“Looking for Eva” by Margaret Limone

Looking for Eva

“Have you seen Eva?” Eva’s Mother asked.
“I’m right here,” Eva replied.
“Don’t be silly,” Eva’s Mother laughed. “You’re an old woman. Eva’s my daughter.”
Eva sighed and changed the channel again, slumped in the La-Z-Boy recliner with a hand laid over her stomach. “I’m your daughter,” she said, and her eyes never left the television.
Eva’s Mother laughed again. What nonsense. She turned from the living room doorway and shuffled down the hall. Now, to find Eva. The little girl would be late for school if she didn’t get her ready soon.
She swung the closet door open with playful triumph, but saw only the broom and vacuum cleaner. Once, she and Eva had played a game of hide and seek that lasted over an hour, all because she hadn’t thought to check the hallway closet. Eva had been curled behind the mop bucket the whole time, listening as her mother’s calls went from teasing to panic-stricken. She only emerged when she heard her mother begin to cry, considering whether it was time to call the police. If only she had learned her lesson that day.
“Evaaaaa,” Eva’s Mother sang. “Come out, come out wherever you are!”
There was no response. Really, she thought, suddenly cross, she’d have to have a chat with her daughter about when these kinds of games were appropriate. It wasn’t safe to just go disappearing without letting anyone know to look. She hoped Eva would appear in time. She was the only single mother in the grade, in the school for all she knew, and those other women were constantly on the lookout for ways to prove she was a failure. Show up ten minutes late today, and tomorrow the condescending smiles would appear. Oh, you made it today! Good for you! It must be so hard . . .
No, Eva’s Mother thought, they would be on time, so help her God.
“Eva!” she called again, harsher this time.
This time there was a reply, only it came from that strange old woman in the living room. Who was she again? She seemed familiar, Eva’s Mother knew, and there was a reason for her being there. She just couldn’t think of what it was. Oh, it would come to her eventually. Right now, she had to focus on finding Eva.
She made her way into the kitchen.
“Are you in here, Button?”
The nickname, she was pretty sure, had originated from the button quail her grandfather raised when she was a child. Her own mother had been husbandless, like herself, and rather than watch her turn into a latchkey child like the others in their urban neighborhood, had sent her to live with her grandfather each summer in the Catskills. He’d raised chickens and geese and ducks and button quail on the steep face of a mountain. Nothing much grew there in that craggy place. The land was boney. Like you, he’d tell her, poking at her side.
He also told her: These are yours for the summer. I’ll do the rest. But the button quail are for you. They’ll live or die, all depending on you. I know that if you work hard, you can do it.
It felt like a large responsibility for a child. But they lived, every summer. And so did her daughter, an even larger responsibility at only 17. I’m not helping you, understand? her mother had said when she told her.
That was the deal: no help. Just like the button quail. And she’d done it, hadn’t she? Eva was in kindergarten, and she was happy as a girl could be. She was out of the city, out of Hartford, and could play freely in their suburban neighborhood. So, Eva’s Mother hadn’t gotten a carefree youth? Her daughter, her baby, was alive and happy and healthy and safe. She would have fun when she was old. For now, she just had to get her Eva ready for school.
“Where are you?” she asked the kitchen. Half-heartedly, she peeked inside the lower cabinets. No sign of the little girl.
Then she noticed the refrigerator.
Something about it was wrong, but she couldn’t quite decide what. It just seemed different. For a second, she considered that maybe someone had snuck into the house and replaced it in the night. But that was ridiculous, she realized, shaking her head. So, what was it?
The drawings. Where were Eva’s drawings? She put all of them on the fridge, always. And they were gone. She felt sick to her stomach. Once, at an ill-fated job interview, she’d been asked what she would take if she could only save one object from a house fire. Eva’s drawings, she’d answered, without hesitation. Her own artistic aspirations, the career in painting she’d once hoped for, had been cut short at 17. It was a fact that, late at night, made her eyes sting to think of. But looking at her Eva’s drawings, it seemed a worthy sacrifice. So where were they?
The answer came to her with a horrible jolt. That old woman. She must have taken them. But why? It seemed a crime too horrible to consider, but it would not go unconfronted. She shuffled back towards the living room.
“Where are they?” she demanded in the doorway, shaking in her rage.
Eva didn’t look up. “What are you talking about?”
“My daughter’s drawings! What did you do with them?”
“I’m your daughter,” Eva said, her voice flat.
“Stop that!” Eva’s Mother shrieked. “No, you’re not! Where are the drawings on the fridge?”
“There haven’t been any drawings on the fridge since Bella was a kid.”
“I don’t know any Bella! I want to know about my Eva’s pictures!”
“Bella is your granddaughter,” Eva said, finally turning. “My daughter. You used to hang all of her drawings. You’d even take them off of my fridge if you liked them enough.”
“Stop,” Eva’s Mother said, putting her hands over her ears. “Stop lying to me. Give me back the drawings.”
Eva stared at her. Finally, she asked, “Do you recognize me?”
Eva’s Mother stared back. She stared a long time. She stared at the button nose, the rounded cheeks, the low forehead, the deeply set eyes. The freckle below her mouth. Oh.
“Oh,” Eva’s Mother said. “Oh, Eva.”
“Hi, Mom,” Eva said without emotion.
“Did you say Bella’s here? My Bella Bella?”
“No,” Eva said. “She was here last week. You yelled at her. You made her cry. Do you remember?”
“Oh,” Eva’s Mother said. “I’m sorry. Can she come back?”
“No,” Eva said. “I don’t know if she wants to.”
“Oh,” Eva’s Mother said.
She stood quietly. She wasn’t sure what to say. She was suddenly seized by a terrible sadness, and a dreadful fear. Why, she wasn’t sure. After all, her only responsibility today was getting Eva ready for school.

Margaret limone

Margaret Limone (she/her) is a writer from Connecticut, now living in Dublin. When not writing, she enjoys reading, spending time outside, and doting on her darling cat, Minnow.

Headshot: Adelaide Barkhorn

Photo Credit: Staff