

“Yeah, like I’ve never done that before. Except I guess you’re going to tell me that was different just because it happened to be stuff you’d strewn all over the house.”

“You always made me pick up after myself—”

“Only if you were actually in the house to do it. There were plenty of times you managed to escape, and I’d be left to pick up the pieces. Literally.”

“I seem to remember your insisting this wasn’t about me,” I said evenly.

“And nobody loves a smart-ass—do you seem to remember that, too?” My mother frowned at something on the ground behind me and went over to have a closer look. Bracing herself with her cane, she lowered herself to a crouching position and started prying it out of the mud.

“Don’t, Mom.” I stumbled over to her. “Whatever it is, I’ll get it for you—”

She slapped my hand away. “Back off, this is mine! I can pick it up myself!”

I was so startled I drew back too quickly, lost my balance, and fell on my backside. Studying her find, my mother pushed herself up to a standing position while I floundered on the rocks, feeling every one of them digging into me through my clothes. When I finally managed to get up, covered with mud and slime and God only knew what else, she was already several feet away, scanning the ground for more treasure.

I brushed myself off as best I could and caught up to her. “So what didn’t you want me to touch? A gold doubloon or a blood diamond?”

She swung her cane in a low arc, whacking me on the shins. “No, it’s just more trash. Now why don’t you just go away and mind your own business?”

“Because in case you haven’t heard me or you’ve forgotten, you’ve been missing for a week and a half,” I said, getting angry again. “And don’t give me any of that bullshit about being missing for twenty-five years, and I only just noticed. I’ve been out of my mind. I filed a police report—”

“You said, you said already.” My mother swung her cane in the other direction, catching the back of my calf. It stung.

“And I’ve kept the hotel room five days longer than we planned,” I added. “I called the credit-card company and explained the situation, and they agreed to raise the credit limit. But at this exchange rate, it won’t be long before it’s maxed out again. After that, I don’t know what I’ll do. Maybe they’ll raise the credit limit another couple of thousand dollars, maybe they won’t. Either way, I’m already in more debt than I can afford—”

“So pack up and go home. I didn’t ask you to break the bank.”

“I’m not going anywhere without you.”

She turned to me with that weary, fed-up look. “Bitch, please.”

“Bitch, please yourself!” I said hotly.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing!” she snapped. “I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to, and I can do anything I do want to. Now get out of here, you’re bothering me.”

I reached for her. “Mom—”

She smacked my hand away with her cane. “Eighty-seven years, goddammit! Eighty-seven years on this earth, and I can’t do what I want without being harassed! Will you just go back to your life and leave me alone?”

I took a step toward her.

“Get away from me!” She swung the cane at my head. I ducked and almost fell again.

“Go on!” she yelled. “I mean it, get the hell off my South Bank!”

I noticed that the few other people on the shore close enough to hear were staring at us and decided to humor my mother before one of them called the cops. Better for me to go back up to the paved walkway and call WPC Çihan, tell her that I had found my mother and she had obviously had some kind of breakdown, maybe even a small stroke, and we needed an ambulance.

****

During the half hour it took for the paramedics to arrive, I watched my mother wander a random but very directed route by the water’s edge, acting as if she had all the time in the world and intended to spend it scavenging. I was half-afraid she’d fall down and half-hoping she would just so I could go back to her.

But she was still on her feet and as steady as ever when the paramedics, a middle-aged woman and a younger man, finally showed up. They listened attentively while I gave them a quick rundown of the situation, emphasizing how out of character my mother’s behavior was.

“Considering her age, it’s possible she’s having some kind of episode,” the woman said, when I asked about the possibility of a stroke. Her name tag said she was Celie Stine and she outweighed me by at least thirty pounds, all of it apparently muscle.

“Is she taking any medications that you know of?” the man asked. His name was Niall Lassiter, and he was almost as muscular as his partner.

“No, not that I know of . . .” I thought about my mother’s claim to have been missing for twenty-five years. “But she sort of hinted that there were things I don’t know about.”

The woman chuckled. “I’ve got to remember that one. It’ll drive my kids crazy. No offense,” she added with an apologetic look.

“None taken. Just please get my mother off those rocks so I can take her home.” I frowned. They had a first-aid kit or something and their radios but nothing else. “Shouldn’t you have a stretcher?”

“It doesn’t look like we’ll need one.”

I started to follow them, but the man stopped me. “You told us she was very agitated with you, so I think it really would be better if you wait here. We want her to stay calm. Otherwise, she might hurt herself.”

They tramped down the stone steps and made their way over the rocks.

