If I Disappear

by Eliza Jane Brazier

  I set my jaw. I feel awkward, but I need to ask the question. “Did you sleep together?”

  “I mean, o’ course we did.” His answer catches me off guard, and I don’t know what to say, what to think. You slept with Jed.

  His truck slows as the road opens to reveal Happy Camp. “You want me to come in with you?”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “You don’t have to.” His eyes are pulsing. “Do you want to?”

  “I can.”

  We park in the lot next to the police station and approach the school. Home of the Indians, Heart of the Klamath. There is no security. The school is smaller than the ranch. I remember what Tasia told me, how you were asked to leave. There is a crooked patch of dead grass outside the window, marked up to look like a football field, and I can’t blame you if you did make up stories, just for something to do.

  I follow Clementine’s directions to her classroom. When we get there, I peer through a small square window cut into the door. Clementine stands at the front next to a stained whiteboard. She has written the words “ontological” and “epistemological” on either side with a weak dry-erase pen.

  She points to the board. “What is an example of an ontological truth? Anyone? Anyone?” She scans the classroom, hopeful even though there are only six students, then glimpses me through the glass. “Oh, just a minute. Hold on. Our special guest is here!” She comes to the door. She is surprised to find Jed there with me. “Oh,” she says. “Jed. You’re here.”

  “I was headed out this way anyway.” He lies unnecessarily.

  She brings us to the front. All six students are girls; two are your nieces. Their eyes follow Jed and their lips stretch in easy, pleasing smiles.

  I have nothing prepared but maybe that is for the best. I have nothing to say to these girls anyway. Looking at their bright, clean faces just makes me sad. I think of Alissa Turney. I think of Laci Peterson. I think of Florence Wipler, who disappeared in these very woods. I think of myself. And all I want to say is Be glad. Just be glad you’re here. You don’t need anyone to tell you anything. You’re still here.

  “Everybody, this is Sera Fleece.” Clementine beams hopefully. “She’s a writer and she’s going to talk to you about writing.”

  I got here on a lie and I have nothing to say. The sooner this is over with, the better, and I can join Clementine for lunch and ask her about you. But first I have to get through this.

  “Thank you.” I smile unevenly. Jed folds his body into a too small desk.

  The students are younger than the high school students I remember. Their expressions are unset, their faces still emerging, flecked with pimples. Once you get past a certain age, people love to ask: What would you tell your younger self? If you could go back and talk to your younger self, what would you say?

  I would say, You’re in for it. I would say, I’m so sorry. I would say, Run.

  But I can’t say those things to these girls. So I pretend to be someone else, like everybody does, like I used to do proficiently, once upon a time. I ramble, ironically, about being prepared and then about discipline. “The thing about writing is, no one is going to make you do it. . . .” I drift. “That’s probably true about most things, as an adult. That’s probably the main problem with being an adult. It would be a lot easier if someone would just come in and tell you what to do.

  “The thing is, with writing, you never have any security. That’s another thing that’s true as an adult, actually: marriage, jobs, children.” I laugh inexplicably. “For some reason we teach kids that you make a choice and it lasts forever. I guess to keep the college system going? But the truth is, you’re going to lose everything, probably earlier than you think. And you’re going to have to start over. And over and over and over.”

  And then I feel this is too depressing, so I throw in a little true crime. “But it’s important to remember how lucky you are. There are people your age who have been murdered, kidnapped. All the time. Every day. There are people who just disappear and are completely forgotten. . . . So you should be grateful.”

  A light pall has settled over the room. Clementine’s jaw has loosened. Even Jed looks taken aback. Finally, Clementine says, “Does anyone have any questions?” and then cringes like she shouldn’t have asked.

  Six hands rise at once, and my chest loosens a little. Maybe I did make an impact. Maybe it was refreshing to hear an adult be honest for once.

  Clementine calls on a girl with a YouTube tutorial’s worth of makeup slicked on her face.

