“SHE’S NOT GONE!” Karyn screamed into the phone.
“What?” Kiana said, choking on tears and snot. “What do you mean? She’s dead. I saw her. Don’t lie to me again. She’s dead, Karyn. She’s gone.”
“Not to me,” Karyn said softly. “She’s not gone. In my mind, in my heart, she is here.” Her voice echoed against the empty house; Kiana pictured her on the sofa, the only furniture besides a second-hand coffee table in the middle of the front room. She clutched the phone with one hand, the other hand holding her head, her palm pressed against her forehead. It was the way Karyn always sat when she talked about serious things, painful things. Kiana saw it clearly, the wide open space of the front room where she had been chastised and lectured—skipping school, stealing candy, kissing girls, and drinking. She had helped Karyn finally clear out all of Mrs. Joyce’s things only a year ago, and had promised to help her redecorate, another promise broken.
“She’s not gone,” Karyn repeated. “She died, but she’s still here. She’s always here. She’s here for me, and for you, Kiana.”
Kiana cried into the phone. A few passersby screwed their faces at her, but she didn’t care. She folded herself down, squatting slowly before plopping onto the flat top of a large, jagged rock. She looked out at the muddy river, her vision blurred by tears, the smell of dirt and rain accenting her deep sobs.
“Come home,” Karyn said. “Please come home.”
“I will,” Kiana said. She slid the phone from her ear and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
Chapter Seventeen
The hotel had simmered down, but not by much. Full tables of clacking silverware and clinking glasses replaced the lines snaking to and from the front desk. Kiana walked across the lobby with her hands stuffed in the pockets of her jeans. The bar beckoned. She couldn’t deny it. She wanted a drink. Yet, she didn’t want a drink. It was a strange feeling. Her mouth watered and muscles tensed as she passed the bar, trying not to look at the bottles lining the back wall, trying not to stare into the faces of the people who sipped happily on cocktails and chugged joyfully on beers.
Kiana paused at the elevator, debating. Her head needed quiet. A drink would quiet the painful throbbing. A drink would quiet the voices—Karyn’s voice, Genevieve’s voice, her own voice. But as much as she yearned for the numbing silence of it all, she needed to hear what the voices had to say. She may have wanted a drink, but she needed to listen. She took out her phone and scrolled to Genevieve’s number. She pushed the button for the elevator then pressed “send” to call Genevieve for the twenty-first time. Straight to voice mail. She ended the call without leaving a message, and staring down at Genevieve’s blinking name and number, she debated calling again.
“Kiana!” a voice boomed across the lobby. She looked up from her phone. Michelle’s fiancé, Michael, came bounding up the hall. Random strands of hair stuck straight up from his frizzy, unbrushed waves, and a shadow of coarse hair covered his cheeks and chin. “Kiana! I need to talk to you!”
The elevator door opened with a ding. Kiana slid her phone into her pocket and sighed. Michael’s eyes, puffy, red, and wild, crinkled in relief when Kiana let the elevator door close without stepping inside.
“Thank you. Thank you,” he said. He reached out to her then corrected himself when Kiana pulled back.
“What do you want?” Kiana said. She glanced over at the bar.
“Have you…” he began, his voice wavering. He cleared his throat and ran a hand over his scruffy hair. “Have you seen Michelle? I can’t…I can’t find her. No one has heard from her.”
“No, I haven’t,” Kiana said. “How long has she been missing?”
“Since her party. No one has heard from her since the party.”
Kiana looked away. A flash of memory. Michelle’s lips grazing her ear. Just one taste. Deep pink drinks. Breath like menthol cigarettes. Pills.
“No,” she said again. “I haven’t seen her.”
Michael’s body slumped. Being so tall, the gesture seemed exaggerated. It was odd seeing him so lanky and weak. His charcoal gray slacks looked dull, and the wrinkles in his untucked undershirt made it look like he had just tumbled from bed. Kiana remembered the first time she saw him. Met him. Confident and sure, his smile and his eyes full of satisfaction, his neat hair, smooth face, and tailored suit, exuding success.
