Don't Look for Me

by Wendy Walker

  Nic did remember that he seemed kind. That she liked the way he smelled when she kissed his neck. That he had a heavy pour. Traces of remorse still lingered from that night, the way they always did.

  She crossed the street. He didn’t see her as he finished opening the doors, turning on the neon sign that hung in the window.

  She pulled on the door. A string of bells jingled. He was taking chairs down from tables and he turned at the sound.

  “Hey,” he said. He looked surprised, his body frozen, eyes wide.

  Nic smiled spontaneously. It had been a long time since her face had held this expression. It felt awkward, even as a wave of warmth was released from the pull of her cheeks.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “You’re back?” He put down the last chair and walked behind the bar. It was hard not to read into this, how he did not greet her in a more personal manner. And how he chose to put the bar between them.

  “I am,” she answered. “There was a new tip about my mother.” She walked to the bar, took a seat on a stool across from where he stood on the other side.

  He asked about the tip and she told him—about the woman and the truck and how they’d just gone to meet her, Nic and Officer Reyes, and did he know Reyes, and of course he did. Everyone knows everyone else in this town. He wiped the already clean counter with a bar towel as they spoke. He was nervous. Something about her return had him unsettled.

  “Want a drink?” he asked.

  “It’s a little early,” she answered.

  She said it as though the thought hadn’t nearly consumed her mind.

  “Kurt,” the bartender said abruptly.

  He poured her a glass of water.

  “My name,” he continued. “Kurt Kent—and please don’t make a joke. I’ve heard them all.”

  Nic drank the water as her cheeks flushed.

  “I feel like I would have remembered that name.”

  “You never asked.”

  “Yeah,” Nic replied. And then, “Sorry. I was a bit of a mess.”

  Kurt leaned back against the other side of the bar, arms crossed, that look of surrender in his eyes as he smiled slightly.

  “Understandable.”

  “Not really,” Nic replied. “I was here to search for my mother and I spent every night closing down this bar.”

  He started to make excuses for her, people handle fear differently, don’t be so hard on yourself, it wasn’t that bad.… But it had been that bad.

  Vodka had not been able to settle her that night, the night after they found the note and everyone decided her mother had left them. Had walked away. The shock of this had gutted the hollow spaces. It made her cringe to remember now, with him standing before her. How she’d pulled him to the back of the bar, kissed him until he’d kissed her back. Thank God they hadn’t been alone.

  “I’m sorry,” Nic said now. She buried her face in the palms of her hands.

  “Don’t be sorry. It takes two, you know?” There it was—that calm voice. The kindness.

  “So what’s next?” he asked her. “How long are you staying?”

  Nic unburied her face and opened her eyes to look at him. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Are the police getting involved again?” he asked.

  “They said they would. What do you think? Reyes seems on top of things.”

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  The sarcasm in Kurt’s voice was unmistakable.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve never seen him disappoint a damsel in distress.”

  “Yeah—I kind of got that about him. Lots of eyes linger when he’s around.”

  Kurt moved closer now, elbows on the counter, leaning forward. Nic could smell his cologne, or soap, something, and it pulled from a far corner of her mind the feel of his hands on the small of her back, then tangled in her hair.

  “You noticed, huh? Most women don’t. Until the next day when he doesn’t call.”

  Kurt the bartender was not that kind of man, and he brought her back, somehow, to the time before. Across that invisible line to the time when life was just life. When her future was nothing but opportunities and the quiet faith that her family would remain as it was. Happy, even when Evan and Annie were fighting over something trivial, when her parents were hovering over them. Her father wasn’t perfect—he could be demanding and rigid. But they knew he loved them.

  And how he had adored their mother. It was in his eyes, the way he admired her idealism, her passion for her students. They had a special anniversary the first Tuesday in August, the facts of which they kept a secret between them. Her father always bought her something blue. She always made him a chicken salad sandwich. They shooed away the children into another room and sat alone, drinking wine and laughing. They did this every year before Annie died.

  On the other side of that line was also her mother—soft on the outside, but strong on the inside. Molly Clarke had never missed a cross-country meet or talent show or football game. She’d crawled into bed with them when they were sick or had nightmares or just because they’d asked her to. She had been the definition of home, the embodiment of family. A sacred symbol of the most primal human connection. Mother and child. How ironic that it had been her dedication that left one of them dead.

  Nic had thought of her family as special. Idyllic. Perfect. Maybe Annie had been her punishment.

  Kurt the bartender. He had pulled her back across that line to a time when the men she chose, the boys then, were the kind ones.

  Kurt busied himself with another task. “So was she helpful?”

  “I don’t know,” Nic answered. “Reyes thinks she might be lying. Something about her E-ZPass records and her story about coming from New York City. Thinks she might be after the reward money.”

  “Oh yeah?” Kurt asked. “Makes sense. It is strange she waited so long. What did you say her name was?”

  “I didn’t—it’s Edith Moore. Lives in Schenectady.”

  Kurt’s face grew still. “Edith—kind of an older woman’s name, right? Is she?”

  “Is she what?”

