Then You Were Gone

by Strasnick, Lauren

  “Cut ’em in half, scoop the seeds out.”

  “Can I have that?” I wiggle my finger at the serrated knife.

  She passes it. Wipes her teary onion eyes. “I called Emmett earlier.”

  I stop slicing. Look up. “Why?”

  “To check in. See if he needs anything.” I make a sour face. “What?” she says. “He has no one.”

  “Whose fault is that?”

  “Babe.”

  “Just sayin’. No one’s nominating the guy for any Stepdad of the Year awards.”

  “Shush, please.” More parsley. “Dakota wasn’t the easiest kid.”

  “Wasn’t?”

  “Isn’t.”

  “So,” I say, nudging tomato sludge into the trash with my nails. “How’d he sound?”

  “Weird. Which is right, right? How else would he sound?”

  “Weird, like, how?”

  “Weird, like, fine, I guess. Just thought he’d sound a bit more shaken up.”

  “Well, what’d you talk about?” I ask.

  “I just, ya know, offered my sympathies. Asked if we could bring anything by.”

  “And?”

  “He said ‘no thanks.’ That he appreciated the offer. You done?” She gestures at my avocado/tomato mash.

  “Here.” I pass both. She dumps everything into one bowl. Does some quick mixing. Squeezes two lemons. “Did he sound sorry?” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like, did he sound sorry? That she’s gone?”

  “You can’t tell that sort of thing over the phone.” She digs a chip into the guac and waves it at me. “Here. Taste test.” Then, “Besides, people process their crap differently.”

  “It’s good,” I manage, mouth full. And, “I thought everyone processed their crap exactly the same.”

  “Funny,” she says, pulling me close, pushing my face against her chest.

  “Can’t breathe,” I cry, writhing, whining.

  “Shut up, please?” She kisses my forehead, hugs me harder. “I need to squeeze my kid.”

  10.

  My back is flat against Lee’s locker. He’s nuzzling me.

  “I called twice last night.”

  I heard. Saw my cell screen blink. But the thought of talking—to Lee, to Kate—just seemed unnecessarily exhausting. “I was busy.”

  “With what?”

  I shrug. Lee pulls back. He has that glazed look guys get when they’re super-sexed-up. “Can I see you tonight?”

  He’s high off Range Rover Sunday. “Don’t know,” I say. “Maybe?” I stupidly thought sex with Lee might obliterate that relentless tug in my gut, but—

  “Maybe?”

  Didn’t work.

  “Do you know anyone who drives a yellow Bug?” I say, switching subjects.

  “A Bug?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What, like, a Volkswagen?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “No.” He thinks about it. “I mean, maybe. Not sure. Why?”

  “Sam saw Dakota last Sunday in a Bug. Or, getting out of a Bug. She was fighting with someone.”

  “Sam saw her?”

  I nod, speedy now. High, almost. “He talked to an officer this weekend. They’re looking into it.”

  “Huh.”

  “They want to talk to me, too.”

  “The police? But you don’t know anything.”

  “Her phone records. They saw the call.” He doesn’t say anything back, so I talk on. “The Bug, though. That’s, like, a lead, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess?” I step backward and let go a small, irritated huff. “You don’t think that’s a little strange? Dakota gets into some huge blowout with some mystery guy, then, poof, she just disappears?”

  “I dunno, Knox. Sure, maybe.” He pauses, readjusts his backpack. “You know she brought mescaline to Teddy’s barbecue last year? His parents were there. Who brings psychedelics to a family barbecue?”

  “She was at Teddy’s? Do they even know each other?”

  “Knox.” His cross-eyes say I’m missing his point. “She screwed Anna Clark’s boyfriend. That guy who tours with Jason Sheer?”

  “The guitar player? Isn’t that guy old?”

  “Bass. And he’s twenty-four. She went home with him after a Dark Star show.”

  “How do you know that? You don’t even know those people.”

  “Chris Clark, Anna’s brother. He’s on my soccer team.” A beat. Lee makes a strained face. “I just . . .”

  “What?” I say. “You what?”

  “I don’t know.” He walks, mussing his hair with one hand. “I kinda think . . .” Laughs. “I kinda think it’s a big pile of horseshit. I think she’s fine, I think she’s fucking with everyone, I think you’re falling for it. I’m watching you—you’re getting all obsessive and invested and—”

  “I’m not obsessive. Jesus, Lee. I’m flipping the fuck out because my friend might be—”

  “Your friend?”

