Freefall

by Jessica Barry

  I took a step back. “Do what?”

  He fiddled nervously with the hem of his shirt. “I know about your little car ride in Palm Springs.”

  A bolt of fear ran through me, icy sharp. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The slick black spool of highway. Flashing blue lights in the rearview mirror. I felt a wave of nausea come over me.

  The man was studying my face. “Your fiancé doesn’t know about it, does he?”

  I was silent.

  “There are a lot of things he doesn’t know about you.” It was a threat, but he said it almost kindly, and his eyes were filled with something close to pity.

  We went to a coffee shop down the street. It was midday, and the place was crammed full of office lunchtimers looking for their caffeine fix and freelance types tapping away on their laptops. I avoided their eyes as I walked to the counter and placed my order. It felt like the whole room was watching. They know about me, I thought. Everyone knows.

  We settled into a table tucked in a back corner and fell into silence until the waitress brought our order. The man tore open three packets of sugar and emptied them into his coffee. “Sweet tooth,” he said with an apologetic grin, and I had to hide my hands under the table to stop from slapping him.

  I watched as he slowly stirred his coffee, took a sip, poured in a splash of milk, sipped again. All the while, the feathered wings of panic gathered themselves and started pushing up into my throat. This man—this stupid, useless old man—was going to take everything away from me, and all he cared about was getting his coffee right. I hated him. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Who are you?”

  He tapped his spoon on the side of his mug and set it down in the saucer. “It’s not important.”

  So that was the deal: he knew me, but I couldn’t know him. Even though he knew things about me that could take the man I loved away from me, things that could destroy the life I’d created for myself. “Look,” I blurted out. I felt too hot, tearful. “I don’t know what you know about me, but—”

  He held up a hand to stop me. “Relax. I’m not interested in what you got up to at that bar, or the kind of company you used to keep.”

  I stared at him dumbly. “You’re not?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then why did you—”

  He tilted his head to one side and smiled. “I needed a way to make you talk to me. To listen.”

  I sat back in my chair. “So you’re not going to tell Ben about my past?”

  He shook his head. “As much as I’d love to hurt the guy, I don’t want to hurt him in that way. No, I’m not going to tell him. Your secret is safe with me.”

  I should have felt relieved, but the sourness in the pit of my stomach remained. This man wanted something from me. Something I knew, instinctively, that I wouldn’t want to give. I wanted to push back from the table and run away as fast as I could. But I knew I couldn’t do that. He’d already proved that he had ways of finding me, and he might not be so nice about my past the next time. “What do you want?” I asked quietly.

  He took a sip of his coffee and stared at me above the rim. “How much do you know about your fiancé’s company?”

  I let out a laugh, startling us both. “Prexilane?” I shook my head. “I don’t have anything to do with it.”

  He nodded patiently. “I know you don’t. That wasn’t my question. My question was, how much do you know about it?”

  I thought about the nights Ben came home late from work, exhausted but exhilarated because of a breakthrough they’d made in the lab. The way he talked about his desire to help people, to heal them. “I know that he makes drugs that save people’s lives.”

  He gave me a sad little smile. “Is that right.” He took another sip of his coffee. “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘manipulation of equilibrium samples’?” I shook my head. “How about ‘selection bias’?”

  I felt a fizz of anger. “What does this have to do with anything?” The itch to run out of the café returned.

  “What if I told you that Prexilane has been manipulating their own drug trials, and that people have gotten hurt as a result? Some have even died.”

  I flinched. “Ben would never do something like that. He cares about people. He wants to help them.”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. “The only thing he cares about is money. Just like the rest of them.”

  “No.” The anger in my voice startled us both. “You’re wrong.” I was prepared for this man to drag me through the mud—I deserved it—but I wouldn’t let him talk about Ben like that. He was a good man.

  He sighed. “Drug companies have been doing it for years. Think of the opioids screwing over middle America—you think they got to market based on sound research?” He shook his head. “They’re all at it. You have no idea the kind of side effects some of these drugs can have on innocent people.”

