by David Bell
I beelined to the nearest ticket counter and asked about flights to Tampa. As the fates would have it, one was leaving, direct, in two hours. And it still had room for me. I said I desperately needed to get on that flight, so the ticket agent, a middle-aged woman with a pencil stuck in her hair, started tapping away to make it happen.
The effects of the alcohol were abating. I’d swallowed a Coke and some salty potato chips during the flight, and I was starting to feel more like myself. Feet on the ground. Plans to be made.
And mercifully out of the sky for a short time.
I leaned against the counter, trying not to look at the passengers from the Atlanta flight as they deplaned. I knew Morgan would be among them, near the very back of the crowd. She’d have to walk right past me.
Don’t look. Don’t look for the hat and glasses. Just let her go.
The ticket agent worked everything out and booked my seat. She printed a boarding pass, my third of the day.
“Thanks,” I said.
I lingered for a moment. I tried to think of something else to say to the agent, some silly question that would keep me occupied as Morgan walked by.
But I suddenly changed my mind. I decided I did want to see her, so I spun around and scanned the people exiting the jet bridge. Would it be so wrong to take one last look?
At first, I saw no one familiar. Maybe she’d already gone past me or maybe she’d walked another way. But then I saw the familiar bucket hat, the bobbing brown ponytail, the large sunglasses. She walked with purpose, her head never turning.
I watched her go, holding back the impulse to approach or say anything else. I didn’t need to have a long conversation with her. I just wanted to ask: Why? What the hell’s going on?
Is there something wrong?
But I squashed the desire. And she passed me and left my life forever.
With two hours to kill, I headed for the nearest bar.
13
I skipped the alcohol and opted for water and a sandwich, something to prepare me for what was sure to be an onslaught of texts and voice mails from Dad. I knew I couldn’t avoid them forever—although I figured a scolding from the old man wouldn’t be nearly as humiliating as the events on the plane.
So I held the phone up to my ear and listened.
But people can surprise you. Morgan did. More than once.
And so did my dad.
His familiar, permanently raspy voice came through.
“Hey, kid, what’s going on? Did something happen? Are you in trouble? Now I’m worried about you. Give me a call when you get this, okay? Love you.”
My eyes burned with tears. I needed a moment to collect myself. Somehow he knew exactly what I needed and when I needed it. A pick-me-up, a show of support. Yes, people can surprise you in all kinds of ways.
I called him and he answered right away.
“Are you okay, Joshua?”
“I’m okay. Don’t worry.”
“What’s the story?” he asked.
“It’s a long one, Dad. Maybe I should tell you later.”
“But are you really okay? That’s all I want to know. You’ve never been late, you’ve never missed a meeting.”
“I know. I got sidetracked.”
“Are you stuck in Atlanta?”
“A little north of there.”
“What’s north of Atlanta? Anything?”
“Nashville.”
“Nashville? Oh, God. What are you doing there?”
“I’ve booked a flight to Tampa for later this afternoon. I can catch you for dinner, okay? We won’t miss a beat.”
“That’s fine.” He’d adopted the soothing voice he used in crises, the one he’d brought out when I pierced my skin with a fish hook at age nine, the one he’d used when I accidentally scraped the entire side of the car against the garage when I was seventeen. Being a single parent, he’d learned to play every angle, to be both good cop and bad cop, disciplinarian and softie. “I don’t care about the deal. The deal will happen. I want to know what’s going on with you.”
“I told you, I’m good.”
“Look,” he said, “we don’t have to talk about this now, but I can tell things aren’t right. I can tell you aren’t happy with the job.”
“Dad, it’s okay—”
“Why don’t we make sure we talk when you get to Tampa? We can find the time. Hell, we never get to talk for real. We used to sometimes, back when you were in high school. Remember?”
“I do. I know.”
“And I’ve always tried to give you your space, to not smother you. Even when you were a moody teenager. You were responsible, and you liked to be left alone to do your own thing. Like me.”
I thought of all the work we had to do, all the deals in progress. I thought of Dad staying up late into the night after I’d gone to bed as a kid, doing paperwork and studying reports. He never stopped charging forward. He gave me everything. If it meant I had to put up with the occasional gruff text or short-tempered call, I could handle it. It seemed like a small price to pay to have financial security and someone I could always count on.
“Dad, I just . . . I’ve been a little lost lately, a little distracted. But I’m back on board. I am. I’ll see you in Tampa.”
“Is it Renee?” he asked, gently probing. “Lord knows I don’t know anything about women or relationships, so I can’t help you there. But she always seemed like a nice girl. She’s levelheaded, has a good job. She’s crazy about you. I never could understand why the two of you couldn’t get on the same page.”
“It’s not Renee, Dad,” I said. “In fact, Renee looks better and better every moment.”
“Oh.” He sounded surprised. “Well, all right. So I guess that means I gave you good advice for a change.”
“You usually do. I’ve got to go, Dad,” I said, even though I had nowhere to be for two hours. I just didn’t want to keep dodging his questions.