  “Are you from Texas?” she asks. I am confused until I realize she is talking to Jed.

  He stretches back in his seat and says, “West Texas,” like anyone knows the difference.

  “Wow,” one girl says.

  “Like a real cowboy,” says another one.

  “Does anyone have questions for our guest speaker?” Clementine interjects. “About how to make a living as a writer, maybe?” I don’t think anyone knows the answer to that question.

  One diligent girl raises her hand. “What are you working on now?”

  “A murder mystery.”

  This makes the class stew and Clementine looks concerned.

  “Is it a true story?” Asha asks.

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “How can you not be sure yet?”

  “Because I’m in the middle of the story.”

  Jed clears his throat. “What time d’y’all have lunch around here?”

  The audience is sidetracked.

  “‘Y’all’!”

  “Oh my God, his accent!”

  Clementine steps in. “All right, well, we still have ten minutes, so why don’t we all thank our guest and then have silent-study time?” Her eyes flit over me and I feel my cheeks burn, feel my chest hollow. I was terrible. And I couldn’t even talk for fifteen minutes. The class thanks us and Clementine leads us the few steps back to the door. “You can wait for me in the teachers’ lounge. Left outside, then third door on the left.”

  Jed and I follow her directions down the halls, which smell conflictingly of age and teenage pheromones. I try not to think about what I said, to replay the moments in my mind, but I can’t resist any opportunity to hate on myself. I am disappointed, and I am angry I am disappointed, round and round in a vicious cycle.

  I have to remind myself that I came here for you, to talk to Clementine about you. So what if I sounded psychotic? So what if Jed is walking carefully around me, like he expects me to crack at any minute? I did what I needed to do.

  I sit on a plastic chair next to a stained wooden table in the teachers’ lounge: a closet with a coffee machine. Jed makes a coffee, then sits down beside me, too close to me in the tiny room. Then he grins.

  “Well, that was entertaining.”

  “Don’t laugh at me.”

  His smile leaks out his eyes. “I’m not. I’m not laughing at you.” He puts his hand over mine and exhales. “You have to admit, we make a pretty depressing pair, Sera Fleece.”

  My eyes meet his and I feel something turn over inside me and that annoys me. It annoys me that I’m in this picked-apart lounge in the middle of nowhere with an alcoholic West Texan divorcé and I feel just as lusty as I did as a teenage girl, hanging pictures of River Phoenix on my wall. It was supposed to be better; it was supposed to be more. Jed looks at my lips.

  I take my hand away as the bell rings—even in a tiny school in the middle of nowhere, they use the same screaming wail.

  A few teachers trickle in to use the coffee machine, but they all back straight out. When Clementine appears, it’s just Jed and me.

  “Thank you so much for coming,” she says, although I’m sure she regrets her invitation. “It means so much to them to see . . .” She drifts off, in the process of pulling out her chair, perhaps realizing
that what they saw was a woman twice their age who was just as lost and confused as they are, if not more. “I appreciate the effort.”

  Jed tries to hold in a laugh and ends up snorting.

  “You’re very welcome,” I say as she takes a seat. “And now—”

  “How’s your week?” Jed jumps in, shooting me a look like I was born without manners. Manners are the last thing on my mind right now; this is an investigation.

  “Fine.” Clementine sighs and I can see she might be tired, although it is hard to tell with mothers. “There’s been a mite infestation at the lumberyard, so everyone’s a little on edge.” It is clear that by “everyone,” she means Homer. I think of how he appeared in the kitchen, how he caught her outside the church. I thought I told you . . . What? Was it something about me?

  I look pointedly at Jed, making sure he’s not about to interrupt me again. Then I begin, “I wanted to show you something.” I start to take the list from my pocket. Jed watches closely as I lay it out on the table in front of her. “This is a list of names Rachel Bard wrote.”

  Clementine jerks like she’s about to leave the table but stays seated. “Rachel Bard. Tasia LeCruce. Florence Wipler,” she reads from the top.

