If You're Out There

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  He was holding that ridiculous gun.

  Me: Dude. This is a mistake.

  Him: I wish we could trust each other, but I don’t see how. You’re too angry with me.

  Me: Of course I am, but—

  Him: It won’t be that bad. I’ll pick up whatever you want. Books? Snacks? You name it.

  When I looked up, the man I knew had gone somewhere else.

  So I steadied myself. I took a breath.

  And then I asked for blueberries.

  (Priya Principle #305: Always have a plan.)

  Ten

  Friday, September 21

  At the front of the room, Señora O’Connell holds up a DVD. “Everyone! Today we’re watching Almodóvar’s Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios, aka Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, aka the story of my life.”

  Despite my mood, I catch her eye across the classroom and crack a smile. She found me the other day and apologized again for what she said about Logan. She referred to herself as a “work in progress.” Said she’s learning to trust the good instincts. To not always assume the worst.

  I’ve been somewhere else all day. Exhausted. Sleepless. I keep feeling like I should be doing something.

  I wish I knew what.

  I’m already lost with this movie. An old guy is narrating into a vintage microphone in black and white. A chicken flaps its wings.

  I’ve seen an Almodóvar film once, when we chose movies to review for Spanish sophomore year. I remember picking it because it had a bullfighter in it. In the end it confused the hell out of me and was also pretty gross. Priya watched it with me in my living room, frowning for long stretches. Afterward she declared that anyone claiming to understand-slash-enjoy a scene where a tiny man jumps inside a woman’s vagina was lying to sound smart. At the time, this seemed too specific to be a principle, but now I wonder if I should have put it down.

  God, she was funny. Is.

  Ugh.

  All I want is to talk to her. Because I’m worried. Because I miss her. Because new things are happening. Good things, even. I know I have to have a life, and it doesn’t mean I’m giving up. But there’s so much I want to tell her.

  Like how Logan stayed up late on Tuesday, drawing portraits of me in his room, an extension of our date at the museum—when he broke down everything from Degas’s dancers to massive modern canvases splashed in single nonsensical colors. When he talked, he had this light in his eyes that filled my entire heart. I want to tell her how my whole house is scattered with Whit’s things now, and Mom is always humming. How Arturo is making strides in winning over the Yun family, and Lacey is a surprisingly good lunch buddy. I want to tell her that Nick is so not over her, if she wants him back. Oh—and that I punched a guy! That Dad and I had another good, meaty dinner after we played soccer last night. That Harr still asks about her.

  I want to find her. If she wants to be found.

  But the thoughts always seem to devolve into the same old soupy mess. One fact in particular keeps changing shape inside my head—flipping backward and forward, mirrored and upside down. Ben is lying. Or Priya is. Both, maybe. Ben and/or Priya are lying.

  I could call Ben again. I keep coming close. I’ll hold the phone in my hand with his number on the screen and stare and stare. But something keeps telling me not to.

  Señora O’Connell walks through the aisles, returning a quiz I must have missed on Monday. She stops at Logan’s desk and I see his paper.

  94

  “Hey,” she whispers to him as she passes. “Good job.”

  A yawn engulfs my face as I attempt to focus in the dark room. Even when the days are good, it’s still so hard to sleep. I was Googling Ben’s name when the sun came up this morning. He has no real online presence anymore. Just an old, out-of-date LinkedIn account. Some articles came up about his role at GRETA. Money begets money, he said in an interview a few years ago. My late wife understood that. And she put that simple concept to good use.

  I searched Ben Grissom plus every bank. Plus finance and hedge fund. Plus mergers and acquisitions. I searched until I ran out of bank words. There was no trace of a job in California or anywhere else. Nothing since Chicago.

  When I finally gave in and closed my computer this morning, I got up and passed Mom’s open door. She was upright against a pillow in bed, cloaked in sunlight, reading while Whit slept. For a minute I watched her, kneading her bottom lip the way she does when something fascinates her. I almost wanted to try again, to make her see what I could. But I knew she’d only try to talk me down. I wouldn’t make any sense. And the whole thing would go round and round.

