No One Knows

by J. T. Ellison

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  For Scott, Linda, Laura, Blake, Harlan,

  and, as always, Randy

  PART ONE

  As contraries are known by contraries,

  so is the delight of presence

  best known by the torments of absence.

  —ALCIBIADES

  CHAPTER 1

  Aubrey

  Nashville

  Today

  One thousand eight hundred and seventy-five days after Joshua Hamilton went missing, the State of Tennessee declared him legally dead.

  Aubrey, his wife—or former wife, or ex-wife, or widow, she had no idea how to refer to herself anymore—received the certified letter on a Friday. It came to the Montessori school where she taught, the very one she and Josh had attended as children. Came to her door in the middle of reading time, borne on the hands of Linda Pierce, the school’s long-standing principal, who looked as if someone had died.

  Which, in a way, they had.

  He had.

  Or so the State of Tennessee had officially declared.

  Aubrey had been against the declaration-of-death petition from the beginning. She didn’t want Josh’s estate settled. Didn’t want a date engraved on that stupid family stone obelisk that loomed over the graves of his ancestors at Mount Olivet Cemetery. Didn’t want to say good-bye forever.

  But Josh’s mother had insisted. She wanted closure. She wanted to move on with her life. She wanted Aubrey to move on with hers, too. She’d petitioned the court for the early ruling, and clearly the courts agreed.

  Everyone was ready to move on. Everyone but Aubrey.

  She’d felt poorly this morning when she woke, almost a portent of the day to come, but today was the last day of school before spring break, so she had to show, and be cheery, and help the kids with their party, and give them their extra-credit reading assignments.

  From the second they arrived, her students buzzed around her. It didn’t take long for Aubrey to catch the children’s enthusiasm and drop her previous malaise. It was a beautiful day: the sun glowed in the sky, dropping beams through the windows, creating slats of light on the multihued carpet. The kids spun through the light, whirling dervishes against a yellow backdrop. She didn’t even try to contain them; watching them, she felt exactly the same way. Breaks signaled many things to her, freedom most of all. Freedom to go her own way for a bit, to explore, to read, to gather herself.

  But when her classroom door opened unexpectedly, and Principal Pierce came into the room, the nausea returned with a vengeance, and her head started to pound. Aubrey watched her coming closer and closer. Her old friend’s face was strained, the furrows carved into her upper lip collapsed in on each other, her yellowed forefinger tapping against the pristine white-and-blue envelope. She needed to file her nails.

  What was it about moments, the ones that start with a capital M, that made you notice each and every detail?

  Aubrey reminded herself of her situation. The children were watching. Trying to ignore the stares of the more precocious ones scattered about the classroom, gifted youngsters whose sensitivity to the emotions of others was finely honed, Aubrey took the letter from Linda, handed off the class into the woman’s very capable nicotine-stained hands, and went to the ladies’ room in the staff lounge to read the contents.

  The letter was from her mother-in-law. Aubrey knew exactly what it contained.

  She tried to pretend her hands weren’t shaking.

  She flipped the lid down on the toilet, locked the door, then sat and ripped open the envelope. Inside was a piece of paper folded into thirds, topped with a handwritten note on a cheery yellow daisy-covered Post-it. Aubrey felt that added just the right touch. Her mother-in-law always had been wildly incapable of any form of tact.

  There was no denying it now; her hands trembled violently as she unfolded the page. She looked to the handwritten note first. The words were carefully formed, a schoolgirl’s roundness to the old-fashioned cursive.

  Aubrey,

  For your records.

  Daisy Hamilton

  Scribbled in print beneath the painstakingly properly written note were the words:

  Joshua’s Mother

  Well, no kidding, Daisy. Like I could forget.

  The sticky note was attached to a printout of an email. It was from Daisy’s lawyer, the one who’d helped put this vehicle in motion last year, when Daisy decided to petition the courts to have Josh declared legally dead.

  Aubrey fingered the scar on her lip as she read.

  Dear Daisy,

  Per our earlier conversation, attached please find a copy of the Order entered from the civil court today by Judge Robinson. As I explained to you on the phone, this Order directs the Department of Vital Statistics to issue a death certificate for your son, Joshua David Hamilton, as of April 19 of this year.

  Now that this Order has been officially entered, we should take another look at the estate plan. Josh’s life insurance policy will be fulfilled as soon as the declaration is received, and I’d like you to be fully prepared if you plan to contest the contents. I will be forwarding you a final bill for my services on this matter in the next couple of days.

  Best personal regards,

  Rick Saeger

  And now it was official.

  In the eyes of the law, Joshua David Hamilton was no longer of this earth. No longer Aubrey’s husband. No longer Daisy’s son.

  No longer.

  Aubrey was suddenly unable to breathe. Even though she’d been expecting it, seeing the words in black-and-white, adorned by Daisy’s snippy little missive, killed her. Tears slid down her face, and she crumpled the letter against her thigh.

  Daisy was a bitch, always had been, and Aubrey got the message loud and clear.

