Freefall

by Jessica Barry

  He nodded and I felt myself being dismissed. “Well,” he said, turning back to his steak, “goodnight.”

  Amanda jumped up and followed me out to my car. “I’m so sorry that the evening hasn’t ended well,” she cooed. “I hope you know I would never want to upset you in any way.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, waving her away. “It’s just a headache. Thank you for a very nice evening.” I attempted a smile but it came out more like a grimace. She reached out and pulled me into her and I allowed myself to be embraced. The heady smell of her perfume filled my head and it started pounding in earnest. I disentangled myself from her arms and climbed into the car. She was still waving as I pulled out onto the road, her face livid red in the reflection of my taillights.

  Allison

  By the time I’m a hundred yards away, I can see that it isn’t so much a cabin as a large building pretending to be a cabin, complete with fake-log cladding and a pitched roof. There’s a stretch of manicured grass out front, and a tall wooden fence ringed a clearing out back. A small blue sign hangs from a hinge and swings lightly in the breeze. The letters, painted in red, spell out “Chuck’s Trailstop.”

  My stomach gurgles excitedly. Who knows what delights line Chuck’s shelves? Boxes of Wheat Thins and Cheez-Its. Bags of Wise potato chips in exotic flavors. Ice-cold cans of Diet Coke and Arizona iced tea and cellophane-wrapped snack cakes and oh my God, what if they have those little tubs of cheese dip?

  I eye up the store from my perch. It’s a risk, of course. Maybe one I shouldn’t take. I still have a few crackers left over from the hunter’s blind, and I could try to hunt something with the rifle, though that seems unlikely, seeing as I don’t know how to shoot. I also know that I’m borderline starving and I’m not sure how much longer I can keep going on so little fuel. The jerrican of water is almost empty and I have no way of knowing when I’ll find water again.

  So I don’t have a choice, really.

  I have to go in.

  But if I’m going to go in, I have to make sure that I call as little attention to myself as possible.

  I put a hand to the ungodly rat’s nest that used to be my hair. My leggings are stained and ripped, my arms covered in scrapes and bites, and my sneakers—well, they’re barely shoes at this point, more like pieces of rubber loosely strapped to my feet. I can’t even begin to imagine what I smell like. I’m carrying a leather overnight bag instead of a backpack, I’m wearing inappropriate clothing that’s torn and filthy, and I have a stolen rifle swinging around my neck.

  There’s work to be done.

  I dust myself off as best I can and wipe my face on the back of my sleeve. I dig out the sweatshirt—still relatively clean, miraculously—and pull it over my head. The sun is baking down and I immediately start to sweat. I rake my fingers through my hair, snagging on thickly coiled snarls. Christ, I wish I could cut it all off. I tie it back with a length of string and hide it under the hood. I dig into the pocket of my bag and pull out a few soggy bills. Nine dollars, to be exact. All the cash I have to my name. I tuck it into my bra.

  I need to go in there looking like your average day hiker, not some nutcase survivalist, meaning I can’t take the gun or my bag inside. There’s a thick bank of shrubs near the path, so I chuck the bag and the rifle behind it, arrange the branches to make sure everything’s fully hidden, and head for the shop.

  A bell chimes my arrival.

  The first thing that hits me is the air conditioning pumping through the vents. My arms prickle with goose bumps and I’m suddenly grateful for the baggy sweatshirt. The second is the smell. I sniff the air, trying to place it. It reminds me of something. Parking lots in summertime. Backyard barbecues. My mouth starts to water.

  There they are, glistening as they slowly rotate in the glass case perched on top of the counter. Hot dogs. My stomach gives a plaintive growl.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turn to find a man in his early thirties in a Cubs baseball cap towering over me. I can’t bring myself to feel fear. All I care about right now is my hunger. I smile and avoid his eyes. “Can I have a hot dog, please?”

