by Kate Hewitt
“Isn’t she?” Alexa demanded again, the words a pleading screech.
Silently Ella reached over and held my hand. I didn’t know whether it was a gesture of solidarity or comfort, but it broke me all over again. My ten-year-old daughter was stronger than I was.
“No, sweetie,” I whispered, blinking hard, keeping the tears at bay. “No, she isn’t.”
“What do you mean…” Alexa’s voice trailed off as she sagged back against the chair, her eyes like wide, dark holes, her mouth slack. Ella clung to my hand, squeezing hard.
“She… she’s dead.” I whispered it, for Ruby’s sake, but also because it felt like the kind of thing I needed to whisper. Sacred somehow.
Silence echoed through the kitchen, a terrible, final silence. In the distance, I heard the catchy theme tune of Peppa Pig, followed by a snorty giggle.
“Daddy,” Ruby called. “Can I have a snack?”
“No…” Alexa whispered the word, shaking her head, over and over again, harder each time, her expression dazed. “No…”
“I’m so sorry, Alexa. Ella.” I turned to Ella, who had a vacant look on her face, as if she hadn’t taken in what I’d said. Of course she hadn’t. I hadn’t even processed it yet; it kept slamming into me, leaving me breathless. Even now I was half-expecting, waiting for Laura to open the front door. I’d hear the jangle of her keys, the lightness of her step. Sorry I’m late… Hey, why the long faces? Her easy smile before she brushed a kiss on the top of Ella’s head, a quick, comforting hand on Alexa’s shoulder. Then she’d turn to the fridge, her hands on her hips, an almost comical frown on her face: What should we do about dinner, guys?
The memories, the wished-for reality, blew through me in an empty echo, the ensuing silence like a thunderclap.
Alexa lifted her tear-stained face. “How?” she whispered. “What happened?”
“She…” I closed my eyes, then opened them, remembering how Ruby hadn’t liked it. I couldn’t check out, not even for a second. Not now. Not ever. “She was… she was shot.”
“Shot?” Alexa repeated incredulously. “Shot?”
It sounded ridiculous, like some sort of unfunny, obscene joke.
“By a stranger on the subway, some madman most likely,” I said after a pause when my daughters were both clearly waiting for more. “They don’t know who yet.”
“They haven’t caught him?” This from Ella, her voice trembling.
“No, but they will. Of course they will.”
Alexa pushed herself up from the table, stumbling over her chair.
I half-rose, still holding Ella’s hand. “Alexa…”
She just shook her head, turning from the room, from me. I watched her go, torn between wanting to keep her with me and knowing she needed her space. Alexa had always been an intensely private person, preferring to simmer or stew alone. Even as a toddler, when she’d hurt herself, she’d pull away from us, craving her own solitary solace. It used to hurt, and then it just became easier to let her go, as I decided to now, in part because I knew I wasn’t strong enough to make her stay and ride that first wave of wild grief together.
Ella tugged on my hand. “But, Daddy…” She shook her head. “Who’s going to take care of us?”
I tried to smile but didn’t manage it at all. “I’m going to, Ella. I’m still here. You’ll always have me, I promise.”
“Yes, but…” She wrinkled her nose, clearly not wanting to state the awful obvious: You’re not Mommy. You don’t cook, or clean, or even cuddle.
Most nights, I came home after Ruby was in bed and Ella was in her pyjamas, reading. I’d give her a quick kiss before turning the light out—and sometimes not even that. As for Alexa, she barely talked to me anyway, spending her evenings doing homework, on her phone, or locked in the bathroom perfecting her makeup by watching YouTube tutorials.
I loved my girls, and I thought I was a good dad, if not always entirely present. I still showed up for most things; I listened when they spoke to me; I remembered birthdays and big days; I was there. Mostly. But I wasn’t Laura.
“We’re going to be okay,” I told Ella, even though right now that felt like the cheapest and flimsiest of promises. “We will,” I said more firmly. One day. Maybe. I couldn’t imagine it now, but I had to offer my daughter some kind of hope, a promise that she could trust me to keep… if I could find the strength to keep it.
