The Quiet Girl

by S. F. Kosa

  He leaves, closing the doors gently. I watch him trudge across the patio toward a shed beyond the garden. It’s painted to match the house, right down to the shutters.

  “I’m sorry for my husband’s rudeness,” Rose says. “He’s a good man. The most wonderful man. Always took care of us. Worked himself to the bone. He’d do anything to provide, especially for his daughter. But social graces…” She smiles. “Not in his DNA.”

  She offers me another slice of zucchini bread.

  Again, it feels like the walls are closing in. I don’t know why I thought Mina’s parents might have the answers. Maybe because it was better than facing what’s in front of me now—a missing wife, police who don’t seem to give a shit, and not many places to look.

  Rose is back to picking tiny crumbs from the coffee table. “I’m sure we’ll find her,” she says. “She’s fine.” She nods as if she’s made a decision. “I know it might not be your thing, but will you pray with me, Alex? I wouldn’t normally ask, but right now…” She looks like she’s about to burst into tears. “It would mean a lot to me.”

  The next minutes are among the most uncomfortable I’ve ever endured. I hold hands with Mina’s mother, bow my head, and listen to her beg the Lord Jesus to bring her baby home to her family and the husband who loves her.

  Unbidden, I’m reminded of Mina’s rings, left abandoned in her cottage.

  What if Mina doesn’t want to come home to me?

  Anything could have happened to her. An accident. A kidnapping. But I also can’t avoid a possibility that’s both more plausible and probable: she chose this. She wanted to get away from me, and she decided to disappear. She’s a writer. A creative person. Has a flare for the dramatic. Her mother literally just said as much. Maybe Mina figured this was the best way to punish me for being an asshole.

  I never thought she would do something like this. But then again, I met her less than a year ago. How well do I know her, really?

  After Rose says “amen” and releases my hand from her warm, strong grip, I make my excuses, offer my apologies, promise to keep her updated, and leave as quickly as my legs will carry me.

  Chapter Three

  The sun had come out by the time she emerged from the boardinghouse. She’d showered and changed into a clean set of clothes that had been left folded on a shelf in the bathroom. She was pretty sure they were hers—they fit reasonably well, and the shirt said Haverman’s on the front. Her flip-flops still squished with every step as she set out along the sidewalk, but the rest of her was dry. She enjoyed the warmth of the summer sun on her skin for a moment, and then she began to sweat. She tromped along Commercial back to the West End, looking for her bike—until she remembered that there was nothing that really set it apart from any other bike. Nothing except the combination on her lock. One-two-zero-four. That, she could remember. The rest of…everything…was like a murmured conversation coming from behind a closed door.

  Sometimes that frightened her. It wasn’t as if she didn’t care at all. She knew she was supposed to have the answers to questions people asked her, like where and whether she was going to school or what had brought her to Provincetown. Sometimes she tried to remember, but that trying made her head throb and her teeth hurt. It made her heart pound and her skin tingle. She could only bear to do it for a few minutes at a time before giving up. And did it matter, really? She was here, and she was alive, and she had a place to stay, and she wasn’t hungry, and nobody was hurting her, and she even had a job. That was more than a lot of people had.

  She gave up searching for her bike and wandered for a while. The streets around the pier were packed with milling tourists, straight couples, gay couples, families with kids, groups of friends heading for the bars, and the drag queens with their impossibly high heels and big hair and impressive masks of makeup. They were like walking works of art, and she couldn’t help but watch them and smile. The air was filled with the scent of fried things and saltwater taffy, and people walked by with ice cream cones stacked with fat scoops of colorful, melty gelato. She wasn’t sure when she’d eaten last. She wished she had some money so she could buy something to eat.

  Money.

  She was pretty sure she was supposed to be at work. Her pace quickened as her thoughts jolted out of their sluggish drift, crystallizing into anxious splinters. The boardinghouse was a good place to stay. She didn’t want to lose it. She wasn’t sure where she’d go if Esteban kicked her out, and it seemed like he was thinking of it. She should get some money and give it to him, to help pay the rent. She looked down at the shirt. She worked at Haverman’s, and Lou was supposed to pay her.

