I thought about those first days after we brought her home from the hospital. She was a big girl when she was born—nearly nine pounds, God help me—with cheeks as round and red as crab apples. Charles and I had waited so long for her to arrive—we’d been trying for years, and were the oldest couple in the delivery ward by almost a decade—and by then we’d known it would just be her, a little family of three. We would stand by her crib and stare at her as she slept, watching her tiny chest rise and fall, both of us scared to blink or move or heaven forbid sleep in case we missed something. That lasted only a couple of weeks, of course, until sleep deprivation nearly drove us both insane. Still, I remember those days as some of the happiest of my life. After all those years of trying, the fact that she existed—that she was ours—felt like pure dumb luck.
She got colic when she was two months old and didn’t seem to stop crying until she started to walk, so those golden days were short lived. But the feeling that it was just three of us in this thing together stuck around.
I’d taken to wearing Charles’s ring again. It felt like a talisman, heavy and reassuring on my thumb. I slid it past the knuckle and read the inscription etched on the inside. C&M ALWAYS AND FOREVER. I sighed. Why do we kid ourselves about these things? I wondered. Nothing was built for forever. There would always be someone left behind.
The sound of Linda coming through the door made me jump. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been sitting there—maybe ten minutes, maybe a couple of hours. Time had become thick and syrupy, hard to get a handle on. She walked in carrying a few letters and a shallow cardboard box. “It’s addressed to Charles,” she said, nodding toward the box.
“Just stick it on the counter. I’ll figure out what to do with it later.”
She sat down across from me at the table and nodded toward the notepad that lay open in front of me. “What’s all this?”
I pulled it closer to me and stared down at my notes. “Trying to know more about what happened with Ally. Ben’s parents aren’t returning my calls, and I can’t get through to anyone at that bar she was working at.”
Linda’s eyebrows shot up. “You called the bar?”
“The number was right there on the website!” I cried, suddenly defensive. I knew she would think I was going overboard.
Linda sighed. “I just don’t know if this is healthy for you. Making phone calls, writing lists . . .” The corners of her eyes creased with concern. “Nothing you do is going to bring her back to you.”
“They still haven’t found the body,” I pointed out.
She nodded. “I know,” she said quietly, but I could see the pity in her eyes and I turned my face away.
“It’s bullshit,” I muttered under my breath. I had been planning on telling her everything I’d found out, but then I felt a flash of impatience. What was the point in telling her all that? She wouldn’t understand. No one did. “I just want to know what happened with my daughter,” I said. I didn’t want to have to explain myself to anyone. Not then. I didn’t say any of that, though, and the silence stretched between us.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through, and I don’t want to upset you even more, it’s just . . . I think it’s best if you let things rest, otherwise you’re going to drive yourself crazy. I only want what’s best for you.”
I told her I was tired and needed to lie down for a while, and she gathered up her things and headed for the door. “I’ll come around tomorrow and we can talk more about plans for the memorial,” she said, gathering me in for a hug.
“I won’t be in tomorrow,” I said. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in Bangor.”
“The day after, then.”
I shook my head. “I’ve got errands to run all day. Look, why don’t you just go ahead with whatever you feel is right. I’m sure you’ll pull something perfect together.”
For a second, she looked like she was about to ask me something, but in the end she just closed her mouth and pulled me in for another hug. “Of course. Don’t you worry about a thing—just leave it with me.”
I waved her off and then sat and listened for her car to turn down the street before logging back on to the computer. I clicked on an email in my inbox and hit Print.
I didn’t have a doctor’s appointment the next day, and I sure as hell wasn’t meeting with any funeral director about Ally.
The printer spat out the e-ticket one line at a time, and when I picked it up off the tray, the ink was still damp.
Tomorrow morning, before the sun rose in the sky, I’d be on a plane bound for California.
If they wouldn’t come to me, I’d go to them.