Ella burrowed her head into my shoulder. “I want Mommy,” she whispered and then she started to cry, softly, a broken sound.
Ruby skipped into the kitchen, standing in the doorway, hands planted on skinny hips as she surveyed us. “Why is Ella crying?”
I put my arms around Ella and stroked her hair as I stared helplessly at Ruby. “She’s sad, sweetie.”
“Why?” Ruby’s eyes narrowed. “When is Mommy coming back?”
Ella raised her head, sniffing. “She doesn’t…?”
“Not yet,” I said swiftly.
I gazed at them both, helpless, hopeless. Where were the parenting books, the helpful blogs, about this? Not that I’d ever read either, or even wanted to. I’d pretty much left all that kind of stuff up to Laura; she’d set the tone of discipline, enforced the rules, read all the latest advice and guidelines. I was, at best, back up, but, damn it, I’d been good back up. Hadn’t I? Saturday-morning donuts, the occasional game or movie night, tickles at bedtime. I swooped in once in a while and felt good about it. Occasionally, I exerted my so-called parental authority: Your mother and I agree… But Laura was the one who gave me the words, made the rules, and I let her, because we worked that way. She never complained, and neither did I.
Yet now I was going to be responsible for all of it, all the discipline, all the hugs, all the housework and meals, the comfort and care, while I did my own grieving besides.
Laura…
I rose and swung Ruby up into my arms to distract myself from my own emotions; she was heavier than I remembered. When was the last time I’d carried her over my shoulder, tickling her all the while, the way I had with Alexa and Ella when they were little? Good morning sunshine…
“Daddy…!” Her squeal was part protest, part delight. “I want to know where Mommy is.”
I couldn’t avoid it forever, as much as I wanted to. Gently I set Ruby down on the ground and held her by her slight shoulders. “Mommy’s not coming back, Ruby,” I said. My throat was getting tighter by the second as I forced out the words. From behind me I heard Ella crying quietly.
Ruby stared at me hard, her lower lip jutting out. “Yes, she is,” she finally said, sounding strident, and I had to shake my head.
“No, she isn’t. I’m so sorry, Ruby. Mommy… died.” It still felt impossible, to put those words together, incredible that I was saying them out loud. I wondered when they would ever start feeling real, making sense.
“Died…” Ruby looked confused. Could a three-year-old even understand what death was? What it meant? Could anyone?
“When someone dies it means they’re not coming back,” I explained. “They’re gone forever.”
She shook her head slowly. “But where do they go?”
I hesitated for a fraction of a second. Was now a time to start spouting off about heaven, a concept I’d never believed in but would surely offer some comfort now? I didn’t know what the right thing to say was, as I knew Laura, and so I stuck with what I believed to be the truth. “They don’t go anywhere, Ruby. They’re just…” I shrugged. “Gone.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Their heart stops beating. They stop breathing.” How else could I explain it? “They’re not alive anymore.”
Her frown deepened. “You mean like when I squash a bug on the sidewalk?”
I thought of that nameless assailant, someone who was still out there. He’d looked at my wife and he’d shot her. “Sort of,” I whispered, and Ella let out a choked cry and buried her head in her arms.
Ruby’s lower lip wobbled. “But I want her to come b
ack,” she said as tears pooled in her eyes and I knelt in front of her and drew her into a hug.
“I know, baby. So do I.” I closed my eyes as I hugged her tight. “So do I.”
Four
Maria
The police came to Global Rescue the next day. It wasn’t my day to volunteer, but I got a call while I was at work, asking me to come in.
“It’s about Laura West,” Cathy, the center’s director, said. She sounded anxious and tired. “They want to speak to everyone who volunteers on Tuesday mornings. I’m sorry, Maria.”
“It’s all right.”
I felt numb as I left the salon, apologising to Neriha, who shrugged it off as she waved me to go. The train was running again, and as it rattled along the track, I wondered if this was the car where Laura had sat. If perhaps this was the very seat.
