The Girl on Prytania Street

by Kira Saito

  I glanced at the grandfather clock. It was only 6 p.m. The vodka martinis plus two pills I had consumed had been a bad idea, but I wanted more. I opened the orange bottle and popped back two more pills. The brown manila envelope that Sylvia had given me lay unopened on the floor beside the leather couch I had passed out on. I wanted to open it, but I had another addiction to feed.

  I grabbed my phone and opened my Instagram account. My eyes landed on Richard holding his new baby in his restaurant kitchen. It was captioned #Daddy’s little girl is learning how to cook! Sara held a wooden spoon and gave the camera a toothless grin. They were back in New York. I scrolled through his account for more information, clues that would assure me that he was secretly as miserable as I was but to my disappointment, there were none, his sandy blond hair seemed thicker, his smile wider, and his green eyes brighter. His time under the Greek sun had done wonders for his usually pale skin.

  Anita, his socialite girlfriend, looked on adoringly in a designer dress and Cartier diamonds. I drank some more. I examined Anita Catsberg carefully, she was in her fifties but appeared to be much younger without having that plasticy look that indicated she was addicted to the knife. She was always so well-dressed, so put together with her bouncy chestnut hair and perfectly lined hazel eyes. I guess making sure your shit was together was second nature when you came from old money.

  The Catsberg name was not only one of the biggest in the real estate industry, but it was also responsible for the largest and most powerful foundations and investment firms in the world. I wanted to detest Anita. However, she had personally started the Little Lives Matter Too Fund after the war in Syria had started. I had seen photos of her in devastated Aleppo comforting crying mothers, snaps of her feeding crying babies in Haiti after Hurricane Matthew wreaked havoc on the island had been shared over every social media platform as had her endless other crusades around the world. One day, she had stepped foot into Richard’s restaurant and decided that his handmade ravioli needed a much wider audience. She decided to invest, and the rest is history. Now, the tiny bistro he had opened fed powerful politicians, rock stars, and the newest and trendiest Hollywood starlets.

  A buzzer interpreted my ruthless stalking. My feet hit the cool surface of the hardwood floor and I caught a glimpse of my frazzled self in the hall mirror horrified by how pale and sickly I looked. It was July, yet my skin screamed December. I glanced through the peephole. Oh shit. Richard in all his post-Santorini glory stood on the other side. I held my breath hoping that he would go away.

  “Kate, I can hear you breathing. You can’t fool me. Please open the door. We need to talk. I know I was a jerk for running off like that, but it was just as hard for me too you know. ”

  Now you want to talk? I thought. After disappearing for a year … I wasn’t going to overthink it. If I started to overthink it would lead me down a never-ending rabbit hole. Without a second thought, I opened the door. “Hello Richard,” I said with confidence. His sudden appearance had instantly killed my buzz. In real life, he looked vastly different from his heavily filtered social media snaps. He was older, a bit heavier, and his eyes didn’t have that same sparkle as his numerous Instagram posts, but he was still in much better shape than I was—or so it seemed.

  “Hello, Kate,” he said taking in my disarrayed state but refusing to comment. “May I come in?”

  “It’s technically still your place, too,” I said moving aside. My eyes went to the thick brown envelope in his hand. The day of reckoning had come. This was the last thing I needed right now.

  “It hasn’t changed a bit,” he said. His eyes automatically went to the brick wall. He quickly averted them back to me. Although Richard never openly blamed me for her disappearance, his sudden departure from my life was more than an indication of how he felt.

  “Why are you here?” I asked doing my best to act as if he had caught me in the middle of some terribly important research.

  “Did I interrupt something?” he asked.

  “Yes, I was prepping for an assignment.”

  “I can come back another time,” he said placing the envelope on the glass coffee table. “I just dropped by to deliver the papers in case the first three envelopes got lost in the mail or something.” His firm gaze and clenched jaw were the typical trademark signs that he was pissed but was too self-righteous to admit it.

