See Me Not

by Janelle Harris

  It wasn’t always heroin. In the early days, it was just experimenting with some weed. My more extrovert friends even tried it. It was just a little smoking to make me feel better. But soon, that wasn’t enough. I wanted to feel higher. Lighter. My friends slowly backed away. I was slipping, and they weren’t going to slide with me. Some of them stuck around for as long as they could, trying to coax me back, but they all eventually gave up. Or I pushed them away. I don’t really remember now. It was most likely the latter. Cocaine was too expensive, and I wasn’t prepared to sleep with the dealers for my fix. I’ve never stooped that low. Heroin just made more sense. The guys I bought it off said it would be the best high I ever had, and they were right. They just didn’t warn me that you could never come back down. Not ever. Not even if a baby, a baby you so desperately wanted, was growing inside you.

  I left the hospital two days after Marley’s birth with nothing more than the clothes on my back and an outpatient appointment for some clinic on the far side of the city to help me dry out; as if I was a fucking tea towel they could hang out on the washing line. I kept the appointment, but I didn’t keep my baby.

  I have another appointment today. An appointment for my new addiction—Emma. I hope the flowers I left on William’s grave weren’t too subtle a clue, and she’ll figure it all out. I can barely contain my excitement. Now, I just have to wait for her to come.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  DAVID

  Time is passing in painful slow motion. Emma’s ignoring all my calls. Frustration sits in the pit of my stomach, and I feel physically ill. I pace the sitting room floor, sighing heavily. I’ve contemplated leaving the house to go look for her, but I’m worried she’ll come back while I’m out. As usual, I’m afraid to leave her home alone, if she comes home at all.

  I hold my breath as my phone vibrates in my pocket, but my heart sinks when I discover Kim’s name instead of Emma’s flashing on the screen.

  ‘Hello,’ I grunt.

  ‘Hey. David. Hi,’ Kim races.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ I ask.

  My chest is so tight; it’s hard to suck in air, and anything that does make it as far as my lungs burns.

  ‘Where are you?’ Kim asks. ‘Are you at work?’

  ‘No. I’m at home today. Why?’

  ‘Is Emma there with you?’

  ‘No.’

  Fear and desperation collide inside me. I hate that Emma can do this to me. I hate that I’m so afraid of what she might be doing that I could actually wet my pants.

  ‘Is she at work?’ Kim’s voice is a barely audible whisper.

  ‘No. Not today.’ My teeth chatter. ‘Kim, what’s wrong. What’s going on? Has Emma contacted you today? She was gone when I got up this morning, and I don’t know where she is. She’s not answering her phone.’ I exhale sharply and admit defeat. ‘I’m freaking out here.’

  ‘Okay,’ Kim rasps. ‘Okay.’

  I can’t tell if she’s trying to calm me down or trying to keep herself from losing it. Either way, she’s failing on both counts.

  ‘She was with me this morning,’ Kim says.

  ‘What? Why? Where?’

  ‘Here. At my place. She’s not gone long, David. Less than an hour.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus Christ, Kim.’ I surge. ‘There’s a lot she can do in an hour.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ Kim sighs. ‘I saw her bandaged hand. Is she self-harming again?’

  ‘She swears it was an accident,’ I say, suddenly not so sure. ‘Oh, God. I should call the police. I need to report her missing. I knew she was handling this baby news too well. Oh Christ, if she’s hurt herself …’

  ‘David, you know the cops can’t do anything. Andy can’t do anything. She’s only been gone an hour.’

  ‘How did she seem when she was with you?’ I swallow, my thoughts scrambling.

  ‘She seemed like Emma,’ Kim says. ‘She didn’t seem like she was going to do anything stupid, but …’

  ‘But you just don’t know.’ I finish Kim’s sentence for her and fall silent.

  ‘I think you should sit down,’ Kim says. ‘David, please. Sit.’

