“She didn’t,” Jill says simply. “Fran, what is going on?”
“Are you sure? Are you sure she didn’t borrow any of your cameras or anything? Were you in all day?”
“I went to the grocery store for a little bit this afternoon. Hold on, I’ll check with Burt. He was watching the game. Burt!” she yells toward another room, “Did Serena come by today?”
Burt’s voice echoes faintly back, “Nope.”
Jill looks at me and shrugs. “Sorry.”
“Are you sure?” I’m trying not to cry. “Were you both home all day?”
“Yeah, Fran, I told you. I just went to do those errands, but other than that I was home. And Burt’s been planted in front of the idiot box all afternoon,” she waves toward the other room. “Now tell me what’s wrong. You’re scaring me. Maybe we can help.”
Her words penetrate my fog of panic. Yes, maybe they can help. I tell her, using as few words as possible, about Rena’s upended car, about how Rena always calls me on her way home, about how she was supposed to pick me up at noon but never arrived. I don’t mention the fight.
Something about the way Jill’s become super-calm is setting off sirens in my head. I can barely hear over them. It’s the kind of expression I wear when there’s a crisis and I’m trying not to alarm someone. “Oh god,” I say, “Oh god, this is bad. You think this is really bad, don’t you? This is bad. This is bad.” I can’t stop repeating myself.
“Fran,” Jill says my name slowly. “Look at me.”
I focus on her freckled nose, her green eyes.
“Good,” she continues. “Now, don’t panic. I’m going to put out word to the whole Nornerk, okay? Burt and I’ll start calling and posting people. Don’t call the police yet, alright?”
“The police!” This hadn’t even occurred to me. “Oh my god! The police! Should I call them?”
“No. Fran, listen to what I just said. Don’t call them yet. Let’s check the nerk first. Let’s make sure that she’s not visiting someone or out clicking and her car got stolen and she just lost track of time and doesn’t know it yet. There could be a lot of explanations for this. Let’s not draw attention to ourselves prematurely, okay?”
“Okay, okay,” I repeat numbly. I have no idea what she just said, but she seems to know that.
“Where was she going when she left this morning?”
“To class. She’s mentoring that ally, Dorothy Gottlieb.”
“Oh yeah. So, did she make it to class?”
“I don’t know! Oh my god, you’re right. I should check if she made it to class. I need to call Dorothy! I have to hang up!”
“Wait, wait!” Jill waves an arm. “Just put me on three-way, okay? Don’t hang up.”
“Right, right. Good idea.” I press Dorothy’s number and a pixie-ish student appears on the left side of my split-screen. Her dirty-blond hair is dyed hot pink at the tips and she’s hugging a few blouses on hangers to her chest.
“Yeah, hello?” She says warily. “Are you Dorothy’s mom?”
“What? No. I’m nobody’s mom. Is Dorothy there?”
“No, she left.” The girl is sucking on a lollipop. She looks about twelve.
“Well, do you know when she’ll be back? This is really important.”
“No, you don’t get it,” the coed says, taking the lolly out of her mouth and examining it. “She left, left. I mean, gone. Like, she packed up some stuff and said she was dropping out. But she left a bunch of her stuff and said I could take whatever I wanted,” she adds defensively. “That’s why I’m in her room. She gave me the keys.”
“What? That doesn’t make sense.” This could not be happening. “What about Serena? Where’s Serena?”
“I don’t know any Serena,” the pixie shifts her weight from one foot to the other, becoming bored. “Look, are you Dorothy’s mom or something? Because honestly, I don’t know where she went.”
“No, I’m not her mom! I don’t give a shit about Dorothy! I’m looking for my partner, okay? Tall, gorgeous, black hair—”
“Oh, her. Kinda intense looking? Older, like maybe a senior? Kind of a bitch?”
“Yes! Yes, that’s her! Where is she?”