  Everywhere I go, Priya seems to pop up. A sound, a smell, a memory. Like she’s getting through. I feel her in the walls, in my pulse, peering back at me when I close my eyes. I can feel it—her. Like she’s reaching through the universe.

  “Alejandra?” I jolt at my desk, one cheek pressed to my knuckles. The backs of my hands are wet from tears. The lights are on, and everyone is getting up.

  Even Eddy looks worried. “Hey,” he says, disconcertingly genuine. “Are you okay, Zan?”

  “Yeah.” I wipe my eyes and sniff, straightening up at my desk. “I’m fine. Thanks, Eddy.” He looks unconvinced as he walks off, while Logan and Señora O’Connell stay standing over me.

  “Sorry,” I say, looking up at them. I try to smile, but my eyes spill over again.

  Logan offers a hand and I get up.

  “Can I help?” asks la Señora, but I shake my head. I take a big breath and let Logan lead me out the door. “Hey,” she says. I turn around. “Whatever it is. You’ll figure it out.”

  When the last bell rings, I head for my tree.

  I drop my stuff and sit, the muggy air sticking to me. The school day is finally over. I should be relieved. And yet, I have nowhere to go.

  You’ll figure it out, la Señora said. And people say that, sure. Because what else is there to say? But sometimes—no. You don’t figure it out! You only get more nothing.

  I press back into the bark. No. No wallowing. No quitting! Priya wouldn’t flail like this. Priya would have a mother-flipping plan! Even if it was a flimsy one, she’d commit. She would ATTACK!

  I just need something, anything, to latch on to. Maybe I can retrace my steps. . . .

  I get up. Brush myself off. And soon I’m walking, running, sprinting down the path. “Hey . . . Hey!” It’s Logan’s voice calling at my back. I stop, panting, and he runs to catch up. “I was looking for you. Where are you rushing off to?”

  “Priya’s house,” I tell him through a gasp. “I want to see it. Reggie said the phone was gone. The office was wrecked. Whoever broke in was looking for something. Or, I don’t know. Hiding something? I need to see it for myself.”

  A cloud covers the sun, turning the sky an ominous purple in what feels like seconds. “Okay.” Logan squints up. “So, should we go now or . . . ?”

  I smile. “Uh-uh. You need to stay here.”

  He takes a step closer, a wiry eyebrow raised. “And why would I do that?”

  “Hmm . . .” I stare back at him, reaching up to brush the hair out of his face. “Because you have a parole officer?”

  He shrugs. “I’m not letting you do this without someone watching your back.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say. “Really. You’re very cute, and gallant and all that, but I can’t let you—”

  He kisses me. “I’m coming with you.” So that’s that.

  It thunders before the rain.

  The air is warm and full of static, the raindrops fat and far between. Even in the storm, Priya’s tree-lined street remains a perfect, cozy picture. But there’s a feeling here—like something in this place has gone horribly wrong. It’s as stark as the water drenching me. We sneak around back and find the garage door open. The door to the house is open, too—which, I remember, is not how I left it. I suppose Reggie warned me of this, but it’s still creepy: I wasn’t the last person here.

  We ti
ptoe in, and Logan jumps as a burst of lightning cracks, brightening the living room. I touch his arm. “You don’t have to stay.” But he ignores me and plows ahead, dripping all over the place.

  I head for the office and see the phone has been cleaned up. At my feet, the desk is on its side. All the files from the cabinet are gone. I slide the closet door open along a track. No stacks of paperwork. Empty.

  “Jesus,” says Logan, peeking in through the doorway at the mess.

  “Yeah,” I say. He squeezes my shoulder—tight. I look up and Logan shakes his head, ever so slightly.

  Somewhere in the house, a door opens, then closes.

  And there are footsteps.

  Neither of us moves at first, until the steps grow closer, and I point to the closet behind us. We tiptoe inside and I slide the door shut. In the dark, we stand pressed together, lungs filling up with the same air. In the quiet, our breathing is hot and audible. I can see out through the little downturned slats. The room is still, but my heart sinks at the thought of our wet footprints all around the house.