  “No, I got them the first time,” I replied casually unable to admit defeat. “They’re with my lawyer,” I lied. In reality, I didn’t have the guts to make the truth legal. It was there, in my face, yet I refused to acknowledge it.

  “Alright then,” he said giving the brick wall a once over and heading out the door. “Have them call my people when you’re ready to sign which I hope is soon.”

  A lump formed at the back of my throat. He had people now, did he? “Yeah, I’ll get on it once I get back from New Orleans.”

  “New Orleans? Don’t tell me you’re going to investigate the Dubois case?” He stopped in the doorway and turned around to face me.

  “What’s the problem with that?” A subtle but very annoying headache had started to form at the tip of my temples. “You think that I won’t be able to do it? Think I won’t be able to get a story? That my research skill won’t be able to help find Charlene?” I felt my cheeks turning red, sweat formed at my brow. The room started to spin, Zoe’s face appeared next to Richard’s. I reached out. “I’ll find you,” I said. “I mean, I’ll help find her.”

  “Kate, get your shit together.” Richard’s stern voice sobered me up somewhat. “Do you honestly think that going to New Orleans is the healthiest option?” He raised an eyebrow and looked at the open bottle of pills and martini glass. “Zoe isn’t coming back. What you need to do is get some therapy and move on with your life not chase after another disappointment.” Every word was like a slap across the face forcing me to remember how he had given up so easily. How he had refused to look for her anymore.

  “I’m not like you,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “No, clearly, you have no concept of healthy coping methods,” he said coolly. His green eyes were cold, distant but entirely calm. It was a cruel blow beneath the belt and he knew it. “Look, cancel the trip and take some time off work. If money is the issue, you can put it on my tab. I’ll file under expenses at the restaurant.” He took out his leather wallet and handed me a card. “Here’s my therapist, she’s great. She’ll straighten you out in no time.”

  I looked at the card and then back at his serene face. “So they can put me on meds and take away my ability to give a shit? No thanks.” I ripped up the card and watched as the pieces floated to the brown floor.

  Richard looked at the thick white paper as it landed on the ground. “And this is the reason I’ll need those divorce papers signed as soon as possible. Crazy can’t be helped if crazy doesn’t want to be helped.”

  “Yeah, whatever, you want the papers signed so you can become Anita Catsberg’s fifth husband.”

  “Jealous much?” he asked with a smug grin. “I assume you’ve been stalking my Instagram account?”

  “Get out, Richard!” I shoved him and slammed the door. I would prove him wrong even if it killed me.

  Chapter Three

  Kate

  “I’ll have water,” I said as I tossed back a pill. The pretty flight attendant gave me another once over probably wondering how I managed to land a seat in first class. It was one of the many perks of working for The New York Watcher.

  “Yes, ma’am.” She gave me a wide smile as she poured me the drink. I concentrated on the files in front of me and refreshed my memory on the details of the Dubois’ and Charlene’s mystery disappearance. The Dubois came from old money, but they had further expanded their empire in various industries, including pharmaceuticals, real estate, casinos, the entertainment, and restaurant industry.

  Mr. and Mrs. Dubois only had one child, Charlene 13. I glanced at their family photos. They were perfect. Mrs. Dubois was the epi
tome of everything I wasn’t. Thin and fashionable with a shock of white-blond hair and deep blue eyes. She gave the camera a straight white smile as the equally perfect Mr. Dubois looked at her with adoration in his deep brown eyes. He had that George Clooney type of charm, even with grey hair streaking his temples and crinkles at the corner of his eyes, he was undeniably handsome. Their child shared the same light olive complexion, raven dark hair, and bright blue eyes. My gaze lingered on Charlene. She was a living doll with her long locks, wide eyes, and shy smile. I could barely stand to look at her. She could have passed for Zoe’s sister.

  I slammed the folder shut and closed my eyes. The memories unwillingly came rushing back.

  “Mom, it’s not like he’s sixty, he’s nineteen,” Zoe said as her eyes remained firmly glued to her phone.

  “And you’re only thirteen,” I said in disgust. How long had this been going on?

