Freefall

by Jessica Barry

  The memory of the man in the Prexilane plaza suddenly surfaced in my mind.

  I typed the word “Prexilane” into the search engine and scrolled through the results. There was a piece in Bloomberg from the week before speculating about a sale. “Acting CEO of Prexilane denies rumors of a sale to Hyperion Industries—but insiders say it’s only a matter of time.” Hyperion Industries—the name rang a bell. It clicked after a few seconds: the receptionist had mentioned Hyperion when I’d first turned up at the office. I smiled to myself. No wonder there’d been so much commotion when I arrived—they thought I was coming to buy the company.

  The rest of the entries about Prexilane were standard business fare. I needed to get more specific.

  The stricken look on the man’s face as he talked about his wife’s death, the anguish in his eyes . . . He’d said they’d given her the pills after she’d given birth to her daughter.

  I pictured the smiling blond woman on the billboard. Somnublaze.

  The first few pages were medical websites explaining Somnublaze’s use for treating postpartum depression. I clicked on one at random but didn’t find anything out of the ordinary—the article described the circumstances under which it would be prescribed and the side effects, which were minimal: headache, nausea—nothing more than you’d expect from taking any medication. I clicked on a New York Times article that described it as a wonder drug—“For many new mothers, Somnublaze is the key to feeling like themselves again.” Those were the words the man had used in the plaza, who claimed they’d given his wife the drug to make her feel like herself again. Another article hailed it as one of the major developments in pharmaceuticals this decade.

  The reviews, too, were glowing—hundreds of women claiming that it had saved their lives, that they had been staring down into the abyss and Somnublaze had lifted them out. “Thank God for this drug,” one woman said. “I wouldn’t have made it through without it.”

  I sat back in my chair. I’d been led on another wild-goose chase. It seemed like, whatever flaws I might suspect him of, Ben had developed a drug that helped people. Maybe the man in the plaza really had been a lunatic.

  Still, I couldn’t let go of the thought that I was missing something. A thought struck me: every single one of the search results I’d clicked on had been positive. I’d been using the internet long enough to know that it wasn’t normal for reviews to be universally positive. People used the internet for two reasons: to find out information, and to complain. It didn’t matter what about—if it existed, they’d complain about it. Hell, there were people out there who’d left bad reviews about North by Northwest, and I couldn’t imagine anybody not liking that movie. Something didn’t sit right about the fact that no one was complaining about Somnublaze. Hadn’t Linda said her daughter-in-law stopped taking it because it made her feel crazy? If she’d had a negative reaction to it, there must have been others who had, too.

  I went deeper into the search. The next forty pages of results were the same—more articles about Somnublaze from medical websites and news agencies, more patient reviews, all uniformly positive. The better-known sites dropped away, and smaller, more obscure sites took their place, but the tone didn’t change. Somnublaze was nothing short of a miracle, and no one had a bad word to say about it.

  It took me until page seventy-four to find something. It was a message board for new mothers. The thread was long defunct, but the conversation was still there. The subject line was just one word: HELP.

  Posted: September 14 2016 3:49 by Curls384

  I was diagnosed with ppd when dd was 4 weeks old. My doctor prescribed Somnublaze and I’ve been taking it for 6 mos now. At first it made a huge difference. I felt like myself again, and I could finally bond with dd. Lately I’ve been having mood swings. I’ll be happy one minute and so angry the next—angrier than I’ve ever been. Has anyone else experienced this?

  Posted: September 14 2016 10:11 by RebeccaCC

  I’ve been on Somnublaze since ds2 was born 3 mos ago and it’s helped so much. No mood swings. Maybe talk to your doctor? Could be a Vit D imbalance?

  Posted: September 16 2016 1:32 by Curls384

  Doctor has suggested upping my dosage from 20mg to 40. My vit levels are fine. Today I got so angry with my dd that I had to lock myself in the bathroom to calm down. I’m scaring myself. Why am I so angry??? Can anyone help? Please, I’m desperate!

