Then You Were Gone

by Strasnick, Lauren

  “So?”

  “So, this date? This was, like, two years ago.” He shakes his head, four fast motions. “We hadn’t even met yet.”

  We were friends still.

  Julian slides backward, away from the coat.

  “It ain’t alive,” I quip.

  No laugh back. I feel idiotic. I rack my brain for explanations. “Maybe she was singing on her own somewhere? Open mics, maybe?”

  “Did she play out, back then?”

  “I don’t—” No? Maybe? “It’s possible. She didn’t always tell me stuff.”

  “And, okay—here?” He’s pointing at new numbers. “I’d sprained my wrist. Couldn’t drum.” He smoothes out both sleeves. “These aren’t show dates.” He looks up, panicked. “She told me they were show dates. Why would she lie about that?”

  My belly flops.

  “I mean, some of them are show dates.” He sighs, rolling the bed sideways. “Jesus, I dunno, ya know?” He’s fumbling with the floorboard again. “Help me with this?”

  I grab a nail file off the nightstand and use it to jimmy one corner free. A satisfying pop. Julian wiggles the board back and forth. The whole thing comes loose. Inside, arranged neatly, a manila envelope folded lengthwise. An old photo of a pretty blonde holding a squirmy child. Three plastic Baggies wrapped tightly with tape and Saran wrap.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Saw her screwing with it once.” He grabs the plastic bags first. Pockets those.

  “Hey.”

  “Candy.” He picks up the picture. “Her mother,” he says, and on closer inspection I see it: same saucer eyes and wispy hair. Same bird bones and big boobs.

  “And baby Dakota?”

  “Looks like.” He passes the pic and goes for the envelope. Unfolds it. Out slide three shiny sheets of photo paper.

  “Proofs.”

  Dozens of tiny black-and-white images arranged side by side in neat little rows. I squint at a naked blonde rolling around on a bare mattress.

  “Wow,” Julian croaks.

  It’s her. She’s clutching a comforter. A few of the shots have Xs and checks next to them. A man’s name, Mark Mills, is scribbled in blue ink along the side of each sheet. “Photographer?”

  “Manager,” Julian says, his face contorting.

  “Yours?”

  “No. Just, this, like, sketch guy that was always sniffing around after shows. He manages another Smell band.” Then: “Christ. What the hell is this? Were they together?”

  He’s near tears.

  “This dude is so sleazy.”

  My heart pretty much explodes in my chest. “Hey, it’s okay,” I say, trying to touch him. He flinches. “Why not . . .” I scooch back a bit, giving him room to breathe. “I mean, do you know him? Could you call him? Let’s just call the guy and see what he knows.”

  “No, this dude—” He’s looking at me like I’m bat-shit insane. “Adrienne, no.” He shuffles through the proofs again. “August eighteenth.”

  “Hmm?”

  He points at some tiny lettering beneath the manager’s name. “August eighteenth.” Then grabs the jacket and points at the same date written on Dakota’s coat cuff. “They match.”

  I pick up the proofs. Look closely. Typed in diminutive print in the margins of each page is 8/18. “No show that night?”

  “No show.”

  I scan the photos. Where the hell was she? Someone’s bedroom? A loft? The space looks industrial and bare.

  Then: one candid shot. Last image. Dakota: nude, no blanket, smoking. Her hips, hollow and pointy. I inhale and catch a whiff of something sad. “Can we go?”

  “Right now?”

  I sit up. Shove everything back in the envelope. “Yeah, you mind?” And, “Can I keep these?”

  “Wait, why?”

  “Just for a few days. Please? I just—I want to see if there’s something we’re missing.”

  He sucks his upper lip. “Fine.” Slides the floorboard back into place.

  We stand. I scan the room one last time. Why no evidence of Julian, of band mates, of me?

  “You ready?”

  “Yep.”

  Too typical. Her not needing anyone but needing everyone to need her.

  29.

  “Shit, Knox, you’re blitzed.”