  “All drugs have side effects,” I pointed out. “Haven’t you ever seen a drug commercial? Half of it is taken up with listing side effects.” My voice was shaking and I had to work to control it.

  He gave me a pitying look, like I was some stupid, silly girl who didn’t know anything about the world. “Those are just the side effects they want you to know about.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Drug companies are regulated by the FDA. They have to be tested, go through research . . .” I trailed off. I was out of my depth now, just repeating phrases I’d heard. “There’s a process,” I said, more confidently than I felt.

  He smirked. “Oh, sure, there’s a process all right. The process of being bought and sold to the highest bidder. You think the FDA is above a little bribery?”

  I hated him. He was just like every other patronizing man I’d ever met in my life, and there’d been so many—hundreds of them—all eager to pat me on the head and tell me not to worry my pretty little head. But this was worse. He was trying to tell me I didn’t know the man I loved. I wouldn’t let him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re crazy,” I hissed.

  He slapped the table, hard. The room fell silent. A baby started to cry. “Don’t call me crazy.” His eyes were bright now, as if gripped by fever. “I am not crazy.”

  I shoved back in my chair and got to my feet. He was scaring me now, but I didn’t want to let him see that he’d rattled me. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. “I’m leaving,” I said, hoisting my bag over my shoulder. “Don’t contact me again.”

  He peered up at me, his eyes boring into mine. “Your fiancé is killing people,” he said in a low voice. “He and his people have destroyed lives to cover it up. Don’t you care about that?”

  “You’re a liar,” I spat. But he had opened up a little fissure of doubt inside me. I thought of the whispers Ben shared with Sam, the way he would startle awake at night, the sheets drenched in sweat, the dark moods that sometimes followed him home from work and trailed after him for hours. My heart thumped in my chest, and my head swam. I needed to get out of there. I needed air.

  I pushed my way out into the brilliant sunshine and took off in a run. The man in the café was sick, deranged, a fantasist. I never wanted to see him again.

  The Man sniffed the early-morning air, and the coal-fire scent of cold filled his lungs. He took out his phone and dialed.

  —It’s me.

  —Not yet, but I’m close.

  He lit a cigarette with red-raw fingers and took a drag. The smoke when he exhaled was mingled with condensation, and he watched as the fog drifted down the mountain in tumbling whorls.

  —Don’t worry, she won’t.

  He took another drag, scuffed his heel at the blackened circle of scorched earth. He glanced down at the patch of matted grass and frozen mud and smiled. She was getting sloppy. Tired. It wouldn’t be long now before she made a mistake.

  —Yes, sir. I’ll make sure of it.

  He hung up the phone, slid it back in his pocket. He took one last drag and curled the smoke out the side of his mouth. He
ground out the cigarette, picked up the butt, placed it in his pocket next to the phone.

  His boots were still damp, the tips of the laces were frosted with ice, and he stomped his feet hard to get the feeling back into them. He was sick and tired of being out there. He was ready for this to be finished.

  He gazed out east. The land stretched before him, patient.

  She was out there somewhere, waiting for him.

  He would find her, and it would be soon.

  Maggie

  Today is the day of my daughter’s memorial.

  The words appeared before I’d even opened my eyes, and they cycled through my head as I got out of bed and pulled Charles’s old terry cloth robe around me.

  I felt weighed down with dread. All those people, all those eyes on me. I wasn’t sure I could stand it. I forced myself to think of it as an opportunity. This wasn’t me giving up on Ally. It was a chance to talk to people who knew her, who may have spoken to her over the past two years. Maybe I’d learn something new that would help.

  I could hear Linda’s voice downstairs, arguing with someone over a tent. She’d been there since seven, taking care of all the last-minute details. She was still angry with me for having gone off to San Diego without telling her, though she wouldn’t admit it. I could tell, though, and I felt guilty as hell about it. She was trying her best to help me and I was being ungrateful in everything I did.