  Posted: September 16 2016 11:55 by GeorgiaPeach

  Is there someone you can talk to—a family member or a friend or a therapist? Does your DH know you’re feeling this way?

  Posted: September 21 2016 14:33 by GeorgiaPeach

  Did you speak to someone? Have you got help?

  Posted: September 23 2016 17:04 by GeorgiaPeach

  You’re in my prayers.

  Posted: November 6 2016 15:47 by Moderator

  This thread is now closed.

  The conversation ended there. My heart went out to that poor woman—she sounded genuinely scared. Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with the pills. Maybe the upped dosage worked for her, and she was feeling better. I read through it again. GeorgiaPeach had been scared for her, too. The moderator’s message felt too final.

  It didn’t prove anything, though. She was just one woman. I had no idea what her situation was, or if how she was feeling had anything to do with Somnublaze or Prexilane. It was just a single drop in an ocean of praise. Still, I wrote down the Web address. Just in case.

  I checked my watch: it was nearly three thirty. I should get going before rush hour set in, I thought. I was gathering up my things when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  “Excuse me.” I looked up. It was Tony. “Sorry, I don’t mean to hassle you or anything, but I’m about to go out for a cup of coffee and wondered if I could persuade you to join me.” He looked down at me and tilted his head to one side. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look like you might need it.”

  I bristled. I couldn’t understand why he was so interested in talking to me. Something about the way he looked at me—like he could see straight through my skin—made me feel exposed and embarrassed. Did he know who I was? About Ally? Maybe he was a journalist, sniffing around for information. Or just some sick stranger looking to get close to tragedy, like the people who turned out to gawk at car wrecks. “No, thank you,” I said curtly, and I turned my back and waited for him to leave.

  I could feel him hovering behind me. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I just thought you might like some company.”

  I listened to him shuffle away, and my heart sank. The man was just trying to be nice. It was paranoid to think it was anything more sinister than that. Hadn’t I decided the last time I was up there that he was probably lonely? And then I’d been rude to him, again. I didn’t want to go home yet, and a cup of coffee might be nice, especially one with someone who didn’t know me, and didn’t pity me. I got up and walked over to where he was sitting, a pile of books stacked on the desk in front of him. I had a quick look at the titles. He was on to the impressionists now. He looked up at me as I approached, his face like a scolded puppy. “I’ll take that cup of coffee if you’re still offering,” I said, and his face cleared.

  We went to the coffee shop in Smith Union. I sat down at one of the plastic tables while he went up to the counter and ordered, and I watched him as he stood in line. He was a good-looking man for his age, still trim and with a full head of silvery hair. He’d have been handsome when he was young. He caught my eye and smiled and I looked away, feeling like I’d been caught.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing me a paper cup. “They didn’t have regular so I got you something called a flat white. I hope that’s okay.”

  “I’m sure it will be,” I said. “Thank you.” I watched him take a sip, and as he wiped the milk from his upper lip I realized I was happy I’d accepted his invitation.

  “So,” he said, propping his elbows on the table, “are you going to tell me what it is you’re researching
? From the look on your face, I’m guessing it’s some serious stuff.” I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t ready. Tony ran a hand over the stubble on his chin and sighed. “Sorry, I’m being nosy again. My wife was always telling me that I asked too many questions.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You were married?”

  “Widowed. Four years now.” I saw the same pain in his eyes that I saw in my own and nodded in recognition.

  “Me too. Two years.”

  He sighed. “Well, I’d tell you it gets easier, but that would be lying.”

  We smiled sadly at each other. “I figured as much,” I said. I took a sip from my cup. The coffee was too creamy for my taste, but it was good enough. “Can I ask what happened to . . .”