  I don’t want to sit. I want to find my wife. I want to tell her that I’m sorry for the mistakes I made. That I’m ashamed. But I am human. People make mistakes, and she can’t keep torturing herself. Or me.

  ‘Kim, what do you know?’ I growl. ‘Emma tells you everything. I know you think you’re protecting her by keeping her secrets, but you’re not. You never have been. Now, please, tell me what you know.’

  ‘Are you sitting?’ Kim slurs.

  ‘Yes, I’m goddamn sitting.’ I shake my head. ‘Now, tell me.’

  I drill my feet into the floor, struggling to stay standing.

  ‘Have you been on Facebook this morning?’ Kim asks.

  I omit a loud, throaty groan as if something has suddenly slapped me hard between my shoulders. ‘No, Kim. I’ve a little more on my mind than checking Facebook, to be honest.’

  ‘David, just listen, okay,’ Kim sighs. ‘Something has happened to Emma’s Facebook page.’

  ‘Is Emma online? Has she checked in somewhere? Does Facebook say where she is?’ I race.

  ‘David.’ Kim whispers my name, and I know she’s going to say something terrible with her next breath. ‘Emma’s Facebook page has been memorialised.’

  ‘What?’ My eyes narrow. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘It’s appearing beside her profile picture. It says, Remembering Emma Lyons. It’s creepy. Facebook is basically saying Emma is dead.’

  I’m sorry I didn’t take Kim’s advice and sit when she asked me. I scramble to the couch now, before I collide with the floor. ‘What the hell? Why would Facebook be saying that?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s very messed up.’

  ‘Is it actually on Emma’s profile?’ I say, desperate for clarification. ‘I mean it’s not just a status update or a post by someone else? That weird troll messing around. I mean … have her account settings actually been changed to say she’s dead?’

  Kim clears her throat, and it resonates loudly in my ear. ‘Her Facebook page is officially changed to a Remember Emma page. Someone has reported Emma as deceased to Facebook.’

  ‘Christ.’ I gasp, my hand slapping my mouth. ‘That’s sick. This troll crap is out of control.’

  ‘Did Emma do this?’ Kim’s voice shakes, as the words drag from somewhere deep inside her, and the weight of worrying about Emma is etched in her tone. ‘Is she trying to tell us something? Maybe she’s finally hurt herself badly this time. Because of the baby. Oh God, David. I don’t like the sound of this. I’m scared.’

  ‘No,’ I say sternly. ‘Emma didn’t do this. This is someone else. This is someone’s idea of a twisted joke.’

  ‘Or someone’s prediction.’ Kim gasps.

  I shake my head and pound up the stairs; the friction of the carpet under my bare feet is hot and attempts to burn my toes.

  ‘When Emma hurts herself …’ I pant, trying to catch my breath as I round the top of the stairs and charge into my bedroom. ‘… she never thinks it through. It’s an irrational action, something she does on the spur of the moment to take her mind off something else. Everything Emma does is reactive. It’s never calculated or thought through. If it were, she wouldn’t do it.’ I bend down and slide my arm under the bed right up to my elbow.

  ‘So what?’ Kim quibbles. ‘You’re basically saying Emma just has a bad temper. I think there’s a bit more to it than that.’

  ‘Actually.’ I smile as my hand smacks against my cold laptop, and I drag it out, open it, and switch it on. ‘It really is as simple as that. Emma can’t control it, of course, and the person she takes her frustration out on is herself. But that’s exactly what it is. Frustration. An inability to cope when things stray outside the lines. When Emma gets like that, it’s tunnel vision, and the only thing she can see is making the pain stop. There’s no pause for thought. No time to weigh the con
sequences or even time to think about all the people besides herself who she is hurting. And certainly no time to fucking update Facebook.’

  A slurping sound gargles somewhere in the back of Kim’s throat, and I know she understands.

  ‘Help me find her, Kim. Please, help me find her?’

  ‘Stay there,’ Kim says. ‘Andy and I will come around. Try not to panic, okay. We’ll be there soon.’

  ‘Okay. Okay. Bye.’