I looked around at the various passengers, everyone lost in their own thoughts, their own fog, scrolling through phones even though there was no signal. Laura West had already been forgotten.
I knew how that went, how quickly people could forget when they chose to. Who thought about Bosnia anymore either? Who cared about that old story? Nobody, and I didn’t blame them. I wanted to forget, too. The trouble was, no matter how hard I tried, no matter how hard I pretended that I had, I never could.
Cathy met me in the lobby. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you, Maria. This shouldn’t take long.”
“It’s all right.” I felt nervous, although I didn’t know why. I had nothing to hide.
I had to wait twenty minutes before the police called me in to one of the classrooms which they used for teaching English and US Citizenship. They’d pushed all the chairs to the side, so there was only one in front of the table, two behind it. Two plain-clothes officers—a man and a woman—sat there, coffee cups in front of them. They looked tired.
“Thank you for coming in,” the woman said. She had a neat ponytail of little braids and warm eyes. She smiled at me as she spoke. “What is your name?”
“Maria Dzino.” I sat down, trying not to seem nervous.
“Hello, Maria.” The woman’s smile widened, revealing dimples. She looked kind, making me want to help her. “I’m Lisa, and this is Tom.” The man, a blunt-looking guy with a buzz cut and blue eyes, gave me a curt nod. “We’re here to ask some questions about Laura West, who was a volunteer here at the center?” There was a questioning lilt at the end of this statement, as if she wanted me to confirm it.
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Did you know Mrs. West?”
“Yes, we chatted most weeks.” I felt too shy to call Laura a friend now, even though I’d considered her one. What had I been to her, though? A casual acquaintance, surely nothing more.
“Did you notice anyone else here at the center talking to her? Taking an interest?” Lisa’s smile was friendly, encouraging, while Tom gave me a level stare.
“Not really,” I said. “She chatted to most people. She was that kind of person.”
“Who else did you see her chat with?” Lisa asked, pulling a pad of paper in front of her. “Do you know their names?”
I pictured Laura moving around the center, smiling and chatting. “I don’t know. Anyone. Everyone.” I shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t pay attention. I wasn’t keeping count.”
“I’m sure you could think of someone,” Lisa said with an encouraging smile.
I wondered what she thought I could possibly know. Did she want me to say something incriminating, point the finger at some nameless stranger simply because he’d exchanged words with Laura once? Considering the situation, I was reluctant to name anyone, not that I could.
“It’s often very busy here,” I said. “People come and go. I’m sorry, but I really don’t remember.”
Lisa looked disappointed. “Did you notice anyone hanging around?” she pressed.
“No, not to speak of.”
“Where are you from, Maria?” This from Tom, without Lisa’s friendly tone or smile.
I tensed, wondering what on earth where I was from had to do with Laura, or their inquiry.
“Bosnia,” I said after a moment.
He nodded slowly. “When did you come to this country?”
“2001.” Weeks before 9/11, when they’d shut down the refugee scheme for months.
“And you used the Global Rescue Refugee Center yourself?” Tom said, although he sounded as if he already knew. Had they researched me? My skin crawled at the thought of these strangers looking through my files, learning about me and my life. “As a refugee, rather than a volunteer, yes?”
“Yes.” I spoke stiffly; I couldn’t help it.
“And you made friends here?”
“Yes.” Of a sort, as much as I could. Friendship, along with so many other aspects of life people took for granted, seemed foreign to me now.
“And so you’ve been involved with Global Rescue since you arrived as a refugee yourself?”
Wary now, not knowing why, I nodded.
“So, for eighteen years?”
I pressed my lips together. You can do the arithmetic. “Yes.”
“After all that time…” Lisa broke in, again with the encouraging tone, the friendly smile; I wasn’t sure if I should trust them now, “you’d notice if someone was loitering around, someone who hadn’t been before, very often?”
“It is possible,” I admitted. “Although, like I said, people come and go. Some don’t stay very long. They move onto other things.”