  I forced myself into the shower and then into a dress—yellow with a pretty floral pattern that Ally had helped me choose years ago. No black today. It was snug on me the last time I’d worn it, but now it zipped up without any trouble. I glanced at myself in the mirror and put a hand to my face. I looked thin, my cheeks hollowed out, my mouth pinched. The dress hung off me like a sack. How had I lost so much weight in so little time? I rubbed a little blush into my cheeks and flicked on some mascara. It was the best I could do.

  I stopped outside Ally’s room on my way downstairs. I hadn’t been in it since the day I found Barney dead, and I hesitated when I placed my hand on the handle. It was cold to the touch. I turned it and pushed the door open.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed, the frame creaking beneath my weight, and looked around the room. I spotted it before I realized I was even looking for it—the old shoebox filled with pictures that she kept on top of the wardrobe. I pulled it down and took off the lid. It was stacked to the brim.

  A photograph of Ally and Charles was resting on top, her smiling in her high school cap and gown, him gazing at her with such a look of pride and love and awe. I remembered taking it. It had been boiling that day and the backs of my legs had stuck to the metal folding chair. Ally had made a speech about old friends and new beginnings—the usual sort of graduation speech, but beautiful nonetheless—and I’d sat there sweating gently into my sundress and wondering how on earth I’d given birth to this beautiful, confident girl. Charles had held my hand through the ceremony, and by the end of it both our palms were slicked with sweat, but we didn’t care. Oh, we were happy.

  I remembered his funeral. Me sitting in the long black car that smelled of pine air freshener and ammonia and stale cigarette smoke from the driver’s coat. The crinkle of the paper mats under my sensible black heels. The feel of Linda’s hand in mine, powdery cool. The sight of the coffin in the hearse ahead as we drove through town. I stared out the window and watched the ghosts of us drift past. Me and Charles when we were first married, giddy and young in our ridiculous bell-bottoms, on our way to the movies. Me and Charles pushing Ally in her stroller, people on the street stopping us to fuss and coo over the little dark-haired bundle tucked in a blanket. Me and Charles just before he got sick, when we thought he just had a persistent stomach bug. We’d gone out to dinner but had to leave halfway through because he was in so much discomfort. We went to the doctor the next day.

  That’s the thing about living in the same place your whole life. You can see shadows of your former lives on every corner. You can’t escape them.

  I can’t remember the funeral service. I know it happened, because I have the program tucked between the pages of the ancient family Bible downstairs, but I can’t remember a single thing about it. The mind is funny that way. It protects you from the things you shouldn’t know and shouldn’t remember.

  I wondered if I’d remember this day.

  I put my hand to my face and my palm came away wet. I’d been crying. The realization made it worse, and soon my chest was heaving and my throat ached and I wondered if I’d ever be able to stop.

  There was a knock on the door. Linda poked her head around the frame. “You okay in here?” She took one look at me and her face crumpled. “Oh, honey.”

  “Barney died.” I didn’t know I was going to say it until it was out of my mouth, and we both knew it wasn’t the reason I was crying, but it didn’t matter. I knew I didn’t have to explain myself to her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and her voice was full of pain and sympathy. I knew she wasn’t talking about Barney, either, though we’d both loved that old cat. She sat down next to me on the bed and put her arm around me, and I let myself sink into her for a minute, breathing in the familiar smell of fabric softener, perfume, and lemon-scented Pledge. “I’m getting your blouse all wet,” I said, but I felt her shake her head and pull me closer. We stayed like that for a long time. Finally I took a deep breath, one of those shuddering ones that come after a long cry, and pulled away. “Is it time to go?”

  She checked her watch. “Almost. You want something to eat before we go? There’ll be food there but I wasn’t sure if you’d want something beforehand, maybe settle your stomach?”

  “No, thank you.” The thought of eating anything made my stomach turn.