Allison
A phone is ringing. It’s far away at first but now it’s closer, urgent, the shrill sound clasped tightly against my ears, pressing. Insistent.
I startle awake.
Darkness. Nothing but darkness. No difference between the world and the inside of my eyelids. Black.
The wind rattles through the trees overhead. The cold is inside me now. It’s both a weight pressing down and a liquid flowing through, acute and infinite.
I feel around until my fingers grasp the strap of my bag. Pull it closer. Food. There’s still food. My hand dives into the bag, comes up with a Luna bar. Dumb fingers fumble at the plastic wrapping. There. It’s open.
Lips crack as they part. Taste blood. Tongue a thick slab of meat filling up. Take a bite. Jaw cracks. Teeth work and work but the bar remains, solid chunks stuck to molars. Swallow. Choke.
The rain. Pat the ground until you find a fallen leaf. Raise to your lips, suck the water down. The bar loosens, slides down the throat. Another bite. Chew. Swallow. Suck. Repeat. For a second, there’s calm, and then the revolt begins.
Stomach wrenches and then, bent double, eyes screwed up like pinpricks. My body is shivering badly now, shaking violently, guts twisting. I try to still myself but I can’t. I’m a rag doll being shaken from within.
Get up. Get up.
Legs stumble. I can’t feel my feet, or fingers, or face. I touch my hands to my ears to prove they’re still there. The parts of my body feel like stars loosely gathered in the same universe, remote and disconnected. Clothes snag on branches.
But the pain—the pain is gone.
It’ll be back. I can already hear it stalking me, its footsteps light across the sodden ground. I have to move before it catches me. There’s time. I can still escape.
What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?
This jacket is too heavy. It’s holding me back. Anyway, I can’t feel the cold anymore; I can’t feel anything. Toss it to the ground, move on. Move. It’s coming, I can hear it. The pain and the cold are coming for me, and I don’t know if I can outrun them this time.
“There’s nothing to you.” That was what he’d said to me, the next time we met. I’d been late for work, hungover and strung out and squinting into the too-bright sun. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going and—bam!—I ran smack into him on the sidewalk. His coffee spilled everywhere. I was mortified, mumbling apologies and offering to pay for dry cleaning, but he just laughed. “There’s nothing to you,” he’d said, wiping the coffee from his cuff. “You’re like a little sparrow. Here, let me help.” At first, I wasn’t sure if he remembered me. After all, it had been dark inside the bar, and a couple of months had gone by. But then he looked up from gathering the contents of my bag and smiled. “It’s Allison, right? I’m Ben.” I already knew.
He handed me my bag, and I gave him my most dazzling smile. “Can I buy you another coffee?” I asked, nodding to his empty paper cup, and he nodded and said, “Sure, but I’m buying.”
Sitting across from me at the cramped table, he’d licked the foam from his top lip and asked if I was still waitressing. I thought of my dingy studio apartment, and the damp heat of a stranger’s breath on my neck, and the smell of the jail cell—old sweat mixed with cheap perfume and fear. I met his eyes and waited to see
judgment, but there was nothing there but polite curiosity. I realized that he didn’t know the truth, and nearly wept with relief. In his eyes, I was a blank slate. I could be anyone.
In that moment, it was clear to me that it was fate. This man, with his handsome face and his kind smile and his expensive wristwatch, had tried to save me once before. This time, I was going to let myself be saved. I could already feel myself sloughing off my old life. Already, I knew I loved him.
One step. Another. I think, maybe, that I should run.
Come on, sweetheart. Don’t get cute with me. We both knew what this was. Don’t pretend like you’re innocent.
My eyes finally adjust and within the swirl of blackness I can see darker shapes and lighter shapes and they all whizz past me as I run, legs pumping, lungs filling with the sweet, clean air, twigs snapping and leaves squelching and body darting between the thickly packed trees and under the low-slung branches. In this dark I am light light light. Have I ever been this fast before?
