by Cote Smith
“Not Moyer. Moyer was the smoker. I met the other one.”
Zeke was reluctant to describe the mouse he met. He was one of those men, Lia realized, afraid to acknowledge any positive feature in another member of their sex, worried it might impugn his masculinity. But he did say the man was average height, maybe a little taller. A little shifty. He looked uncomfortable standing before Zeke, next to the fire. Still, he didn’t ask Zeke what he was doing out there, or demand that he leave. Instead, he asked if everything was all right.
“He was very polite,” Zeke said. “Kinda opposite you.”
Zeke told the man everything was fine with him. For his part, the man was surprisingly forthcoming. “He admitted everything,” Zeke said. “Everything I suspected. It was a research facility. They were doing experiments. He said I could come in if I wanted. If that would put my mind at ease.”
“Did you?”
Zeke’s gaze fell to his feet. He hadn’t gone inside, he was ashamed to admit. Something about the man.
“Are you sure?” the man had said. “I think you would feel better. You don’t have to spend every morning here, you know, in the woods. There’s no reason for it.”
Zeke shook his head, though he was curious.
“You don’t trust me,” the man said. “I assure you we’re not hiding anything. It’s just that our subjects tend to do better in isolation. It does them no good to be around others. Feeds their anxieties. Can you appreciate that?”
His eyes, which previously had wandered the woods, landed directly on Zeke.
“And I didn’t like it,” Zeke muttered to Lia. “It was like he was looking straight through me. Like I was nothing at all.”
The man left Zeke there, frightened in the woods. But before he did he told Zeke to stop by anytime. They were neighbors, after all.
“Perhaps you’d like to bring your wife? Unless she’s gone the way of the others. No, surely not. Third time’s a charm, right?”
Then he smiled politely and returned to the facility.
“You never went in,” Lia said.
Zeke’s wide eyes found Lia. “Would you? How did he know about my wife? They must have done research on me. Go in? No, I don’t think so. I wasn’t going to end up in one of those vans.”
Zeke returned only one other time, right after his third and final wife left him for good. More distraught than he expected, he wandered the beach for hours, drinking bottle after bottle of beer, making message-less vessels and hurling them into the ocean. Until night came and he found himself back in his hiding spot, staring at the stars, thinking in clichés about his life. Out of loneliness, he walked down to Menninger, thinking he might take the mice up on their offer. What was there to lose? But they were gone. The vans, the mice. The gate was left open, as was a door, so he went inside. But it was empty, the same as when Lia found it.
Zeke fiddled with the radio, which had lost its reception.
“I don’t understand,” Lia said. “Who pays you to look after the facility?”
Zeke smirked to himself. “No one. I made it up. Hoping to get some money off you.”
He played with the radio until he finally found a music station. A piano played its way out. Soft, staccato chords, a catchy arpeggio layered beneath. Lia recognized the song, though she couldn’t recall its name.
“What is this?”
“What is what?”
“This song. I know this song.”
“Great,” Zeke said. “So do you want to tell my story or what?”
Lia focused on the melody. “I’ll need more to go on,” she said absent-mindedly.
“But you’ll tell it?”
She didn’t answer. She knew she’d heard the song before. But where? A movie, perhaps. A TV show.
Zeke reminded her of her promise to leave his name out of it. He was pacing now, having become suddenly irritated, while Lia stared at the radio near his chair. “This was a bad idea,” Zeke muttered to himself. “Why couldn’t you keep your big mouth shut? Been around women too long. That was the problem. You ever get that feeling,” he said, “like you’re watching yourself make a bad decision.” He stopped pacing. “Hey. Yankee girl. You hear what I’m saying?”