  One of my cheeks—the left one?—is throbbing as if it’s been hit. “Fuck you.” My eyes pool. I turn on one heel and walk toward the restroom.

  “Adrienne.”

  I don’t stop.

  “Hey, Adrienne.” Lee catches up with me, tugs on my arm, flips me around. “Stop, okay?” Wipes my wet cheeks. “Stop crying, I’m sorry.” He kisses me. Our mouths are hot and soggy. “I just—” He pulls back, head shaking, chin wrinkling. “I don’t like her.”

  I want to scratch, smack, set something on fire.

  “I wish—I want you to forget her.”

  “Forget her?” More irate tears. He curls an arm around me. I try wriggling free.

  “Stop squirming.”

  “You don’t get it.”

  “I do, I get it, you’re worried.” His face goes lax. “Adrienne, I just—I want you to feel better.”

  “Well, I can’t.”

  We just stand there, kids staring, school bells blaring. I keep crying. Lee takes my hand and I’m too tired to stop him. “Can I see you later?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  My chest heaves. “Dinner with my mother.” Lies.

  He pulls me forward. “Tell me you love me.”

  “No.”

  “Knox . . .”

  “Tell me you’re sorry,” I say.

  “I am. Already said it.”

  “Say it again.”

  “Look at me.”

  I look at him. Baby skin, sparse stubble, a tiny pimple on his upper lip. “I love you,” he whispers. And it’s true, he means it. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You believe me?”

  I relax slightly. “I guess.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” I say, pressing my nose against his cold cotton jersey. “I’m sure.”

  11.

  Brit lit. Suspender Sub still here. We’re doing absolutely nothing in class—reading chapters aloud out of Jane Eyre—so I watch Julian watch the floor while wondering what he knows. Who he is. Does he look guilty? Grief-stricken? He’s so stupidly pretty. Dirty red hair that droops at the sides and sticks up on top. Freckles like Kate. Dakota used to back him into lockers and suck his lower lip in front of everyone. Now he’s here with his Brontë book and all I see is sex.

  Bell.

  He bolts. I grab my bag and tailgate him. Kate’s waiting outside and blocks me as Julian slips past.

  “Murphy had the baby. It’s a girl.”

  “Oh.” He’s gone now, out of sight.

  “They named her Adeline.”

  “Huh.”

  She slaps my upper arm.

  “Ow. What the hell, why’d you do that?”

  “You okay?”

  “I was fine, fuck. Now I hurt.”

  “Sorry, I just—” Her cheeks go pink. “You weren’t looking at me.”

  My eyes flick to her face.

  “You going tonight?”

  “Where?” I ask, rubbing the throb out of my
arm.

  “Candlelight vigil.”

  “For?”

  Her brow bounces up. Duh, D. Webb.

  “Oh,” I say, smarting. “Seems a little premature.”

  “Right? Bury the girl first.” Kate laughs a little too quickly, then stares for a bit before changing the subject. “Come on, you’re free this period. Help me stalk Wyatt Earp.”

  I glance out the window. There’s a fat camera guy hovering in front of a navy van with a satellite. A suited woman waves a mic in the faces of two tiny freshman.

  Kate smooshes her nose against the glass. “Fuck, Channel Five?” Then, softly: “Dakota gets a camera crew. Of course.”

  12.

  I toss my keys on the bureau, switch on my yellow bedside lamp, and hit play on a mix I made earlier this week: Keren Ann, Olivia Ruiz, Yael Naim, Carla Bruni. Girlie French music. Folk and pop. I can’t understand a word of it, but it makes me feel dreamy and sentimental and tints everything really rosy.

  For a while, I don’t do anything but listen. I get down on the floor on my back and just lie there. I watch the ceiling. I flip to my side and watch the wall. Then, feeling restless, I get up. Drink half a glass of water. Change into sleep stuff. Creep downstairs to Sam’s office and switch on his computer.

  Ping.

