by Kate Anders
And now here I am waiting for some lady to call me back into what is sure to be a cramped office with stale air, so we can discuss my life plans. Because right now, I have no life plans.
“MacKenzie Sharp?” An older woman is standing in her doorway staring down at a file that probably boils the last four years down to one sheet of information.
“Yep, that’s me,” I say while I plaster on a fake smile and stand to follow her back into her office.
“Have a seat.” She gestures to an equally uncomfortable-looking chair as the one I just vacated. “I see here you are an English major?”
I nod.
“Well, since you are here, I assume you aren’t interested in going into teaching?”
“Uh, well, it was the original plan. But um, well…” I stumble around my words trying really hard not to just blurt out that the guy I was supposed to marry cheated on me and blew up all my plans and now I don’t know what I want to do with my life.
“That’s okay, plans change. It’s what college is all about. Finding your path.” She smiles at me kindly. “So why don’t you tell me of any ideas you have or maybe what made you pick this major and we can go from there,” she says encouragingly.
“Okay. I can do that. Truthfully, I just liked my English classes best. When I was taking my core classes, the English ones were the ones I looked forward to,” I tell her.
“What about the classes stood out to you?”
Shrugging, I’m not entirely sure I have an answer for her. I just liked them. I love reading, I always have. It’s always been my escape from the shit show that was my world.
“I guess it’s because I really enjoy reading…”
“Okay, that makes sense. Have you thought about perhaps doing something with reading or with books?”
I just kind of sit there and stare right at her. She puts down her paperwork, takes off her glasses, folds her hands together and looks right at me. I feel like I’m in the principal’s office.
“Look, MacKenzie, there are a lot of options out there, but I need some kind of direction. A lot of English majors go into communications. You learned a lot about how to communicate in writing, you can handle research and constructive criticism, these are all valuable skills at companies. But if you aren’t looking for a communications-type job, then none of that matters. If you want to look at something having to do with reading or writing, we could look into the publishing side of things, like editing at a publishing house or maybe being a technical writer. Then, of course, there are the options that require more schooling, like perhaps trying your hand at law school or even a degree in the library sciences. You probably have a lot of skills that would serve you well in both those careers.”
The silence that comes after is deafening. Do any of these ideas just jump out and grab me? No. Not even a little. Although the idea of hanging out in a library all day and getting paid for it seems like something I could easily get behind. I wonder how much longer I would have to go to school to be a librarian.
“The librarian thing doesn’t seem horrible… how would I go about that path?”
“Well, not horrible is not exactly what I would call a ringing endorsement. But it would be another two years of study for a master’s degree. So you would need to get in all of your applications pretty soon, and you also need to consider that we don’t offer that degree at this university, so you would need to find a different university to attend for that degree plan.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry, you still have weeks before applications are going to be due, but you will want to get started now, depending on the requirements that the school has.” She swivels in her chair and starts pulling out all these pamphlets from behind her and stacking them on her desk. “And if you decide you don’t want to continue on with your education, you just let me know and we can take a hard look at something in publishing, I’m sure we could find you an internship or something to get you some experience before we send you out into the workforce.” She says it like a joke. She stands up and gathers all the paperwork before reaching out to hand it to me.
“That’s it?” I ask, honestly kind of surprised. It’s been like maybe twenty minutes since she called me in here and I don’t feel any less lost than I did when I walked in. I feel more overwhelmed.
“Well, I think you have a lot of thinking to do, young lady.” I hate that. “Plus, you are going to want some time to go over all the information I have for you here,” she says while moving the papers closer to me, almost forcing them into my arms. I have no choice but to take them. “Now if you have any more questions, don’t you hesitate to call my office and make another appointment,” she says as she is already opening the door, showing that it’s time for me to go.
“Um, okay? I guess thanks.” I stand up and walk past her, wondering how this was in any way helpful.
I told Clara I would call her when I got out of what turned out to be a nightmare appointment. Then again, I also told her it was going to take like an hour. That’s what the confirmation email said. I look down at my phone and see it has been exactly twenty-two minutes. There is no way Clara is going to be expecting me to be done this soon.
“Fuck it,” I whisper to myself. I’ll just call her, give her a heads-up I am early and start heading over to the smoothie place.
I open up my favorites on my phone and click on Clare Bear. A picture of her in pajamas with a funny party hat laughing pops on the screen while the phone rings. And rings. And rings. Nothing. She was super stoked about that dude from Google coming to talk, so maybe she’s just distracted.
I’ve got plenty of time to kill, so I decide to just walk over to the smoothie place to get some exercise and consider everything I heard in the last hour. It’s lunchtime, so people are out and moving in droves. I stick to the right side of the sidewalk and cross my fingers that I don’t run into anyone I know on the way.
That meeting was a total joke. But it gave me a lot to think about. I don’t know if I really want to keep going to school for another two years. I definitely don’t want to go to law school. That was always Collin’s thing, never mine.