“I dunno. I saw her, though. She came here looking for Dorothy, too. She even started to go through Dor’s stuff. But I told her that wasn’t cool because Dor said I had first dibs. She—what’s her name, Serena?—told me to fuck off. Nice girlfriend you’ve got. I wasn’t gonna take that shit. I told her to leave Dor’s stuff alone or I’d call security. So she called me some names which I am not gonna repeat and then she left. But I’ll tell you what, if she comes back,” the student waves her sucker at me, “I’m calling security right off. I’m not even waiting. She has no right—”
“Did she say where she was going? What time did this all happen?”
“Geez, you’re as bad as her. I don’t know, okay? All’s I know is what I just told you. I gotta go.”
“Wait, please,” Jill cuts in, tries to soothe the girl, who’s scoping the room for more loot. “I know we haven’t been that easy to deal with, but our friend is missing. We’re just really worried. We think she’s had a car accident. So, we’re trying to find her. That’s why we could really use your help.”
“Oh,” the student nods. “I’m sorry about the accident.”
“So, do you have any idea what time that was—? When you saw her?” Jill encourages.
“Well, I’d just gotten up, and I was going to lunch. So, sometime before lunch.”
“Fran,” Jill’s tone is urgent. “Was the clock working? Was there a time stamp when you looked in the car?”
This is such an obvious thing to check I can’t believe I missed it. Without wasting a second, I put Jill and the college student on hold and open the line to Serena’s car again. In the upper right corner, along with today’s date, is the time stamp: 11:37 A.M. So, she had placed a call to me—probably as she was driving home. Probably, as she had promised, to let me know she was coming to pick me up.
That’s when I start to sob.
I’m still crying nonstop in front of the image of Rena’s car when I hear someone at the door. Thank god! I’m crying anew. I spin around, Coleman and I make for it as fast as we can.
The doorbell rings. Rena wouldn’t ring the bell to her own house. I slow down, look through the peephole. It’s Jill.
“Hi,” I edge back to let her in. With both of us in chairs, it’s a tight squeeze.
“Hi,” she says, leaning forward to squeeze my hand. “When you didn’t come back on the line we got worried. So I decided to come over.”
“Oh. Oh, yeah. I forgot about you and that dimwit. Sorry.”
Jill doesn’t bother to reply but makes her way to the phone screen, examining every centimeter. I see her checking the time stamp. “Burt’s alerted the nerk. He’ll let us know after everyone’s checked in. Why don’t we go into the kitchen and have some tea?”
“I don’t want any fucking tea. I want Serena.”
“I know, honey. Right now we’re doing everything we can. But here’s the thing: I think we have to tread lightly, because we don’t know where Dorothy’s gone. Nobody in Nornerk can reach her. We’re thinking about posting to USNerk. It’s just a little too coincidental, them both disappearing at the same time.”
“Oh my god! Poor Dorothy! I didn’t even think of that. Jesus, maybe she was picked up for being in NDY! Poor kid, she was still in training.”
“Yes,” Jill says very slowly. “Or maybe Dorothy’s smarter and more experienced than we gave her credit for.” Jill’s searching my face.
“You mean you think she saw the shit coming down and escaped before Rena did?” Even though I know this is not the time, I can’t help but be indignant on Rena’s behalf. “I doubt that. Rena’s a pro. She’s been doing this for years.”
“Yeah, that’s what we’re all worried about.”
“Who’s ‘all’? And what do you mean, ‘that’s what you’re worried abou
t’? Jill, make some sense, will you?”
“I mean, maybe Dorothy’s a plant. Maybe Serena’s reputation in NDY spread outside NDY. We’ve started doing some digging.” Jill shakes her head and says ruefully, “We should’ve done it before. We can’t find a Frank Gottlieb in Denver.” She’s chewing her lower lip. It’s chapped and raw.
“Maybe he’s gone underground since he was diagnosed.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Jill shrugs, but I can tell she doesn’t have a lot of faith in the idea.
“So, what does this mean? Rena’s being detained? Have you tried any of our plants at the precincts? Any media buzz from party headquarters?”
“We’re looking into all that. Burt’s coordinating. As soon as he finds out anything, he’ll call here.” The words are barely past Jill’s cracked lips when the phone beeps. I jump on it.
Burt’s scratching his bald cocoa pate. “Hi Fran, how’re you holding up?” he begins.
“Fine.” I don’t have time for pleasantries. “What’s the news?”