****

The paramedics talked to my mother for quite some time. I saw them look into her eyes and take her pulse but nothing else. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought they were simply having a friendly chat. Granted, it was a rather unusual place to socialize, out there on the muddy rocks while the day grew colder and damper and the sky became grayer and more threatening, as if rain were going to pour down at any moment.

Impatient, I looked at my wrist, forgetting that I had left my watch back in the hotel room. Damn it, how long did it take to bundle a frail old woman in her late eighties off to a psych ward? I should have made them go back to the ambulance for a stretcher, I thought, trying to curb my impatience.

Abruptly, the paramedics made their way back across the rocks but without my mother, who had gone back to searching for trash.

I ran to meet them at the top of the stone steps. “What are you doing?”

Niall Lassiter shrugged apologetically. “We talked to her like you asked us to. There’s nothing wrong with her that we can see.”

“You didn’t see much,” I retorted. “I was watching. You didn’t give her an examination.”

“Well, it may not have seemed that way to you,” Celie Stine said in a brisk, professional tone that wasn’t quite unfriendly. “We did take her pulse and her temperature as well as checking her pupils and her reflexes. There’s nothing to suggest that your mother is ill in any way.”

“You didn’t take her blood pressure.” I was trying not to raise my voice, but I was aware of a number of people turning to look.

“That would have meant asking your mother to remove her coat and jumper and rolling up her sleeve. Not a good idea in this environment, I think you’ll agree.” Her tone still wasn’t unfriendly, but it was getting there.

“I also don’t think it’s a good idea to leave her in this environment which I thought you’d agree with, too, but obviously you don’t.” I looked from her to Niall Lassiter. Her expression was cold, but he gave me a sympathetic smile.

“Oh, we agree,” he said. “We just can’t do anything about it.”

“Why not?” I demanded. By that time people going by were stopping to watch, but I was too upset to care.

“Because your mother is over the age of majority. Mudlarking probably isn’t the best activity for someone her age, but it isn’t illegal. She’s not endangering herself or anyone else—”

“But she is endangering herself! She could fall on those rocks and break her hip or her neck or her skull, or all three!”

“She could, but she hasn’t,” Celie Stine said, wearily authoritative. “And we can’t wait around on the off-chance that she might get hurt. There are people who are hurt that we have to tend to.”

They started to leave, and I caught Niall Lassiter’s arm. “Please, you don’t understand—she’s been missing for ten days—”

“Yeah, she mentioned she’d gone off on her own, and you were upset about it.” He removed my hand gently but firmly. “We asked her where she’d been, but she wouldn’t tell us. She doesn’t have to.”

I started to protest, and Celie Stine stepped between me and her partner. “We aren’t cops. If she doesn’t want to tell us where she was for the past ten days, she doesn’t have to. Just judging from her appearance, however, it was somewhere indoors, clean, dry, and warm. Which is more than I can say for the way you look.” She gave me a slow and very pointed up-and-down.

“I fell on the rocks,” I said defensively. “While I was trying to talk to her, to persuade her to come home—”

“This is between you two,” Celie Stine said in a very final way. “Good luck.”

“But she’s irrational!” I called after the paramedics as they walked away. “You don’t understand, she’s behaving like—” I cut off, looking around at the audience I had attracted. It was bigger than I’d realized. “Like a crazy woman,” I finished in a small voice. Defeated, I turned back to see what my mother was doing.

She was gone.

I ran back and forth along the walkway, thinking—hoping—she had simply managed to work her way farther along the riverbank, but I couldn’t find her. I went back down to the shore and stumbled around, asking the few other people there if they had noticed even just the general direction she had gone, but none of them could even remember seeing her at all. The clouds grew darker and seemed to lower, and suddenly I noticed that there was a lot less shore than there had been when I had first spotted my mother.

“Tide’s coming in,” said a man in a long coat and big rubber boots as he headed for the stone staircase. “Best get back up to dry land quick-like, it comes in faster than you’d think.”

I wanted to keep searching near the water’s edge in case she had somehow fallen in but suddenly found myself ankle deep in freezing, dirty water in the dark. In the pouring rain.

****

The next morning, I moved to a cheaper hotel. The room was only slightly larger than the walk-in closet in the master bedroom at my mother’s house, and the single bed took up most of it. The bathroom was down the hall, an arrangement I wasn’t crazy about but would afford me a few extra days before my credit card reached its new, horribly ruinous limit.

I talked to the people at the front desk about my situation. One of the clerks, a young Pakistani woman who told me she was attending law school part-time, suggested I put up a Web page then very helpfully did it for me, for a modest fee. I didn’t think the fee was really so modest, but it would have taken me forever to do it myself, and I didn’t want to take the time away from searching for my mother.

