Nine Years Gone

by Shelly Cruz

  Luci jumps at my words and takes a step back from me, extending her arms out to put space between us. “Massimo, calm down. You’re scaring me.”

  “Sorry, Luci, but I am freaking the fuck out, and I don’t know what’s happening here,” I confess, softening my voice as I let the reality of Lena’s disappearance sink in. I stride across the room to the sofa and sit, letting my head fall forward in resignation.

  “Did you call her mom?”

  “First person I called. She told me Lena called her but didn’t give her any details. I’m gonna go see her when I leave here.”

  “Massimo, I don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t talked to Lena since Thursday after work, and she sounded fine. We were supposed to hang out, but I canceled because I picked up a shift. She seemed normal, I swear. She didn’t tell me anything about her plans to leave,” she explains, worry spreading across her features.

  “Now what?” I ask, tilting my head up to her. My eyes are burning from anger, hurt, betrayal, and the tears I’m fighting back.

  Luci tries appeasing me and says, “I mean, she has to contact one of us sooner or later. When that happens, we’ll get answers. In the meantime, I’ll make some calls.”

  “What am I gonna do?” breaks free from my lips, and I can’t fight back the tears anymore, as they start falling from my eyes. I hide my face from Luci, embarrassed by the emotions overtaking me.

  “We’ll figure it out.” She’s attempting to be optimistic, but her words are wrapped in pity as she watches me come undone. Luci places her hands on my shaking shoulders, trying to console me.

  A few hours later, I’m home, and it’s the last place I want to be. I had hoped that either Luci or Lena’s mother would know something, but I’m no closer to having answers now than I was this morning when I got home to find her gone.

  After a hot shower, I sit in the bay window seat that Lena loved. She would sit here and read her books for hours on end. Our apartment is on the top floor of a brownstone, and this window has a fantastic view. It was Lena’s favorite spot.

  Two Years Ago

  Lena’s eyes light up the moment we enter the front door, and I tell the real estate agent, “We’ll take it.” We hadn’t even seen the whole place yet, but seeing Lena happy, there was no question. She has a smile that stops me in my tracks, makes me feel things I’ve never felt before. I’d do whatever it takes—give her anything, just to elicit that look of happiness, to feel my heart swell the way it does when I’m with her.

  I ask the agent if he’ll give us a few minutes alone to explore the apartment because I want some privacy with my girl, want to fucking kiss her senseless. When the agent walks out into the hall, I grab Lena by her left hand, crushing her into me, and start kissing her soft lips. Her glasses get all dirty from our steamy make out session. She hates when that happens and tries to wiggle away from me, but I hold her tight while I continue kissing her lipstick-covered lips. If she’d let me, I’d fuck her right now while the agent waits in the hall, but my girl won’t have it. She’s all prim and proper when other people are around, but behind closed doors, she’s an insatiable sex fiend that’s all mine.

  My phone rings, cutting my memory short. I shove my hand in my pocket, my hopes high that Lena is calling me, but when I see “Ma” lighting up the screen, my heart falls.

  “Hi, Ma,” I say, trying not to sound too disappointed.

  “Massimo, Rocco called to tell me what happened. Figlio, mi dispiace. What can I do for you? You want me to come to the house?”

  “No, Ma, I’m good. I just need some time alone.”

  “You want to talk about it?” she asks, her words blanketed in worry.

  “Not now, Ma.”

  “Figlio, I’m worried for you.”

  “I know you are, but don’t be. I’ll be fine. I just need some time to clear my head.”

  “Va bene figlio. Ti amo. Call me if you need me.”

  “Thanks, Ma, love you too.” I flip the phone closed and toss it on the couch.

  When I look up, I notice that Lena left behind her beloved books, her bookshelf untouched, including the framed picture of us that sits on the top right. We went to a wedding last year, and she said this was her favorite photo from that night because we weren’t looking at the camera, but instead, we were laughing and looking at each other. I stand and grab the frame. I thought we were happy. “WHY?” I scream at no one and hurl it against the wall, watching the glass shatter into a million pieces the same way my heart has.

