The Point of Vanishing
A novel based on the true story of
child-prodigy writer Barbara Follett.
Maryka Biaggio
Milford House Press
Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania
To my chosen family—Deb and my many wonderful friends and fellow writers.
CHAPTER ONE
HELEN
New York City, December 1939
That dreary Tuesday morning, an hour before her alarm, Helen woke in a sweat. Something was wrong. She needed to hear her daughter’s voice. Barbara should’ve responded to her letter by now.
She’d telephone her; that’s what she’d do. But it was too early to call. She threw on her robe and bustled about her apartment, tidying up and fixing coffee and toast. She sat at the kitchen table and spread out The New York Times. The banner headline glared RUSSIA INVADES FINLAND. Dear God, she thought, it’s one bloody incursion after another. She tried to read the story, but its details evaporated, unabsorbed.
After nibbling a few bites of toast and gulping down her coffee, she took a sponge bath and dressed in her midnight-blue skirt and white cashmere sweater. Glancing over her shoulder in the mirror, she noticed the elbows on the sweater had thinned. Oh, well, she thought, it’s still pure white and does lend a touch of class.
She slipped on her wristwatch but couldn’t decipher the small numbers and hands. Where were her reading glasses? Ah, yes, in the kitchen. She retrieved them and checked the time. Not yet. Not before seven. She strode to the living-room window and gazed down on the sooty snowbanks lining West 116th. Bundled-up pedestrians hastened along. One couple stood out, striding arm in arm. She studied them—they seemed so smug in their togetherness—until they disappeared around the corner.
Could it be true, as Barbara feared, that her husband was seeing another woman? She could hardly bear to think of Barbara losing Nick. It’d devastate her. She’d even tried to reassure her daughter: Nick probably just invented this other woman, hoping you’d be so infuriated you’d up and leave. Men sometimes do that sort of thing—to save themselves from being the one to end the marriage.
A blast of cold penetrated the window’s shrunken caulk, sending a shiver through her. She backed away and looked at her watch. Oh, 6:40 is close enough. She marched to the telephone on the side table and placed a long-distance call to Boston.
Nick answered.
“Is Barbara there?”
After a beat of silence, Nick said, “No?” as if he were asking instead of answering a question.
“She was supposed to write or call about gift ideas, but I’ve not heard from her.”
“I thought . . . she was . . . with you.” He sounded like a sputtering engine.
“What do you mean, with me?”
“I haven’t seen her for almost two weeks.”
Helen gasped and pressed a hand to her chest. “You don’t know where she is?”
“No, I don’t.”
She wanted to yell at him: What have you done with my daughter? But she needed to get an explanation out of him. She forced calm into her voice. “What exactly is going on?”
“We had a fight. She stormed out. I assumed she was going to your place.”
“I can’t believe this.” A burning lump hardened in her throat. “What did you fight about?”
“You know things haven’t been right between us.”
She could picture Nick standing in their sparsely furnished apartment, his sturdy frame hunched over as if to fend off her challenges. “Have you heard anything from her since she left?”
“No, not a word.”
He sounded so cold. Either he had no idea how fragile Barbara was or he didn’t care. Helen couldn’t help but recall how Barbara had nearly succumbed to dejection and despair when only fifteen. She’d never told Nick about the incident and doubted Barbara had either.
She asked him, “Aren’t you worried about her?”
“Of course I am. But she’s the one who left.”
Oh no. This was worse than she’d imagined. In a half-hour, she’d need to catch the subway to work, when all she wanted to do was track down Barbara, find out what had happened between her and Nick, and bring her home to New York. God knows she’d made mistakes with Barbara. Now her daughter needed her, and all she wanted was to make it up to her.
But a snowstorm was moving in, and it’d be challenging to get out of the city. Besides, her office didn’t give editorial secretaries time off without notice. She’d have to rely on the telephone—and Nick. “Did she say anything about where she was going?”
“No, I assumed she was going to see you. Has she written or anything?”
“I already told you I’ve not heard from her.”
“That is odd.”
Odd? His wife storms out on him to Lord knows where and he calls it odd? “Did it ever occur to you to contact me?”
“She could have gotten in touch with you. Or me.”
“Was divorce discussed?”
“I . . . well, yes.”
Dear God. Barbara must be reeling—her marriage crumbling after only six years. “Nick, I’m very worried. You don’t know where Barbara is. And now I find out . . .”
He blurted, “I can’t help that she left.”
She cradled a palm over her forehead. Her mind whirred with questions. “You need to tell me exactly what happened.”
“Yes, of course. I’m concerned, too.”
Think, she commanded herself. What to do next? “You must remember everything she said and write it down. And call the police. With a description.”
“Yes, I’ll do that.”
She heard a muffled sound on his end as if he’d covered the receiver. “Nick, are you there?”
“I was just getting some paper. Thinking what description to write.”
Unbelievable. How could an intelligent man be so obtuse? “Her age, weight, which I’d say is 125. Height five-seven, long-bob hairstyle. What else?”
“Yes, age twenty-five . . . dark brown hair . . . brown eyes . . . black eyebrows.”
“Fair complexion, sometimes wears horn-rimmed glasses. Whatever else the police suggest. And do it now!”
“Certainly,” he said.
She shuddered at the flatness in his voice. “Because something is