“You and Jill should turn on the TV.”
“Channel one or two?”
“Two.”
“Again, for those just tuning in…” the perma-perk smile of Sandy Sanderson is stunning as ever but his voice is lowered—an indication that he’s reporting something serious. “We’re reporting, as it unfolds, a shocking development for the CFR/Green party. At approximately three o’clock this afternoon, Peter Sjorgren, an intern with the Barns campaign, was discovered in the company of suspected terrorist Serena Sullivan. The pair skidded off the road and rolled into a ditch near Sjorgren’s Chelmsford, Massachusetts home. According to authorities, the couple,” two pictures appear behind the anchor—one of Rena, the other, a good-looking young blond man, “has been living in sin, not only as unmarried fornicators, but also as supporters of the anti-American, anti-Environmental-Right-to-Die, or ERTD, group, Not Dead Yet.
“We have Rhianna Spooner on the scene at the site of the accident. Rhianna, what can you tell us?”
A lithe Black woman in a sage silk suit stands next to a grassy gully, Serena’s car on it’s side in the background. “This is the site of the accident. As you can see, Sullivan’s red 2057 Chevoyota Old Glory did flip, but no cause for the mishap has been confirmed. However, a spokesperson for the Environmental and Medical Hygiene Agency has confirmed that Sullivan, who was driving, had a blood-alcohol level more than double the legal limit. Apparently her sister, with whom she shares a Somerville apartment, is a compostable and the reason Sullivan became interested in the group of compostable terrorists and camp followers, NDY.”
The picture flashes to a stocky, white police officer. The tag line at the bottom of the screen identifies him as Jerry Westlake, Chelmsford Police. “You can understand, having a family member like that,” he nods, “could drive you to drink, sure. Sullivan was probably an alcoholic. It’s amazing she never had a DUI before today.”
The cameras return to Spooner. “Official word from EnMHAg is that Sullivan and Sjorgren were taken to Bayer General Hospital, where they are being held indefinitely under the Medical Detention Act, due to the extensive nature of their injuries. When—or whether—they’ll be released remains to be determined and will be based on their medical and mental status. However, even if EnMHAg clears either for release, other authorities will surely step in to gather information relating to NDY activities.”
“This is crazy! They’ve got everything all wrong!” I’m making for the phone. “We have to call Bayer General. I have to talk to Rena. We need to get her out of there right now!”
“Easy, honey.” Jill flicks off the phone. “We have to be careful. They know she’s with NDY.”
“But the rest of it’s insane—” I fling out my arms in desperation. “Serena, drunk driving? An alcoholic with twice the legal limit in the middle of the day? And with that guy? I don’t know who the fuck this Sjorgren is, but she’s not ‘fornicating’ with him, she’s doing it with me! They think I’m her sister!”
“Yeah,” Jill whispers, so I have to lean in to hear her. “Where do you think they got that idea? How do they know Rena’s in NDY and that she calls you ‘Sis’?”
A wave of nausea overtakes me, and I put my head in my hands, bent over. I just stay like that. “Someone’s been spying on us.”
Theoretically, I’ve always known we live in a world of lies, but I thought somehow Rena and I had spun a protective web around ourselves that cradled us in some kind of sanity—in a different reality. That we were bound together and held aloft from the pit of deadly deceit. Now, I’m falling. I don’t know where Rena is. If parts of the story are true, like her being in NDY and living with me, what about the other parts—the injuries? How bad is she hurt? And is she really in the hospital?
“There must be someone we can trust who can call the hospital, who won’t raise a red flag—”
“Shush,” Jill interrupts. “Look.” She gestures to the TV.
I gasp. Rena is talking right into the camera. After the initial shock, I recognize the clothes she’s wearing, how she looks, what she’s saying—it’s a cut from our phone conversation yesterday. She’s crying and her shirt is stained with grass and mud. The only difference is that the angle’s tilted to make it look like the car’s on its side. “Ow! Sis, I’m bleeding,” she says to me again, in this edited version of our lives. “Let’s talk—by which I mean drink heavily—when I get home.”