  I point. “Clementine Atwater.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  I clear my throat, try to keep my voice even, determined. I am an investigator. I am not a joke. You are missing and I am going to find you. “Do you have any idea what it might be?”

  She sits back, ruminating. “It would help if you told me where you found it.”

  My stomach twists. My shame keeps finding new depths. What can I tell her? That I went digging through the trash to find your dead cat because I thought he was your best friend? That sounds insane and they both look at me—they both look at me like they pity me.

  “Never mind the list,” I say with all the efficiency I can muster. “I’m here because of Rachel.”

  Clementine rocks back in her chair. “Because of Rachel? What do you mean?”

  “Her podcast. I used to listen to her podcast.”

  Clementine’s eyes flit from Jed to me, confused. “You moved all the way out here and got a job at Addy’s ranch because of a podcast?”

  “I need to find out what happened to her.” It seems almost silly under her smile. “Addy said that people were harassing her, chasing her in a big black truck.”

  “Everyone out here has a big black truck. Did Addy tell you who it was?”

  “No.” This just keeps getting worse.

  She drums her fingers on the table, once. “How would she not know? This is a small town.”

  “Why would Addy make it up?” I can’t believe Addy is my key witness.

  She sits back to think, gazes at the coffee machine like it’s a window onto someplace else. “I wonder if that was what Rachel told her.” She catches my disbelief and scoots closer in her seat. “Maybe Rachel wanted to leave, but she didn’t know how, so she created this wild story—she was always good at telling stories. Maybe she thought it was the only way her mother would let her go. If she thought she had to leave, for her own safety. If she was in danger.”

  “Then why did Addy tell me she was dead?”

  “Addy and Rachel were very close. I think it’s hard for her . . .” She drifts, but catches herself. “I think it’s hard for her to admit that Rachel would leave her. Or maybe she just doesn’t like you asking questions.”

  This has a ring of truth, but everyone tells a different story. I try to tell myself that’s a good thing. If it was a conspiracy, they would all tell the same story. But the question is, who can I believe? I thought Clementine was a “good person,” but it feels like she has never even considered any of this, like she is making it up on the spot. Is she really so content with her life that her sister-in-law can disappear and she never even questions it?

  “Have you heard from her?” I clench my fists.

  “I—no—but that’s not unexpected. We aren’t really close.”

  “So you think she’s still alive?”

  “Of course she’s alive.” She gives me an earnest look. “I wouldn’t worry about Rachel. She always took care of herself.”

  I bite my lip. I can’t believe it. Can it really be that simple? Did you just leave? I drop my chin and spy the paper on the table. “What about Florence? Florence Wipler?”

  Her eyes dance back and forth. “What about her?”

  “Didn’t she disappear too?”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “It meant a lot to Rachel, didn’t it, her disappearance?”

  “It meant a lot to everyone. When you’re a kid, that kind of thing stays with you.” She pauses, but when I don’t respond, she resumes talking. “Florence became a kind of local celebrity, had her picture posted everywhere. I think Rachel— We all were affected by it. Rachel, maybe, more than others, but she was always very . . . just more than everyone else.”

  I am very careful with what I say next. I feel it tight in my nerves as I breathe. “Tasia told me about the argument.”

  Clementine shakes her head and sits back. “None of us knew what was going to happen. If we had known . . .” She power-sighs. “It all seemed like such a big deal then. . . . Moroni felt terrible about it.” A bolt traces my spine. “Terrible.”

  I feel my heart beating in my chest. Does she mean what I think she means? Even Jed is quiet.

  “He was young,” I say weakly, trying to seem like I am on her side, even if I don’t know, don’t have any idea, what she’s talking about.

  She exhales, relieved. “Exactly, exactly. They were both so young.” She breathes unevenly, like this is her mistake, her burden. “And I know Tasia feels bad about it, but it was her boyfriend, and she was—what? Fifteen? Fourteen? We just couldn’t understand why Florence would do that. I mean, what was her intention? But then, young girls do dumb things. I try to remember that, with my girls.”