  CHAPTER 9

  1,301 Miles

  MARIALENA

  THE KNOCK AT THE door jolts me awake. “Housekeeping,” the voice says before knocking again.

  The brightness of the sunlight peeking through the curtains causes me to squint until I can adjust to the morning light. My hand extends to pick up my glasses from the night table, and I put them on. When I glance at the clock next to the TV, it reads 9:07 a.m. After driving a little over ten hours yesterday, I had to stop for the night and ended up crashing at this hotel outside of Cleveland. What a long day it was.

  It started with me packing the last remaining items and loading up my car. Before leaving the apartment, I called my mother to tell her part of my plan. She’s the only person I told about leaving. I contemplated not telling her anything, just like everyone else, but in the end, I didn’t think that was the best idea. I opted to tell her I was leaving Massimo and Boston but not the reason or where I was going. She started with the usual guilt trip she’s so good at giving. I’m used to her methods though, and know that I have to let her lay it on thick. Once she finishes, I can do the talking.

  It took a lot of convincing to get her to understand that the best thing for both of us was for her not to know any details. Otherwise, Massimo would grill her until she gave in, and I didn’t want to put her in that position. I also asked her to relay the message to my father. I’d have better luck talking to him once I was gone. With him, it’s better to ask for forgiveness instead of permission.

  Our conversation ended with my mother saying, “Se dice el pecado pero no el pecador.” This was my mother’s not-so-subtle attempt at getting me to give her all the details because, in her mind, she can keep a secret and keep it well. Except this wasn’t about her, it was about Massimo.

  As soon as I hung up, I got in my car, drove to the bank, and then hit the Pike westbound. I wanted to get at least halfway to Des Moines, putting as much distance between Boston and me as possible. I knew Massimo would be frantic looking for me, and I couldn’t risk it.

  I kick the blanket off and swing my legs over the side to stand, tiptoeing across the rug. I hate carpets and don’t understand why hotels have them. Cracking the door open, I leave the safety lever in place.

  “Hi. I’ll be checking out in about half an hour if that’s okay,” I say. The short, stocky woman nods, and I close the door and head into the bathroom.

  A quick shower has me feeling refreshed and ready for another day on the road. But first, I need coffee and a quick bite. The front desk clerk checks me out, and before leaving, I ask him where the closest coffee shop is. He directs me to a Starbucks a mile down the road.

  I buckle myself in and make a right onto the road with my large coffee in the cup holder and croissants in the bag lying on the passenger seat. While sitting at the traffic light, I put my Marc Anthony “Todo a Su Tiempo” album into the CD player and turn up the volume. I love this album, even if it does remind me of the first time I took Massimo to my family’s Christmas Eve celebration.

  God, I hope I made the right decision. I didn’t have much time to plan, but with Massimo away this weekend, it was my best opportunity to flee without him finding out. He’s probably freaking out already because he hasn’t spoken to me. Ugh, I don’t want to think about it. Otherwise, I’ll start doubting my decision.

  The highway blurs, exit after exit looking the same. I shift my eyes to the dashboard clock, and it reads 1:02 p.m. then check the gas gauge, which reads
one-quarter tank. Now is an excellent time to take a break, stretch my legs, have some lunch, and fill up. I’m making good time, considering I got a late start.

  It takes me another ten hours to get to Des Moines, Iowa, the place I’d chosen to be my new home. When I was in high school, I read the book The Bridges of Madison County and fell in love with the book’s scenery. When the movie released, I fell in love even more. It seemed beautiful, idyllic.

  The day I decided to leave Massimo, the book came to mind, and when I looked at a map, Des Moines was the biggest city closest to the Madison County depicted in the book—although it’s a small city in comparison to Boston. Even though Madison County seemed beautiful, I’m still a city girl.

  Driving through the quiet streets of Des Moines, I spot a hotel and pull into the parking lot. I check in for a few nights, and when I arrive at my room, I place the Do Not Disturb sign on the door handle, turning the lock and latching the safety lever.

