“Yes,” Barbara said. “They say they’re working together. They think they know what region he’s in.”
I tried to imagine Sebastian. Was he in a steel cell or was it a room with dirt floors, the kind he’d seen in Pakistan and told me about? After he’d traveled, after he’d researched the story, after it had been published, he would tell me about what he’d seen. Now I realized I might have understood more than I’d given myself credit for.
“They have pictures of them,” his mom continued. “Their faces, with a newspaper from yesterday to show the date.”
“How do they look?”
“I didn’t want to see them.”
“I do,” I said, surprising myself. I paused, checked in. “I want to see the pictures.” This time I sounded sure.
39
Outside the window of Billy’s town car, Lake Michigan blurred by. Look at those people, I thought. They’re just sitting on the beach. I found the concept endearing, the pockets of people on the sand. They seemed miles away.
When I’d gotten back to the lobby, Billy was still there. He was speaking to the doorman, who looked simultaneously thrilled to be talking to Billy McGowan and also stressed about not screwing up his job.
“Jess,” Billy said.
“This is Baxter.”
Billy smiled and shook Baxter’s paw, the one that hung over my arm as I held him. I couldn’t seem to put him down, his doggy-weight too soothing to give up.
I looked at the doorman. “Could you call me a cab?” Hailing cabs on the street with a dog was difficult, even with Superdog.
“Let me take you where you’re going,” Billy said. “I have a car outside.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said.
Yes, sure, all is fine. I nodded at the doorman who picked up the phone.
“Jess, let me,” Billy said.
I shook my head, but looked at him as he continued to talk.
“I didn’t help you,” he said. His eyes seemed to get misty for a moment. “I didn’t help you. And I still hate myself for that.”
“Billy,” I said, my voice worried. “You don’t have to do this. Please.”
“Minimum fifteen minutes until taxi arrival, ma’am,” the doorman said. Technically, it wasn’t such a long time, but I needed to get to Barb’s house. I needed to know what was happening with Sebastian.
“You’ll give me a ride?” I said to Billy.
“Of course.”
Five minutes later, we were speeding north on Lake Shore Drive. For a while we were quiet. But I wanted to talk about something. Anything, really. Just for a break from the anxiety about Sebastian.
“What are you in town for?” I said to Billy.
He was staring through the window. Didn’t look at me. But he said, “You. To make sure you’re okay.”
“That’s nice,” I said. “But other than me...”
“That’s it.”
“You’re not in town playing or promoting something?”
“Just you, Jess.” His words were kind. “I saw the stupid article in that magazine, and everything came back. I had to find you. To see if I could help or make things better.”
Oddly, I felt his friendship then. I had missed that.
“Do you have people with you?” I asked.
By the end of my time with Billy, the McGowan Brothers never traveled without staff. And given the continued success of the band and now Billy’s solo career, it seemed likely.
“Just my assistant,” he said. “She has family here, so...”
The car’s GPS spoke, and Billy’s driver headed west.
The neighborhood had been rough-and-tumble when Barb and her husband had raised a family there, but it was largely gentrified now. Brick buildings that used to house three flats were now single-family. Manicured bushes and flowers abounded.
Years ago, Sebastian had taken me to the house he’d grown up in, a bungalow a few blocks away. He’d pointed at it from the car, had said fondly that it was covered in linoleum.
When we neared Barb’s current house I told the driver how to maneuver the one-way streets around the place, then I looked at Billy.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Thank you,” he said. I recognized the sincerity there, the Billy I used to know.
And I wondered if he saw me. I thought I’d changed after my arrest, but maybe some of our core always remained. Maybe someday I would get to ask Billy about my core, the me deep down—whether he still saw it, whether I had ever had it. But I had more immediate issues.
“There it is at the end of the block,” I said to the driver, pointing at Barb’s house.
“We’ll wait for you,” Billy said.
“No. I really don’t want you to do that.”
“Why?”
“Because this has to do with Sebastian and me. And his family. I don’t want to bring my stuff into it.” I waved a hand between Billy and me.
And strangely, rather than feeling the starting twinge of disgrace—the way I usually felt when I thought about Billy, about my arrest, about Billy and me—I felt okay.
“Then I’ll go to the hotel,” Billy said, “and I’ll have the driver come back to wait for you. Down the street,” he added before I could say something. “Really. I don’t need the car the rest of the day.”
“Okay,” I said.
I took the help.
Although Barbara hadn’t moved too far from the old neighborhood, she’d moved up. When Sebastian’s dad had died of a long battle with cancer, his life insurance policy allowed Barbara to quit working and buy herself a new house. As a result, she was now in a gray-stone home with a tinkling waterfall and manicured lawn in front.
It was six in the evening by the time Billy dropped us off, and the city had cooled considerably. Barbara sat on the front stoop, something I couldn’t recall seeing her do before. She was a fit woman who played tennis four times a week, her brown hair curled under at her shoulders. Her face was woven with delicate lines, but it was easy to see how pretty she’d been and still was.