  Someone walks in and I feel Logan tense up beside me.

  The desk screeches against the floor. Then the file cabinet. A drawer slams open and shut. Another drawer. A crash.

  “Christ!” says a familiar voice.

  For a moment I see his face, and my body goes stiff. I wonder if he can see my eyes staring back at his in the dark.

  The doorbell rings then, and Logan and I both relax a little as the footsteps trail off. After a moment, I hear a voice. “Shit!” The sound of running. Back door closing. The doorbell again. Once more. Again. And then it stops.

  We’re silent for another minute. Until we’re sure.

  Tentatively, I open the closet door and look around the room. The shock slowly wanes. Logan nudges me. “You okay?”

  “That was Ben,” I say.

  “Whoa,” says Logan. “So . . . Whoa.”

  I gape down at the overturned desk. “What was he looking for? And why’d he flip out and leave like that?” I walk out of the office to the living room and peer out the window.

  Logan lingers behind. “Maybe he—”

  “Wait,” I say. Across the street, a man is getting in his car. I can’t be sure but I think it’s him. It’s the man from Priya’s house—from the zoo, and the show.

  Just then, Ben’s white Prius goes racing by and the man pulls out from his spot, driving off in the same direction.

  “Yoo-hoo,” says Logan, waving a hand over my eyes.

  “Holy shit,” I say, pointing toward the cars as they drive out of sight. “That was . . .” I turn around to face him. “The man who followed me—I think he’s who rang the doorbell.”

  Logan looks worried. “Wait, the guy was here?” I nod. “So . . . what? The man is tracking Ben now?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.”

  “Why?” I shake my head. Shrug. “That’s a long drive from California,” he says after a moment.

  “Yeah, well . . .” I sigh out. “The lady told us they never moved in. Maybe they didn’t make it far at all.”

  Logan frowns. “Is there any other place they’d be likely to stay? Somewhere driving distance from here? . . . An investment property? Or . . . a vacation home the family uses to get together?”

  “There is no family,” I say. “Just them. Well, except . . .”

  My mind jumps to the ZZ email. The sender was The Grissoms. As in more than one Grissom. As in a wife, maybe, and a late husband. My mouth falls open, my ears ringing, and all at once, a tidal wave of stupid fucking posts comes rushing to the forefront of my brain.

  Stars can’t shine without darkness. . . .

  Look through rain to see the rainbow. . . .

  Everything happens for a reason. . . .

  They’re Bed Bath & Beyond words. Pseudo-Buddhist language.

  The kind that comes in whimsical fonts.

  “Indiana,” I murmur.

  “What?” says Logan.

  “Oh my God.” I run a hand through my wet hair, pacing. “Oh my God. In the ZZ email. It was sent from the Grissoms! Plural. And, and . . .” Logan seems lost but I can’t explain it any better yet. A thought is bubbling to the surface. “Logan . . .” I stop and stare at him. “Think about it. In the message, it said ‘Welcome way in,’ right? What if it was an address? As in Welcome Way, Indiana?”

  Frowning, Logan pulls out his phone and types quickly. My heart pounds against my ribs. His eyes meet mine, a little stunned. “There’s a Welcome Way in Green Plains, Indiana.”

  He holds out the screen and an image of the neighborhood pops up with the map. The houses all look the same, but I’m certain I’ve been in one of them. “Holy shit,” I breathe. “I know where she is.”

  The ride takes an eternity, though Google says an hour. I don’t speak the whole way there, eyes glazed, cars weaving all around us. Logan doesn’t speak either, just drives. Our clothes are still damp. Once in a while, he covers my hand with his own in the space between us.

  The gliding treetops start to slow as we pull up to the open gates, the words Green Plains chiseled into vine-covered stone. In a sea of garages, there’s no way our car will go unnoticed, so we park along the low brick wall that separates the village from the road.

  Logan turns off the ignition, a quiet coming over us. “The grandma’s house,” he says. “You’re sure.”

  “Stepgrandma,” I say. “I only visited once, but the street looked exactly like what came up on Google.”

  “A lot of streets look like this.”