  I’m exhausted, so much so that I forego a shower and brushing my teeth; peel off my shirt, pants, and socks; and crawl into bed. By the time I pull the covers up and lay my head on the pillow, it’s past midnight.

  It’s almost noon when I open my eyes. I have a headache, and I’m groggy, thirsty, and desperately need coffee. I tie my hair up and get into the shower, enjoying the hot water and extreme water pressure that streams from the showerhead, washing away the long drive from yesterday.

  Once dressed, I grab some lipstick from the makeup pouch in my pockabook and stand before the mirror. Glaring at myself, I ask, “What have I done?”

  Massimo must be looking for me. He must be agitated and calling everyone we know, driving them all crazy with his insistence. I can only hope it won’t last long and that he’ll accept that I’m gone and move on. That we can both move on.

  I pull the top off the lipstick tube and swipe it first across my top lip, from the center down each side, and then across the bottom lip from left to right, smacking my lips together to spread the color, placing the cap back onto the tube. While checking my lipstick, I see a few stray hairs around my chin area. Ugh, how I hate them. I grab the tweezer from my makeup bag and tweeze the stubborn wire hairs until I can no longer see them.

  I exit the hotel and take a left, strolling the two blocks to the coffeehouse last night’s desk clerk told me I’d find. Roasters Coffee House isn’t busy when I arrive. I appreciate the quiet. I can enjoy my coffee and bagel and begin planning what to do next. As I sip my coffee, my eye catches sight of a community board at the back of the sitting area.

  When I finish breakfast, I rise and head back to the board to see what I find. It’s filled with various flyers for events, live music, tutors, and a few for-rent apartments. I rip a live music flyer off, and my eyes continue roaming. I go back to the apartment rentals, tear off the phone numbers for them, and then return to my table to grab my jacket. On my way out, I stop and ask the young woman at the register if she knows where I can buy a mobile phone.

  I walk the six blocks to the cell phone store, thankful for the sunshine because it’s chilly outside. Once I have a new phone and number, I hurry back to the hotel because I want to make a few calls—to the apartments listed on the community board, my mom, and Luci. They must’ve heard from Massimo by now, and I want them to know I’m okay.

  Before dialing my mom, I punch in *67 to block my number and press the green phone button to send the call. She answers on the third ring. “Hola.”

  “Hola, Mami,” I say. “I’m—”

  “Marialena, estas bien? Dónde estás?”

  “Mami, I’m okay. I arrived in the city where I’ll be living for a while and wanted to let you know.” We chat for several minutes about my drive and that I’m looking for an apartment and will start looking for a job tomorrow. Finally, I ask, “Has Massimo gone to your house yet?”

  “Sí, me llamó early this morning. Then he come to the house an hour ago. I tell him the truth, yo sabía you were leaving, but you no give me any information porque you knew he’d ask me for it,” she tells me.

  “Nena,” her voice softens as she calls me by the name she’s called me since I was a little girl, “he no look good. No sé lo que está pasando, but why you no talk with him? I never see him look this way. Tiene red eyes, dark circles under them, messy hair,” she proclaims, her voice laced with motherly concern.

  My heart hurts listening to my mother describe Massimo. It’s exactly how I imagined he’d react, except it doesn’t lessen the torrent of emotions her words cause.

  “Mami, por favor. I know it’s hard for everyone, for you. Please just trust that what I am doing is the right thing.”

  “Bueno, Nena. No entiendo, but I do what you want, even if I no agree,” she concedes, sighing in resignation.

  “Mami, I’ll call you again. For now, I won’t give you my phone number, por si acaso Massimo calls you again, or goes back to your house. If you don’t know how to reach me, it’ll be easier for you when you speak to him. This way, you don’t have to lie.”

  “Bueno, Nena. Te amo,” she says.

  “I love you too, Mami.” I press End.