  “Diane. She had a heart attack. We played golf that morning and I’d gone to take a shower. When I came out, she was lying on the couch. Already gone.” His eyes filmed over and I could see he was reliving it all over again. I imagined him coming out of the bathroom and finding her slumped on the cushions, all the life suddenly sucked from her, and my heart broke for him.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly, and his eyes returned to mine. I could see an understanding there that I hadn’t seen many times before. I was the first person among my friends to lose a husband. Everyone was sympathetic, of course—kinder than I could have imagined—but they hadn’t really understood. No one can tell you how it feels to see the body of the person you love and know that he’s not really there anymore. It’s like a cheap magician’s trick. Crueler than anything I could have imagined.

  “What about your husband?” he asked, tearing open a packet of sugar and stirring it into his coffee.

  I looked away. “Charles died of colon cancer.” It was the truth, almost. The cancer had been killing him. I could still hear the steady drip of the morphine feed. “It’s unlocked,” the doctor had said on his last visit, nodding toward the safe where the morphine pump was stored, and then he’d said goodbye and walked out the door. He hadn’t said anything else. He didn’t have to.

  I should have told Ally I was going to do it. I wanted to protect her, but in doing so I had robbed her of the chance to say goodbye to her father. I understood why she hated me. I still hated myself sometimes, even though Charles had asked me to do it. I knew, too, that I had acted selfishly. He loved her best—as he should, she was his daughter—but I had loved him first, and there was a part of me that had wanted to love him last. She was his daughter, but I was his wife. I had watched him turn from a kid of eighteen into a man and a husband and a father and then I watched cancer hollow him out, and I had wanted to keep the last remaining piece of him to myself. Selfishness, pure and simple. But it was love, too, even though I knew I wouldn’t have been able to explain it to her.

  Tony shook his head. “Nasty stuff. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  You don’t know the half of it, I thought. I nodded. “I’m sorry for what you went through, too.”

  His mouth twisted into a smirk. “Getting old sucks, doesn’t it?”

  I laughed. “It certainly does. These kids don’t know how lucky they are,” I said, gesturing toward a table of students. “Not that I’d want to be eighteen again.”

  He shook his head. “God forbid.” We were silent for a few minutes, just sipping our coffees and looking at the kids milling around the union, buying slices of pizza and sitting and laughing in groups of threes and fours.

  I sneaked a glance at him. Yes, he would have been handsome when he was young. The lines around his eyes had settled into patterns that suggested he’d laughed a lot over the course of his life, despite the sadness he carried in his eyes. He had the face of someone who was kind. I felt something building up inside me. “My daughter was in a plane crash,” I said, too loudly.

  Tony looked up at me, stricken. “Jesus.”

  I nodded. “Everybody thinks she’s dead, but they haven’t found a body.” Now that the words were out I felt lighter, almost giddy. Like a fire hydrant being opened up on a hot day. “I’m trying to get to the bottom of what happened, but it feels more and more like I’m just chasing my own tail. I’m trying to make sense of it, but I’m starting to think that there is no sense in these things.”

  He ran a hand across his face. “God, Maggie. I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  I shook my head. I don’t know why I thought he’d understand, but I was frustrated now that he hadn’t. “That’s just it—I can’t bring myself to believe I’ve lost her. We weren’t in touch over the past couple of years, and I keep learning all these things about what her life was like, and it’s like hearing about a stranger. I have to know, though. Even though I know I should just let it rest, I can’t. I have to know everything I can. I’m looking things up now that don’t have anything to do with Ally, just in case they lead me to her somehow. Does that make sense?” I allowed my eyes to meet his. “What am I saying? I know it doesn’t.” I felt a flush of embarrassment. What was I doing, telling a stranger things like this?

  His eyes were so gentle then, so kind. He nodded. “Of course it does.”

  I looked away. “Well, you’re the only one who thinks so. Everyone else thinks I’m crazy.” I stared down at the top of the Formica table. “It’s her memorial tomorrow. My friend organized the whole thing, thinks it will give me closure.” I let out a short laugh. “Somehow I don’t think that’ll happen.”