“And yet eighteen years…” Lisa let the pause linger, stretch into something else. “That’s a long time, Maria. I’m sure you know most people here, considering that length of time.”
“I suppose.” I stared uneasily at her, and then at Tom. Did they think I knew something? Did I?
For the first time, I let myself consider if someone from Global Rescue had in fact killed Laura. Followed her from here to the station, cornered her in the subway car, and taken out some imagined vendetta against her. It was perfectly possible; it even made sense, in a twisted, senseless way. I could understand why the police were questioning everyone, why they were wanting names. Why shouldn’t there be a link? Why did a man shoot Laura, and no one else on the train? What if he’d been looking for her all along?
“So, you’re sure you haven’t noticed anyone hanging around here recently whom you don’t know?” Lisa asked again. “The suspect we’re looking for is approximately six feet two, with shaggy brown hair and blue eyes.” She pushed a piece of paper towards me, and I saw it was a pencil sketch of the man who had shot her. A jolt ran through me at the sight of him, although I couldn’t have said why. “Does he look familiar to you?”
“I… I don’t know. It’s hard to tell from a sketch.”
“Of course it is.” Lisa nodded in sympathy. “We hope to have some CCTV footage soon. But take a good, long look at it. Sometimes a small thing stirs a memory—a scar, or a mole…”
But this man had no scars or moles, at least not that anyone had noticed. I studied the sketch for a long moment. The drawing could have been of anyone, or everyone, with his ragged beard and unkempt hair. I’d see a thousand men like him come through the center, wearing baggy clothes, having vacant eyes. No one liked to talk about where they’d been, what they’d seen. What they’d done. He was no one, and he was every single man I’d ever met.
Still I took my time studying the sketch, more for Tom and Lisa’s sakes than my own. As the lines blurred in front of me, there seemed, for a second, to be something familiar in his loose-limbed build, the jut of his chin, the peak of his eyebrows, but it was gone before I could catch hold of it. Had he been someone I’d talked to? Had I handed him a cup of coffee, helped him fill out a form? I had no idea.
“You see something you recognize?” Lisa asked. I was still staring at the picture.
“No, I don’t think so.” I pushed the sketch back across the table, giving them an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know.”
“
It’s okay,” Lisa assured me. “It’s worth a look, regardless.” She paused. “For a second there, Maria, it seemed as if you recognized him.”
“Yes, I thought there was something familiar, for a moment,” I admitted. “But I’m really not sure. I couldn’t give you a name or anything. I’m sorry,” I said again, as if it were my fault.
“No worries.” Lisa put the sketch away. “Like I said, it was worth a try. But if you do remember something, anything, you will tell us, won’t you?” Lisa pushed a card across the table with her and Tom’s names on it. “You can call that number any time, day or night, if anything comes to you.”
“Okay. Thank you.” I nodded and took the card, tucking it in my bag.
“Laura was the mother of three children,” Lisa continued. “The youngest is only three.”
“Yes—” I stopped; I wasn’t sure why.
“She told you about them?” Lisa surmised.
I nodded.
Lisa nodded back, registering that detail. “We want to catch her killer, Maria. New York is meant to be a safe city for everyone who lives here. We don’t want people to be scared to use the subway, or walk down the street.”
“No,” I agreed. Did she not think I felt the same?
“Everyone should feel safe here,” Lisa continued. “Including people like you.”
I tensed. “People like me?”
“I mean people who have come to the US to be safe. To have a fresh start. You lived in Sarajevo during the Bosnian conflict with Serbia?”
I swallowed hard. “Yes, I did.”
“But you left the city in 1993?”
“Yes.”
“And what happened then?”
“What does this have to do with Laura?” I asked, hearing the desperation in my voice. I never talked about the past. Never.
“We need to pursue all leads.” Lisa gave an apologetic shrug. “What happened when you left the city?”
“I was detained for four months.” I spoke flatly, sparing with the details. I didn’t want to tell them any more than I had to.
Lisa nodded slowly. “You and your family?”