  She marched up Commercial as the ferry horn sounded off. She knew the sound, almost knew the schedule, wondered what it was like to get on that boat and float away to Boston. Maybe she’d do it someday. She frowned—had she done it before? She pushed the question away and skipped up onto the sidewalk to allow a car to squeeze through the crowded street.

  She paused in front of Haverman’s, packed and bustling with its weekend crowd. Esteban was behind the bar, apron on, mixing drinks and smiling at a customer as a rivulet of sweat made its way down his temple. Jaliesa was there, too. And Amber—

  “Hey, kitty,” said a gruff voice. She looked toward a screened window on the second floor of the Haverman’s house. “Yeah, you. Get up here. We need to talk.”

  Lou. Well, she needed to talk to him, too. She made her way to the alley, through the kitchen, and up the stairs to the un-air-conditioned second floor. The stale air pressed against her like an overfriendly dog. Lou, a big man with black, squiggly chest hair poking up from the collar of his shirt, leaned out of his office. “You always turn up, like a stray.”

  She paused.

  He rolled his eyes and beckoned her into his office. She stood on the threshold; the cramped, cluttered room—rickety chair, old wooden desk nearly buckling under the weight of stacks and stacks of ledgers, filing cabinets covering every inch of remaining wall—didn’t seem able to accommodate another body. Lou sat on the edge of his desk, steadying a teetering pile dislodged by his butt. He folded his arms over his chest. “You walked off yesterday in the middle of table service, Layla girl. Give me one reason why I should let you come within twenty feet of my establishment again.”

  Suddenly, her mouth was filled with too much saliva, and she swallowed noisily. The sound filled her whole head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I…I felt sick.”

  “Amber said as much, but you left us scrambling.” He chuckled. “And you don’t even work here!”

  “I…” Confusion pushed too many words into her throat at once, where they got caught in one big pileup. She remembered closing her eyes as steam wafted up from the dishes in the dishwasher, the plates and glasses ready to sear the fingertips off anyone stupid enough to grab them before they cooled. She remembered standing next to the ovens, watching the cheese melting and bubbling over pizzas and crocks of French onion soup.

  “Oh, don’t wet yourself. Officially, I meant.” He muttered something about his heart being soft. “It’s hard to find good bartenders. I needed to keep Esteban happy. But it looks like he’s got buyer’s remorse if you ask me.”

  “I want to give him some money for rent.”

  Lou’s eyebrows shot up. “I figured you were working that off already. Amber told me you were shacking up with him.”

  Her heart was beating too quickly, and it made her short of breath. She shook her head.

  “None of my business anyway.” He opened a file drawer and pulled out an envelope, which he held out and shook. “For the last two weeks. You did pretty good. But if you ever disappear before a shift is over again, you better not come back.”

  She took the envelope and peeked inside. It contained a healthy stack of twenties. She had no idea how many, but it seemed like a lot of money. Enough to pay Esteban and have plenty left. Happiness warmed her che
st, and she let out a laugh.

  “What are you laughing at?” Lou said, scowling. “That’s a fair wage right there.”

  “No, it’s not that at all.” Still giggling, she folded the envelope and stuffed it into the pocket of her shorts. “I appreciate it, that’s all.”

  Lou grunted. “Speaking of not coming back, I got a busboy out. Another one bites the dust. You’re up. Now get out of my sight.”

  “Okay. Thank you.” Elation carried her down the hall. She had money. Maybe she could get herself a new bike. And a phone. Maybe a ferry ticket. She skipped down the stairs, all the way into the steamy kitchen. She grabbed an apron from the stack in the closet and headed for the outside, snagging an empty basin from next to the dishwasher as she went. The beer garden was so packed that the waitresses, including Amber, had to hold the trays high to avoid beaning the customers. People were clustered along the bar like barnacles, shoulders pressed together and drinks sweating in their hands.

  She threw herself into her work, loading up dishes as soon as customers pushed their chairs back, shuttling full basins to the dishwasher, carrying fresh settings back out and laying the tables just as quickly. The work absorbed her, and she got lost in watching her own hands moving like bees over honeysuckle, almost as if they were someone else’s and she was an observer, safe and swaddled behind her eyes.