“It’s just that no one has heard from her. No one knows where she is.” He clasped his hands together, his long fingers locking as if in prayer. “Please, if you know something. Anything.” His eyes begged Kiana to allay his worst fears.
Kiana tried to imagine exactly what that meant. What were his worst fears? That Michelle was hurt or that she was upstairs?
“I swear to you. I haven’t seen her since the party, and I don’t know where she is,” Kiana said.
“But you were at the party? So you were with her there?” Michael searched Kiana’s eyes, staring into them deeply.
“Michael, what are you doing here?” Kiana said. “What do you want?”
“I know, all right?” he said.
“You know what?” Kiana shrugged. Her mind plagued with darkness when she tried to recall the details of the night, she tried to push past the alcoholic haze.
“I know you used to fuck my fiancée!” Michael raised his voice, walking up on Kiana. A few people from the dining room turned their heads. The bartender stopped rattling the shaker and frowned in their direction.
Kiana swallowed hard. Her fists clenched at her sides, her shoulders squared. “So what? Yeah, I used to be involved with Michelle, but that’s over. It’s been over.”
“I’m not stupid.” His lips snarled over his straight, white teeth. “You’re still in love with her.”
“No. I’m not,” Kiana said with a certainty that surprised her. It was the truth, as real as gravity. The time she spent with Michelle in the past was a high, the excitement of finding someone who accepted her as is lifted her up. Yet in reality, being with Michelle was just like drinking. The high, the intoxication, the feeling of weightlessness. It was all temporary. It never lasted. Kiana always came crashing down, hurting herself and everyone around her more and more each time.
“I’m not in love with her,” she said again.
“Prove it,” Michael said. He looked like he wanted to punch her, like maybe he wanted to grab her around the neck and choke her.
Kiana’s hand traveled slowly to her chest, her fingers moving up to her neck. The bouncer had choked her outside the VIP. She had almost forgotten. She swallowed again, the soreness in her throat suddenly more than acid burn from vomiting. What else happened last night? Genevieve helped her with the bouncer, had been with her after. Why didn’t she take her calls?
“Prove it? You sound ridiculous. How the hell can I prove it?” Kiana said.
“Help me find her,” Michael said.
Chapter Eighteen
Kiana shouldn’t have agreed. She went bar to bar, hotel to hotel in the Quarter, Michael nearby. He checked upstairs while she checked downstairs; he searched inside lounges while she searched outside patios. They made their way to Jackson Square, the throngs of tourists posing in front of the Jackson statue, the steed rearing up in triumph. Kiana dipped into gift shops and cafés; Michael called out Michelle’s name on crowded corners.
“This is stupid,” Kiana said. She leaned against a storefront catching her breath.
“It’s not stupid,” Michael said. He took out his phone and called Michelle’s cell. “Still straight to fucking voice mail.” He kicked at a small display of New Orleans postcards and key chains. It shook and rattled. Kiana reached out to steady it. “Did you try calling her?” Michael asked.
“No. You said her phone is going straight to voice mail, so calling wouldn’t make a difference.” She shrugged and thought of Genevieve. Her phone, too, kept going to voice mail. Kiana thought about her calls not even registering, going unnoticed, unmissed. She bit at the inside of her cheek, trying t
o remember more of what happened after the party.
“Where do you want to look next?” Michael said. He spit into the street. The action seemed dirty and common. The search had deflated him, brought him low. He had been bright and shiny when Kiana first met him, now he looked tired and dull. The light gone from his eyes. The charm vanished from his voice. Kiana felt sorry for him, yet exhaustion and the stress of her own miseries had gotten the best of her.
“Michael, I’m really sorry Michelle is missing,” Kiana said. “Maybe she’s just nervous about the wedding tomorrow. Brides get cold feet, too, right?” She forced a smile that Michael didn’t return. “You should go back to the hotel. She’s probably already there.”
“She’s not there. She would call.” He spoke through clenched teeth, his jaws tight.
Kiana sighed. She looked up and down the street. She shook her head. “Just go back to the hotel. I’m sure she’ll call you. She’ll come back.”