“Be quiet,” she said, her ears straining to hear. The base of her skull hummed with the melody, measure after measure, taking her to her parents’ attic. Eventually the instruments would die out—they would have to—and the players would go away, but the song itself would loop around Lia’s mind for a long time to come, beyond her bike ride back to the bus station, to the radio station, where she would make some calls, tell some lies to set up an interview with Tracey McNellis, Dr. Moyer’s colleague, the woman interviewed in the article about his unexplained death, all while the song, that feeling, pulled her forward. It would even follow her to bed, as she tucked herself in next to Julie, a mysterious soundtrack to her troubled dreams.
“Hey, don’t you tell me to be quiet. You hear me?”
“Yes,” Lia whispered, as the song finished. “I hear you.”
* * *
Tracey McNellis still worked at Deakin. Lia felt like she was trespassing when she stepped foot back on campus. She was flunking both of her classes by now, having trampled over the attendance policy, as well as failing to complete any assignments. She moved quickly to Clyde Hall, head down in case she accidentally ran into one of her professors. Dr. McNellis was waiting for Lia in her office, on the top floor. The office was impeccable, the surrounding bookshelves dust free, each book alphabetized and shelved flush within its row. Her desk faced the window, and on it were two sets of neatly stacked student papers, a few scientific journals, and two picture frames, lined up across from each other at perfect forty-five-degree angles. In one frame was a yellow Labrador, panting in the sun.
“That’s my lab partner,” Dr. McNellis said, smiling at her own joke. “Penelope. I take her everywhere. Well, except my office. The one space in my life that is sans dog hair.”
Lia took a seat. She couldn’t help but stare at the other picture, which featured a beaming couple. A younger Dr. McNellis, with brighter hair and fewer lines around the eyes, holding hands with Dr. Moyer. Lia’s parents had a similar picture—perhaps all married couples did—that once sat on her father’s bedside table. Lia wondered if it was still there, in their new house.
“He was my other partner,” Dr. McNellis said, interrupting Lia’s stare, her strident voice softer now. “To be honest, Penelope was his idea.” She adjusted the picture frame. “Now, I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
There was an awkward silence as she remembered something Lia could only guess at. Lia filled the silence by taking out pen and paper.
“You were married.”
“Of course,” Dr. McNellis said. “His name was Christopher Moyer.”
Lia opened her notepad, fumbled to find her spot. “Your bio, it doesn’t mention anything about him.”
“Well, he’s dead now,” Dr. McNellis said. “Bio means life.” She picked up the photo and stared for a moment. “And anyway, we agreed early on to keep our relationship as private as possible. Academia is very competitive, as I’m sure you know. Neither of us wanted to ride the other’s coattails.”
Dr. McNellis let herself stare at the photo a moment longer, before returning it to its proper place. She sat up straight and folded her hands in front of her, perhaps waiting for Lia’s next question. On the phone, when Lia was setting up the interview, she lied and said she was working on a piece about distinguished women in Melbourne, women who were shining examples for others to admire. The plan, albeit a bad one, was to furtively question Dr. McNellis about Moyer by asking her about her work, and, ultimately, her colleague, before revealing anything about the radio station, and the story Lia wanted to tell. But seeing that picture, knowing that loss—
“I have a lecture in thirty minutes, Ms. . . . what was it again?”
Lia closed her notepad. “You can call me Lia.”
“Wonde
rful. My male students call me Tracey, whether I want them to or not. Do they have sexism in America?” She gave Lia an encouraging smile that made Lia feel even worse.
“I’m sorry,” Lia said.
“For what? You’re doing great.”
Lia nodded, trying to steady herself. She tried to recall something that Miss Scott had once said, about people wanting their story to be told. How they needed that, even if they didn’t know it at the time. But the advice felt callous now, when confronted with someone who had experienced real loss.
“Actually,” Lia said, “I’m not feeling well. I’m sorry. I’ll reschedule.”
And before Dr. McNellis could stop her, Lia grabbed her things and ran.
Lia went straight from Deakin to work, holed herself up in her closet. She transcribed a week’s worth of shows, trying not to think about any of it. Dr. McNellis. Moyer. Her parents. Then there was school and Julie, not to mention Zeke. That weirdo had a point, didn’t he? That part about knowing you were on the wrong path, but walking it anyway.