“Baxter!” Barbara said when we were out of the car. Billy swiftly closed the door and the car pulled away, just like I’d asked.
Baxter bounded up to Barb and into her arms, licking her face, making her laugh.
I walked up a few steps and sat down beside them.
“Ah, that felt good,” Barbara said, settling Baxter down on her lap. “I haven’t been kissed like that in a long time, longer than I want to admit. And I know I haven’t laughed since...” Her voice died away. She closed her mouth.
“Since?” I said.
“It must have been recently,” Barbara said. “I mean, I laugh. I do. But...”
I put a hand over one of hers, which rested on her knee. “But it’s hard to imagine when.”
“Yes. This takes over everything.”
We fell silent. Baxter got up and began to sniff around Barbara’s hedges.
“They say it’s going to rain,” Barbara said.
I said nothing.
“They’re emailing me the photo,” Barbara said. “I told them you wanted to see.”
“Thank you.”
“I still can’t.”
“I understand.” I paused. “Do we know where Sebastian is? Like what city or village?” I asked.
“Just Libya,” she said.
I imagined it on a map. “It’s a big country.”
“I know.” Barbara waved a hand at her house. “The laptop is on the kitchen counter, and it’s opened to my email.”
40
I was only two steps into Barb’s house when I halted, froze. Then I inched across the hardwood floors, pulled by a frame of black, light glinting off a small pane of glass. That glass
covered a photo of Sebastian and his mom. It was taken on a sailboat in Lake Michigan—they both looked ecstatically happy. Likely it had been taken by his dad.
I took another step. Sebastian not only appeared happy in the image, he looked young. He looked completely unweighed—no responsibilities, no stories pressing on his unconscious.
I tossed my hair over my shoulder, put a hand to my brow that felt hot. I had other more important photos to view.
I turned and stared at Barbara’s laptop, sitting on the kitchen’s granite bar. I walked to it and took a seat at the high stool. I felt too high up, suddenly, and I wanted to be grounded. I thought of taking the laptop to the table, but it occurred to me that all this had likely just begun. Likely, I was going to continue to encounter situations where my equilibrium felt off. I might as well practice keeping calm while doing it.
I breathed in and out a few times, and then I was ready as I could be.
The computer was open to Barbara’s in-box, which looked mostly full of emails from family. I looked toward the top. There it was—second one.
I clicked open the email, scanning it.
...the situation in Libya, in which your son Sebastian Hess and his photographer, Bill Baxter, were detained by local government. Please be assured that we are taking every step to resolve this. We are here to answer any questions you may have.
Attached is the photo we received from the captors. It has not yet been authenticated, but we will let you know when that occurs. In the interim, please let us know if you would like to discuss. Our sympathies are with you and your family, although we hope for a positive result in this trying situation.
Very truly yours,
Beverly Holkins
My first thought was that Beverly Holkins sounded like a lovely woman, and I was glad the government hired seemingly kind people, especially when that woman had some responsibility in finding Sebastian Hess. Or at least keeping us apprised of the search for him.
Then I kept looking at the other name mentioned in the email. Bill Baxter. The photographer Sebastian had worked with, one he had so much respect for that he wanted to name our dog after him. I hadn’t realized they still teamed up. I clicked on the attachment, grateful when it seemed to need an extra few seconds to download. Then it opened across the screen.
Sebastian. And the other man I’d never seen. But now I remembered Sebastian’s description of him. He’s got blond hair, Sebastian had said. In fact, it’s nearly the color of Baxter’s. But Bill Baxter’s hair was graying at the temples. Bill Baxter looked very scared.
I decided not to make guesses about anything. I drew my eyes immediately to the left, to Sebastian. He was crouched, his back against a lumpen brown wall. He wore the Converse sneakers he always had on when he left for an assignment. Ditto the dark gray jacket with a bunch of zippers (it held lots of stuff and could be repurposed to be a few different garments). I peered at his eyes. I thought I’d be able to read everything there, every thought or fear or plan. But they just looked like dark dots, rather than the mesmerizing hazel I loved.
Bill Baxter was crouching, too. His face bore a somewhat stern but mostly tired expression. He wore an army-green vest with pockets that looked recently depleted, almost puffed with air.
I heard Barbara come inside. “Don’t worry,” she called to me. “I’m not coming in there. I’m going to lie down and try to take a nap. I’ve got the phone.”
“Good, Barbara,” I called.
“You should lie down, too. This could be a long day.”
“It’s not already?”
“Ha,” she said.
“Ha,” I said.
Neither of us acknowledged what was perfectly clear—that this “day” could be many, or weeks or months.
“I’ve got Baxter,” she said. “Is that okay?”
“Of course. He’s a good snuggler.”