  True. Drank a quarter of Sam’s smoky scotch before I boarded the bus for Kate’s place.

  “What’s in the bag?” she asks, prying the soggy brown sack from my fingertips.

  “Blueberry pie.”

  She peeks inside. “You sit on it?”

  I laugh. Kate laughs. Purple filling oozes onto her dry, white hands.

  Walker, Yates, and Reed huddle around their supper plates, staring. And Lee? Lee’s at my side, peeling my coat off my body, yanking me into the kitchen.

  “You’re drunk?”

  “I’m hungry.” I pull myself up onto the sticky countertop. “When do we eat?”

  “What the hell happened to you? We ate already.”

  I dig into some leftover congealed artichoke dip with my pinkie. “Yum.”

  “Knox, look at me.” He grabs my chin. “You smell.”

  “That’s the scotch.”

  “Why are you like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “Because of her?”

  “Because of her?” I mimic.

  Kate appears, carrying a stack of crusty plates. Lee turns, says, “Take care of this?”

  Now Kate’s in my face with a bowl of cold chicken and roasted beets. “Eat, drunkles.” I let her feed me. The beets are sweet and tangy and I swing my legs back and forth while I chew.

  30.

  I tell Sam I’m sick. He knows I’m hungover. I skip school, go to the Italian deli on Alpine, buy an eggplant sub and a liter of Pellegrino, and walk home. I eat my sandwich, lie on my lawn, mess around with my phone. I google “Mark Mills.”

  Up pops his website, along with a few tangential mentions on music sites and rock blogs. I click MarkMills.com. One page only. Stark blue, looks homemade. Bands he reps. Contact info. I cut and paste his studio information into my cell. Ridiculous. So easy. Who the hell is this guy? How did he get with D. Webb?

  August 18. Roughly a month before she went missing. I scroll through Gmail trying to sort out where I was the day she was posing for those pictures. A few nonsense emails from Lee (“Blow me.” And, “Come over. Come sit on my face.”). A forward from my mother. A Zappos receipt. Nothing noteworthy. I try text next—clicking Kate’s name, reading backward, to August 18: “Bitch, you late. Hurry up. Want pie.” So, supper club. Thursday. School day. Dakota was living, breathing, getting naked with sketch music managers, scribbling dates down on old army jackets.

  Back to Contacts. Mark Mills. I tap his name with two fingers. Consider emailing. Stop myself. Toss my phone into the purple bougainvillea. Roll face-first into dry grass.

  31.

  We used to do this all the time, me and Lee. Screw around for hours. Order Thai takeout or pizza. Do our homework downstairs in front of the TV while his parents were out at some dinner or fund-raiser or fancy premiere.

  Now, no more screwing around. And Lee’s big, showy shack makes me feel sad, sick, and lonely.

  “Pass that, please?” He points.

  We’re trading dishes. Shrimp lo mein for pork fried rice. Lee takes a sloppy bite of noodle and makes a face. “Tastes weird, right?”

  “What?”

  “The lo mein.” He chews quickly and pats his mouth with a napkin. “Saltier?”

  “Tastes fine to me.” I suck on my lip and push the plate away.

  “You’re done?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You barely ate.”

  “I did, Lee, I ate, like, half a tub of that eggplant.”

  “That’s nothing. That’s like eating air.”

  I shrug him off and grab at the orange chicken. “Look,” I say, picking up a glossy piece of meat with my middle finger and thumb. “Mmm.” I fake enthus
iasm, taking a bite and playfully pushing Lee backward. He’s not laughing.

  “Knox.” He drops his chopsticks.

  “What?” I lick my thumb clean and flash my fakest grin. “I’m eating, see?”

  “You’re miserable.”

  I don’t want to have this conversation right now. I want to pack up my crap and go home. “Lee, I’m fine. I’m tired, okay?”

  “You’re different.”

  “Lee.”

  “It’s like, you look at me and it’s like—” He looks at me. “Like I make you sick or something.”