“Travel safe, kid. Love you.”
I hadn’t paid any attention to the TV screen above the bar until that moment, but my eye caught a flash of something there. A face.
A woman’s face, a still photograph.
And it looked like Morgan.
But then it was gone. And I told myself that my mind had been warped by her touch, by the kiss, by the alcohol and the Xanax. I thought I was seeing her everywhere.
“Did you hear me?” Dad asked.
“What?”
“I said, ‘I love you.’”
“Yes, of course. I love you too.”
“Talk soon.”
I felt better once I was off the phone.
My food came, and it tasted delicious, more satisfying than the junk I’d eaten on the plane. I brought out my computer and started looking over the files relevant to the trip to Tampa, just to make sure I really knew everything I needed to.
I also texted Renee, leaving out where I was and why. She certainly didn’t need to know that. But I told her I was doing fine and we could talk that night when I got to my hotel.
She wrote back right away, telling me she looked forward to hearing my voice. Were we actually getting back together? It kind of sounded like we might be heading that way.
I finished my food and went back to the files. But I couldn’t really concentrate and curiosity grabbed ahold of me. I took out my phone, opened my Facebook app, and typed in a name: “Morgan Reynolds.”
I scrolled through the results until I saw her face. Without sunglasses. It was unmistakably her. I hesitated before opening her page. What did I think I would see there? Pictures of a boyfriend or a fiancé? Or . . . even a husband?
Something that would explain her behavior?
Did I need to know any of it?
But, despite my best intentions, I couldn’t set the phone aside. It was the same impul
se that drove me to change my flight and board a plane to Nashville. I couldn’t stop myself from looking. So I clicked through.
When the page came up, her profile picture filled my screen. Yes, she looked beautiful. And natural. And happy. And more relaxed. She stood on a trail in a wooded area, wearing hiking clothes, her smile bright and full.
Then I checked out the cover photo behind her profile picture. Morgan in a group of people at what looked like an office holiday party, with reindeer antlers on her head and an ugly Christmas sweater.
And, I realized with surprise, it looked like her name really was Morgan Reynolds. Why she said it wasn’t on the plane, I had no idea.
I thought I’d seen enough. She was a regular person with a regular life. Like millions of other people, she worked a job and hiked for fun. We’d brushed up against each other like two swirling atoms, and then we’d parted. And that was that. I had no idea why she’d blown me off, but maybe it was just that simple. Maybe she’d wanted just a brief encounter, a moment we’d never forget.
Still, I couldn’t close the page, couldn’t look away. I took a quick scroll through her timeline, and what I saw there almost sent me tumbling back off the barstool.
HAVE YOU SEEN MORGAN? Missing Person. Believed Endangered.
MORGAN REYNOLDS Age 25
14
My mind locked. I didn’t understand what I was reading.
I stared at the words on the screen, not entirely processing them.
HAVE YOU SEEN MORGAN?
The question might as well have been in a foreign language. It looked like one of those word jumbles in the newspaper, the kind I never had the patience to figure out.
HAVE YOU SEEN MORGAN?
When I shook myself loose, the gears in my mind finally unlocking and moving forward again, I scrolled through the rest of her timeline. I saw the same announcement posted five times.
HAVE YOU SEEN MORGAN?
I caught a few details as the words and images went past. Hasn’t been seen in several days . . . not answering her phone . . . not at her apartment . . . everyone is worried . . .
It required a great deal of effort to remain on the barstool. I had to concentrate to stay there. My body felt weak and loose, composed of nothing but air and water. No bone or muscle, nothing that would provide strength and stability. I repositioned my feet, making sure I didn’t slide off.
It explained so many things. The sunglasses, the hat. Her refusal to speak to me on the plane. Her cryptic farewell delivered with such bedrock certainty: We’re never going to see each other again.
Had that been her face on the TV? On the local news there in Nashville, reporting her disappearance?
It all led to the question: Why?
I regained some sense of balance. My body felt steadier, more solid. Could I very well travel to Tampa and continue with my day if I’d just seen a missing person?
And then it hit me—maybe she hadn’t even left the airport yet.
I picked up my bag and made my way back to the concourse, feeling a strong sense of purpose. I had to find the airport police. I went up to the ticket agent, the one with the pencil in her hair.
“Excuse me,” I said.
She didn’t seem to recognize me. She seemed distracted, her eyes remaining on her computer screen. “How can I help you, sir?”
“I need the police. How do I find them?”
The woman’s face fell. She looked like she was in trouble. “Is something wrong? Is this an emergency?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. How exactly should I explain the situation? “I think I just need to talk to them.”
The woman picked up a phone and pressed a few buttons. She said something, but I didn’t pay attention. Scenarios ran through my mind. Morgan was being chased. She was running to something or away from someone. She owed money or had defaulted on a loan. A relationship had ended poorly, causing her to flee her life. I couldn’t even conceive of it all.