The idea of spending my days inside a library actually sounds kind of nice. I love libraries, and research, and the smell of old books. But I’m sure librarians don’t spend a lot of time reading books while they are on the clock. Plus, I’m having flashbacks to middle school and having to learn the Dewey decimal system. Do they still use that? It gave me nightmares back then. What can I say? I have always hated numbers, any kinds of numbers, so not my thing.
I guess she was right though; I have to choose between getting some kind of job in an office where I sit there and do communications. My new nightmare is that it’s some sort of euphemism for social media manager. To this day, I have never figured out how to use Twitter. I’ve never even downloaded Snapchat or WhatsApp let alone do I know how to use them. Are they even the “cool” apps? I don’t know.
Shouldn’t this be easier? Shouldn’t I know what I want to do now? I guess the idea of working in a publishing house sounds like a fun idea. Or maybe an agent’s office. Reading manuscripts, helping get new authors published. I wonder if the money is any good? I’d probably have to leave North Carolina. Leaving the state isn’t something I’m sure I’m ready for.
It’s comfortable in North Carolina. Clara is planning on sticking around here and we have already talked so much about staying in our roommate situation. Yeah, I definitely don’t want to move.
I get jostled off the sidewalk by a group of jocks who are throwing a ball around while walking.
“Watch it,” I say with my resting bitch face in full effect.
They look mildly chagrined as they continue by me. Maybe I should put my phone in my bag. I didn’t pay for the insurance on this sucker, so if it breaks, I’m fucked. I slip the phone into one of the side pockets of my messenger bag before continuing on.
I can see the sign for the smoothie place off in the distance. Do I
want to be a business owner? How hard can it be to open up a franchise? No. That sounds horrible. And like it probably includes a lot of numbers. Also, I know nothing about business. Moving on.
I could write? Journalism seems like it would be super hard to get my foot in the door, but the research aspect seems like it could be fun. I love digging into a good story and looking up more information. I think I might need a journalism degree for that.
Thankfully, it doesn’t look like too many people decided on smoothies for lunch today; it is winter and smoothies are more of a morning thing around here. After I order my tropical smoothie, with a hint of chocolate, of course, I head over to the tables to check the time. It’s a lot closer to when I told Clara my meeting would be over, so I give her another ring and let her know I’m already here.
When I finally dig out my phone from my bag, I see a missed call from Clara. Great, those morons who think playing catch on a public sidewalk made me miss her call. She left a voice mail.
“That’s weird,” I mutter to myself. No one ever leaves voice mails anymore, and certainly not Clara. She knows I never listen to them. Maybe things are going great with the Google guy and she wants to stick around instead of meeting for lunch.
I push the button to listen to the message and put the phone up to my ear.
At first, I hear nothing. I slide my finger over the volume button and turn it all the way up. That’s when I realize I can hear Clara breathing. It’s a butt dial. Of course it’s a butt dial. I’m just about to pull the phone away from my ear when I hear her voice.
“Hey, MacKenzie. I know we’re supposed to meet for lunch but, um, some stuff came up and I just…” She trails off. Something about her voice sounds wrong, like she’s crying but trying to hide it. “I’m really sorry about missing lunch. You know how much I hate canceling plans… Look, um, there’s something really important I need to talk to you about tonight. I should have talked to you about it earlier. I just, things have been really crazy for you and I didn’t want to pile on. Anyway, it’s important, so tonight, okay? Love you.”
There is this extended pause in the recording, like she didn’t hang up right away. In fact, it’s just dead air for like twenty seconds before she hangs up the phone.
At first, I don’t know what to make of it. So I call her back.
No answer.
I call again.
Straight to voice mail.
I can feel my heart rate speed up in my chest. She never turns off her phone. Not after her mom died, she had turned her phone off that night and missed the last call her mom ever made to her before she died. She even leaves it on when she gets on airplanes, just in case, she always says.
I try one more time. Straight to voice mail.
I grab all my stuff but leave my smoothie behind. As soon as I exit the shop, I think about where I am going. Should I head to the apartment? Or maybe I should go over to where Clara’s classes are. She sent me her schedule at the beginning of the semester so I would know where to find her in case of an emergency. If I walk over to where her classes are, I get farther away from my car, but if I go to my car, I’m going to have to fight traffic if I decide to check out the classrooms.
I don’t know why, but I have this feeling in my gut that I should go home. It was too quiet on the recording. Last night, she had talked about being in the lab all day. There is no way it would be that quiet if that’s where she was.
I start power walking back to my car and start praying that nothing is actually wrong and I’m just being paranoid.
I’m sure I broke more than a couple of laws getting from campus to the apartment complex, but my brain is not firing on all cylinders right now. The bad feeling that has been in my gut for the last twenty minutes only seems to grow. I keep trying to tell myself that I’m being ridiculous. Nothing is wrong. She didn’t even say anything was wrong in the voice mail, just that she wanted to talk about something and that she was going to miss lunch.
