Soul Mate

by Massa, William

  Akasha lived with her parents until she disappeared ten months ago. As I take in the mother, I understand where Akasha got her striking looks. Mrs. Samona is middle-aged but well kept. Thanks to diet, exercise and genetics, she has launched a full-out assault against her advancing years. Akasha’s mom wears stylish athletic wear and despite the season she sports a dark complexion, courtesy of a tanning salon.

  “Mrs. Samona?”

  Mrs. Samona studies me for a beat. There’s heat in her gaze, an air of sexuality.

  “You must be Mark Valentine. Please come in.”

  I called ahead, so she knows why I’m here. Or she thinks she does, at any rate.

  A few minutes later, I’m sitting on the couch. The sexual tension in the room cannot be denied. The way she eyes me, smiles, keeps squeezing my hand... For a moment I have a vision of Mr. Samona popping into the living room and suspecting the worst.

  Akasha’s mother pours herself a glass of wine. Must be time for an early happy hour. She offers me a glass and I quickly decline, but she insists. I promise myself I will only nurse the drink.

  “You wouldn't believe the health benefits of red wine,” she says.

  I take my obligatory sip and say, “Thank you, Mrs. Samona.”

  “Call me Jane.” She smiles. “So how can I help you?”

  “As I told you on the phone, I'm a journalism major and I’m doing a piece on missing teens.”

  The best cover story I could come up with on short notice, it sounded plausible to me at the time but now I’m not so sure. Fortunately, Mrs. Samona doesn’t seem to question my reasons for being here, and I internally sigh in relief.

  “So you want to write about my daughter?”

  “I'm trying to give the story a human face.”

  Am I laying it on too thick?

  “Akasha would love this. She has a tendency toward the dramatic. A trait she inherited from her father.”

  “What do you think happened to her?”

  This is a tricky question and I’m venturing into dangerous emotional territory. Fortunately, Mrs. Samona clearly doesn’t believe anything bad befell her daughter, or at least the armor of her denial doesn’t allow her to go there right now. “She ran away. To spite me. But she'll be back.”

  Mrs. Samona drains her glass and pours herself another one. I begin to see the cracks in the chipper façade she’s constructed for herself. “This is just her way of telling me that I was a bad mother. I know my daughter.”

  Do you really?

  “You tried tracking her down?”

  “Her dad hired a private detective to search for her. He hit pretty much every strip club on the Eastern Seaboard. I hope they threw in a few free lap-dances for his efforts.”

  I’m beginning to realize that her callous attitude masks a frightened woman who isn’t quite sure that her daughter is all right, after all.

  “I'm sorry, Mrs. Samona. I mean, Jane... I was wondering if I could look around? To get a sense of who Akasha was...” I break off, cursing inwardly. Fortunately Mrs. Samona – Jane – is too buzzed to register my slip-up or take offense. Instead she says, “Her room is upstairs at the end of the hallway, to your right.”

  I wait for Mrs. Samona to escort me to Akasha’s room, but she just keeps gulping down her wine.

  Awkward.

  I guess she is giving me free rein to explore the house.

  I get up and head for the nearby staircase. A minute later I’m standing in front of Akasha’s bedroom. Pushing the door open, I feel like an intruder.

  Like I shouldn’t be here.

  I soak in my new surroundings. The bedroom is exactly what you’d expect from a rebellious young woman. Dark art and posters of edgy rock stars abound. I comb the bookshelves and spot various tracts on Eastern religion, anarchist politics, bios of cutting-edge musicians.

  I zero in on the computer sitting on a small desk. I touch the keyboard, half expecting Facebook to pop up automatically. But the screen remains blank.

  I continue searching the room and notice a framed photograph on Akasha’s nightstand.

  It shows Akasha with a girlfriend who’s wearing a Starbucks uniform.

  Shit, I recognize this Starbucks... This is where I first met Akasha. Someone scrawled a message over the picture with a black Sharpie: Friends forever, Liza.

  I make a mental note to ask Jane about her daughter’s friend Liza.

