And Now She's Gone

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  “Who?” a woman shouted.

  Gray pictured Ruth Miller at the kitchen sink, curlers in, scarf on, leaning back, head in the doorway.

  “Grayson Sykes,” Walter Miller shouted.

  “Naw.”

  He came back on the line. “We supposed to know you, Miss Sykes?”

  Gray forced light into her voice to say, “No. See. I’m friends with your daughter, Elyse.”

  Walter Miller didn’t respond.

  Gray stuck her finger in her ear to better hear his silence. “Hello?”

  “Good day, ma’am.” Dead air. He’d hung up on her.

  Seated way in the back of the plane, near the tiny bathrooms, Gray wondered more about Walter’s reaction. Elyse was a problem child now, but how had she been a problem in the years she had lived under the Millers’ roof? What pain was Gray about to cause?

  The flight to Alabama was a strange one filled with strange people. Seated beside her, a man shaped like a Volkswagen Beetle creaked every time he lifted his bottle of Mountain Dew to his lips. In front of her, a trio of old ladies, their gray hair tinged in violet and blue, shared an endless bag of fried chicken soaked in vinegary hot sauce.

  Gray watched an action movie starring the guy from that cool Greek mythology flick, the guy with the abs, but now he was a space scientist or something who’d created a satellite that could reverse climate change or make guacamole or some shit like that.

  She landed well after ten o’clock at Mobile Regional Airport. As she exited the plane, her clothes immediately ballooned and purple light flashed across the sky—thunderstorms. Her skin razzed with the click-clicking of electricity.

  The airport was small—just two floors—and would soon close. The few businesses there—Cruise City Bar and Grille, Hudson News, and Quiznos—had already brought down their security gates. Gray reached Hertz rentals, also soon to close. The clerk handed Gray the keys to a Chevrolet Cruze and so very kindly called the Hilton Garden Inn to see if a room was available.

  Hotel reservation made, Gray rushed to the car lot. Her phone vibrated in her back pocket. A text from Nick.

  Where’d you go this time???

  She settled in the front seat of the Chevrolet. I found Isabel’s real parents! Seeing them in the morning.

  Ellipses, then …

  Gas. Cash. Keep your phone charged. Be careful.

  It was a short drive to the Hilton Garden Inn, and Gray quickly checked into room 216 with its tan Berber carpet, tan walls, and clean towels. She booted up her laptop and found the Millers’ address on the internet. They lived seven miles north of Mobile in a house of red brick and wood surrounded by tiny creeks and a grove of tall, thick trees. It would take ten minutes to drive there from the hotel.

  With nothing else to do, Gray found Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives on the Food Network, then trudged to the bathroom. Wilted and puffy, that’s how she looked. That’s how she felt. Came from straddling two climates in one day.

  She washed Vegas and airplane dirt off her body as Flavortown found its way to North Carolina. Clean again, she watched the making of a café’s famous onion rings for a minute before deciding she’d heard and seen enough junk for the day. She turned off the television, then slipped beneath the sheets. As soon as she heard the rumble from the sky, she hopped out of bed and pulled apart the window curtains.

  Lightning the color of crayons—Atomic Tangerine, Cornflower, and Laser Lemon—exploded against the dark sky.

  Los Angeles didn’t see many storms, and the chaos terrified and electrified her. The rain burst against the windows like mortars. It was so loud that it became peaceful, and she climbed back into bed. She left the curtains open, and those phosphorescent sky crackles were the last marvels she saw before she closed her eyes.

  52

  It was a little after eight o’clock on a Monday morning. The rain had stopped, and now golden hot light streamed past her hotel room window. This part of Alabama had found peace again, and butterflies flitted, birds soared, and wisps of steam rose from the few remaining puddles on the pavement.

  Five minutes into her drive, Gray groaned and closed her eyes. “It’s Monday morning.”

  The Millers probably wouldn’t be home.

  Another case of Grayson Sykes leaping before thinking.

  Today, though, she lucked out: a gray Dodge Ram truck and a copper Hyundai Sonata were parked in the driveway of the brick and wood house.