I figured she’d try to dodge me by going elsewhere along the Thames to pick trash. Armed with a pair of binoculars and my digital camera, I took some boat rides. It wasn’t the season for boat rides, so I didn’t have to fight a lot of other tourists for space on deck.

The various crews probably thought I was crazy, standing in the wind and the rain, scanning the shore with binoculars and taking pictures seemingly at random. The camera had a good optical zoom on it; I was hoping it might capture something I hadn’t seen clearly with the binoculars. Like an old woman in a beige raincoat and a tweed hat, leaning on a cane, for example. When I thought about that as I lay in the single bed at night trying to sleep, it seemed like a crazy idea. But then, the idea that my mother would disappear on our off-season, cut-rate trip to London would have seemed even crazier before it happened.

Not that it seemed any less crazy after the fact.

****

I went to different areas of the Thames and asked other mudlarkers if they’d seen my mother. Some were very friendly, eager to show me their little collections of detritus. I tried to look impressed or at least politely interested, but I don’t think I was successful. Others ignored me unless I actually got in their way. None of them recognized my mother or remembered seeing anyone fitting her description there on the rocks or anywhere else.

I’d have found that hard to believe except that no matter where I went or how many times I visited any of the areas where the mudlarkers went, I never met the same person twice. I told myself there was nothing really strange about that, not really. In a city the size of London, you might meet someone once, then never see them again in this lifetime. Especially if you didn’t actually live there.

****

I had run up another week of hotel bills while living on ramen noodles and some other kind of instant, in-the-cup soupy thing when WPC Çihan called to tell me that someone fitting my mother’s description had been spotted lining up for free food every morning on Gower Street. Actually, what she said was queuing, which confused me for a few seconds even after several weeks of hearing British English.

The food came courtesy of an Eastern religious commune. “They run a restaurant over on the edge of Soho,” said the uniformed officer WPC Çihan sent to accompany me as we came out of the Warren Street tube station. John Selkirk was one of the cops I had met when my mother had first gone missing, a stocky, fair-haired, pink-skinned man with light blue eyes, a gap between his front teeth, and one gold earring. To my North American ear, he sounded exactly like Ringo Starr. “This is how they clear out their leftovers and advertise at the same time. Lure in a lot of custom this way.”

I frowned at him. “How?”

“It’s good food,” he said, a bit surprised.

I was still bewildered. There was a bizarre image in my head of homeless people recommending a good place to eat while begging for spare change. Then we turned a corner onto Gower Street, and I saw that it wasn’t just the homeless who enjoyed the free breakfast. The line—queue—for the white cart parked on the sidewalk was almost half a block long, and it wasn’t made up exclusively of homeless people. At least half of the people in it were obviously students; others looked like faculty, and a few seemed far too well-to-do to be there at all. I pointed this out to Officer Selkirk.

“The food is free to anyone who wants it,” he said, amused, “and they keep serving until ten o’clock.” He glanced at his watch. “Which means they’ll be at this for another hour and a half. Besides the rough sleepers, you got your basic skint students here—they’ll eat half and save the other half for lunch, and your basic skint lecturers, who’ll eat a few bites now, skip lunch, and save most of it till teatime. Then you got people who’re getting a plate for somebody in university hospital. You know what hospital food’s like. Anyway, the students’ll get their parents to take them to the restaurant, and the lecturers’ll go there when they get a pay rise. So will the hospital patients when they get released. It all works out.”

I almost asked him how he could be so sure. “But there’s got to be at least a few people cadging a free meal.”

Officer Selkirk chuckled. “Can’t always tell who’s really hungry and who’s blagging just because they can. Never mind, I think I see your mum. Third person behind that tall guy with the red hat?”

He was right. There she was, wearing the same clothes as when I had last seen her and still as neat and clean as ever. She stood in profile to us, leaning on her cane and studying the large redbrick building in front of her as if she intended to memorize it. A plastic bag hung from her wrist, perhaps the same one; it looked as if there was a lot more in it now.

“I don’t want to sneak up on her and startle her,” I told Officer Selkirk, “but I don’t want her running off on me, either.”

“Wait a bit. The closer she is to the food, the less likely she’ll be to scarper.”

“‘Scarper?’” I had a hard time imagining my mother doing that; it sounded like a cross between skipping and capering, possibly with some gibbering. While I, on the other hand, was all too close to it.

“Just wait. I’ll let you know when to make a move.”

We waited longer than what I would have called a bit; there were obviously a number of regulars in the line, and the two people serving food from the cart took time to chat with them as they dished up rice and vegetables with a side of what I supposed was a tofu scrambled-egg substitute. Watching, I actually began to feel hungry.