  She reached out and touched the locket resting at the base of my throat. “Pretty.”

  I nodded.

  “I’m glad it made it back to you.”

  Linda drove us there in her pink Cadillac. It was a beautiful day, and the air smelled of freshly cut grass and lilac. From the passenger seat, I squinted into the sun and tried not to think about where we were headed. “You stay as long as you want,” Linda said, reaching over and squeezing my hand. “As soon as you’re ready to go, I’ll take you home.”

  I nodded. All I could think about was who would be there, and what I would say to them, and how they’d look at me. I was shaking by the time we pulled into the parking lot of the high school. It was already half full and teeming with people. A few of them stopped and looked as I got out of the car, nodding their heads before carrying on into the park. I reached into my bag until my fingers wrapped around the little orange pill bottle I’d tossed in before we left the house.

  “Come on,” Linda said, taking my elbow. “Let’s go.”

  “Just a second,” I said. “I think I forgot something in the car.” I opened the car door and ducked down to where she couldn’t see me. The pill caught in my throat before it went down.

  I didn’t want to remember this day after all.

  We walked past the high school—a flat brick sixties relic I went to long before Ally did—and over to the fields out back. They were used for sports during the school year, their surfaces marked out in white chalk and scuffed by cleats, but now, in mid-July, it was just one long expanse of patchy, sun-bleached grass. A group of teenagers—the high school drama club, I found out later—were standing in the middle of it singing a Beatles song a cappella.

  “They’re her favorite,” I said quietly.

  Linda slipped her hand in mine. “I know.”

  There was a long folding table that had been pulled out from the cafeteria on which people were placing cakes and bowls of potato chips and big casserole dishes of macaroni and cheese. A couple of men were manning a barbecue—an industrial-size one; God knows where Linda got it from—and the smell of burgers and hot dogs filled the air. The grass was dotted with people, some I recognized, some I didn’t, clutching paper plates and talking in groups of twos and threes. Little
kids swung from their parents’ arms, faces smeared with ketchup and chocolate ice cream.

  Linda looked at me closely. “Is it all right? It’s not too much, is it? Just tell me if it is and we can go.”

  I shook my head. “It’s perfect.” I could feel the pill starting to work, rubbing out the sharp edges. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, do you want something to eat? I can get you a seat somewhere so you can just sit and watch and not be bothered by anybody?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “You’ve done enough. I think I’ll just wander around.”

  I watched Linda bustle off to check on the buffet table and took a minute to survey the crowd. There were old teachers and soccer coaches of Ally’s, people I’d grown up with, faces I recognized from the bank and the grocery store and the post office. It seemed like half the town was there, and the sight of it filled me with a kind of warmth. Even if this town was haunted by ghosts, it was also full of people who cared about each other.

  I was staring off into the crowd when I felt a tap on the shoulder.

  “Maggie?” I turned to find Tony holding a clutch of white carnations dotted with baby’s breath. “I wasn’t sure what the etiquette was, so . . .” He held them out to me but I was too dazed to take them. I hadn’t told him about the memorial. Had I? I couldn’t think clearly enough to remember. “I saw it in the paper,” he said, sensing my hesitation. “I thought I’d come down and pay my respects.” He looked down at the flowers and shook his head. “I’m sorry, it was a stupid idea. I shouldn’t have intruded.” He looked so helpless then, like a scolded child.

  I reached out and took the bouquet from him. “They’re beautiful,” I said. “Thank you. It was sweet of you to come.”

  Silence expanded between us like a balloon. It felt like a dream. I was here. I was at my daughter’s memorial. He looked around and surveyed the field. “It’s a great turnout. Your daughter was obviously loved by a lot of people.” I followed his gaze. All these people, there for Ally. All these people, convinced that she was dead. The grief hit me again like a wave and I felt myself sway. Tony reached out and placed a hand on my elbow to steady me. “Do you want to sit down?”