“That’s exactly what I need.”
I marveled that we could have this conversation. That we could inject even a little bit of levity or normalcy into the moment.
“You really should rest when you get a chance,” she said, her voice sailing through the otherwise silent home. I wondered if it was quiet where Sebastian was. Or if the air there was filled with sounds, screams, screeching, fear.
“Not just yet.” I turned back to the laptop.
I drew my attention to Sebastian again. The person who had taken the photo must have been about ten feet from the men leaning against the wall, so the detail of the picture was a bit fuzzy. Why, I wondered then, had they made them crouch? Why not let them stand? Shouldn’t there be mug shots if they’d been arrested?
I studied the top of Sebastian’s head, then his forehead, then his defined eyebrows. I looked again at his eyes, but still I couldn’t make out the hazel color at all. In person, Sebastian’s eyes only made him more intriguing than he already was, his eyes giving you the feeling that they saw you.
My eyes dropped from the top of the photo down to Sebastian’s jacket. We’d gotten it together on an impromptu shopping trip down Michigan Avenue. The jacket had a few black zippers lining the tops of small flat pockets. I studied the pockets, trying to see if there were recent indents that would indicate what they’d held, if anything.
I focused on the right breast pocket. When we’d bought the jacket, the pocket had been plain, simple, which Sebastian liked, no overt logo or branding. But now something was there, some kind of patch? I leaned closer then, still unable to make out much of anything, I fiddled with Barbara’s laptop until I found the zoom function.
“Huh,” I said. I saw something gold-colored now on the pocket, gold in the shape of...what was it?
I leaned in. “Oh, my God!” I said suddenly, unable to help the delighted tone.
I knew that Sebastian had absconded with one of Baxter’s Superdog collars, claiming it was too ridiculous and saying, we need to get some of these off the street. And yet, there was a piece of it on his jacket. He must have cut a star off of the collar and had someone sew it onto the pocket. He and his mother had frequented the same dry cleaners for years—“the Greeks on Wrightwood,” they fondly referred to them. Sebastian was a big fan of getting things tailored by the Greeks. They loved him.
And now here. He hadn’t told me he’d done that. So sweet, I thought, over and over. So sweet.
I reached out to the laptop and lightly touched the part of the screen that showed the star, then moved my fingers to Sebastian’s face.
“We’re here,” I said.
41
I called Barbara’s sisters and waited until they arrived, then updated them with what little information I had. Barbara came downstairs, and they swarmed around her, hugging her, kissing her, murmuring comfort.
“Thank God you were here,” one of them said, looking at me.
The rest looked over their shoulders, echoing, “Thank God.”
One of them took me aside. “We’ve all seen the magazine,” she said. “And we love you. We don’t care what happened so many years ago.”
“Thank you,” I said. I smiled, finally feeling an emotion other than the generalized fear.
Watching Barbara and her sisters, though, gave me a whirl of sadness. I didn’t have emotional reserves and support like they did. Not anymore. I’d thought I’d found a real companion in Gavin. I was wrong.
So I needed to create the reserves again. I saw that then. I suddenly remembered a therapist I saw after the arrest, a volunteer for the Amalie Project, who’d said, You don’t just get a community, you must find one and join one.
The Amalie Project. Now that the news of my arrest was out, I no longer pushed away the memory. The Amalie Project. They took women in when no one else would. That’s what most of the women said about it. Most had looked for answers elsewhere and for one reason or another been
turned away. For me, I’d lucked into the project, having consulted and sought help from no one except the legal system.
I’d sought help from no one, certainly not my parents. I had a small part in their life, and I hadn’t known how they would react. I hadn’t wanted to risk being cut free.
But they’d found out. I had listed them as my emergency contacts, not because I’d believed they would be called for any reason. (I wasn’t going to have any emergencies.) They’d been called by the program, accidentally, to confirm a follow-up on one of my appointments. I had already exited the program and was running fast toward a different life.
I could do little to convince them I didn’t have a problem with drugs. That they never quite believed me just served to reinforce the feeling that they didn’t know me. Did not want to look far enough inside.
But I saw now that the Amalie Project therapist had been right about the need to create a community, rather than hoping or expecting one to arrive. I needed to cultivate friends, a support system.
I hugged Barbara on her porch before I left, both of us promising to reach out if we heard anything at all.
“I’m glad you were here,” Barbara said, “for the last part of that life.”
Strangely, I understood. She hadn’t wanted her sisters to come yet—it would signal a turn toward the seriousness of the situation. She had wanted to sit on her front steps and feel normal for a bit, before she let everything and everybody sink in.
I nodded.
“I’m glad it was you,” she said.
I reached out and squeezed her tighter. No one had ever said such a thing to me.
“What will you do now?” she said when we pulled apart.
The answer was already there, as if it was just waiting for the question to be spoken aloud.
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