  “Older?”

  Nic shrugged. “Older than we are. Younger than my mother. Why—did you see someone from out of town that night? Before you closed the bar?”

  Kurt looked up at the ceiling as though deep in thought. His hand moved to his chin. His actions seemed exaggerated, like he was overselling his contemplation.

  “Don’t think so. But I also closed up pretty early.”

  She asked another question, her eyes fixed on his face now so she could assess his reaction.

  “But you’ve never heard of her? Edith Moore?”

  Kurt took her glass and put it in the sink. He wiped the water ring from the counter.

  “Nah,” he said. His voice was steady. His expression giving nothing away.

  Still, something was off.

  “I should go.” Nic climbed down from the stool, pushed it back in.

  But Kurt stopped her. “Hey,” he said. “Did you ever follow up on that girl?”

  “What girl?”

  “The girl who disappeared ten years ago.”

  She tried to find a trace of a memory but there was nothing. “No. Did you tell me the last time I was here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you tell me again?”

  Kurt waved his hand dismissively, now that he had her full attention. Now that Edith Moore and the story of the truck had been pushed aside.

  “It’s probably not related. She was young, like nineteen. Local girl. Grew up in Hastings. People thought she disappeared but then it turned out she left on her own. Didn’t want her boyfriend to follow her. She wrote to him after a while, but I remember people thinking something bad happened.”

  “Did she ever come back?”

  “Would you?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I guess she was trying to get away—from Hastings. Maybe from her boyfriend. Or both. I didn�
�t know her that well.”

  Nic was more than curious now. “Which do you think it was?” she asked. “Running from the town or from a man?”

  Kurt shrugged. “I’ve got no idea.”

  She looked at him until he met her eyes.

  “Who would know?”

  “Just one person I can think of,” he answered. “Her sister.”

  “Where can I find her?” There was something about this that had her full attention. Another woman who’d disappeared, assumed to have walked away.

  Kurt glanced out the window, across the street at the inn, then back at her.

  “I’ll take you,” he said. “After my shift.”

  11

  Day two

  We sit at a small table in the kitchen. It is round and has four chairs. We eat sandwiches. Alice drinks milk. Milk sits before me as well, but I do not drink it. I should have asked for water, but I did not want to upset Alice. She poured me the milk. I hate milk.

  The man drinks a beer. His mood has been the same since we walked back from the edge of the property. Helpful. Kind.

  Alice makes us hold hands because she wants to say grace. I feel my right hand taken by the man who reaches across the table. I feel my left hand taken by Alice. As she says her prayer, I say my own. I pray that neither of them can feel the blisters on my skin.

  “Thank you, Lord, for these blessings. For the food, and the milk,” she says. Her eyes are closed as she speaks. But then she opens them and looks at me.

  “And forgive us for our sins. Amen.”

  She was angry when the man brought me back to the house. I had been gone for well over an hour. I had no idea, and I didn’t care. I wasn’t planning to return. Now I don’t know what to think or feel. I cling to hope.

  When we returned, the man brought me more clothes from his dead wife. I have not seen my clothes since last night, but he told me he put them on an outside line to dry since the sun was strong today. After dinner, I will offer to retrieve them.

  Angry as she was, Alice still offered to give me the mask for my allergies, but I told her I didn’t need it. I told her I felt pretty good after such a long walk. This brought a smile to her face. She had been worried about me.

  The man brought home lunch. Cold sandwiches and a bag of potato chips. He said that after we ate he would take me back to town.

  The power is still out. The phone still dead. The portable generator is running the boiler in the basement so we have heat and hot water. It also runs the stove. It has lasted all night and into this afternoon. Even without the gas. But maybe that’s not true. Maybe those cans were full.

  Alice swings her legs as she eats. It makes her body bounce and her long hair swoosh from side to side. She wears a pink sweater with purple leggings that are too small. Bunny slippers hang from her swinging feet.

  I try to eat. I feel the effects of the exhaustion and hunger and it is not productive. I hold the sandwich in my sore hand and bring it to my mouth. Chew. Swallow. But I am anxious to be done. I want to go to town and see for myself the things I’ve been told.

  First, my car was not on the side of the road. He thinks it probably got towed somewhere. Everything is shut down and the police are too busy to check on it.

  Second, he couldn’t find my purse. He said I must have left it on the side of the road. Or maybe in my car. But I know this is not right. I can still feel it clutched in my hand as I waved down his truck with both arms, over my head. The way I always do when I’m not thinking about it. It registers in my thoughts because Evan and Nicole find it embarrassing. I reason with myself that some people are not good at finding things, that maybe it is in the truck, under a seat, and that he just didn’t look hard enough.

  Because, third, he called all the numbers I gave him but no one picked up. He left messages for them. John. Nicole. A few friends. He showed me his phone log—the numbers in black with the little arrow next to them. Then he showed me the voicemail box, which was empty.

  I thought that this could not be true. But then I considered that perhaps it is true. Perhaps they didn’t recognize his number and did not pick up. We’ve been getting dozens of robocalls lately, and from all different numbers. Maybe there hasn’t been time for them to check their messages.