  Get over it. Get on with your life. And watch out, kid, because I’m coming for that life insurance money.

  But just how do you move on when you can’t bury your husband? Five years later, there were still no good answers to the puzzle of Josh’s evaporation. One minute there, the next gone. Poof. Disappeared. Missing. Kidnapped, hit over the head, and suffering from severe amnesia, or—worse than the idea of his heart no longer beating—he’d chosen to leave her. Dead, but not dead. Without a body, how could they know for sure?

  Damn you, Josh.

  He was dead. Even Aubrey had to admit that to herself. It had taken a year to formulate that conclusion, a year of the worst possible days imaginable. As much as she hated to believe he was really gone, she knew he was.

  Because if he wasn’t, he would have let her know. He was the other half of her. The better half. The responsible half. The serious half.

  For him to be taken, or to have run away—no. He would never leave her of his own volition.

  Which meant he must be dead.

  The circle that was her life, a snake forever eating its tail.

  Aubrey didn’t know the answers to the riddle. Only knew that one thousand eight hundred and seventy-five days ago, Josh had been nagging at her to hurry up and get in the car because they were late for one of his closest friend’s joint bachelor/bachelorette party. That they’d had a serious fender bender on the way to the party, which resulted in the small white scar that intersected Aubrey’s top lip in
a way that didn’t detract from her heart-shaped face. That they’d arrived at the hotel over an hour late, and Aubrey had offered to get them checked in while Josh went to find the groom and join the party. That he’d kissed her deeply before he went, making the cut on her lip throb in time with her heart. That he’d glanced back over his shoulder and given her that devastating half smile that had been melting her insides since she was seven and he was nine and he’d pushed her down on the hard playground asphalt and made her cry.

  That she’d repeated the words of this story so many times it had become mantra. To the police. To the lawyers. To the media. To Daisy. To herself.

  Her world was broken into thirds.

  Seven and seventeen and five.

  Seven years before he came into her life.

  Seventeen in-between years when she’d seen Josh almost every day. Seventeen years of joy and fury and love and sex and marriage and heartache and happiness. Of prepubescent mating rituals, teenage angst, young-adult dawning realization, the inescapable knowledge that they couldn’t live without each other, culminating in a small wedding and three years of marital bliss.

  Five years of After. Five years of wondering.

  She thought they were happy. Late at night, in the After time, Aubrey would lie in their bed, still on her side, wearing one of his white oxford shirts she pretended held the lingering bits of his scent, and wonder: Weren’t we? Weren’t we happy?

  What was happiness? Where did it come from? How did you measure it? She’d always looked at the little things he did—from a sweet note in whatever book she was reading, to bringing her freshly cut apples when she was vacuuming, or having a travel mug of hot Earl Grey tea waiting for her in the morning as she rushed out the door—as signs that he loved her. That he was happy, too.

  But then he was gone, and she had to pick up the pieces of their once life, shattered like the reflective glass of a broken mirror on the floor.

  Seven, and seventeen, and then five. Five years of emptiness, solitude, loneliness.

  The State of Tennessee didn’t care about any of that.

  All the state cared about were the cold hard facts: one thousand eight hundred and seventy-five days ago, Joshua David Hamilton disappeared from the face of the earth, and now enough time had passed that a stranger had declared him legally dead.

  CHAPTER 2

  Aubrey heard the door to the teachers’ lounge open. Glanced at her watch—she’d been sitting in the bathroom for nearly an hour, and school was in dismissal. She wiped her eyes, smoothed her unruly hair, straightened her pencil skirt, and emerged to find Linda waiting for her with a look of genuine compassion on her face. Wonderful Linda, who had never believed the nonsense the district attorney spouted and gave Aubrey her teaching job back the moment she got out of jail, even though they lost students over her rehiring.

  Aubrey accepted a hug from the older woman.

  “You okay?” Linda asked.

  “I suppose,” Aubrey answered. She handed Linda the letter. Stared at her own left hand while Linda read. She still wore the wedding band and engagement ring Josh had placed on her finger. The small half-carat diamond solitaire, all he could afford at the time, was still a very high-quality stone. It flashed in the overhead fluorescent light, sparkling, and Aubrey remembered an old wives’ adage: When your ring smiles, your man is thinking of you.

  Her man. Her man was gone. How was he thinking of her? Looking down upon her from heaven? She used to believe in things like heaven, and God, and faith, and saviors. Hope.

  No more. She’d been living in purgatory too long to believe in anything but hell for sinners anymore.

  Linda folded the paper and slowly put it back into the envelope. Her brown eyes were soft and compassionate. “I see your mother-in-law hasn’t changed a lick.”

  “Daisy is as Daisy does. At least there’s one constant in my life.”

  “I doubt she’ll ever change. She’s always been this way. Even when you were children, she was . . . difficult.”

  Sometimes Aubrey forgot that Linda had known Daisy longer than Aubrey had. Linda had been a part of the school for more than twenty years now, rising up the ranks. She’d been friends with Aubrey’s mother, but not Josh’s. Very few women were friends with Daisy.