  A couple of hours later, she emerged from the bathroom, her hands still wet. Amber was standing there, blocking her path back to the kitchen. “I’m surprised Lou let you come back,” she said, the sinewy lines of her neck moving with every word. “He was absolutely rippin’ last night.”

  “I won’t do it again.”

  “Good, because I had to clean the whole thing up.” Amber made a gagging noise. “One of your customers puked all over the floor about two minutes after you took off. Jaliesa said he was giving you a hard time—the red-haired guy? Kind of cute but totally sloppy. What a mess.”

  Red-haired guy. She peered down at her own arm as the memory wrapped its fingers around her limb. She could picture his bloodshot eyes and feel the shaky strength of his grip. The skin of her left forearm went rough with goose bumps.

  Amber poked her in the shoulder. “His friends said he mistook you for someone else.”

  She rubbed her forearm against her side, smoothing everything down. “Happens all the time.”

  “Really?”

  “I must have a familiar face.”

  Amber’s eyes narrowed. “I Googled you last night. Couldn’t find a single Layla Watersley anywhere. No Facebook, no Twitter, no Instagram, no nothing.”

  “You probably didn’t spell my name right.”

  She made to slide past Amber in the narrow hallway, but the woman barred her way with a skinny arm. “I want to help you, Layla! I’m trying to be your friend. Lots of people change their names or whatever—I’m not saying you did anything wrong. You seem…like you need a friend.”

  “Esteban is my friend.”

  Amber arched one eyebrow, and it wrinkled half her forehead. “Esteban wants a blond blow-up doll, doll. Been there, done that. Probably in the same place you did. You bump your head on the walls yet?”

  There had been only one bed in his room. Suddenly, the blank spaces in her memory weren’t a source of comfort. They were dark alleys where anything could happen.

  “I need to get back to work,” she said, and then her throat constricted. It sounded like someone else had said those words, someone she didn’t like.

  Amber moved her arm. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she muttered at Layla’s back.

  Sweat dampened her armpits as she plowed through the swinging door to the beer garden and was greeted by a “Whoa!” from the other side. Esteban stood there, holding the door. He gave her a smile. “You nearly broke my nose.”

  “Sorry,” she said and winced. This voice.

  He gave her a concerned look, then glanced over her shoulder. “What did you say to her?”

  “Nothing but a little truth, Tebi,” Amber said from behind her. Her voice had gone flinty. She edged past them, her face morphing from grimace to grin as she crossed the threshold. “Excuse me now.”

  Esteban gripped the door and shook his head. “Bitter as hell.”

  She looked back and forth from Esteban to Amber and back again. “I didn’t know…”

  He drew his head back. “I told you about her, soon as you came to work here. I was totally honest with you.”

  “Oh yeah.” It made sense, didn’t it? But suddenly, everyone around her looked like a stranger, including Esteban.

  “She was telling me she tried looking you up earlier,” he said. “I think she’s just trying to stir shit up.” But his eyes said something else. It was one more way to ask the same questions all over again.

  “I need to get back to work. Lou is mad at me about last night.”

  His shoulders slumped. “I have to go to the basement for another case of Tito’s. I’ll talk to you later.” He opened the door wider to let her by, then disappeared behind it.

  Before he came back, as Layla cleared used cocktail glasses from the bar, Jaliesa leaned forward and spoke quietly. “He really does care about you.”

  Layla ignored her. She had no idea what she was supposed to say. Lou thought she and Esteban were sleeping together in exchange for rent money. Amber had accused her of being a blond blow-up doll. And Jaliesa was making it sound like Esteban was just a nice guy. Layla had thought he was, but her own mind wouldn’t give her the answers, and her stomach churned with the uncertainty.

  “Hey, Maggie!”

  She loaded the glasses into her brown plastic basin.

  “Maggie Wallace!”

