The Great Divide

4. The Phone Call

After speaking with both Dearing and Jacobs, James and I were instantly given the approval to start filming the story on the stadium. It wasn't a surprise considering everyone fell all over themselves when it came to football. On the surface, it was to be about the stadium's history, however, James and I had already laid out our real plan. 

Cue evil laugh.

Through a series of interviews, which was to include both staff and football players, we were going to ask questions about the construction of the stadium, how many rooms, what the rooms entailed, et cetera. And, after getting some background information, were going to request a tour of all the rooms to film and – secretly – inspect.

The plan seemed failproof. What's more, while James and I brainstormed, we only fell into four arguments; a rather impressive achievement in our long history. Luck, it seemed, may be on our side. If James and I could figure out a way to work together, maybe we'd have a chance at uncovering the strange secret of the stadium room after all.

If only I had known how wrong I was on all accounts.

xxx

That weekend, my family was huddled around the television set watching an old western. My mother would tisk loudly whenever something improbable happened, while my father would lean forward in his chair, his gaze further cementing. My sisters were both chatting amongst themselves on the floor while I sat idly on the couch, admiring the way we all had our place inside the cramped living space. It was a perfect fit.

Suddenly, the phone rang. Each one of us jumped, and I assumed for the same reason. There was only one person who called on Sunday afternoons, and I was not looking forward to speaking with her. My aunt, my mother's sister, lived in a different state. Much of my mother's past was a mystery to me, however, I did know she and my aunt grew up in foster care and had been separated when the two of them were older.

A pang struck my chest, and I was overcome with guilt. As much as I loathed talking to my aunt, I knew she and my mother had suffered in their youth, and I could muster the strength for ten minutes to listen to how unruly my hair was, and how I needed to soften my voice and act more ladylike.

I sighed deeply. Okay – I could only muster the courage for five minutes.

The phone, though, never made it to my ear. Over the loud gunshots and trotting horses, I could only vaguely make out the conversation my mother was having. She was speaking Mandarin, a dead giveaway my aunt was on the other line. My mother's voice sounded strained, almost worried. My neck craned as though the few centimeters it allowed would be enough to understand their conversation.

A few minutes later, my mother padded back into the living room, her face drawn, and flipped the television off – a small circle of light branded my corneas. My father roared in protest, but immediately pacified when he noticed the expression resting on her face.

"What's happened? Is it Ming? Is she okay?" My father's forehead was contracted with many lines.

"Ming is fine," my mother answered. "Another one's gone missing. Shun – from the group home – called her."

Apparently, my father knew what this meant. He instantly stood up and raced to my mother, wrapping a hand around her sagging shoulder. My sisters and I exchanged confused looks. After a sharp sniff, my mother retreated again to the kitchen.

"Girls, go to your room." My father then landed his usually twinkling eyes on me. They were void of all light. "Margaret, come with me."