I lost track of time. I stood off to the side, staring out the huge windows at the arriving and departing planes, the sun glancing off their wings and windows. The next thing I knew, two police officers in dark uniforms, their gold badges flashing under the lights, came up to me. They asked what the nature of my emergency was, and I told them I wasn’t sure if I had one or not. I reported what I’d seen. But as I heard myself saying the words, standing on the concourse with the business of commerce and travel going on around me, I realized how far-fetched and just insane my story sounded. I gave them the bare-bones outline: I met a stranger in Atlanta and changed all my plans to follow her to Nashville. And now I thought she was a missing person.
When I finished speaking, they both studied me, their eyes opaque.
“Why don’t you come with us, sir?” one of them said.
15
While we walked, they said nothing to me, so I kept my mouth shut too. They were on either side of me, as if they expected me to bolt at any second. The two officers used their key cards to open electronic locks on several heavy steel doors we passed through.
The station occupied a small space on a lower level of the airport, and only when they had me seated in somebody’s office, a utilitarian space with a couple of desks and an American flag in the corner, did they start to ask me questions. I directed them to Morgan’s Facebook page and waited while they called it up on an oversize desktop computer. They both studied it, their brows furrowed.
“It says she lives in Nashville,” one said. He was older, likely in his fifties, with gray hair and large glasses that reflected the bright light. His name was Officer Travis. “So if she flew here, maybe she was heading home? Maybe she’s rethinking whatever led her to leave town and be considered missing?”
“I guess that’s possible. Yes.”
“But she told you she was going up to Wyckoff, Kentucky? To Henry Clay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Still about ninety minutes from here to Wyckoff. Across the state line into Kentucky.”
“She said she grew up and went to college there,” I said.
“This is social media stuff from friends. Has she been officially reported to the police?”
“I think it was on TV,” I said. “The local news. I thought I saw her face on the screen out of the corner of my eye.”
“Really. Why don’t you give Metro Nashville a call and see what’s going on there?” Travis said to his partner, who was about my age, a broad-chested man with dark hair cut in a military-style buzz. His cheeks were red like he’d just come in from the cold, although to me the station felt excessively warm. His name tag said JANSEN.
Jansen left the room while Travis studied the computer screen. I couldn’t be certain if he was trying to make me grow nervous or if he was genuinely curious about what people were saying about Morgan.
“I don’t remember seeing an alert about this, but if it’s new . . .” He picked up the phone and pressed a few buttons. “I’m going to need to look at a passenger list. And the CCTV footage from Concourse B, near gate thirteen.” He provided the flight number and the airline, then hung up but kept his eyes on the screen. “When’s your flight out of here?”
“A couple of hours.”
Travis shook his head, indicating they might not be finished with me by then.
“It’s work,” I said. “I have to get down to Florida.”
“So you just met this woman in the line at the gift shop in Atlanta? And then decided to change your plans and follow her here to Nashville?”
“Yeah. I know it sounds crazy. You know how sometimes you just connect with someone right away?”
Travis turned away from the screen and looked at me, the reflection in his glasses obscuring his eyes, but I could clearly see he was skeptical. Apparently his uniform didn’t conceal the beating heart of a romantic.
“What was she wearing?” he asked.
I described everything I remembered, including the sunglasses and hat.
“So you didn’t really see her face?” Travis asked.
“She took the glasses off. Once. Briefly.”
“Why?”
I hesitated. But then I figured the cops had heard it all. “We kissed. At the bar. She took her glasses off before we kissed.”
“A real kiss?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Was it a real kiss? Not just a peck on the cheek, but . . .” He searched for the correct words. “You know, something romantic. Something . . . full-on.”
“Yes,” I said somewhat reluctantly. “I guess you could say ‘full-on.’ And then she left.” I filled him in on the rest—changing flights, the seat in first class. Approaching her at the rear of the plane.
“She said her name wasn’t Morgan?” he asked, his brow furrowing with even more skepticism. “And she didn’t know you?”
“That’s right.”
“Was she the same person?” he asked. “You only saw her briefly without the hat and sunglasses.”
“It was her. I know it was. Same hat. Same beauty mark. But I don’t know why she said she wasn’t Morgan. Or why she acted like she didn’t know me. She called the flight attendant.”
“Maybe she’s married and regretted getting you all stirred up,” he said, his face serious.
“She didn’t have a ring on.”
“Some people don’t wear rings. Even if they’re married.”
I pointed at his computer. “I don’t know much. I don’t have all the answers. But, look, she’s clearly in trouble. People are worried about her. It’s right there. I didn’t make this up. If someone is in danger, then we have to help, don’t we? Isn’t that your job?”
“Easy, chief,” he said, leaning back. “By the way, do you have ID on you?”
I handed my license over and he stared at it, then entered something into the computer. While he did that, I thought about the things he’d been asking me. I even started to doubt myself. She’d said her name was Morgan Reynolds, but that didn’t mean it was. I didn’t see any official documentation.