  “Oh, here he is again,” Amber said as she edged up to the bar. “Layla, look, it’s your friend from last night.” She and Jaliesa were staring out at the street, but Layla picked up her basin to head to the kitchen. She’d taken two steps in that direction when Esteban pushed his way through the swinging door with a box of Tito’s bottles in his arms. He squinted toward the street as a man shouted “Maggie Wallace” yet again.

  Amber tugged at Layla’s arm. “You should go talk to him.”

  “Why me?” she asked, turning around to see a redheaded guy standing right at the half wall that ran between Haverman’s and the sidewalk. “I don’t know him.”

  “Who is that guy?” Esteban asked right as Amber said, “But he thinks he knows you.” Right as Jaliesa said, “Lou’s not gonna like this at all.”

  Several patrons sitting at the bar had gone quiet and watchful, an eager audience as the redhead shifted to the side, trying to get a view of Layla. Amber pulled her forward, and Esteban said, “Hey!”

  “She says she’s not who you’re looking for,” Jaliesa said, flicking her fingers at the guy. “Step off now.”

  Layla dug in her heels as Amber tugged on her. “I’m trying to work!”

  “Why do you think she’s Maggie?” Amber asked the redhead, but then she grunted as Esteban took hold of her arm.

  “Lay off,” he snapped, wrenching Amber’s hand away from her and turning to the redhead guy. “What the fuck is your problem, man? Layla says she doesn’t know you.”

  The redhead scanned the faces before him—Esteban, Jaliesa, the staring patrons. He seemed to be clenching his jaw. Then he pulled out his phone, held it up, and tapped at its screen.

  Taking a picture.

  “Fuck this guy.” Esteban lunged for the arch.

  The redhead took off running, shoving through a gaggle of men who had been admiring the paintings in the storefront of the gallery next door. Esteban charged after him, and both disappeared into the crowd.

  “Well, that escalated quickly,” Amber said. Her tone was as dry as cracked earth.

  Layla’s fingers were locked over the edges of her basin. Shock and confusion j
ittered along her spine, up into her skull, and along her limbs. Jenn was staring at Layla, questions in her eyes. Jaliesa, too. And Amber stood next to her, smirking.

  “I have to get back to work,” Layla said. She turned around and marched back to the kitchen with her load of dishes.

  Sunday, August 2, to Monday, August 3

  I return to Boston Sunday afternoon, across water so choppy that people are throwing up all over the damn ferry, not even able to make it to the bathrooms at the back. Me, I haven’t eaten since the zucchini bread on Saturday, so I sit in my seat, filled with a queasiness that has nothing to do with seasickness.

  Mina hasn’t used our joint credit card, but she withdrew $400 in cash from our bank account on Monday at 10:36 a.m. from an ATM in Barnstable, probably on her way to the cottage. At some point, she drank a glass or two of wine and left it, empty and stained with her lipstick, in the sink. She took off her engagement and wedding rings. She loaded a cake carrier into her car, presumably after baking said cake and cleaning up the kitchen, because there wasn’t a trace of mess to be found apart from that wineglass. And then, on Monday or Tuesday night, she drove off and disappeared into the ether.

  When I get home to our condo in Brookline, I go through her office, starting with her calendar. She has a therapy appointment scheduled for Tuesday, August 4. With Emily, who Mina told me she’d been seeing for the past several years. When I’d asked why she was meeting with a shrink, especially for so long, she laughed it off. She told me everyone needs a therapist, and writers especially. She said that she was fine but felt like it was healthy to pay attention to one’s mental well-being. She sounded so confident that I’d even wondered if I should go see a therapist, too.

  I plan to call Emily, but I put it off. It’s Sunday, and it’s late, and tomorrow morning, I have the most important meeting of my life. If I’m not sharp, it’s not just my job on the line.

  I go to bed, trying to ignore the impotent fury clawing its way up from the pettiest corners of my mind. Did Mina have to pick this week to do this? She knew what I was going through. She knew the stress was stealing my sleep and appetite. She knew I was worried about my mom and my best friend and the company we’re trying to keep afloat. I was already texting her an apology by early Monday afternoon, and I know she was okay then, baking that damn cake, heading over to her parents’. She had to have seen it and probably all the others I sent after that. And still, she never replied. Still, she left. Still, she’s gone.