  I feel him take in my dirty clothes and tattered shoes in a single glance. “Sure thing.” He walks over to the case and opens it. The smell hits me afresh, salty and fatty and rich. He tongs a hot dog into a bun and hands it to me. “That’ll be two dollars. Ketchup and mustard are on the side,” he said, nodding toward the service station.

  “Thanks.” I pull the bills out of my bra and hand them over the counter.

  He pinches the bills between two fingers and slides them into the cash register, his eyes flickering across my face.

  I can’t wait any longer. I take a bite. The tensile skin gives way beneath my teeth and the salty flesh fills my mouth. The bread wads itself between my teeth as I chew. I swallow and take another bite, then another. The man watches with detached interest.

  “You want another?” he asks as I polish off the last bite.

  I nod as my tongue works a bit of gristle from a molar.

  He picks up the tongs. “You’re not exactly dressed for the trail,” he says, nodding at my sneakers. “You been out long?”

  I shrug and try to look casual. “Just a day trip.”

  He points to a reddish-brown stain on my leggings. “Looks like blood. You hurt?”

  I shake my head. “Just mud. I slipped.”

  He looks for a minute as though he’s going to say something else, but instead he gets another hot dog out of the case and hands it to me. I set to work and finish it in a few swift bites. “You’re pretty hungry for a day tripper,” he says, taking two more wilted dollar bills I scrounge out of my bra. “Where’d you start from?”

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and stall for time. “Just over the ridge,” I say finally. “I can’t remember the name of it.”

  He’s watching me more carefully now. “You out here on your own?”

  My antennae go up. I’m filthy and smelly and battered and bruised but I’m still a woman on my own and I know that there’s still no end of terrible things that could happen to me because of it. I shake my head. “My friends are down by the river.”

  He goes to the window. “I can’t see them.”

  I feel a prickle of fear at the base of my spine. “They’re probably just around the corner. I should go find them.” Get out get out get out. “I’m just going to grab a couple things,” I say, retreating into the aisles. “I’ll just be a sec.”

  He gives me a funny little smile. “Take your time.”

  I try to quell the rising panic and force myself to concentrate on the task at hand. I want to run but I need the supplies too badly. A jar of peanut butter—$1.99. Sold. A pack of survival biscuits. $2.50. I hate myself for eating that second hot dog. I can already feel the fat from it sliding through my intestines. I’ll pay for it later.

  I make my way back up to the counter and place the items on the counter. I palm a Snickers from the shelf below and place it on the counter, too. “Have you got someplace I can fill up my water bottle?”

  He jerks his head toward the window. “There’s a pump round back. Help yourself.”

  “Great.” My eyes meet his for the first time and I realize they’re a soft, warm brown. They remind me of my father’s eyes, and I see the same familiar kindness in them. I let myself relax just a little. “Just out of curiosity, how far is it to the nearest town?” Wherever it is, I wouldn’t be able stay there, but maybe I could sneak a night in a motel while I got some money together, take a shower, eat a hot meal.

  “Just over the mountain,” he says, nodding east. “About twenty miles. That’ll be $4.99.”

  I shake my head when he tries to give me my change. “Just put it in there,” I say, gesturing toward the Take-a-Penny dish. I can’t imagine a scenario in which a single penny will do me any good. “What’s the best way to get there? The quickest route, I mean.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “On foot?”


  “Yeah.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s too far to get to on a day trip.”

  “It’s not for today,” I say, too fast. “It’s just if we come back again. My friends and I.”

  He hands me the plastic bag. “There’s a trail that takes you up the mountain. It’s not too steep, but you’ll want proper hiking boots for it, not just sneakers. You just follow that until you get to the other side and then you’ll want to hook a left when you come to the pond. The main road is down the bank and it’ll take you straight into town.”

  “Great,” I say. “Thanks. I’ll remember that for next time.”

  “Remember to bring the right clothes next time, too, and some more food. You could get in trouble coming out here unprepared.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” I say, backing toward the door. “I’ll be like a Girl Scout next time, I swear.” I pull open the door and am about to leave when it catches my eye. There, stacked in a neat pile in a wire stand, is the Denver Post. A leader tucked at the bottom of the front page snags my vision. TOWN MOURNS PLANE CRASH VICTIM—PAGE 3. I pick up a copy and pull it open.

