Somebody I Used to Know

by David Bell

  “From behind,” Laurel said. “And she didn’t respond to the name.”

  “Come on.”

  “Come on?” she asked. “Where are we going?”

  I scooted forward in my chair. “Hanfort. Let’s go to Hanfort together. We can ask around. We can find people who knew Marissa’s family. Her friends from high school. You say they fell off the face of the earth. Well, let’s go to where they were living right before they fell. Maybe there’s something there. If not, I’ll leave it alone. It’s easier than going to Colorado.”

  “I don’t believe you’ll leave it alone,” she said.

  “Okay, I’ll leave you alone. I won’t ask for anything else.”

  “I don’t believe that either.” She gave me a look full of regret. “I don’t know. I can’t just up and go like you can. I have—”

  She stopped herself, but I knew what was coming next.

  “I get it,” I said. “You have a spouse. You have a family. And I don’t. It’s true.”

  “I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” she said. “Sorry. I just mean I have to check and make sure.”

  She pulled out her phone and started scrolling through, checking her schedule, I assumed.

  “I’m not alone,” I said. “I have Riley.”

  He looked up at the mention of his name. Then he put his head right back down and closed his eyes.

  “And Heather,” Laurel said, her voice distracted.

  “You really don’t like her, do you?” I asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “You don’t have to beat around the bush. Give it to me straight.”

  “Sorry,” Laurel said. “I just always thought she was a little bizarre, a little . . . I don’t know. Untrustworthy.”

  “That’s harsh, Laurel.”

  “She’s always had a thing for you,” she said.

  “Can you blame her?” I asked.

  Laurel rolled her eyes. “Just watch your back.”

  “I already am,” I said. I told her about the gas station and the near miss with the silver sedan. “Can you believe that?” I asked.

  Laurel looked genuinely concerned. “Shit, Nick. There are a lot of careless people in the world.”

  “Indeed.” I waited a moment. “Should I be worried about it? Do you think it was intentional?”

  Laurel’s forehead wrinkled. “You mean you think someone might have wanted to hurt you? Maybe kill you?”

  Stated out loud in that way, it sounded a little crazy. “Forget it,” I said. “I don’t know what I think.”

  “If you want to call the police in that town . . .”

  “I don’t even remember where I was,” I said. “It’s fine.” I looked down at the obituaries again. Both of them contained those awful words: “Preceded in death by a daughter, Marissa.”

  How could words on a page make someone feel sick? They did. I could barely look at them, even after twenty years.

  Then something else on the page caught my eye. I wasn’t sure what it was at first, but it struck a silent chord in my memory. I scanned the obituary again. It was only listed in Joan’s obituary, the most recent one. It meant something, but I wasn’t sure what.

  “Do me a favor?” I asked. “Right next to you on the couch is the newspaper with Emily Russell’s funeral details in it. Can you hand it to me?”

  Laurel did. “What?” she asked.

  “Hold on.”

  I scanned the article all the way to the end. I saw what I was looking for and handed the paper and the obituary for Marissa’s mother back to Laurel.

  “Read her mother’s obituary and then read the one for Emily,” I said.

  Laurel did, and I saw a moment of recognition spread across her face.

  “Do you see it?” I asked.

  “I see that the same charity is listed in Emily’s obituary as is listed in Joan Minor’s obituary. Something called Catholic Charities. Was Marissa’s family Catholic? They were, weren’t they?”

  “Yes. Don’t you think it’s weird that they both have the same charity listed?” I asked, my voice rising along with my hope.

  “Wait.” Laurel pulled her phone out and started tapping away. Her brow furrowed. “It’s huge, a national charity dedicated to eradicating poverty and educating the poor.” She looked up at me. “Anybody could pick that, especially Catholics. It’s like the United Way or something.”

  “You said ‘eradicating poverty’? Marissa’s father had no interest in that. She used to say his politics and lack of charity appalled her. He was a pull-yourself-up-by-your-own-bootstraps guy.”

  “But it wasn’t listed in his,” Laurel said, tapping one of the papers. “His asks for donations to the local Rotary club. So maybe Mom was more charitable. And how many Catholic obituaries do you think asked for donations to Catholic Charities? Thousands? It’s really not anything special.”

  I felt a little deflated. “You’re sure you don’t want to go to Hanfort?” I asked.

  “And do what?” she asked.

  “Get closer to the source,” I said. “I don’t know.”

  Laurel came over and gave me a hug. “Let’s keep our options open.”

  “That sounds like a dismissal.”

  “I have to get going,” she said. “But we’ll talk soon.”

  “That is a dismissal,” I said. And she was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  After Laurel left, I opened my laptop and did more searching on the Catholic Charities website. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but the obituary made me curious. Had Marissa’s mother simply felt herself pulled more toward the Church when she knew she was dying and so wanted money donated to that cause? Or had Jade, her only surviving daughter, picked the charity?