I can feel my father’s hand in mine, tugging me along. “Faster, Allycat, faster!” We are running full throttle down the hill around the back of the house. My little legs are unsteady, barely catching me as I tear down the hill, the recklessness filling me with a sort of hysteria. Stop! I’m shouting, Stop! But I don’t want to stop, not really. I want to keep almost-falling forever, the wind whipping at my face, the fizzy feeling in my stomach, like a pancake midflip, joy and terror in equal measure.
He stirs creamer into his coffee and taps the side of the mug with his spoon. A smile plays on his lips. You wouldn’t want your fiancé to find out about your little brush with the law, would you?
The ground rushes toward me.
All you’ve got to do is help me. That’s all.
Stars. I can see stars. Up there, through the trees. A whole ocean of them.
Allison. Get up, Allison. What are you doing, lying there like that?
I open my eyes and see him standing over me, eyes glowing in the darkness, two bright spots of blue in the black. He is reaching down now, hand extended, but I’m back on my feet again and I am running, stumbling, tumbling.
I didn’t mean to hurt you. You know that, don’t you? But in the end, you didn’t give me a choice.
The cold is gone now. All I feel is a drowsy sort of warmth.
A daisy nods its lazy head at me and I snap its neck with a sharp tug.
See a daisy pick it up, all day long you’ll have good luck.
No, that’s not right. That’s not how it goes at all.
He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not.
The petals won’t be pinched. My fingers won’t work.
How will I know if he loves me?
The trees are growing taller. Or maybe I’m shrinking, like Alice in Wonderland when she drinks from the little vial. Where is the cake that will make me grow tall?
Can you read me another story?
No, Allycat, it’s time for bed.
Bed. Yes, bed. A bed of moss for a mattress. I lie down gently. The trees bend to tuck me in. Shushhhh, their leaves whisper. Shushhhhh.
There you go, Allycat. Snug as a bug in a rug.
My eyelids are heavy. I blink up at the sky. Once. Twice.
Goodnight, trees.
Goodnight, stars.
Goodnight, moon.
Dee’s face rises up before me. “It’s easy money. Trust me.”
The nights started bleeding into each other, the days disappeared by sleep. We stashed rolls of cash everywhere—in our sock drawers and lockers and in the vents in the break room. I had never seen so much cash before.
“Just smile and be nice. That’s all they want, really. A pretty girl being nice to them.”
Aftershave and stale liquor. The sound of laughter burbling up inside me, forced. The rasp of stubble on skin.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want.”
Do you know what a wad of bills smells like if you close your eyes?
“They’ll get it one way or another. You might as well make them pay.”
It smells like blood.
Ally, it’s time to wake up.
My mother’s hands gently shaking me.
C’mon, Ally, it’s time.
My eyes start open and fear floods through me. A gap of light has opened up, and through that gap a siren is wailing. I’m in trouble. Deep trouble.
Stay awake, Ally. Just stay awake.
I try to get up but my legs don’t work. It’s as simple as that, really. They just don’t work. My hands pad around me, searching. I hit on a rock, a sharp one, and dig my palm into it as hard as I can. The pain shocks through me, clearing my mind like a gust of wind.
Yes. That. I need to feel that.
Clumsy fingers fold themselves around the rock, and I squeeze it as tightly as I can. The sharp edge of the rock digs into my skin until finally the pain breaks through.
Up. Get up.
I haul myself onto my elbows, then my knees. There’s a low-hanging branch above and I reach for it, snaking my arms around it and pulling myself up. It takes every ounce of my remaining strength but I’m on my feet, rock still clutched tightly in my hand, the pain biting at my palm.
She’s standing in front of me in that blue fisherman’s sweater she wears all winter, her hair scraped back from her face, her hand outstretched. I reach out and her fingers wrap around my wrist.
I’m sorry, I say, for everything.
She shakes her head.
Just keep going, Ally. Just keep going.