  I recognize the photograph they’ve run of me from one of the countless charity galas we attended. I stare at the woman, blond and polished as a new penny in a black sheath dress, and feel no connection. This woman isn’t real. She was something decorative designed to hang nicely off an arm. More important, according to the thick black type below, she’s dead.

  Allison Carpenter, 31, fiancée of Prexilane CEO Ben Gardner, was killed when her plane went down in the Colorado Rocky Mountains. Gardner was also killed in the crash.

  A bubble rises inside me and bursts. They’ve got it all wrong but it doesn’t matter, because it means I’m free.

  I glance farther down the page and see another photograph, this one smaller. My heart catches in my throat as my mother stares back at me.

  “You all right?” the man calls from the counter.

  “Fine!” My voice is strangled and too loud. I hold the paper closer to my face. There she is. I can see her clearly now, standing in a field wearing that yellow dress we bought together years ago, shading her eyes from the sun. She’s aged. The skin has loosened on her neck and jowls, and bags darkly under her eyes. She’s too thin. She looks tired. Guilt wrenches at my gut. I did this to her.

  I read the caption underneath.

  Owl’s Creek, ME: Maggie Carpenter, mother of Allison Carpenter, at the town’s memorial for her daughter.

  That’s when I notice it. The necklace around her neck winks at me, familiar as my own hands. In the background, shadowed and blurred but undeniable, I see his face. My blood turns to ice.

  I wheel around. “Do you have a car?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you have a car?” I don’t have a choice. I have to trust him.

  The man frowns. “Sure, but I—”

  “I need to get to the nearest town as soon as possible.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “I thought you had a car close by.”

  “It’ll take too long,” I explain impatiently. “I need to go now. It’s an emergency.”

  “What’s happened?” Concern washes over his face and I realize I was right to trust him.

  I shake my head. “I can’t say.”

  He hesitates. “I’ve got a shop to run. I can’t just drop everything just because you tell me you need to get somewhere in a hurry.”

  “I promise, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” He looks at me and I can see he’s wavering. “Please.”

  He nods, just once. “Give me ten minutes to close up shop.”

  “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much this means.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he grunts. And then, “Do you want to tell your friends you’re going?”

  I look at him evenly. “We both know I don’t have any friends out there.”

  He smiles. “I’ll meet you out back.”

  I run to get the gun.

  Maggie

  I saw him before he saw me. Five minutes late, hair still wet from the shower, and with a harried expression I hadn’t seen on him before. He spotted me and waved before making his way up to the counter. He mimed a drinking action at me—Do you want one?—and I pointed at my still-full coffee and shook my head. I watched him chat to the waitress and laugh when he struggled to find his wallet in his own back pocket. When he’d finished ordering, he took a seat across from me at the table and smiled.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I’m all over the place this morning.”

  “You’re fine,” I said, waving away his apology. “I’m always early for everything. Drives people crazy.”

  “Nothing wrong with being early.”

  I laughed. “There is when you’re clogging up their waiting room.”

  The waitress came around and set a cup on the table in front of him. Hot chocolate with whipped cream, from the look of it. He must have noticed my eyebrows being raised because he shrugged and looked sheepish. “Don’t tell the doctor,” he said, dipping a spoon into the whipped cream and sticking it in his mouth. “I’ve got a bad sweet tooth.”

  I nodded. “Salt’s my thing.” Charles used to tease me about it. He called me the potato chip queen of Owl’s Creek. “Not that I’m allowed much of it anymore,” I added ruefully.

  He smiled sympathetically. “Cholesterol?”

  “Blood pressure.” The doctor had tried to put me on medication, but it made me light headed, so I’d stopped it and changed my diet instead. I still missed potato chips.

  He took a sip of his hot chocolate and wiped the cream from his mouth with the back of his hand. “How was the rest of the memorial?”