  The man sits back in his chair, legs splayed wide, forearms on the table.

  After dinner, we will go to town and call my family again. We will stop by the police station and ask about my car. I will have my clothes from the line. And that will be that.

  “I’m sorry I got lost on my walk,” I say cheerfully. I direct my gaze at Alice and smile.

  “I didn’t realize there were bears. That’s so scary,” I say. “Do they ever come up to the house? I’ve heard they can be very aggressive when they want food.”

  Alice looks to the man who nods. Only then does she answer.

  “One time they went through the garbage. But it might have been raccoons. They like the garbage too. And they’re so big!”

  I don’t feel like talking, but I want to be polite. I make my eyes grow wide with amazement. “We have big raccoons where we live,” I say. “My husband put a lock on the garbage cans to keep them from coming. They gave up after a while.”

  The man’s phone sits on the kitchen counter near his wallet. I glance at it now. I have to remind myself that there is nothing to check until we get back in range. Still, it reminds me that he tried to call and no one answered.

  It was hard to believe without seeing the phone log. I didn’t even have to ask him—I think he knew how unbelievable it was.

  I’ve been missing for twenty-four hours. They should be glued to their phones. They should answer every call—even the robocalls now. Wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t they answer every single call? Even though my husband doesn’t love me. Even though my daughter hates me. They would be desperate to find me. This sickens me, this thought of my family in despair.

  And now another thought—maybe they don’t know I’m missing. Is that possible? That they haven’t even noticed I’m gone?

  I struggle to make conversation.

  “I saw smoke when I was lost in the woods. Are we close to the neighbors?” I ask.

  Alice shrugs like she has no idea. I believe her. My kids never knew how far things were unless they got there themselves, by foot or by bike.

  I stop myself quickly from having this thought. Annie was on foot that day. Running to catch the ice cream truck. She’d heard the bells. The jingle. She’d heard it pass by and knew where it would stop—on the corner of our street and the road that heads to town. Our town. There’s a small park on that corner. The truck would stop there and kids would come running from the park, lining up to buy ice cream. When I was home, I would walk with them. Down the driveway. Down the street. I would hold their hands and look for cars coming around the bend. We would cross the street to the sidewalk.

  But I wasn’t home that day.

  “It’s far,” the man says. “Too far to walk without getting eaten by a bear.” I wonder how he can say this when Alice is afraid of the bears.

  “Alice said your wife got lost in the woods,” I tell him. The things Alice told me linger in my thoughts. That’s how my first mommy died.

  The man looks at Alice now. Then back to me.

  “It’s true,” he says. But when he hesitates, I know this is a lie he tells for Alice, and that he knows how ridiculous it sounds. “She went into the woods and never came back.” And that was that. His tone has a finality to it and I know to leave well enough alone. Still—he joked about the bears, didn’t he?

  Finish lunch. Get to town.

  Alice seems upset by this talk of her first mommy. I wonder if she was Alice’s real mother, and if she loved her. Alice is so hungry for love. It’s a hunger that could swallow a person whole.

  “It’s not as bad as how your daughter died,” Alice says.

  The man looks between us, curious.

  “She was hit by a car. She ran into the street,” she
says.

  I feel violated but I try not to react. I try not to let my emotions run wild. She is just a child.

  She is just a child.

  Alice now strikes at my heart. “You were driving that car,” she says. “That means you weren’t a very good mommy.”

  My eyes stare at her as she stares at me and I can’t look away. Suddenly I see Annie’s face. Annie’s blond hair and blue eyes. Annie’s feet swinging beneath the table. And Annie saying those words, the ones she must have been thinking when she felt the impact of the car, hurling metal crushing her bones, sending her into the air, her head smashing against the pavement.

  That car.

  My car.

  I hear her voice. My sweet, sweet girl.

  You were not a good mommy.

  No, my darling. I wasn’t. I let you die. I killed you.

  I feel tears streak my face. Alice and the man watch me with curiosity and wonder, and I no longer care what happened here. I don’t know what loss they’ve suffered and how they know these things about me.

  I never told her that I was driving the car.

  It is inhuman the way they watch me cry for my dead child.

  “Should we clean up and go to town,” I say with a shaky voice. The hope that this will happen is fading but I don’t know what to put in its place.

  The man stares at me. Then he says, cheerfully, “Sure.”

  I stand. I gather plates. My hand are full when a distinct sound stuns us all.

  From the kitchen counter comes a ringing. The man’s cell phone. A call is coming in. A call reaching this house that he said has no reception.

  I look at him now with disbelief as the weight of this information bears down against my chest. I can’t breathe.

  “Looks like there’s service today,” I say. I wait for a reaction. He is still. There is no expression. The plates are in my hands. I stand between the man and his phone. I shift my weight toward the counter, toward the phone. My feet are still, but he senses something. My intentions. My desperation. My doubt.

  If there is service in this house, then everything he’s told me could also be a lie. My car. My purse. The calls to my family. I slide one foot closer to the counter, and it’s now that he finally moves.