  When I knew Jade she wasn’t remotely religious. She used to skip church when the rest of the family went, and when they did manage to get her to attend, she often fell asleep during the homily. So any religious feeling she had acquired had come to her long after I knew her. No surprise there. Teenagers resisted and then sometimes came around as adults.

  I looked and looked. I read a lot about Catholic social justice and eradicating poverty. Charts and graphs popped up telling me what percentage of the world’s children lived in poverty and how many of those children Catholic Charities helped every year. So much information came at me as I clicked and scrolled through the site that my eyes started to glaze over, and I reached the conclusion that the Minors knew a good cause when they saw one.

  Then I saw the tab on the bottom about the sanctity of life. I clicked there.

  The page that opened was no longer about eradicating poverty. It was about life, as in preserving unborn life. Catholic Charities had an entire branch of their organization dedicated to counseling unwed mothers and placing the children of those mothers with “loving, forever families.”

  Another link took me to a list of “success stories,” families who had adopted children through Catholic Charities and were so happy they couldn’t contain their joy. At least according to the pictures shared on the website.

  I remembered what Margie, Mrs. Russell’s cousin, told me in the cemetery. Emily was adopted as an infant and so was her sister. Emily was adopted and looked so much like Marissa.

  “Margie,” I said out loud, stretching my brain to remember. “Margie Rhineback from Paducah.”

  * * *

  It took a lot of explaining before Margie remembered me. First I had to remind her of our conversation in the cemetery at Emily’s funeral, and then I had to explain how easy it was to find her phone number through an online database. She didn’t like that at all.

  “I’m going to have to get my number taken out of there,” she said.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that what happens on the Internet stays on the Internet.

  “I was
hoping I could ask you something, Margie,” I said.

  “I guess so.”

  “When we were at the cemetery you told me that Emily was adopted by her parents when she was an infant.”

  A long pause. “Okay.”

  “Do you happen to know the name of the adoption agency they found Emily through?”

  Another long pause. “Why do you want to know about this?”

  I decided honesty was the best policy. “This might sound kind of crazy, but I’m trying to find out if Emily had any connection to a family I once knew. It’s a long shot, I know, but I pretty much only have long shots left. Have you ever felt that way?”

  “Sure. I think I know what you mean.” She made a slurping noise like she was taking a drink. “But I’m afraid I don’t know anything about it.”

  I let out a little sigh of disappointment. But what did I expect? Still, I asked. “Was Emily adopted through Catholic Charities?”

  “I don’t know,” Margie said. “Could be. Her parents are pretty devout about their faith, as am I. All I remember is that the mother who gave Emily up was young, a college student, I think. And it was a closed adoption, completely closed. The mother gave up the baby and turned away. All adoptions used to be like that, of course, back in my day. But now things tend more toward the open. But not this one. It was free and clear. Emily’s parents liked it that way, I think.”

  My heart jumped. “A college student? Do you know where she lived?”

  “They adopted the baby in Tennessee, I think. They used to live there. They moved around a lot. Maybe it wasn’t Tennessee. But it wasn’t in Kentucky. I know that.”

  “Ohio?”

  “What?”

  “Did they adopt her in Ohio?” I asked.

  “No, not Ohio,” Margie said.

  “How about Colorado?” I asked.

  “Are you going to go through all fifty states?”

  “No. Colorado is the last one,” I said.

  “They never lived in Colorado. Mostly in the Southeast. Look, I don’t really feel comfortable talking about their business this way. This young girl’s dead, remember? A family is grieving.”

  I felt appropriately chastened. And Margie was right. What did I expect to learn from chasing down cold trails?

  “Thanks, Margie,” I said. “You’re right.”

  “They’re a good family. A loving family.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “I’m sure they loved Emily a lot.”

  “They did,” she said. “I’m sure somebody loves you a lot too.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You know . . .”

  “What?”

  “Those charities . . . from what I know, you don’t have to adopt a kid from the area you’re living in. I mean, you could get a baby from anywhere in the country, I suppose.”

  My heart lifted. “Yeah, you’re probably right. And you say this girl was in college when she gave the baby up?”

  “I think so. A college girl. Supposed to be smart, well-balanced, and from a good family. Maybe they tell everybody that. Anyway, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  “I hope so too.”

  I figured there was only one place to hope to find it.

  * * *

  I called Laurel when I was off the phone with Margie. When she answered I cut right to the chase.

  “I’ve been asking way too much of you,” I said, “and I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “You don’t have to help me anymore. This is my mess, and I’ll figure it out. Okay?”

  “Nick—”

  “But, look, I’m going to Hanfort. I have to. It’s the only way to get a little closer to the heart of things. I can’t take a trip to Colorado, but Marissa’s hometown is right up the road. That charity, they handle adoptions as well. And Emily was adopted and she looks just like Marissa. I’ll let you know when I get back—”

  “Nick?”

  “What?”

  “I was just about to call you. I talked to Tony. I cleared my schedule. I can go up there with you if you want.”