  I drop my phone onto the bed and switch my attention to my laptop. It’s slow to come to life, and the internet is crawling. Finally, I manage to bring Emma’s Facebook page up on the screen. My eyes round and widen as I stare at the offending words beneath Emma’s profile picture.

  Remembering Emma Lyons.

  Kim’s right. Emma’s page has been memorialised. It’s now an online shrine to her memory. My stomach heaves, and I belch, dragging acidic vomit up the back of my throat. It sprays past my lips, and I catch it in my hand before it hits my keyboard.

  I wash my hands in the bathroom and stare in the mirror above the sink as I brush my teeth. My reflection meets me head-on. My hair sticks out at odd angles on one side from sleeping on it, and my beard is shaggy and overdue for a trim. I look the same as any morning on the outside. Maybe a little paler than usual, but that’s it. My reflection doesn’t see the pain on the inside. It doesn’t reflect how my heart races furiously; so fast, I wonder if it will just give up soon out of pure exhaustion. It doesn’t show that my lungs are weary and burning from breathing rapidly. Or that my mind is scrambled and unable to concentrate as hundreds of thoughts rip around inside my skull like a hurricane. My eyes are the only clue that something is wrong. They’re glassy, and darting from side to side and fear resonates where the light hits them. My eyes speak volumes. They say I’m petrified that I’ll lose my wife. And if I do, I’ll most likely lose my mind.

  The distinctive beep of my phone announcing a received message drags me out of the bathroom. My phone dances on the bed as message after message comes in. I can’t believe the words on the screen. People are offering me condolences on my loss. This can’t be happening.

  Emma’s Facebook page is filling up with expressions of sympathy. Picture collages of her past litter her page, accompanied by heartfelt grief and kind words.

  Emma, you were beautiful inside and out.

  I will miss you.

  Rest in peace.

  A college friend whom I haven’t heard Emma mention in years writes. There’s a string of messages before and after. I scroll down and read another.

  Gone too soon.

  You will be missed.

  I assume the brief words are from one of the teachers at Emma’s school. There’s a photograph of Emma with her class attached.

  Deeply saddened to hear the news of Emma’s passing.

  We haven’t spoken in a long time.

  I’ve been meaning to reach out and suggest we grab a coffee.

  I can’t believe it’s too late.

  Emma, I’m sorry.

  I will never forget you.

  I slam the screen down unable to read anymore. This is so messed up.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  EMMA

  I’ve countless missed calls from David, and now, Kim’s name is flashing on my phone screen. I guess they’re in touch with each other. Talking about me. David has probably told Kim I’ve been forced to take leave from work. Kim will put two and two together and figure out I’ve gone to find Jane without her and Andy. She’ll tell David where I’ve gone. Dammit. I know David and Kim worry about me—all the time—but today, of all days, I really don’t want them checking up on me. This is my fight. And I’m going to be the one to end it. I ignore my phone and get off the bus.

  The apartment block is smaller in reality than it appeared on Google Maps. It stretches several windows across, but it’s only three stories tall. There are metal bars on all the ground-floor windows, and I imagine living inside must equate to life as an animal caged in the zoo. It’s mid-morning, but the curtains are drawn on the majority of windows. The walls are badly in need of fresh paint. Overall, the building is a murky grey. The colour whites come out of the washing machine when a blue sock sneaks its way into the load. Patches of buttermilk peek through sporadically where the rain has washed the grubby neglect away to reveal the original colour of the walls. Graffiti decorates any part of the wall that’s accessible from the ground, and bright spray paint even covers the steps leading to the main door. It’s possibly the most depressing building I’ve ever seen. I can’t imagine how anyone could be happy living here.

  The main door swings open from the inside, and I race up the steps, without thinking, to squeeze inside before whoever’s coming out closes the door again.