  The air was loud with the chatter of a million insects and birds, and somewhere hidden in the trees was a creek or two gurgling its way to the Gulf. Dragonflies worked as sentries from the car to the front porch. Gray had never seen so many in her life.

  Sean had talked about relocating to Atlanta like the munchkins had dreamed about Oz. But moving had meant starting over again, a small fish in a big pond, even though Las Vegas was one of the biggest ponds for a party promoter.

  After triumphing over the creatures that buzzed and hopped, Gray reached the front door. She knocked … waited. Knocked again … waited some more. Finally, the door opened, and cool air from the house rolled out to greet her. It smelled of bacon and pressed hair.

  The black man standing there wore an untucked denim shirt and clean khakis. “Yes?”

  Gray said, “Walter Miller?”

  He said yes again, then glanced at his wristwatch.

  Gray introduced herself and reminded him that she’d called yesterday.

  He grimaced, and the skin across his cheeks thinned.

  “I flew out here from L.A. cuz this is important. I really need to talk to you about—”

  “Elyse.” He looked over his shoulder and shouted, “Ruthie.” He kept his head turned away from Gray as they both waited for Ruth Miller to join them.

  A woman with ginger-colored skin came to the door. She wore a velour tracksuit and wedged sandals. Her toenails were painted the color of orange soda.

  Walter said to her, “It’s the woman who—”

  “I heard her.” Ruth Miller’s brown eyes bore into Gray’s.

  Gray took a step back. “I’m sorry to—”

  “Are you?” Ruth asked, eyebrow cocked. “Really?”

  “I am. My questions won’t take long.”

  Ruth leveled her shoulders, ready to spit fire.

  Walter placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

  Tears burned in Ruth’s eyes, and she asked, “What do you want?”

  “I just need to know where she could be.”

  The couple simply blinked at her.

  Gray rooted in her battered Liz Claiborne purse and pulled out the copy of the birth certificate from Mail Boxes Etc. “You’re listed here, yes? As Elyse’s parents?”

  Walter studied the birth certificate, then handed it to Ruth. “That’s us.”

  Relief made Gray’s shoulders drop and her muscles relax. “Okay. Good. It’s been a very long July. Tell me where she could be and I’ll go there, and I’ll stop bugging you. Is she here?”

  “She’s here,” Ruth said.

  “Why don’t we just take you there?” Walter gazed down at his wife. “Okay?”

  Ruth smirked. “Fine. Just let me just turn off the iron and get my phone.” She disappeared from the door.

  “I can follow you,” Gray said. “I have a rental.”

  “That’s probably best,” Walter said.

  “Please don’t tell her that I’m here,” Gray said. “I don’t want her to run again.”

  Walter said, “She’s done running. I know that like I know there’s a God in heaven.”

  The couple climbed into the Hyundai without saying another word to Gray. Her soul danced with anticipation. She had waited for this moment for almost two weeks now, and here it was. What was Gray going to say to the insurance fraud thief? She had no authority to bring Elyse back to L.A. She’d have to refer the case to the police.

  Gray texted Nick with nervous fingers. Elyse/Isabel is here! I’m with her parents now. Going to meet her.

  Nick ty
ped one word.

  What???

  At red lights and stop signs, Gray texted Nick, noticing no other cars except one—the copper Hyundai leading her through Whistler, Alabama. After a last call you later, she noticed that they’d driven into a beautiful park.

  The Millers parked at the curb.

  Gray parked behind them and climbed out of the Chevrolet.

  Hearses and limousines were parked at curbsides all around the grounds. People wearing blacks, blues, or whites stood at gravesides or marched in clumps to burial sites. Dragonflies buzzed here, too, and their iridescent wings caught the sunlight.

  The Millers walked east.

  Gray frowned, and called out, “Excuse me…”

  Walter glanced back at her. “C’mon. This is the best place to meet her. She’s over here, waiting for you.”

  Ruth took Walter’s hand.

  The trio wound through headstones and markers in an older part of the cemetery. Someone had planted an American flag at Clyde Irby’s grave. Someone had stuck pinwheels on Vera Armstrong’s marker.

  Another minute of walking and then the Millers stopped. Ruth slipped into her husband’s arms. He kissed the top of her head.