  She managed to peel herself away from the screen long enough to roll her eyes at me. “Stop treating me like I’m one of your stories. Stop interrogating me and start being my mom. You don’t even know him, and the only reason you know of him is that you’ve been stalking me on Instagram again and I’m pretty sure you’ve snooped through my phone.” She stretched out on her bed and reverted her attention back to her phone.

  I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes. For five minutes I simply stared at her hoping that she would pick up on how incredibly furious I was. She had no right dating a nineteen-year-old dropout. Who knows what sort of stuff he pressured her into? Did she even know what birth control was? We hadn’t had the talk yet, and now it seemed such a gigantic mistake on my part. With the way kids were these days, we should have had the talk when she was three. “Hey, Zoe.” She ignored me, and my temper started to rise. I marched up to her and yanked the shiny gold phone out of her hand.

  “Hey, what gives?” She leaped out of bed. “Give that back!”

  “No, not unless you listen to me.” I held the phone over my head.

  I took a deep, silent breath as I let her rant. When she saw that she wasn’t successful in getting me upset, she sat on her bed with her arms crossed. Her blue eyes were fixed on the ceiling which had glow in the dark constellations painted on it along with the Great Pyramids of Giza. My heart softened as I thought of our trip to Egypt last summer and how intrigued she had been about ancient history and culture. She loved reading and learning. Her mind was sharp, alert, and she had enough street smarts to kick ass if needed. I didn’t give her enough credit.

  “Hey, Zoe.” I tried again. I sat down beside her and lightly shook her thin shoulders. “Look, I’ll give this guy the benefit of the doubt if you agree to invite him over for dinner.”

  “Jay doesn’t do dinner,” she said.

  “He doesn’t do dinner?” I repeated the words to try to make sense of what I was hearing. Was this mysterious Jay on some kind of fad diet?

  “Not everyone is as pretentious as you,” she said, her voice laced in acid.

  “I’m sorry, but when did eating dinner become pretentious?” I asked genuinely feeling ancient. Dinner wasn’t cool anymore? When did this happen? It suddenly occurred to me that I was one of those untrendy parents who insisted on feeding their kid and discussing their day.

  She snatched her phone from my hand and got out of bed before I had a chance to react. “You just don’t get it, do you?” she snarled.

  “Darling, with all the reading you do, surely you can express your feelings with words rather than animalistic grunts. Jay does speak, doesn’t he?” I had crossed a line. My mom manual had been recklessly tossed out the window and had been replaced by mean girl mode. As much as I loved my dear flesh and blood, there were times I wished we were the same age. In these vain fantasies, we’d have a showdown in the school hallway. We’d be eye to eye with clenched jaws and loaded tongues aching to demonstrate who had the more superior intellect.

  “I can’t do this. You don’t get it. You don’t get anything. You realize that all you do is report fake news, don’t you? How could you even begin to have a clue?” She stormed out of the room.

  “I’ve been where you are!” I shouted after her. “Despite all my rage, I was still just a rat in a cage. Sweetheart, I promise you, it’ll pass.”

  “Screw you!” she shouted as she slammed the front door behind her.

  I didn’t want to admit it, but I had no idea what fake news was. Perhaps, she was right. I had to step up my parenting skills and fast. It was clear that I was becoming the lamest thing of all, irrelevant.

  Chapter Four

  Kate

  “This isn’t a joke, come back to me … This isn’t one of your plays. You aren’t Ophelia or Juliet. You’re much stronger than them. You’re more of an Anne with an E. You aren’t dead, promise me you aren’t dead. If you ran away with Jay, I’ll forgive you, I promise. Did you go to Mexico? Are you selling coconuts on a beach in Thailand? Wherever you went, you know you’re always welcome home. No questions asked. This isn’t a dress rehearsal, this is our life and I miss you …”

  “Ma’am? Ma’am …” The sing along voice lulled me out of my slumber. Sweat dripped off my grimy forehead and seeped through my enlarged pores. The entire cabin crew including the stout, red-faced pilot eyed me intently as I dramatically opened my eyes. Embarrassment washed over me as I took in their worried expressions. I knew those looks, the ones mixed with pity and disgust. I straightened out my hair and adjusted my silk blouse pretending to be an exhausted professional who was functioning on thirty minutes of sleep and black coffee. “I’m terribly sorry, I am on medication for a nasty flu. You know how that stuff is when you don’t get enough sleep and the weird dreams it invokes …” I gave her a wide smile.