Michael started to speak, but his voice caught. He cleared his throat and spit again. “Let’s check the French Market then come back by the café one more time.” He reached out a hand. Kiana didn’t pull back. Michael squeezed her arm. “Please,” he said, his eyes watering.
Kiana agreed. She and Michael walked around the market. She weaved in and out the crowds sifting through scarves and hats, trying on sunglasses and jewelry, tasting hot sauces and seasonings. She met up with Michael at a small fountain, a painting of the French Market framed in brilliant blue as the backdrop, a statue of a woman, small breasts and full thighs reclining in satisfaction. Kiana shook her head in defeat, and she and Michael walked back toward Café Du Monde.
At the café, the usual swarms of tourists shuffled between the tables, the smell of sugar and roasted coffee thick as smoke. Kiana scanned the tables and line; pigeons cooed and fluttered about as she circled the seating area. She walked from one side to the other, finally stopping outside the green covered dining area. She walked away from the café and rested against a small railing near a bench and light post. Palm bushes rustled in the breeze. She took out her phone. She put it back. She took it out again. She wanted to call Genevieve again. She had to keep trying. The loud, rolling growl of a Harley startled her. She pushed herself off the gate and turned to face the street.
Taz, her platinum hair unmistakable, her body just as big and broad as Kiana remembered, twisted the throttle on her bike, bluish gray smoke curling out the twin chrome pipes on either side of the thick rear tire. Kiana scanned the sidewalk, peered through people strolling up the street and pouring in and out of the café. A man, spray-painted to look like shiny metal, set up a boom box and wooden platform right in front of her. She rushed past him, almost knocking him over, paint smudging her arm and T-shirt. The motorcycle revved once more. Then, Genevieve. She looked sad. In a simple white T-shirt and skinny jeans, she looked small. She clutched a small white bag from the café and made her way to Taz’s Harley.
Kiana ran up to her, grabbing Genevieve’s arm before she could swing her leg over the back of the rumbling motorcycle. Genevieve reared back, yanking her arm from Kiana’s grip.
“Get the fuck away from me,” Genevieve said.
“Why? Why won’t you talk to me?” Kiana asked.
“Kiana? Kiana!” Michael called her from just beneath the green and white awning of the café.
Kiana didn’t turn around. She pleaded with Genevieve. The throbbing ache instantly reclaimed her head. She hadn’t noticed the headache had subsided until that moment, the pain coming back tenfold. “Please, Genevieve, talk to me.”
“I don’t have shit to say to you.” Genevieve nearly spat the words out. Her fist crunched at her small white bag. Taz glanced over her shoulder, mirrored sunglasses hiding her eyes, her full lips already turning down. She took in air and looked to Genevieve. Genevieve shook her head. “I got it, Taz. It’s all right.”
“Genevieve,” Kiana said. “I don’t understand. If I did something, just…just tell me what I did.”
“Don’t call me anymore. Ever.” Genevieve turned and tapped Taz on the shoulder. She swung her leg up and climbed on the back of the bike.
“V! V! Whatever it was, I—” Kiana stopped. She caught herself. V. She had called her V. The motorcycle roared as it pulled away from the curb. The smoke choked Kiana where she stood. Her throat burned, and her eyes watered. She blinked, the burn intensifying and tears spilling from her eyes. Everything before her blurred. She blinked again, and it all came back. Every second of it came rushing back. Every tear. Every word. Every ache. Every touch. Every kiss. Every drink.
Every. Drink.
“Who was that?” Michael asked, walking up to Kiana. She didn’t respond. He shook her shoulder. “I said, who was that? Do they know where Michelle is? Kiana, who was that?” He shook her, but she only stared at him, blinking and panting. “Kiana! Kiana!” he screamed at her face.
She snapped out of it. She wrenched herself from his grip. “I have to go,” she said.
“You can’t leave,” Michael said. “I need your help.”
Kiana shook her head. “The kind of help you need, I can’t give you.” She turned from him and started walking away, slowly, her entire body heavy metal, her heart fired white hot and beaten flat.