  Sam has video footage of Dakota, I’m sure of it. The first five years of his relationship with my mother are taped, digitized, and double-saved to his hard drive. I click the folder titled Home Movies and run a search for “Dakota.” Nothing. I try “Adrienne.” A zillion files flash in my face: “Adrienne Seven,” “Adrienne Swing Set,” “Adrienne & Rach” (Mom). I try searching “Adrienne Nine”, then “Adrienne Ten” (prime DW years)—more nothing. I type “Adrienne Twelve,” and there, finally, a file. I open it.

  Me, Mom—getting ready for Ally Rothbaum’s bat mitzvah.

  Wrong. Moving on.

  “Adrienne Eleven.”

  Dakota.

  We’re kids. She’s braiding my hair. We’re in a tent with three billion throw pillows, a bottle of bubbly water, and a cordless phone.

  “Face me, come on, guys, say something cute.”

  “Something cute!” Dakota screams, smiling huge, then frowning dramatically. I laugh and I laugh, so Sam laughs too. The picture cuts out.

  Two more clips: “D&A” and “Adrienne B-Day Fifteen.” In the first, I’m fourteen, maybe? My hair chin-length and tinged red. I’m leaning against the kitchen counter eating a fat slice of pepperoni.

  “Dakota honey?” Mom says this. She’s fixing one of her weird-looking sprouted salads. D wanders into frame. She looks young. No boobs. Her face still soft.

  “Yeah?”

  Mom picks an eyelash off her cheek then hands her the salad bowl. “Stick this on the table, will you?”

  “Rach, wave,” Sam says. Mom waves.

  “Do I have to have salad?” I ask.

  “Yep.”

  “I love salad,” Dakota sings, picking a sprout out of the bowl and nibbling at it seductively.

  “Babe, put the camera down?” Mom’s got a fistful of silverware and she’s bumping the drawer shut with one hip. “Get the lasagna out of the oven? Come on, we’re eating.”

  “Okay, all right,” Sam says. The picture drops.

  Last one: “Adrienne B-Day Fifteen.” I remember this. Not long before our breakup. A few weeks, maybe? We’re at Dar Maghreb on Sunset. Moroccan. Chicken pie with powdered sugar, tiled walls, belly dancers. Mom and Dakota on either side of me. Everyone looking pretty and made-up: three sets of red lips. Smooth hair.

  Dakota—boobs now, layered bob—says, “We do this with our hands?” She means eat—no utensils.

  Mom: “Indeed, we do.”

  I reach for something. Chicken pie? Flatbread? Dakota stops me. “Birthday girl! Let me do that!”

  “Let you do what?”

  “I’m gonna feed you,” she says brightly. She reaches down, pinches some pie between her fingertips, and raises it to my mouth. “Open up.”

  “No.” I laugh.

  “Why, come on, don’t be scared,” she coos. “Come on. Open your mouth.”

  “Be nice,” says Sam.

  Dakota looks directly at the lens, says, “I am nice.” Then she pries my lips apart while I squirm. “There you go, baby.” She smooshes the chicken onto my cheek, missing my mouth completely.

  Freeze frame.

  13.

  “Can I have one of those?”

  Freak section. I’m bumming a cigarette off a girl wearing an apron as a dress.

  “Here.” She passes me her pack and a stubby pink lighter.

  I help myself, light up, say, “Thanks.” Today I dressed the part: dark brown sweater over black tights. And I lined my eyes with kohl.

  • • •

  Hours later I’m in the computer lab googling like a maniac. I find an online Dakota tribute: an ultra simple website with Dakota photos and some super sappy reader comments. I can barely look at any of it. Except the video. There’s a shitty, shaky video of Dakota performing somewhere. I dig through my bag, find my headphones, and plug into the computer. She’s singing softly. She sounds like a gurgling baby. Below her are a gazillion bobbing heads. People love her. I love her. She’s pretty and perfect and up onstage she makes magic. Made magic?

  New website. New video. This one’s overexposed. Dakota with Dark Star in some stark rehearsal space. Daytime. She’s barefaced. Her blond hair limp and long and just so fucking glorious. She’s harmonizing with her own recorded vocals. Swaying slightly. Looking girlish and sexy while she smiles at Julian, who’s got his jean-jacketed back to the camera.

  “How’s that?” she asks, stopping, leaping up.

  “Awful,” says some guy off camera. Everyone laughs. Dakota’s face widens. She’s happy, laughing, flinging herself onto Julian’s lap. The camera rotates. His hands are on her face. They’re kissing and grinning. Someone throws a guitar pick across the room. My heart bleeds/breaks/aches.