  Beside the bed I find a journal filled with dark drawings and weird writing. I don’t expect to discover any earth-shattering secrets within, but hopefully it’ll give me a better sense of Akasha’s character.

  It doesn’t.

  After a few pages, the drawings and cryptic writing end. I realize that it’s more of a creative book of poetry or lyrics than a diary.

  My attention now shifts back to the desktop computer.

  I plug it into the nearest outlet and bite my lip while I wait for the computer to boot up. Then I inspect iTunes, iPhoto and various other applications that might contain information about Akasha. I learn that she likes Goth music and hard rock – surprise, surprise, she’s an edgy chick.

  I open iPhoto. Now it starts getting interesting. Akasha liked taking pictures of boys whom she had the hots for. Some were taken stealthily during first dates, others at the mall, strolling through parks, hanging out at Starbucks. It looks like she used her cell to sneak these pics.

  Kinda freaky.

  Anxiety coils up my throat as I study the most recent set of pictures. According to the date, these photographs were added in last few days! How is that possible if she’s been missing for months? The subject of these new pictures is...

  Me.

  An assortment of digital pics, class photographs and even shots of me spending time with Lynn. What the fuck?

  My mouth goes dry as I take in the text that accompanies the final picture...

  Tell me you love me, Mark.

  The message hits me with the jolting power of an electric shock. For a split second I can’t shake the sensation that Akasha is here in the room with me. I violently unplug the computer and jump back from the machine. My mind is reeling. How could those photographs exist? Did Mrs. Samona lie to me? Did Akasha come back? Or did she remotely upload the pictures to her computer?

  I must get out of this room. Out of this house. Away from the madness that has invaded my life. I want things to go back to the way they were before I met Akasha. I quickly snatch her journal and take off.

  As I storm back down the stairs, Mrs. Samona says, “That was quick. Find everything you needed for your story?”

  I nod and quickly leave the house. Outside, it’s finally stopped snowing. The looming snowdrifts and frosted trees glitter with ice. Somehow their shapes are now imbued with a sinister quality.

  As I stomp across the white expanse, the long winter shadows are heavy and the Samona home slowly recedes behind me. Suddenly I pause, beads of sweat bursting on my forehead.

  As if the temperature has just gone up thirty degrees.

  I unbutton my jacket and remove my hat. A splashing sound draws my attention. With each step I take, the snow beneath my feet grows more watery. It’s melting at incredible speed...

  I stop dead in my tracks as I pick up another noise.

  CRACK-CRACK-CRACK. Slowly, I turn...

  My eyes lock on the icicles hanging from the Samona house. The ice cracks and flexes...

  Right before my eyes, the snow on the roof evaporates and sheets of water cascade down the side of the house. The small waterfall is a surreal sight.

  I stare open-mouthed as it dawns on me that I’m now standing in a giant puddle. Part of me wants to start screaming.

  LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!

  Instead, I jump into my car and take off.

  I know exactly who I need to talk to next.

  I must return to the place where this madness started.

  13

  Whirring Frappuccino machines greet me as I walk into the Starbucks where I was s
upposed to meet Akasha for the first time. I join the line of caffeine addicts and quickly spot the woman I’m hoping to find – Akasha’s friend Liza, whose picture I saw in the journal.

  Pierced, with a streak of red dyed in her hair, she strikes me as the type of girl to attain besties status with Akasha. Liza hands a middle-aged man his change and then her eyes find me.

  “How can I help you?” she asks.

  I tell her.

  Fortunately she is open, maybe even eager, to talk about her friend. I use the same story I did with Mrs. Samona – I’m doing a piece about missing teens. It makes my purpose for being here seem more noble and selfless, like I’m trying to make a difference in the world. I hate to lie to people, but I need answers.

  Liza informs me that she’ll be off work in fifteen minutes. I order a coffee and find a table. I take a deep swig of my scorching hot brew and burn my tongue. I welcome the pain. It reminds me that I’m alive.