  I thought of David and Amanda turning up out of the blue, and our stilted dinner the night before. I didn’t want to get into that, not then, so I shrugged and said, “Oh, you know, fine. Good to see so many people.”

  He nodded encouragingly. “Seemed like a nice turnout. A lot of people loved your daughter, that’s for sure.” He lifted the mug to his mouth and hesitated. “Sorry I had to run off like that.”

  I glanced at him across the table. I’d been wanting to ask him, but I was afraid it would sound rude, or worse, but now he’d opened the door himself. “Where did you go?” I asked, keeping my voice light.

  He shifted in his seat. “I felt like maybe I was imposing a little. Showing up like that . . .” He looked uncomfortable admitting it, and I felt myself soften. “I thought maybe you’d think I was weird or something.”

  I felt a wince of regret. He’d turned up trying to do something nice, and I’d made him feel he was in the wrong. I straightened my shoulders and looked him in the eye. “No. I was glad you came.”

  “Good.” He fumbled with his spoon and started tapping it on the side of his saucer. Clink clink clink. A dark shadow had spread across his face.

  “Tony, is there something on your mind?”

  He looked up, surprised. “Me? No. Why do you ask?” He followed my gaze to the spoon in his hand and put it down gently on the saucer. He smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry. Nervous habit. I don’t know what’s got into me today. Tell me,” he said, reaching across the table to take my hand. “How are you holding up?”

  I tried not to think about the warmth of his fingers on mine. “Oh, you know. Getting by.”

  “Maggie,” he said softly. “You can be honest with me.” There was that look in his eye again, like he could see straight through to the heart of me. I felt my defenses slip away.

  I sighed. “Everyone seems to think that I’m not dealing with my grief properly, that I’m being irrational by not accepting what happened to Ally.” I raised my eyes to his. He was watching me steadily, waiting. “Do you think I’m being irrational?”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what I think. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I know I should be trying to get on with my life, but it all feels like a smok
e-and-mirrors game. Just when I think I’m getting somewhere, starting to understand what happened with Ally, starting to accept it—poof!—it disappears right in front of me.” I sighed. “I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

  He squeezed my hand. “You’re not losing your mind.”

  We were silent for a minute, the swish and whir of the coffee machine rumbling in the background. My fingers reached for the necklace. I held the cool gold disk for a moment before letting it go.

  “Pretty,” he said finally. “The necklace, I mean. Is it new?”

  “No,” I said quietly. “It was Ally’s. They found it at the crash site.”

  He nodded. “Must be nice to have it.” He reached out as if to touch it and stopped himself, but I could still feel the ghost of his fingers on my skin, and an electric current seemed to run through me. I pulled away and he smiled apologetically. “Didn’t mean to make you jump.”

  I shook my head. “I’m just a little jittery, that’s all.” I wondered if my cheeks were burning as red as they felt. I scolded myself for being so ridiculous. “The parents of the pilot came,” I said abruptly. “They were the people who came up to me right after you and I were talking. I don’t know if you saw them—fancy-looking couple?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well, they were there. We had dinner last night, too.”

  He looked at me sharply. “You had dinner with them?”

  I shrugged, suddenly defensive. “They came all the way from California. I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice.”

  I waited for him to tell me I’d been a fool, but he just nodded. “Well, I guess that makes sense. What did they say?”

  I thought about David’s staring at his phone and Amanda’s brittle laugh. “Nothing.” It was half-true: they hadn’t said anything useful. Still, the evening gnawed at me. Amanda’s charm had turned cold as soon as I pushed her for something she didn’t want to give, and David had been so distant, so remote . . .

  I looked at Tony sitting across from me, his paunch hidden behind his rumpled T-shirt, his big hand with its gnawed cuticles resting on mine. Surely I could trust this man. Or at least I wanted to, badly. “I went to her house in San Diego,” I said finally. “The one she shared with that man.” I told him about the housekeeper giving me the cold shoulder, and the place being stripped of anything of Ally’s.