Chapter Nineteen
Kiana sat at the bar. The bartender had asked her twice what he could get for her; each time, Kiana said she needed a minute. She looked across the shiny black granite and surveyed the bottles. The various shapes. The different sizes. The varying colors. Dark brown, light brown. Clear. Pale pink. Deep green. Blue. Gold.
“Made a decision? What’s your poison?” the bartender asked. His blue eyes twinkling, his yellow blond hair shaggy around his ears.
Kiana looked again at the collection of bottles. She licked her lips and fidgeted with the corner of the black plastic napkin holder in front of her. Her leg bounced on the bottom of her barstool. She should just get up and leave. But she couldn’t. It hurt to move. It hurt to breathe. She thought about what she had done to Genevieve. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“Oh-kay,” the bartender said. “I’ll give you another minute.” He backed away and headed to the end of the bar where a man sat sipping a shot and a beer. The two men cackled; the bartender slapped at the bar, nearly doubling over in laughter.
Kiana stared at herself in the mirror but couldn’t take the sight of her own face. She glanced up at the television. SportsCenter. A report on cycling. Bicycles whipping through cobbled streets, up steep mountain trails, down paved roads. She thought about her bike ride with Genevieve. The happiest moment she’d had while in New Orleans. She thought about her mother, the memory she’d had, the vision of her the bike ride conjured.
“That gentleman down there,” the bartender said, walking toward her and jutting his thumb at the man at the end of the bar. “Said your drink is on him.” The bartender smiled. “So, my friend, what do you want? Anything at all.”
Kiana met the bartender’s playful brown eyes. “I want my mama,” she said.
The bartender pulled back, his face crinkling in confusion. “What is—”
Kiana raised her hand to stop him. She shook her head and pushed herself off the stool and left the bar.
Chapter Twenty
Once inside her room, Kiana kicked off her sneakers at the door, tossed her wallet and cell phone on the nightstand, and pulled the spread off the bed. She climbed on top of the crisp white sheets and lay on her back. She stared at the ceiling and sighed. Her body, tired and still feeling heavy, welcomed the softness of the bed, the coolness of the fresh sheets.
The sun was setting, and Kiana watched the shadows in the room take shape. She closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. She sat up. She looked around the room. The empty ice bucket and clean glasses on the desk caught her eye. Her flask lay on its side near the hotel services binder. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her eyes glued to the flask. She bounced her leg and ran her hands
over her hair. She picked out the back that had been flattened against the pillow. She bit at the inside of her cheek then stopped, licking her lips and sighing, all the while staring at the flask. She stood up.
At the desk, she pushed the button on the side of the lamp. A soft yellow glow illuminated the metal flask like a spotlight. It frightened her, the flask did. She was afraid to pick it up, scared that if it had booze in it, she would drink it. She nudged it with her finger. She also feared it to be empty, for if she picked it up and it was, a hope that disgusted her, but a hope all the same, would be dashed. Disappointed that the flask was empty, and even more upset at the weakness that made her check in the first place, she would collapse into the defeat of it all. She should head to the bar. A free drink was waiting. A friend waiting. She stared at the silver flask. She looked over her shoulder. It was eight o’clock. She realized she hadn’t eaten all day. She hadn’t been hungry, and still wasn’t. She rubbed her stomach. Looking down at her arm, she noticed the smudge of metallic paint.
Kiana went into the bathroom. She turned on the faucet to wash her arm. She looked at herself in the mirror, then glanced at the floor of the bathroom, the tub, over her shoulder at the room, the carpet, the dent in the wall. Her mind couldn’t focus on one thing. She stared down at the running water. She turned it off. She leaned forward, getting close enough to the mirror to see her pores, close enough that the air from her nostrils puffed against the glass, fogging it.
Fuck this, Kiana said to herself. She left the bathroom and walked past the desk, past her flask. She swiped her wallet from the nightstand but left her phone. She left the room.
*
The elevators opened to the quiet hall. The dining room was empty. The bar, too.
“Hey, you’re back,” the pale-faced bartender said with a wide grin full of gray teeth. “Your patron is gone, but I’ll pour you up on the house. You’ll have to tell me what a ‘Mama’ is though. I don’t know that one.” He laughed.
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