  Gray came to stand alongside the couple. “May I ask the obvious question?”

  Ruth said, “Thought you wanted to meet our daughter.”

  “Ah. Yes. I get it.” Since Elyse was on the run, she’d wanted to meet Gray in a safe place, a sacred place. Sanctuary. She glanced around the park, eager to meet the Mary Ann she’d been chasing since July 11.

  Ruth Miller handed Gray a picture of a pretty little girl with ribbons in her hair. The toddler clutched a sand bucket filled with water for the castle she was building. A Mary Ann in the making.

  “She’s still beautiful,” Gray said.

  A liar, but still beautiful.

  The Millers were staring at her.

  Gray canted her head. “I’m … missing something.”

  “Sweetie…” Ruth Miller smiled at Gray, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile. This one held contempt and pity, “Bless your heart” mixed with strychnine. She stooped beside an oxidized grave marker, then stroked the letters. “Our daughter is right here. This is Elyse.”

  ELYSE LORRAINE MILLER

  OUR LOVING GIRL

  JANUARY 12, 1973–SEPTEMBER 22, 1975

  53

  Minutes had passed, and Walter Miller was leaning against the Hyundai. He lit a cigarette as Ruth pushed a piece of Nicorette from the blister pack. More cars had rolled into the cemetery. More dragonflies glided over to greet them. The swampy sun had embraced them all.

  Gray stopped shaking and made it back to the cars at the curb. She’d taken pictures of the burial site, but she knew that her shaking hands had made those shots blur. She fumbled in her bag again for the birth certificate. “This is you, correct?” She pointed at the signatures there.

  Walter said, “Yep, that me.”

  Ruth said, “And that’s me.”

  “But Elyse…”

  “Died forty-six years ago,” Ruth said. “We were vacationing at the beach. It was a gorgeous day, but the waters didn’t know that. Elyse was pulled under, and Walter and our friends … They found her, but she’d drowned. We buried her here and…” This time, Ruth pulled a document from her purse, and offered it to Gray.

  STATE OF ALABAMA—BUREAU OF VITAL STATISTICS

  Elyse Lorraine Miller, female, black, single, age 2 years, 2 months, ten days. Date of death September 22, 1975. Cause of death: drowning. Place of burial Walnut Hill Cemetery.

  The mortician’s signature was the last piece of information listed on the death certificate.

  Hollow inside, Gray pulled her phone out of her bag and found the picture of the woman she’d been searching for, the Mary Ann with the Vogue cheekbones. “Do you know her?”

  Ruth and Walter stared at the photograph. He shook his head. “This the woman who says she’s our daughter?”

  Gray nodded.

  Walter extinguished the cigarette on the thick sole of his boot. “We don’t know her.” He pointed in the direction of the grave marker. “But that’s our daughter right over there. That’s Elyse Lorraine Miller, and she’s dead.”

  Gray told them the story about a doctor, a dog, birth certificates, and insurance policies.

  Anguish washed over Ruth and she crumpled into her husband’s arms.

  Walter waggled his head as his eyes blurred with tears. “Indignity after indignity,” he said, then buried his face in his hands.

  Gray’s legs felt like soggy tissue paper as she stood there watching the weeping couple and understanding the horror of all that Isabel Lincoln had wrought. “I’ll do my best and alert the authorities.” That’s all she could offer them.

  Gray climbed back behind the wheel of the Chevrolet Cruze and watched the Millers’ Hyundai slowly wind its way back to the entrance. Then she stared at the endless green interrupted by tombs, gravestones, and mourners. There were butterflies. There was sadness. And decay—there was that, too.

  Isabel Lincoln was Elyse Lorraine Miller, but not really, since the real Elyse Lorraine Miller, born in Mobile, Alabama, on January 12, 1973, had died more than forty years ago.

  So who was “Isabel” before the legal name change? Before she’d stolen the identity of a two-year-old drowning victim? It had been 1975. The age of computers hadn’t fully arrived at state governments, and public records hadn’t been digitized back then. A toddler had drowned, the coroner had said, “Fine,” the funeral home director had signed and issued the death certificate.