Wiley poked his head in looking for a mocha. “How’s the story going?”
Lia held up a stack of transcripts. “It’s not.”
“Jesus Christ,” Wiley said. “Do I have to hold your hand through this? No one ever held mine.” He turned over an empty work bucket and sat down. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, and you can’t imagine how much I don’t care. But whatever it is, forget it. None of it matters. The story is what matters. Isn’t that what you told me?”
Wiley said there might be an opportunity for her to tell her story, whatever it was, at the end of the week.
The next morning Lia biked with Julie to Deakin. Lia hadn’t set up an appointment this time, and had to wait outside Dr. McNellis’s office for ten minutes as some undergrad grade-grubbed about the C he received on his last exam. Dr. McNellis waved her in next.
“You’re back,” she said.
“I’m back. Sorry about last—”
“I looked you up, Lia. Or I tried to. You never did give me your last name. So I couldn’t find anything online. On you or this Melbourne Women of Distinction Award that I’m assuming you made up. Though for what reason I can’t begin to fathom.”
Lia felt a small swell of shame. She managed to raise a hand and point to the framed picture of Dr. Moyer on Dr. McNellis’s desk.
“You’re going to have to use your words, Lia. I don’t have time for charades.”
“I’m here to ask about your husband,” Lia said.
Lia told Dr. McNellis about the transcript she found, or rather, that someone found for her, about Dr. Moyer’s death. She explained how the return address on the envelope led her to Menninger, which led her to Zeke, who had seen her husband at the facility and spoken to one of his colleagues. Lia even told Dr. McNellis her theory that the transcript she discovered about the miracle-working doctors who treated James was not only connected to Menninger, but was about Menninger. And that she believed Dr. Moyer was one of the mice who cured James. She had no proof of that connection, no direct evidence, but how else to explain the appearance of the Moyer article the same day as Lia found the transcript? She took note of how Dr. McNellis reacted, how her face changed, revealing what she already knew, what she didn’t, and what she wanted to keep secret.
“That’s quite the story,” Dr. McNellis said, her forehead frozen in place, impassive, after Lia somehow got the whole speech out. “Who are you, really? An investigator or something?”
Here, Lia told a half-lie. She worked for the radio station (true); she was a reporter (not exactly); the station wanted her to find a story that no one else was telling (kind of).
It was then that Dr. McNellis scoffed. “I don’t even know you.”
“My name is Lia. I’m from Kansas.”
“Kansas?”
“It’s a state. In the US.”
“I know what Kansas is,” Dr. McNellis said. She lifted her brows—a question formed on her face. She stared at Lia for a moment, then swiveled in her chair to face her window. The office hummed to itself, waiting. “But I meant what I said. I don’t know you.”
Lia twirled her pen around her thumb. “What would you like to know?”
“I don’t want to know anything.” She swiveled her chair back around and waited until Lia shut her notepad before she continued. “Let me ask you something. Off the record, assuming there is a record. Do you know what it’s like to lose someone? To have them vanish from your life without any explanation?”
Lia thought about her mother, who was always at risk of disappearing. Instead, she said: “I had an uncle.”
“I’m not talking about some relative you barely knew. I’m talking about someone who you shared your life with, who was your life.”
“Did your husband work at Menninger?”
“You’re not listening. Every reporter I ever talked to, they never listened.”
“What kind of experiments were they doing?”
Dr. McNellis slapped her desk. “Listen! There is no story here. The story you want, it doesn’t exist. Do you understand?”
She stared hard at Lia, waiting for her to nod in agreement, to surrender. “Good,” Dr. McNellis said. She stood from her desk to walk Lia out. “Now. Have you met my door?”
“Wait,” Lia said. She panicked for words. None of her rehearsals ended this way. “I need this. They’re going to kick me out.”
“Out?”
Lia lowered her head. “Of school.”