  Fifteen minutes turn into half an hour, and time slows. My eagerness to pick Liza’s brain grows with each passing second. I try to distract myself by checking my email but fastidiously avoid Facebook. As I scan my favorite news apps, the irony is not lost on me that all this started with an app. Blaze. Shit, Josh, why couldn’t you stick to the good old-fashioned bar scene?

  Thinking about my brother drives the loss home. I’ve pushed a lot of my emotions aside but as I wait here for Liza to join me, they sneak up on me full-force. Finally Liza arrives, iced tea in hand. She is still wearing her work uniform as she sits down in front of me.

  “So you're writing a story about Akasha?”

  The lies continue.

  “Yes, I was hoping you could give me a sense of what she was like. I understand you and Akasha were pretty close.”

  “We were best friends,” she confirms. “We had something in common — crazy parents. Only difference is, her folks are loaded and I'm supporting mine.”

  This revelation is communicated in such a casual, offhand manner that it’s easy to ignore the weight behind the words. We’ve barely started this conversation and I already feel sorry for her.

  I produce Akasha’s journal. Liza wipes a few tears as she leafs through the pages. Akasha may be destroying my life, but this girl still cares for her. I ask Liza about the photographs I found on Akasha’s computer. Liza is more then eager to explain.

  “Akasha had a tendency to date guys who weren't available,” she explains. “Bad boys, dudes with girlfriends, married men. She’d obsess over people who could never love her back. She’d always get her heart broken.”

  “Would she meet some of these dates on Blaze?”

  “Akasha loved that stupid app. She was addicted to the attention. She’d hook up with guys and then wonder why none of them called her back after getting what they wanted.”

  I consider this. It certainly explains Akasha’s rage.

  “Their first date would always be at this Starbucks. I was her lookout. My job was to swoop in and save her if the dude turned out to be a weirdo or some loser who had posted a fake pic.”

  “Where do you think she is now?”

  “Her mom believes she ran away. That she’s living some crazy party life in Miami or stripping her way across the country.”

  “You don't believe that?”

  Liza takes a deep gulp from her drink.

  “I was Akasha's best friend. If she was still around, she’d be in touch.”

  “So what do you think happened?”

  “I think she met the wrong guy.”

  She doesn’t come right out and say it, but the message is clear. She thinks Akasha is dead.

  I immediately dismiss the idea. I’m a physical therapist student. I believe in science. Ghosts don’t have a place in my perception of the world.

  “Who was the last person Akasha met on Blaze before she vanished?”

  “He was some Manhattan lawyer. He picked her up in his BMW. Pretty hot in a late-thirties, GQ kind of way.”

  “Could he be…”

  “When Akasha first went missing, cops came to talk to me. I told them about the lawyer. Guess what they said? They already checked out that lead and the attorney, I think his name is Darryl or Derek, turned out to be a dead end. Know why?”

  The question hangs there for a moment, but I can guess the answer.

  Liza leans closer, her face masklike as she speaks. “Darryl died in a freak car accident. Lost control of his Porsche, hit a median and the gas tank blew. He was burned to a crisp. They had to identify him with dental records.”

  A chill travels up my spine. Followed by a question. Was Darryl/Derek Akasha’s first victim?

  “Want to hear the best part? The creep had a wife and kid. Akasha sure knew how to pick them.”

  I spin these new facts around in my head, hoping to make sense of the senseless.

  Liza takes a final swig of her drink and rises. “Sorry, but I need to get back to work. It was good chatting with you. Email me when the article hits the Web.”

  Liza turns away. I stare after her, pensive.

  If Darryl had something to do with Akasha’s disappearance, the knowledge of her fate died with him. I’ve reached an impasse and have no idea what my next move is.

  ***

  The icy road unfurls before me, as perilous as my own future. I view a news report of Darryl Kelly’s accident and recognize the man. He was one of Akasha’s 40 friends before she started friending new people. Was he her first victim?