  “Yes, of course, Ma’am, I’m getting over a pesky cold myself. Thank you for flying with us today, do you need assistance off the plane? We have wheelchairs for people who are ill.” The pretty flight attendant who had been witness to my pill popping asked politely. I examined her face for hints of sarcasm which would give me full license to write a venom-filled piece on the shitty quality of airline services. However, she was dead serious and full of self-assured professionalism. It wasn’t her fault that I hated the word ma’am with an unhealthy rage. I suppose understanding that you weren’t a teen or twenty-one-year-old anymore was a hard pill to swallow.

  I got out of my seat and grabbed my carry on. I was determined not to make another scene. “Thank you all. I’m late for an appointment,” I muttered as I made a mad, unprofessional dash out of the plane avoiding all further eye contact.

  Outside, the air was hot and sticky as if I had been thrust into an overheated spa. Blobs of sweat stained my blouse and my feet seemed to grow five sizes, my stilettos were suddenly too tight as if my feet had magically grown during the four-hour flight.

  I walked towards a black cab, opened the door, and threw in my carry on. I let out a huge sigh of relief as a gust of frosty air greeted me.

  “Where you headed?” asked a silky-smooth voice.

  “Here.” I thrust a card into the cab driver’s hand. “Some B and B.”

  “Madame Queenie’s on Prytania Street. You’ll love it.” The cab driver’s green eyes gleamed in excitement, which was totally quaint and a little unnerving considering cab drivers in New York refused to make eye contact or responded with grunts and groans instead of actual words.

  “Thanks. I’m not really going for pleasure; it’s more of a work thing. Is it always this hot?” I asked fanning myself, trying to ignore the large neon sign advertising .25 cent Hurricanes.

  “Oh, it’ll get hotter, much hotter. Summer has only begun.” Her sunny blond hair bounced from side to side enthusiastically. “You’ll love it. I promise. The heat, the jazz, the magnolias, it’ll all make you feel so alive. Most people never want to go back to wherever they’re from,” she predicted. “And the food, if you don’t mind me saying, it looks like you can use some good old-fashioned soul food or at least a Po-boy. Why, there�
��s an amazing little shop just around the corner. I don’t mind stopping. I am kind of hungry myself.”

  I wanted to scream. Her chatter was too much, too friendly, too polite. Feeling alive was the last thing I wanted or needed. I wanted to feel nothing, to simply disappear, cease to exist. “I’m alright, I really have to…” I sunk lower into the leather seat and prayed to all the ancient Greek gods that I would get enough material to slap together a half-assed story and catch the next flight home. I never used to be so half-hearted. Before, every story was a challenge, an adventure and mystery to me, now it all seemed so pointless as if nothing I did mattered or made any difference. My phone buzzed. It was Richard for the tenth time that morning. Annoyed, I picked up. “Richard, I told you I’m on assignment.”

  “You decided to go?” his pissed off voiced boomed from out of the phone.

  “It’s not like I have a choice, someone has to pay for my lawyer if you want those papers signed,” I said sarcastically.

  “Ouch, another jab, your jealousy is showing and it isn’t pretty. When will I have those papers? Anita wants to know.”

  I closed my eyes and forced back the tears that suddenly seemed to spring up from nowhere. Memories I had tried to bury came into focus, and it hit me that maybe I wasn’t entirely ready to let go. Richard hadn’t been my first love, but he had been the one that saved me.

  “Pregnant?” He said the word slowly, as if hearing it for the first time. We had been together for a few months before I had dropped the bombshell on him. It had been unexpected and more than a little frightening. We had been irresponsible, but he didn’t have to pay the price.