Dr. McNellis laughed. “Of course, you’re a student. That explains it.” She walked across the office and waited for Lia at the door. “Well, as I so often tell my students, because they always forget, your problems are not my problems.”
Lia stared at her, and when it became clear that she wasn’t going to change her mind, that Lia had failed, she gathered her things and made her way to the door.
“I’m going to tell this story,” Lia said. “I know your husband worked there. I’ll figure out the rest.”
“I’m sure you will,” Dr. McNellis said. “But if you want my advice, don’t publish until you have all the facts. That’s something else I tell my students.” She gently pushed Lia out the door. “But they never listen to me, and somehow, I doubt you will either.”
* * *
There was a voice mail waiting on Lia’s phone when she stepped outside. She’d missed a call from her father’s number, but when she pressed play it was ten seconds of dead air. The short ride back to the dorms she debated whether to return the call. She hadn’t spoken to her father since leaving for Australia, not wanting to think about him, the bonfire, the way he gave up on Lia’s uncle, and in some ways, her mother. But after sitting in her dorm for half an hour, staring at the missed call log, she hit call.
The phone rang once.
“Lia,” a voice said. Lia pulled the phone away to make sure she had dialed the right number. “It’s Mom. Sorry, I thought I’d have a better chance on your father’s phone. Did you get my postcard?”
“What do you want?” Lia said.
“Everything’s fine. Everything’s fine. It’s just that, I got an e-mail, well, then a phone call, from your study abroad chaperone. Something about you not attending class?”
“I’ll make it up in the summer,” Lia said. “I’m focusing on my internship.”
“Oh, okay. That’s good. I just wanted to make sure you were safe. It’s not like you to miss class. Plus, you didn’t return my call the other day.”
Lia thought about hanging up. “I’m just really busy. Okay?”
“I understand,” her mother said, and she went silent for a while. “But, well, can you tell me about it? Your internship? I want to prove to your father that I was right. This trip was a good idea.” Her tone was calm, sincere. She sounded like her old self, the mother who gifted Lia a wooden hummingbird hairpin when Lia turned five. Because, as her mother explained, it wasn’t just Lia’s fifth birthday. It was the fifth anniversary of the bes
t day of her mother’s life.
“It’s actually pretty great,” Lia said, giving in. “I’m working on a story about this secret lab.” She gave her mother a few more details, about Zeke, Menninger, and Dr. McNellis, leaving out the hole in the story, the missing link between Moyer, Menninger, and the miracle workers. When she finished summarizing, her mother remained silent on the other side. “Mom, you there?”
“That’s great, Apple. That sounds really cool.”
There was another long pause. “What is it, Mom?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing. It’s just . . .”
“What?”
“Well, who told you about this? I mean, how did this story come about?”
“Research, Mom. Okay? Investigation.” She didn’t like how her mother’s tone had changed so quickly, from supportive to skeptical. So she wouldn’t tell her about the James transcript someone had left on her desk. Or the Moyer transcript someone mailed to her dorm. “And so what if I’ve been skipping class?” Then, to cut a little deeper, “If I’ve been shirking my duties in pursuit of answers, no matter the cost?”
Her mother sighed. “Apple, if you’re going to bait someone, you should make it more subtle than that.”
Even so, Lia could tell the bait had worked.
“It was your idea to come here,” Lia said. “I was fine back home.”
“You weren’t. None of us were. We were pretending.”
“So? What’s wrong with that?”
Somewhere in the background a door slammed loudly, and Lia heard her dad calling her mother’s name. She pictured him coming home from a long day of work, having stopped by the grocery store to pick up a few things. She wondered what her father would see when they sat down for dinner each evening. Was it the doting Alison, the one who celebrated family anniversaries and answered the phone when he called? Or was it the woman her mother had become, the one who’d disappeared because of Limetown?
Her father continued calling her mother’s name. “Alison. Alison.”
“Mom?” Lia said, speaking softly, for some reason not wanting to give her mother away.