I’m blowing this completely out of proportion.
As soon as I park, I swing my door closed with a slam that, under ordinary circumstances, would have made me cringe. I’m pounding my way up the stairs so quickly that Mr. Peterson doesn’t even have time to get out into the hallway before I’m already passing him to get to my door.
“Not today,” I mutter as I pass him.
I struggle a little at first to get my key in the lock. My panic is making things difficult. It’s not until I slide my key into the dead bolt that a sense of dread really takes over. It’s not locked. I left super early this morning to spend some time in the library. Clara left after me. She for sure would have locked the dead bolt.
I take a deep breath, feeling the air inflate my lungs almost to where it gets uncomfortable. I can do this.
Nothing.
Everything looks the same.
It’s quiet in the apartment. I can tell just from stepping through the door no one is home. I peer through the kitchen. Everything looks fine. I move toward my left to check out the living room. Looks exactly the same as when I left this morning.
No, wait.
Clara’s obsessive pillow pile she uses on the couch, gone. I look over at the desk she uses on the left side of the room. There isn’t anything there. Nothing at all. Clara leaves her stuff all over the place all the time, and she’s never been accused of having a clean desk; probably not once in her entire life.
But this desk, it’s not just clean. It’s empty. I don’t know how I know, but I do.
Clara’s not here.
And that feeling in my stomach, the one that feels like someone has punched me in the stomach, is telling me she might never be here again. God, I hope I’m wrong.
CHAPTER SIX
“FOREIGNER’S GOD” BY HOZIER
There’s a third option no one ever talks about. When a person experiences an extreme event, especially an unexpected one, the influx of stress puts the body into the fight-or-flight response. A phrase basically anyone who is an adult would know, it’s so drilled into you. But the third option is where I find myself.
Freeze.
It’s a strange feeling. I know something terrible is going on, and I know in my head that I should be running around trying to solve this problem, but yet I don’t. I stand here in this living room, just staring at the empty desk. I have probably looked at this desk a thousand times without even realizing it. But in this moment, it’s all I can do. Stare.
The dark-brown stain on the wood. The stain in the right-hand corner where one of Clara’s pens leaked onto the desk and we could never manage to get rid of the stain, no matter how many home remedies we tried. Even the absence of items is causing me to fixate. Where is the rock, paper, scissors, lizard, Spock coffee mug that I got her for Christmas last year that she keeps all her pens in? The purple notebook where she jots down every errant thought is gone.
And here I am, just stuck.
Staring.
There are no answers to be found in the quiet. The sounds from the heating seem to be lulling me into an even deeper trance.
I’ve heard your life flashes before your eyes when you are about to die, but right now I feel like I am rewatching a movie in reverse at high speed of every interaction Clara and I have ever had. The story of our friendship.
Until one memory hits home. We had just moved into the apartment after a year together in the dorms. It’s late at night and we are both sipping on hot chocolate and sharing stories of our childhood. She’s the first person I ever opened up to about what happened to destroy mine. I remember like it was yesterday breaking down and telling her about how my brother died, how my mom was running late and decided to pick me up first since I was younger and my brother was in high school and old enough to wait by himself. How he decided not to wait and got in the car with a friend for a ride home instead. I told her all about what the flashing blue and red lights looked like when we drove past the accident right in front of the school. That I remembered thinking how sad it was w
hen I saw the paramedics loading a body into the ambulance with a sheet over it. And then, of course, the moment my mom found out it was my brother under that sheet. How life just changed in that one instant. I lost my brother, my best friend; but I also lost my mom. She never really came home after that afternoon. Sure, her body still lived in that house, but she was never the same, and neither was I.
It’s the jolt I finally need to come out of my frozen state.
I can’t lose Clara.
I can’t lose the one person who I consider family in this world.
Dropping everything onto the couch, I finally get my wits back and start to search through the apartment. It’s the little things. Things no one would notice that I start to catalog in my brain.
The empty desk.
The missing pillows and folded lap blankets.
A couple of photos missing from the walls.
The shishi statues that used to be on the window frame.
As I walk toward the back of the apartment, I notice that the door to my room is closed, something I know I did not do, because I basically never close that door unless I am going to sleep. Clara’s door, though, the one that is habitually closed unless she is in there, is wide open.
I take a deep breath, trying to steel myself for what I might find when I enter into this room.
Stepping into the room, I realize that I didn’t really know what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t this. There is nothing to write home about.
All the furniture is still there. It looks like one of those apartments you would go and look at that comes furnished, no personality and no bedding. It’s the lack of bedding that springs me into action. With every drawer that I open to find it empty, I can feel my hope that this is just a misunderstanding dying in my chest. By the time I get to the closet, I can tell I have been holding my breath for too long. It’s empty too.