  He shook his head and smiled. “I remember when Diane died, and my buddies came around with six-packs and we all ended up just getting drunk in silence. No one said a damn word all night, until finally Bobby Maguire started talking about the Dodgers and everyone sort of relaxed. What else was there to say? No one has answers for these things. No one can understand how you’re feeling. That’s the thing about it—even when you’re surrounded by people, you’re still completely alone. You’ve got to deal with it whatever way you can.” He ran a hand across his stubble again and sighed. “Sorry, I’m probably not being much use here.”

  I felt suddenly shy, like he’d seen me without my clothes on. I folded my arms across my chest. “It is what it is.” I glanced at the clock mounted on the wall. Almost four. I reached out and drained the last of my coffee. “Well, I’d better get going.”

  He checked his watch and grimaced. “Me too. I’ve got to get back to the books. I’ve got to write a paper on Swann’s Way by Friday.” He leaned across the table conspiratorially. “You got any idea what he was talking about?”

  I shook my head. “I tried to read it once but I didn’t get on with it. Too flowery for me.”

  “Good. That makes two of us.”

  We threw out our paper cups and walked out of the building together. The heat had gone out of the day and the sky was a whitish gray and overcast. It would rain later.

  Tony shoved his hands into his pockets. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

  “My pleasure. Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Anytime.”

  We stood there for a minute, both of us unsure how to leave. “Well, goodbye,” I said finally, thrusting my hand toward him. We shook hands awkwardly, and I felt myself blush. Stop it, I scolded myself. You’re acting like a fool. I could tell by his face that he felt silly, too, which made me feel both better and worse.

  “You take care of yourself, Maggie,” he said, pushing his hands back down into his pockets. “I hope I’ll see you again soon.”

  Allison

  I scrounge through my bag. There isn’t much left from the cabin—a single can of soup and a handful of crackers. Hunger gnaws. I stab open the tin with the dulled point of my knife and drink. I catch the inside of my lip on the jagged metal edge, and the taste of blood mixes with the taste of alphabet soup. My favorite when I was a kid.

  “Allison!”

  The way the man called out my name made my stomach clench. When I had passed him farther up the block I saw him staring at me, but I didn’t think twice about it. Men stared at me all the time. Part of
being a woman meant being common property as soon as you set foot outside. You got used to it early, learned to set your face a certain way, to avoid eye contact, to keep walking. But then he called out my name.

  He was behind me on the sidewalk. I could hear his footsteps gathering pace and I picked up my own. My fist tightened around the strap of my purse and I started to formulate a plan. There was a shop a few doors down—I’d duck inside and ask for help.

  A hand grabbed my elbow. “Allison, please. I just want to talk to you.” I jerked my arm away and spun around, ready to fight. It was broad daylight. Someone would see us before things got too bad. Someone would intervene.

  The man standing in front of me had the sort of hangdog face that suggests a life of continuous disappointment. His eyes were widely set and slightly rheumy, like he was in the grip of a fever, and there was a shock of unruly gray hair on top of his head. I’d never seen him before in my life. He didn’t look like someone who was a threat, but then again, I was old enough to know that people were capable of anything. “Don’t touch me,” I said, in my iciest voice.

  “I’m sorry.” He shuffled back a few paces and held up his hands. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You didn’t scare me.” Rule number one: never show fear. “How do you know my name?”

  The edges of his mouth curled into a tentative smile. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”

  My eyes narrowed. “You’re the person who sent the notes.” After the first came another, and another. The people who’d given them to me couldn’t say who they were from—it was like they had just materialized out of thin air. But now here he was, standing right in front of me. Flesh and bone. “What do you want?”

  He held up his hands, as if to show he was unarmed. “Like I said, I just want to talk.”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “What if I don’t want to talk?”

  He took an uncertain step toward me. “I didn’t want to do this,” he whispered.