  Tap tap tap.

  “Christ!” I jump, whip around, tug off my headphones.

  “Hey, hey, it’s me. It’s just me.” Lee with his hand on my shoulder.

  “Hi, sorry, hi.” I turn back to the monitor and quickly sign out of my session.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Nothing. Email.”

  We kiss. Lee pulls back, making a face. “Have you been smoking?”

  “I—” Crap. “Barely. One drag, I had to. Margaret had cloves.”

  “It’s shitty for you.”

  “Right, I know. One drag, Lee, that’s all.”

  “Walk me to chem?”

  We walk for a bit, and he doesn’t try to touch me, but he’s staring, so I go, “Something up?”

  “Your face looks different.”

  “My face?”

  “I dunno, your eyes, maybe? Is that it? They’re darker?”

  “No, it’s nothing.” I shake my head, yanking at my tights and sweater—a far cry from my usual uniform: Lee’s old jeans matched with whichever thrift store top is clean. “I lined them, that’s all. You’ve seen them this way before.”

  He considers me. “I like it.” He’s nodding now. “It suits you.”

  14.

  I get off the bus at Benton and drop into a pocket of hot, sweet air blowing out the kitchen vent of a Mexican bakery. I stop in, buy a big pink cookie and a Coke (old Dakota ritual), then glance out the window. The hill to D’s house is twisty and steep. A long residential road that intersects with the eastern stretch of Sunset Boulevard.

  Shoving half the cookie in my mouth, I exit the shop. To my left: two Korean markets, a clothing co-op, and a fruit juice stand. To my right: a ninety-nine-cent store. I finish my treat, dust my fingers on my tights, then start the climb.

  When I reach the top, I’m breathless and hunched over, hands on knees, staring. There it is: two stories, pink, flat roof, clay tile. I’m dizzy with kid memories: sleepovers, prank calls, brownie binges, dan
ce numbers. I try to see inside, but the house looks dead. Where’s Emmett? Do I do this? Do I dare ring the bell?

  Slam.

  I whip around. It’s Julian Boyd, walking away from a battered blue Datsun. “What’re you doing here?” he asks, incredulous, as if he’s just discovered me hiding at the bottom of his laundry hamper.

  “I—what am I doing here?” I’m sweaty from the climb and suddenly embarrassed. I pull my sweater away from my tacky body. “Why are you here?”

  His chest deflates. He looks past me, at the house. “Don’t know.”

  We’re quiet. My eyes dart between the car and his face. The car, clearly not a VW Bug. I turn so we’re standing side by side, our faces forward. I say, “I’m Adrienne Knox.”

  “I know who you are.”

  An unexpected kick, he knows me. I look down at my feet, tangled up in an overgrown mess of crispy lawn. “Anyone home?” I ask.

  Julian unwraps a single slice of foiled gum. “No,” he says, not offering me any. “No one’s home.”

  • • •

  For dinner, Sam makes spaghetti Bolognese with ground turkey instead of beef. We line our bowls up—one, two, three—on the mosaic coffee table in the den. We curl up in love seats. We twirl pasta and watch the six o’clock news. Sam kisses Mom. I feel cozy and—not happy exactly, but almost-happy, because for three seconds I’m able to forget Dakota. And heartbroken Julian Boyd. I’m home safe. Sam’s Bolognese rocks. Mom looks flushed and pretty. But then straight from the sky falls this shitty commotion:

  “Turn it up!” Sam’s screaming. Mom’s kneeling in front of the TV screen, pumping the volume.

  “Early this morning, a body, believed to be that of missing fifteen-year-old Cassidy Chang, was discovered along the shoreline not far from the Santa Monica Pier. The Los Angeles teen disappeared late last month after an argument with a family member. Amber King reports.”

  My head swings to Sam, who looks super stiff and alert. My legs tingle. Then back to school photos of Cassidy as they flash across the screen. She’s wearing stripes. She’s grinning. More talk of suicide. Of dental records. Another photo: cheek to cheek with a fluffy puppy.

  “This past week, another local teen, Dakota Webb—member of the popular SoCal band Dark Star—went missing. Her abandoned Jeep was found in the same beach parking lot where Chang’s Ford sedan was discovered late last month. Police are investigating a possible connection.”