“But that’s—that’s parts of our phone conversation from yesterday,” I explain to Jill and Burt. “She’d only bitten her cheek. She wasn’t really hurt!”
“Well, according to Burt, that’s the clip they showed earlier, too,” Jill is alternately squeezing my hand and aggressively wiping tears off her face.
“God, Jill, our phones are definitely tapped.”
“Yeah.” She simply nods.
Serena is back on the screen. I keep hoping she’ll say something to me that is real, that is truly to me, now. This time I don’t recognize the footage. It’s badly shot and shows her rolling and kicking her legs on a grassy slope.
“When the fuck—?”
But Sandy Sanderson seems to read my thoughts. “We believe that film to have been shot by Sullivan herself, a photographer for ExxonMobilCBS/PBS, or—” Sanderson pauses, half-smiling, “I should say a former photographer, as that network has just announced their official termination of her contract. Rhianna,” Sanderson twists to the image of the field reporter behind him, “any explanation for the sequence of this footage?”
“Yes,” Spooner picks up the thread faultlessly. “If you’re referring to the fact that we see her in the car, muddy, disheveled, grass-stained, and referring to her injuries—clearly after the accident—but we also see her becoming injured on the ground?…”
“Exactly,” Sandy grins pompously.
“The answer is that she was thrown from the car and then climbed back into it to call her sister. At least, that is what the anonymous eyewitness who disclosed this footage to MerrillChaseNBCFox indicated. In the note that accompanied the chip containing the images, the eyewitness testifies that Sullivan was thrown from the car during the wreck and then, in a state of drunken confusion, crawled back in to call her sister.”
“Thank you, Rhianna. I need to cut in,” Sanderson glimmers. “We’ve just received word that Revered Edward Barns will be making a statement from his compound in Carlisle, Massachusetts, which is coincidentally, a neighboring town to the accident site. We take you there now, live.”
I’m desperate for the footage of Rena again. For them to talk about Rena, for them to show her talking to me, even if I know it’s all false. I need to feel connected to her.
Instead, Barns has taken her place: his dyed black hair slicked into place, his wife at his side holding an infant. Arrayed at their feet are their five other children, the boys in neat suits, the girls in pastel dresses. Barns places his hand over his heart and his wife blinks back tears. “This is a sad day for our famil
y, the Barns campaign, the CFR/Green party and the leadership of this country, and for Americans everywhere—because someone we trusted and reached out to has let us down in the most heinous way.
“I’ll be honest with you, my fellow Americans: I did not know Peter Sjorgren. My aides tell me that he was a volunteer with the campaign. He worked for me, he attended my functions, but unfortunately I’ve been too busy working for God, my country, and the Earth to get to know everyone who has honored me with their loyal devotion to the Barns campaign and the values we represent.” Barns pauses to nod solemnly into the camera. “I see now what a mistake this was, in the case of Peter Sjorgren. Clearly, as a man of sin, he was unfit to represent the CFR/Green mission. An equally abominable possibility is that he was planted here by the terrorists, NDY, to sabotage our campaign. I can only express my thanks to God the Father and to Mother Nature, that no harm came to my family.” He pauses to squeeze his wife’s shoulders and pat one of the children’s heads. “As for any spying he might have attempted, I have no concerns, for we have nothing to hide here at Barns headquarters.” Some scattered applause and cheering break out, and the camera arcs to show the rest of the room, filled with members of Barns’s campaign. “Thank you, thank you,” he modestly nods to acknowledge the cheers, then turns a bright-white smile to the camera.
“As I understand it, Sjorgren and the Sullivan woman, who likely lured him into NDY activities, are now in care, under EnMHAg. My family and I bear him no ill will, and one thing I can promise you, my fellow Americans, is that we, and the whole CFR/Green party, will be praying for their souls, regardless of what happens to their sinful—and possibly now useless—bodies. Though I did not know them, I pray for them. God bless our planet’s health, and God bless America.” The crowd breaks into cheers again, then Sanderson is back. He begins recounting the story: “For those just tuning in….” The clip of Rena rolling and kicking in the grass starts playing. This time I notice her analog camera bouncing on a strap around her neck.
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