  The next call I have to make is to Luci. This one will not be as easy as my mother’s because Luci will give me an earful. I dial her number, and when I get her voicemail, relief rushes through me. I hang up without leaving a message. I’ll call her again later. My fingers hover over the keypad, itching to dial Massimo’s number. Should I call him? What will I say? I start punching his number in but flip the phone closed before finishing. I can’t. Hearing his voice will decimate me.

  Instead, I fight the urge and grab my bag off the bed, looking for the several slips of paper I removed from the community board. I call each of them, someone answering each time, and I schedule a time to look at the apartments the next morning.

  The event flyer from the community board advertised live music at a bar named The Last Drop starting at 9:30 p.m., just a few blocks from the hotel. At 7:00 p.m. I leave for the venue. I hope there are a few decent items on the menu—I’m hungry.

  I notice there are a few bars along the way. This will be a good place for me to look for a bartending job. I’m hopeful that I’ll find a job quickly. I have enough money to get me by for a few months, but would rather not have to use it all.

  As I am walking, a gust of wind blows and chills me. I stuff my hands in my pockets and pick up the pace to The Last Drop. When I arrive, I catch a glimpse of a “Help Wanted” sign in the window. I make a mental note to ask someone about that later tonight.

  The inside of The Last Drop is beautiful. It’s all wood throughout, nestled in a renovated old building, yet the owner kept many of its original features—high ceilings and wood beams. The bar is long and made of dark wood.

  I find a stool, two stools down from a guy wearing a White Sox hat, take off my jacket, and hang it on the back before sitting. A woman with braided blonde hair resting on her shoulders says “Hello,” a slight twang when she does.

  “Grey Goose and soda with two limes and a food menu as well, please,” I say.

  She pulls a menu out from under the bar and drops it in front of me before leaving to make my drink.

  While waiting for the bartender to return, I look around. There are several TVs in various spots around the place, all playing one sporting event or another. The stage is medium-sized, and the restaurant has about thirty tables. Right now, the place is a little over half full, which means it probably gets busy in here. Most of the people in this place are wearing jeans and baseball hats or team jerseys. It’s a laid-back atmosphere and family-friendly, as is evident from the few tables with kids using crayons to color their kid menus. Three Doors Down’s “When I’m Gone” is playing over the speakers. It’s loud, but patrons are still conversing. Local memorabilia adorn the walls—old street signs, license plates, and framed pictures and newspaper clippings. It’s a very local place, and I like the vibe of it.

  “Are you ready to order food?” the barten
der asks, placing my drink onto a cocktail napkin.

  “I’ll have the wings and fries basket, with mild sauce, please.”

  “Sure thing, sweetie,” she says, taking the menu from me and spinning away to input the order into her computer.

  When the bartender returns, I introduce myself and ask her name. “Stevie,” she tells me.

  “Stevie, I saw the ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window. Do you know what position they’re hiring for?” I ask.

  “We need another bartender,” she says. “One of the guys gave his notice. His last day is next week, Friday. Why, you looking?” she asks.

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” I say. “I just arrived in Des Moines and am looking for a job. I bartended while in Boston. Bartending is my thing,” I finish.

  “Well, sweetie, Hank, our manager, should be here soon. When I see him, I’ll have him come over so you two can talk,” she says before shuffling down the bar to help someone.

  When I finish my wings and fries, an older man sits next to me and says, “Hi, my name’s Hank. Stevie here tells me you’re looking for a bartending job.” He has a receding hairline with salt and pepper hair and a cleft chin that accentuates his oblong jawline.

  “Hello,” I say. I grab the napkin and wipe my hands. “I’m sorry, my hands are a bit sticky right now, but it’s nice to meet you. I’m Lena,” I tell him, and with my knuckles, push my glasses up.

  He and I chat for several minutes about where I’m from, my bartending experience, and how long I plan on being in town. He gets up to walk away, but before leaving, he asks me to fill out an application before I go, which is precisely what I do.

  Back at the hotel room, I pull my phone from my pockabook to call Luci again. Let’s hope she answers her phone this time.