  At this point I only have one lead, and it’s a longshot. Darryl’s younger brother Adam works as a freelance editor in Manhattan. I already made up my mind not to approach Darryl’s wife. She’s been through enough already without me digging up a possible infidelity in her late husband’s past. My plan is to pay the brother a visit and see if he can be any more helpful than the other people I’ve interviewed.

  My chirping cellphone derails this train of thought. I scan the caller ID. It’s Lynn. My heart misses a beat. I’m both relieved and anxious as I press the answer button and Lynn’s voice fills my car.

  “Mark, I need to see you. We have to talk.”

  The voice is businesslike, determined. She must’ve rehearsed this call numerous times. “Let’s meet at the diner across from your place in an hour?”

  “Sure,” I say robotically. Her mission accomplished, Lynn ends the call without further comment.

  My mind is churning. I was hoping Lynn would break the silence and reach out to me, but this chilly communication has unnerved me further. Has Lynn made up her mind about me? Is she about to officially dump me? I take the fact that she is coming to my neighborhood as an ominous sign. Sounds like she’s making sure I don’t get any funny ideas about spending the night at her place. She finds my man cave endearing in an anthropological way — she prefers to experience it from a distance. Sleepovers tend to happen at her place, where we don’t have to worry about Cyrus disturbing our privacy.

  Anxiety spreads from deep inside the pit of my stomach.

  I can’t let Akasha tear us apart.

  I can’t lose Lynn.

  Doing my best to manage my growing unease, I turn the wheel and head to Briarwood.

  14

  As I pull into the diner’s parking lot I know I’m running about five minutes late, but Lynn isn’t there yet. This seems out of character for her – not only is she incredibly organized (to an almost scary degree), she’s rarely late for appointments.

  I seat myself at a comfy booth in the ‘50s style diner and inhale the scent of sizzling comfort food that wafts through the air. The corned beef and hash is amazing here, but my frayed nerves have robbed me of my appetite. This isn’t a date, and I prefer to receive bad news on an empty stomach. I order a Diet Coke but after two sips of my artificial treat, I switch to a Bud Light. I don’t want to be drunk when Lynn shows up but I need something to take the edge off while I wait.

  Thirty minutes and two beers later, I conclude that Lynn has had a change of heart. I pay my
check and walk across the street. The cold air diminishes the alcohol’s effects but I still have a buzz going when I step into my apartment. I have the place to myself and the loneliness immediately makes me melancholy. Lynn has been such a big part of my reality for so long that I feel lost without her.

  Goddammit, I want my old life back.

  Who knows what made Lynn blow me off, but I don’t take it as a good sign. I slip off my jacket and decide to take a shower. Moments later, a stream of hot water is warming my frozen limbs. I’m been out and about all day and this winter weather is getting old – I miss Florida. I close my eyes and bask in the soothing sensation. That’s when I hear a familiar voice.

  “Mark…”

  Startled, I open my eyes and find Lynn standing behind the shower curtain. The plastic distorts her form. I pull the curtain back a few inches and realize she’s naked. My body immediately responds to the sight of her lithe, shapely figure. God, she’s beautiful! I’m flooded with relief. Lynn is back and that’s all that matters.

  Wordlessly she steps into the shower and joins me under the hot stream. Steam wafts around us. We hug and I don’t want the moment to end. What does it mean? Is all forgiven? Has Lynn figured out that Akasha was lying?

  “I’m telling you, Lynn, this girl set me up.” The words sound lame the moment they leave my lips, but I have to explain my actions.

  I can’t allow Akasha to tear us apart.

  I have to fight for the woman I love.

  Suddenly, I realize that the shower is becoming hotter...unpleasantly so...

  I run my hands down her bare back, bury my face in her smooth shoulder. Lynn leans forward to kiss me and I gladly accept. Our lips find each other and lock with hunger.

  My ardor cools in a hurry.

  Something is wrong.

  The woman I’m making out with doesn’t taste like Lynn. I once kissed a girl in high school who was a chain smoker, and this is about ten times worse. It feels like someone emptied out an ashtray in my mouth. As I pull back, my gut clenches with terror and a knot forms in my throat.