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. I can spare a day, maybe two.”

  “Thanks, Laurel.”

  “There’s a catch, though.”

  “What’s the catch?” I asked.

  “It’s pretty bad.”

  “How bad could it be?” I asked.

  “Sally has to write a report on The Canterbury Tales, and I’ve got news for you—neither her dad nor I is going to wade through that shit with her. Guess who’s elected?”

  “Uncle Nick?” I said. “I’m there.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I lay in bed late that night, reading and trying to make myself tired. I could only think about the next day and our trip. I felt like a little kid before the class visit to the zoo. I’d packed, and I’d taken Laurel up on her offer to let her kids watch Riley.

  Heather had texted me an hour earlier, asking what I was doing and did I want to come over? I wrote back and said I was busy. Maybe another time. She didn’t respond. I didn’t regret sleeping with her. I tried to remember the last time I’d spent the night with someone, and I had a hard time figuring it out. Riley was a great companion, but there was something to be said for having a woman in my bed, someone warm and soft and whose breath didn’t make my eyes water. Heather and I had a long history. It wasn’t exactly easy, but we knew each other well.

  My phone rang. I expected it to be Laurel. Or a mistake. Apparently my number used to belong to a guy named Lonnie who had a lot of friends. They liked to call Lonnie late, and they never believed me when I told them he wasn’t there.

  But this was a call from Gina.

  I straightened up against my pillows when I saw her name on the caller ID.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Am I calling too late?” she asked, her voice low and cautious.

  “Not at all. Is something wrong?”

  “No, nothing’s wrong. We’re both fine.”

  “That’s good,” I said. I laid my book aside. It wasn’t grabbing my interest anyway. There was a long pause, so I filled the gap. “I want to thank you for arranging my conversation with Dale. I know it was tough, but I appreciate it.”

  “I hope it helped,” she said.

  “It did.” Long pause. “He seemed like a nice guy.”

  “He is,” she said, and chose not to offer any more details. I really didn’t care if she dated someone else—we were long past the point of worrying about those things. We’d both moved on from our marriage, except for the everyday business of just trying to get along as human beings. That had its ups and downs.

  “Well . . .” I said.

  “I saw that stuff on the news,” she said, “the stuff about you being some kind of suspect in this murder.”

  “Oh, crap. Did Andrew see it?”

  Gina took her time answering. “He saw it.”

  “Shit. I knew it.”

  “But he doesn’t fully understand it,” she said. “And I explained to him that you didn’t do anything wrong. I told him you’d never hurt anybody. He knows that. You don’t have to worry about him. He adores you.”

  Sentimental fool that I was, my eyes filled a little. I reached up and brushed at them with my free hand. “Thanks. I didn’t doubt that. Even after the police came to your house to haul me away, I knew you would stick up for me.”

  Gina laughed, a low, throaty sound. “You put on quite a show.”

  “I try.”

  “Really I’m just calling to make sure you’re doing okay.” She laughed again, a comment on the absurdity of my troubles. “I know you have a lot going on, and this stuff in the news just made me worry about you. Our last conversation didn’t end well, and I said some things.�
�

  “It’s fine.” My hand rested on the book I’d laid aside. I riffled the pages, fanning them like I was shuffling a deck of cards. “You were right the other night, the things you said about Marissa. And our marriage. I wasn’t aware of it at the time, not consciously anyway. But she was always there, somewhere. It wasn’t fair to you.”

  “I survived. I’m a big girl.” I heard her take a sip of something. Wine? Was that the truth serum that made her call? “You know, for a while I thought you were hung up on her just because she died young. When people die young they get kind of frozen in time. Never aging. Never fading. It’s weird. There was this guy who disappeared from my dorm when I was in college. My first year at Ohio State. I didn’t know him, but I remember seeing the flyers with his picture all over the place. No one knew what happened to him, at least not back then. Maybe he just ran away. Or maybe he’s long dead.” I thought I heard her shudder through the phone. “But I can still see that picture, that face. He’s always going to be that for me. He’s frozen.”

  “But you said that’s not the case with Marissa and me?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, pausing, gathering her thoughts to say more. “I used to think that, but I know it’s really different now. I think you really were in love with her. I can still hear it in your voice.” A rustling sound came from her end of the line, as though she were shifting her weight or sitting up. “What I’m saying is, what I think I’m trying to say is that I’m happy for you. I’m happy that you knew that at one time, even if it’s in the past. That’s not a small thing to have experienced.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I felt obligated to say something back, something more intelligent and supportive. “So, you and Dale?”

  “Oh, please.” She made a raspberry noise into the phone. “We’re friends who . . . you know. Mostly friends.”

  “I see. But you have Andrew in your life. That’s pretty good unconditional love. Both ways.”

  “Yes, you’re right.” She yawned. “I need to go,” she said. “It’s late, and I might start to get more sentimental or weirder than I ever intended.”