  Ghosting. Isabel Lincoln had claimed an existing identity—Elyse Miller—and had obtained a Social Security card. Since Alabama and California didn’t share information, neither state agency had cross-checked to see if there’d been a death certificate issued for a black child in Alabama. And because the real Elyse Miller had been a baby, she’d had no credit history.

  Like cons around the world, this con had found the chink in a state bureaucracy’s armor, requesting an out-of-state birth certificate for a baby born in 1973, drowned in 1975, someone with no credit history and who hadn’t been issued a Social Security card because, back then, Social Security cards weren’t automatically issued to newborns.

  Isabel Lincoln had started a whole new life using a life that had barely begun.

  “If she wasn’t Isabel at birth, and if she wasn’t Elyse Miller at birth…”

  Then who the hell was she?

  The car’s interior had grown sticky and hot. Gray rolled down all four windows and a breeze rolled through. Outside, a crew of ladies dressed in Mardi Gras colors strolled arm in arm toward a parked Escalade. Someone was humming “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.”

  Gray returned to Elyse Miller’s Facebook page and that last message to Tommy Hampton, from his sister Myracle, on March 26, just months ago. You are missed.

  In her latest Facebook post, Myracle Hampton sported fuchsia hair and enough gold to finance an Ivy League education. Beneath “About,” she’d posted that she worked as a parking enforcement officer in Oakland. There were selfies of her in uniform and hat, standing at her little white Prius on streets throughout the Bay Area. She’d listed her phone number, and on the second ring, she answered. Her simple hello spoke of a century of smoking unfiltered cigarettes chased by shots of Hennessy. And now it sounded like she stood at the busiest intersection in all of Oakland.

  Gray gave Myracle Hampton an abbreviated version of the Isabel Lincoln–Elyse Miller story. How Gray had flown to Alabama and discovered that the real Elyse Miller was dead—and had been dead more than she’d been alive.

  “So you’re saying,” Myracle Hampton said, “that bitch is still leaving victims behind.”

  “You think she killed Tommy?” Gray asked.

  She snorted. “Hell yeah, she killed Tommy, and the cops think so, too. He was in that hotel room for three days. Three! Days! That bitch stole his watch, stole his phone, stole cash he had taken out of
the ATM. She’d used a fake name to reserve the room, too. Janet Jackson. Are you fucking kidding me? Ain’t nobody suspect nothing?”

  “May I send you a picture?” Gray asked. “I just wanna confirm that we’re talking about the same woman.”

  Seconds later, Myracle Hampton said, “Uh-huh. That’s her. Tell me where she at. We can end this real quick.”

  “Yeah. See. That’s the problem. I’m looking for her, but I can’t find her. It doesn’t seem like she and Tommy dated long.”

  “I ain’t never met her face-to-face,” the woman said. “All Tommy told me was that he couldn’t make my daughter’s birthday party cuz he was meeting some girl named Elyse at the Best Western. He was always doin’ shit like that. Never thought it would get him killed, though. Stabbed, maybe. But dead? Nuh-uh.”

  Gray asked, “How did they meet?”

  “Hell if I know. Tommy was a big-ass nerd who played video games all damn day and worked on fishing boats at night. I didn’t know her. Don’t nobody in our family know her, and I doubt that Tommy really knew her. But he always fell for bad girls. This time, I guess he fell for the worst girl.”

  Gray could only say, “Yeah. I’m so sorry about that.”

  “I do know that there ain’t no statues of limitations on murder, know what I’m saying? And I’m glad you trying to track her—Hey, you know what? Hold on.”

  In Myracle Hampton’s world, footsteps tapped at pavement. A creak of a door and then a slam. Quiet. “Okay, that’s better. You need to call the detective in charge of Tommy’s case. I ain’t talked to him in a few months—he got sick of me cuz I was blowing up his phone sixty times a day. His name is Jake Days. He ain’t found that bitch yet, but he still hella cool.”

  Gray scribbled Detective Days’s number into her notes. “I’ll do my best.” The second time saying this in less than an hour. Those promises were all gathering in her belly, and their frayed endings were twisting around her lungs.

  When had Isabel Lincoln requested a copy of Elyse Miller’s birth certificate?