  “I’m telling you. It can’t be a coincidence. And all those Bed Bath and Beyond inspirational quotes? It’s a long-standing joke. She was telling me the whole time.”

  “Telling you what?”

  “Well . . .” I waver. “That I don’t know. To come here, at least. I think.”

  Birds chirp above us as we walk, shrill against the low rumble of a distant roadway. There aren’t even sidewalks here. Just curbs. I jump when my phone rings. But it’s only Mom, wondering when I’m coming home. I text that I’m hanging at Logan’s for a while and switch the ringer off.

  “So what do you think of the babe magnet?”

  I come up from my thoughts. “The what?”

  Logan smiles. “The car.”

  “If you’re referring to the taupe Volvo station wagon with the Eat More Kale bumper sticker on it, you may want to reassess your terminology.”

  “Hey,” he says. “You were sitting in it, weren’t you?”

  I think he’s trying to ease my stress, but it isn’t working. He pulls my hand from my mouth. I’m doing it again. My nails are practically gone.

  “You remember which one it is?” he asks as we come upon the street sign for Welcome Way. There are maybe thirty houses on the little bend before it ends, without explanation, and turns into burnt grass. There’s no storm here. No signs there ever was. It’s somehow fitting for this tidy place.

  “Not really,” I say. “They’re like . . . identical.” The houses are spaced far apart with yards of grass or gravel, with only slight variations here and there. Most of the garages are closed, and I can’t see how we’ll tell the difference without Ben’s Prius.

  A woman drives by with a neighborly wave, so I do the same. The sun has begun to set, the sky unfurling into brilliant sheets of gold and grapefruit pink.

  Logan gives me a look like, So . . .

  “Stay there,” I say, crunching across the gravel to sneak into a side yard. Through a first-floor window, I see a little girl sitting cross-legged while chatting with a teddy bear. Her eyes go wide when she sees me, but I shake my head—shhh—and duck out of view before she can say a word.

  “Okay, nope, not that one,” I say when I come back.

  “So one at a time,” says Logan. “That’s the plan?”

  “Do you have another suggestion?”

  He thinks a moment. “It’s getting dark. You take this side. I’ll do the other. We’ll be
faster that way.”

  I nod, the depths of my gratitude plunging deeper. Before he runs off, I grab his wrist, pulling him back to me, and I tilt my face up to catch his lips. “Thank you,” I say as we pull apart.

  “Don’t sweat it,” he says, walking backward with a grin.

  “Now go!” I hiss. “Look for pseudo-Buddhist wisdom!” He crosses the street and disappears behind a cluster of trees.

  From a side yard, I stand on tiptoes to peek into a big kitchen. I hear a garage door creak open, and soon a man is walking in and setting down a briefcase. I move before I’m seen. A bunch of homes have lights out. No movement I can see. Another has a Rottweiler that growls and sends me jumping back from an open window.

  In the street, I look around for watchful neighbors. No one.

  At another house, I peer in through the glass pane in the front door. A bunch of boys are playing video games over rowdy conversation, passing bags of chips and cookies back and forth. I catch sight of Logan across the street, crouching down beneath a first-floor window. I watch his lanky body pop up. After a moment he looks back at me with a thumbs-down and juts up his chin to me as if to say, Anything?

  I shake my head no, and he hurries away.

  The next house has the very same glass-paned door as the one before it. I see an empty, firelit living room. And I hear singing. I squint into the glass and make out a smattering of needlepoint pillows, covered in decorative words.

  Dream

  BELIEVE

  Whimsical fonts, you might say. I strain to read more.

  When life gives you lemons . . .

  Dance like no one is . . .

  YOU ARE A STRANGER HERE BUT ONCE.

  An eerie feeling comes over me, like a drop of water sliding backward up my spine. I look behind me. Logan has disappeared—must have slipped into another yard. I move slowly, along the side of the house, toward the sound. There’s a window overlooking the backyard. It has no curtain, but it’s high up on a slope. From tiptoes, I pull myself up and find myself peering in at an empty pantry filled with paper towels, boxed pasta, and canned food, gently lit by a far-off hallway light.