I lost my Mom when I was fifteen. No, she didn't die... she just... got lost. Perhaps I should start from the beginning?

Mom and Dad divorced ten years ago, when I was eleven. Dad moved towns to be closer to his parents--Mamaw and Gramps--who were having troubles of their own. When the divorce happened, Gramps refused to come downstairs in his and Mamaw's house. Mamaw, a stern (yet highly prone to imagination) woman who normally ruled the house with an iron first, made very few concessions for Gramps, and refused to climb the stairs to bring Gramps meals, save one a day. Dad eventually had to move back in with them to make sure Gramps ate regularly.

It was one particularly stormy night when it happened.
Mom had driven me and Heather over to Mamaw and Gramps's house for Dad's week with us. We hurried through the rain from the car to the door and into the relative safety of the house. Dad greeted me and Heather with a hug and gave Mom a cursory touch on the shoulder.
"Mamaw's in the living room, why don't you go say hi?" he said.
We headed in, and Mom, too, brushed passed Dad, saying, "I'll just check in on Gramps before I leave."

We found Mamaw perched in a recliner in the living room.
“There you are, where on Earth have you been dawdling?" she intoned as soon she saw us. "Come give me some sugar.” Her appearance was regal, with a crown of white hair and her mouth tight in a commanding expression. Wrinkles and sun marks covered her face, but she made no effort to cover them with makeup. In fact, that only makeup she used was a swipe of deep blue eye shadow across her lids, perhaps to draw attention to the fact the she was always watching. Even when she couldn’t see you, she knew what you were up to. Heather walked over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Mamaw hugged her warmly, but instantly withdrew with a frown.

"Your hair is damp."
"Yes, Mamaw," Heather replied.
Dad struggled through the door with the luggage he'd retrieved from Mom's car.
"Robert!" Mamaw said, sharply. "Porch. We need to have cigarettes. Girls, go see your Gramps."

Heather and I gave each other a quick look. “Having cigarettes” never meant having cigarettes; it meant Mamaw would smoke and talk while Dad listened. It was the same everytime Mom dropped us off. We quickly ran upstairs, but instead of heading to Gramps’s room at the end of the hall, we turned immediately into the bathroom at the top of the stairs. Wrenching open the stiff window we could see the back porch just below us to the left. The rain had softened to a faint drizzle by now, and we could hear the muffled voices outside.

“When are you going to get that girl back Robert?” we heard Mamaw asking. Then came the click of a cigarette lighter. “She’s a special one; I don’t understand why you’re letting her get away.”

“It’s not that I let her get away, she’s choosing to get away. She won’t make any sacrifices! Mom, this happened years ago, and it happened for a reason. Besides, you know the doctors won’t let me leave you here by yourselves, and Dad won’t leave the upstairs, let alone the house. What am I supposed to do?”

Mamaw let out a long breath of smoke. “You’re supposed to do a damn sight more than just stand there. You let her come in and out of this house as though she means nothing more to you than a flipping babysitter. Is that what she is to you? A babysitter?”

“Look, I—”

Heather stood up and tugged on my shoulder.
"Come on Chelsea, we shouldn't be listening. Let's go find Mom and Gramps."
I nodded numbly and followed her into the hallway. We made our way to Gramps’s room and knocked on the doorframe before walking in.
“Gramps?”
No one answered. In fact, no one was in the room.
“I wonder where they went,” I said. “I didn’t hear them walk past the bathroom. Mom?”
“I heard the dryer start while we were in there. Let’s check the laundry room,” said Heather.
We crossed the hall and turned on the light to the laundry room. Sure enough, the dryer was running. But no one was in there either.
“Mom?” I called again. “Where could she be?”
“Can you hear that?” asked Heather.
I listened to the rumbling of the dryer. Shwishweer. Shwishweer. Shwishweer.
“The dryer? Duh, Heather. Stop fooling around.”
“No!” she cried, “it’s different. Listen to it.” She moved into the room and knelt down in front of the dryer door. I rolled my eyes and crouched beside her.

Shwishweer. Shwishweer. Sheeshwineer. Sheeshwineer.

“Heather, you’re imagining things. I feel ridiculous.” I started to stand up, but Heather caught my shirt sleeve.
“Listen Chelsea, please!”
Her eyes were wide and slightly watery. I couldn’t imagine how she got so worked up over a stupid dryer, but Heather was always imaginative, and Mamaw encouraged it every time we visited. I knelt once again to appease her. I listened harder.
Shwishweer. Sheehswineer Sheeshwineer