As if sensing my thoughts, Officer Selkirk said, “Looks good, doesn’t it? You want me to get you a plate?”

“Y—no, of course not,” I said. “I’m here to take my mother home, not to eat.”

“Maybe your mum would be more receptive if you had breakfast with her.”

“My mother is behaving irrationally,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as impatient as I felt. “I’m not going to enable her.”

He shrugged and said nothing more until my mother was about a dozen people from the food cart. Then he gave me a small push. “OK, you’re on.”

“Aren’t you coming with me?” I asked.

“No, I’m going to have a friendly chat with the caterers.”

I started to protest, but he was already walking away. Bracing myself, I made my approach, sticking close to the line on her right side, where her vision has always been weaker.

Just as I reached her, she turned her back, gave a big, noisy sigh, and said, “I was wondering when you’d finally come at me.”

For a moment, I wasn’t actually sure if she were talking to me or someone else in line with her.

“Well?” she added, too quickly to let me answer even if I had known what to say. “You didn’t really think you could sneak up on me, did you? I’m your mother. I’ve got eyes in the back of my head and all around the sides. I knew the moment that you and Officer Friendly hit Gower Street.” Finally, she turned to look at me. “Where is Officer Friendly? Don’t tell me your backup’s already bailed on you?”

“Officer Selkirk is talking to the food servers.”

She craned her neck to see what was going on at the front of the line. “Well, so he is.”

“So much for the eyes ringing your head.”

“Don’t get smart with me, you.”

“Or what?” I said. “You’ll spank me? Take me into the middle of a big city where I don’t know anybody and leave me for the gypsies?”

“Keep your voice down.” She rapped me on the shin with her cane. “Remember where you are. There are real gypsies in this town, and they don’t need people like you dissing them.”

“‘Dissing?’”

“That means—”

“I know what it means!”

“Really.” She raised her eyebrows. “I’m surprised.”

Someone behind us smothered a laugh. I forced myself not to turn around and glare, telling myself I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction but mostly because I was afraid it might be a gypsy. I stepped to one side and waved at Officer Selkirk. It took a few moments to get his attention, which was focused on the very pretty woman serving portions of tofu. She was telling him something long and involved, occasionally emphasizing a point by dropping tofu onto someone’s plate with a little extra gusto. He almost managed not to look irritated as he excused himself and came over to me.

“Everything all right now?” he asked, his tone overcheerful.

“No,” I said. “I can’t get her to talk to me.”

He looked from me to my mother. “Please talk to your daughter, ma’am,” he said politely. “She’s been worried sick, and we’ve had an army of police officers searching for you.”

“Tell them to stop looking,” my mother said just as politely and with a hint of affection. “I’m not lost. And I’ve already talked to her—she just won’t listen.” Her eyes swiveled toward me under half-closed lids. “As usual.”

“I see.” Officer Selkirk turned to me. “Please listen to your mother, ma’am. It’s the only way you’ll be able to work things out. Now, you’ll have to excuse me—”

“No, wait!” I said. Everyone in the line turned to look. As usual. Even the food people stopped serving, so they wouldn’t miss anything.

“Ma’am, I can’t do anything more for you,” Officer Selkirk said, his fair features puckering earnestly. “This is a family matter that has to be settled between the two of you.”

“We did that,” said my mother.

“We did not!” I said.

The policeman threw up his hands. I didn’t blame him. “I can’t do anything more for you. I hope you work things out.” He started to walk away.

“She won’t leave me alone!” my mother called after him. “It’s harassment! Stalking!”

He stopped, and I saw his shoulders rise and fall with a big sigh before he turned and came back.

“Mom, what are you talking about? I’m your daughter.”

Officer Selkirk paid no attention to me. “Are you making a formal complaint?”

“Yes, I am,” my mother replied feelingly. “She’s been stalking me, and now she’s trying to force me to go with her when I don’t want to.”

Officer Selkirk sighed again, looking very unhappy. “Please leave this lady alone,” he told me, “or I will have to take action against you.”

“This. Is. My. Mother,” I said, trying not to shout. “She’s been missing for ten da—no, for over two weeks now. I told you she’s been acting irrationally—”

“She’s not acting irrationally now,” he said in a maddeningly reasonable voice.

“No? What do you call this, then?” I grabbed the plastic bag and held it up, shaking it so the fragments clinked. “She’s been picking trash out of the mud by the Thames! That isn’t rational behavior, not for her!”

“Let go!” My mother slapped my hand, hard. “She’s just saying that because I won’t go with her. I don’t have