  A woman about my age appears. She purposely avoids eye contact, but she keeps her hand on the door until I reach for it. It’s heavier than I was expecting, and I have to push hard to stop it from forcing me out. Finally, I step inside and yelp when the door slams behind me with an aggressive bang. A long, dark corridor stretches out in front of me, and the only light is shining down the concrete stairs on one side. There’s no flooring. The bare concrete painted a depressing grey, and in unison with the outside, it needs attention.

  I’ve memorised Jane’s address, but that doesn’t help me now in my search for the correct apartment. Only some of the doors have numbers. I take a few steps forward and stop outside number nineteen. There aren’t many more doors further down the corridor, and I suspect number forty-seven is on a higher floor. I begin to climb the stairs, one shaky step at a time. Every creak and crack of the old building paralyse me for a split second. I stop to catch my breath as I reach the first floor. I’m certain someone will notice me and realise I don’t belong here. My heart flutters like the wings of a swallow trapped inside my chest. I am that bird. Caged and frightened but determined to survive. My life has not been my own since Jane Burke cast her net over me, and I need to understand why. I need answers so I can soar again. I need to fly free, and only Jane can let me go.

  The third floor is the brightest. There are several roof windows and the natural light coming in makes up here seem far less depressing than the previous levels. There aren’t as many doors on this floor, so I guess the apartments are larger. The doors up here suffer from the same missing numbers as the previous floors. I quickly find number forty-six, but there’s no forty-seven. Since the doors leading up to forty-four are all void of numbers I’ve no idea if forty-seven should be opposite or beside it. I decide to try beside it first.

  I take a deep breath, raise my right hand, and knock firmly.

  The door creaks open within seconds, and a bare chested man in baggy tracksuit bottoms stands in the gap.

  ‘Yeah?’ he barks.

  I clear my throat uncomfortably and force a gummy smile. ‘Um, I’m looking for Jane Burke.’

  ‘Who?’ he grunts, his round belly shaking like jelly as it hangs low and over the edge of his pants.

  ‘Jane.’ I lean forward, thinking he didn’t hear me. ‘Um, Jane Burke.’ I grimace, my eyebrows raised as if I’m in pain.

  ‘I don’t know her,’ he snaps, slamming the door shut without warning.

  I lunge backwards, almost losing my toes to the bang. I exhale sharply and take a couple of seconds to gather myself. I’m shaken and more on edge than ever, but I spin around and knock on the opposite door without allowing myself time to overthink it or to chicken out.

  No one answers. I knock again. Still nothing. I press my ear against the peeling varnish and listen for signs of life inside. I hear a rhythmic tapping, and I guess it’s footsteps against a timber floor on the other side. Instead of tapping my knuckles against the door again and knocking politely, I make a fist and turn my hand so the spongy part under my baby finger takes the impact as I pound on the door assertively.

  The door swings open while I’m still pounding, and I jerk my arm back, red faced.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine<
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  EMMA

  ‘Hello, Emma.’

  ‘Hello, Amber,’ I reply instinctively, recognising the face of David’s boss staring back at me. ‘Or should I call you Jane?’

  ‘You can call me sis?’ She grins.

  Her white teeth sit straight between her cherry lips. She’s wearing a floral apron with baby pink lace piping all around the edges. Her blond hair is clipped back off her face, and her makeup is subtle yet pristine. The shine off her black patent boots is impressive and catches the light. Her appearance is a stark contrast to her overweight, half-dressed male neighbour. She could easily be mistaken for a suburban housewife. She doesn’t belong here. She doesn’t fit in.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I snort.

  ‘Nothing. Never mind. Call me whatever you like.’

  ‘I want to call you by your real name. You’re Jane Burke, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nods as if I simply asked her if she would like a cup of tea.

  She turns her back and walks away, leaving the door wide open. I have a clear view of the inside from the door arch. The door leads straight into an open-plan kitchen and living area. It’s a decent size, and it seems to be better maintained than the rest of the building and the stairwell. Jane busies herself in the kitchen. I can smell cinnamon and dough, and it’s obvious from the flour-strewn countertops that she has been baking.