Maggie
I’d forgotten that the airport was in the middle of the city, right next to the beach. As we swooped in for landing and I saw the white sand stretched out beneath us, I remembered the time Charles and I had come there to visit her. Charles had gotten out of the airport, already sweating from the heat, and had taken one look at the ocean opposite and said, “Who knew that airplanes needed a sea view?” He hadn’t liked San Diego—too pleasant for his tastes—but I had. The bright blue sky that never seemed bothered by a cloud, the deep blue-green of the ocean, the way that the water was lit up in Technicolor at night, each of the tall buildings refracting a different color onto its surface. It was a place that wasn’t worried about looking a little over the top, and I respected that. It reminded me of Linda. I couldn’t have lived there, of course, but I was happy to visit.
The sliding glass doors of the terminal opened and the dry warmth hit me as I stepped onto the pavement. Up in Maine, the summers are different, the air thick and humid, coating your skin in a sticky film, making you feel like you’re being made heavier just by breathing it. In San Diego, the air seemed to gently wrap itself around you, like a caress.
I’d rented a car—a little two-door Honda—and I jingled the keys in my hand as I searched for it in the lot. The black wheeled suitcase I dragged behind me bumped against my heels as I walked. I don’t know why I bothered to pack so much. I knew I wouldn’t be there for long.
The car was tucked between a pair of four-by-fours at the back of the farthest row. I popped the trunk, hauled my suitcase inside, and then settled myself in the driver’s seat and tried to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do next. I had a map I’d bought from the rental place even though the guy on the counter had looked at me like I was crazy—“Don’t you have a phone?” he’d asked—and a scrap of paper with three addresses written on it. I studied them for a minute, marking each place on the map with a ballpoint pen, and then sparked up the engine and pulled out of the lot.
The car nearly conked out on the climb to La Jolla. The engine struggled each time I hit the gas, and I could feel the transmission hesitate before it shifted up a gear. The road had been carved straight through the rock, and on either side, houses clung to the cliffside like a collection of matchboxes, looking like a stiff breeze would be enough to blow them away.
Spindrift Drive hugged the coastline, fringed with tall green hedges grown to obscure the mansions lurkin
g behind. I squinted at the numbers on the gated drives. A man pruning a rosebush squinted at the car as I rolled past. I guessed they didn’t get too many Honda Civics up in La Jolla.
The Gardners’ house was a hulking cube of glass and concrete, one of those buildings that look like they have descended from outer space rather than having been built up from the ground. I recognized it from the New York Times piece I’d read. According to the article, it was a “postmodern masterpiece,” though I was more inclined to agree with the Gardners’ neighbors about its being an eyesore. At least from what I could make out from where I stood, on the sidewalk on the wrong side of a tall wrought-iron gate. I rang the buzzer and waited. No response. I stretched up on my tiptoes and peered around the corner to the circular drive. A black Bentley was parked at the top, followed by a dark green Jaguar. Someone had to be home.
I rang again, leaning heavily on the buzzer this time. Finally, the intercom stuttered and spat. “Hello?” It was a woman’s voice, heavily accented. The housekeeper, I guessed.
“I’m Maggie Carpenter,” I said, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice. “Allison’s mother. I’m looking for David and Amanda Gardner.”
“Sorry, they’re away.” The intercom cut out.
I buzzed again. The voice crackled out again. “Yes?”
“Is there anyone else I could speak with? I’ve come a long way, and I’d like to talk to someone about my daughter.”
“Sorry. I’m not allowed to let anyone onto the grounds when the Gardners are away. Sorry.” The intercom cut out again, this time for good, no matter how many times I hit the buzzer.
I stood on the sidewalk for a minute, listening to the sound of the waves crashing into the rocks below and the low moan of a nearby lawn mower. A red sports car with tinted windows rolled past, too slow for it to be anything other than deliberate. I didn’t believe for a minute that the Gardners weren’t in that house, but it didn’t matter—they weren’t talking to me.
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