  Linda slid to the window and glanced out. The lounge faced the playground on the back of the school, empty now that the children were headed home. It was the perfect sanctuary when the teachers needed a smoke. Linda’s ancient Zippo lighter flared, and a quick breeze came through the slitted glass. Aubrey smelled the fragrant oil, nearly drifted back in time again, but the snap of the metal brought her back.

  Linda blew a long stream of blue smoke out the window, smiled at her young friend.

  “More than one constant, Aubrey. Are you working tonight?”

  Aubrey made ends meet working two jobs now—teaching at the Montessori school and working part-time at Frothy Joe’s, a coffee shop near her house.

  She shook her head. She had the evening off.

  “Why don’t you join me then? It’s open mike night at Frothy Joe’s. We can have a little dinner afterward.”

  “That’s kind of you, Linda, but I think I’ll pass. I need . . . time.”

  Time. Stupid excuse, Aubrey. She’d had five years already—what were another few hours going to gain her?

  Linda set the burning cigarette on the window ledge and took both of Aubrey’s hands in hers. “Aubrey. Listen to me. You are entering dangerous territory here. You have to keep moving forward. You can’t shut down again. We nearly lost you last time. If you’re not up for dinner out tonight, why don’t I come over and make you something instead?”

  Alone, alone, alone. I want to be alone.

  Aubrey shook her head. Her voice was still unsteady, but she drew a deep breath and forced a smile. “I’ll be okay, Linda. Promise. I’m going to draw a bath, pour a glass of wine, and relax. Nothing about tonight is different from the past five years’ worth of nights. Josh is still gone. This is just a piece of paper for his mother so she can get the closure she so wants. It doesn’t mean anything more.”

  “She’s going to contest the life insurance policy.”

  “Let her. I don’t want Josh’s money anyway.”

  Linda looked doubtful but, good friend that she was, simply hugged Aubrey to her chest, silently released her. The cloud of cigarette smoke settled on Aubrey’s blouse, and she nearly choked.

  Back to her classroom, down the now quiet hallways. The mantra ringing in her ears.

  Alone, alone, alone.

  Aubrey gathered her purse and keys and walked to the parking lot. The thirdhand Audi Quattro she and Josh had wrecked the afternoon of his disappearance sat forlornly in the parking lot. She needed to get a new car, it had started leaking oil last month and she didn’t have the money to get it properly fixed, but she was loath to part with this one. Josh was so proud the day they bought it, so happy that he’d managed to get such a great deal. She’d gotten the damage to the front bumper and hood fixed, made sure it got regular oil changes, and rotated the tires. Other than the small leak, it ran well enough, reliably turning over day after day.

  But it was a constant reminder.

  She sat in the driver’s seat, stared at the odometer.

  Death is an inevitability. Aubrey knew that. People will die, and the essence that was their soul will go wherever they believe it will go, and a new life will join the world in their place. Wax and wane. Yin and yang. Even her car would die one day, and she’d have to remove yet another link to her previous life.

  Perhaps this was what she’d been waiting for. Perhaps the fact that Josh had been declared dead would help her find the internal fortitude to finally move on. If the state agreed, then she could mourn and grieve properly, and wake to a new day, a new life.

  As if there were any way to move past th
is.

  Home was ten minutes from school. She managed to get there without forgetting a single stop sign.

  The house on West Linden Avenue was looking a bit shabby around the edges, not that it had ever looked smart and polished. Aubrey did the best she could, relied on the kindness of the people around her to help with the projects she couldn’t manage on her own, but the harsh winter had stripped away the last vestiges of paint around the eaves and bleached the shutters, making the whole outside look shaggy and worn. She’d have to paint before summer was over.

  She’d been forced to give up their gorgeous house in leafy, tony Green Hills to pay her legal bills. The house on Woodmont was one they’d dreamed of and saved for, scrimping even more than usual. A no-interest loan made it reachable, if not affordable, on their meager salaries. A house to grow into, Josh said, hinting at a future filled with love and laughter and the pitter-patter of tiny feet.

  The day they’d closed had been triumphant. They’d moved in with hardly any furniture, just enough to make it look like someone was squatting in the house. That first night, they’d had pizza and a bottle of Korbel champagne, the best they could afford—the only they could afford—and built a fire in the fireplace even though it was still warm outside. They made love in front of the fire, and fell asleep in the midst of their own party.

  Content.

  Their house belonged to someone else now, and Aubrey lived in the shabby little house on West Linden, on the other side of the highway, because the life insurance policy underwritten on Josh was tied up since there was no body, and Aubrey had been forced to sell their dream to make ends meet.

  Moving away from their house tore her heart apart. Even though she knew he was dead, a little voice in the back of her head whispered, When he comes home, he won’t know where you are.

  Angels are supposed to follow you everywhere, though. Watching, guarding, caring.

  Someone would show him. Tell him.

  Or not.

  Looking forward wasn’t the hardest element of the path she was on; the overlying specter of making a mistake, of doing something that would sever the connection with her previous life, had drowned out all her other worries and concerns.