  I put the pieces together in my head. Florence and Moroni hooked up. The other girls found out, got angry, and Florence ran off and was never seen again.

  “And Tasia still married Moroni.”

  “Yes, well.” Her laugh has a slightly hysterical edge. “If we didn’t forgive them, we’d all be single.”

  She scoots forward in her chair, taps the list. “Can I ask you something?” She runs her hand down the list. “Did you find this in Bumby’s collar?” My heart drops, like I am the one who has been caught. Humiliation heats my jaw. I remind myself she doesn’t know Bumby’s dead, that I crawled into a dumpster to find this “evidence.” “I remember when she made it.” Her voice is reassuring. “When he was a kitten. She put all of our names down because she was so paranoid that he would get lost; she wanted to make sure someone was contacted.” She sits back, warmed by the memory. “It was sort of sweet.”

  I think: Idiot. I feel myself sinking and I know Clementine thinks she’s disappointed me and she has. I should be happy for you. I should be glad to think you’ve escaped, that you’re out there somewhere, alive and well. Instead I feel crazy, unmoored, like losing you is tantamount to losing my mind.

  How can I be so wrong about everything? It’s like my senses have rearranged themselves, like I am just off track. Somewhere, in the past few years, I lost whatever it was that made me like everyone else, and now I am lost, so lost that I am seeing crimes that aren’t really there. Murder, Missing, Conspiracy. What if there is no bad guy? What if I’m the bad guy? What if I am the victim and the villain of my own life?

  Episode 53:

  Murder of a Jane Doe 2

  Her body washed up on the coast. What was left of her wore a beat-up pair of jeans, a T-shirt tied at the waist and a friendship bracelet, the kind they make at summer camp.

  My footsteps are heavy as we walk back to Jed’s car. I wish I hadn’t let him drive me.
I can see that he is pushed back, away from me. I know he thinks I’m crazy. It makes me think of my ex, in the days after I lost the baby, the look on his face like what I had been telling him all along was finally confirmed: that we were different. That I was different.

  Clementine thinks you left of your own accord. Jed does too. Why is it so hard for me to believe it? Maybe I just resent it. Maybe I am just disappointed you left without saying goodbye. Like your mother, I need to believe something happened to you, because the alternative is that you never really cared at all, about the podcast, about your listeners, about me.

  “Do you believe her?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. . . .” He is hesitant to disagree with me. “I guess I do. I guess I think Rachel just wanted out.”

  “No,” I insist, but am I just being stubborn now? It’s almost like I want something bad to have happened. Have I been listening to too many podcasts? Jed said you lost yourself, that you thought everyone was out to get you. Is that what has happened to me? “I don’t believe it.” Is that just what I want to believe?

  “Sera, you didn’t really know Rachel.” He puts his hand on my arm but I shake it off.

  “Yes, I do. I know her. I know her better than any of you. Her whole podcast, the reason she did it, was to find answers. She wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t leave behind any questions.”

  “Maybe you’re wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, maybe you ain’t right about her intentions.” His accent is thicker when he’s impassioned. It tangles his words, contorts his lips. “Maybe she wasn’t looking for answers for them. Maybe she was looking for answers for her. Maybe she wanted to disappear and she was tryin’ to figure out how.”

  “Then why broadcast it? Why publicize it?”

  “Rachel was a lonely soul,” he says with a strange finality. “She didn’t connect to people like you or I do.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Fine, maybe you don’t.” He throws his hands up. Two hectic spots blossom on his cheeks. “Maybe you do understand her better than anyone. Didn’t you do essacty the same thing she did? Didn’t you just up and disappear? You’re looking for her—who’s looking for you?” He goes stiff, like he’s shot himself but he can’t figure out why or how. “Rachel, I’m so sorry.”