  “Stop.”

  “No, I just—I want to talk about it.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “I just—I can’t tell if it’s her?” he says, breathing hard. “Or if it’s me.” We watch each other. “Is it me?”

  “Is what you?”

  “You don’t, like, let me touch you anymore.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is.” His eyes are wet. “Why can’t you just admit it?”

  “Admit what? Lee. Jesus, stop. You’re freaking out over nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. God, Adrienne. You’re showing up drunk to dinners, you’re completely withdrawn, you’re dressing different—”

  “You like this,” I say, grabbing at my dress, incensed. “You prefer it, remember?”

  “Prefer it to what?”

  “You said I looked sexy.”

  “You do! You did and you do.”

  “So—what is this?” I scream, not looking at him, looking at the shiny walls instead. “You’re pissed off because I won’t fuck you?!”

  “Oh my god, Adrienne.” His voice cracks and one arm flies up, accidentally knocking the takeout container out of my hand. Orange chicken skitters across the Turkish rug.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers quickly, looking humiliated and apologetic. I dart toward the blinking television, where the white rectangular box lies, mangled, nearby on its side. “It’s fine,” I say, digging bits of fried batter out of the carpet.

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s okay, Lee.” I right myself, carrying the mess to the trash can. “I wasn’t hungry anyway.”

  32.

  Open period. Julian and I share a cigarette inside his Datsun.

  “This thing work?” I ask, straining to roll down the sealed side window.

  “Jammed,” he says, biting the cigarette, touching his tongue to its filter. “You need to, like—” He stretches across the seat, using both hands to joggle the window roller. “There.” He pulls back, both elbows brushing my thighs. “Air.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Finish it,” he says, passing me the last of the cig.

  I squish the wet filter between my fingers. Touch the damp part to my lips. “I googled that guy,” I say, dragging lightly, holding the smoke in. “I have his info. I think we should contact him.” I exhale, bracing myself for Julian’s wrath, but—

  “I can’t stop thinking about, just, like, the two of them.”

  “Maybe he’ll talk to us . . . ?” I say quietly, seizing my moment. Julian’s willing, I feel it. Ready to yield. “Maybe he knows something?”

  “Maybe he did something,” he suggests.

  I look over. His face is fuchsia.

  “Those freakin’ pictures,” he says, putting his head in his hands. “And I keep going over those dates. A few overlap with shows, but the bulk of them—there’s no pattern. I can’t link them to anything specific.”

  I have nothing to offer. No theories, no fantasy scenarios. I feel bad for him. Jilted beau. Betrayed bandmate. “Want me to do it? I can call him,” I say. “Try to set something up?”

  He’s zoned out, hunched over, chewing a knuckle. After a minute: “Don’t do that,” he says, snapping back to life. “No, I know the guy.” He faces me. “I know where to find him.”

  33.

  The Echo.

  Julian knows the door guy. We skate by with quick waves—no IDs, no dollars. Inside, it’s black, packed, and L-shaped. There’re mirrors. There’s a bar. Onstage, three girls beat drums and scream melodiously into mics. Julian leads me up front. We meet the crowd, scanning lit faces.

  “What does he look like?”

  “Dunno. Old. Shithead vibe.”

  We squint, searching. I gesture left. “That guy?”

  Not that guy.

  We wait. Check our watches, watch the door, watch the show. We buy drinks. Between sets, we buy more drinks. New band: loud, goth, grating. I’m ready to go.

  “Can we leave?” I scream, having hit my death-metal limit.

  Julian shrugs.

  “He’s not here,” I say.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  He nods. We head out. Then: “There.” Julian points. “Right there.”

  By the bar, a forty-something aging rocker—leather skin, shaggy hair—sips amber liquid from a clear plastic tumbler. “Stay here.”

  “Wait, why?”

  “Because. You’re a girl. Guy’s a creep.”

  “So? Why am I here, then? I’m coming.”

  “No way.”

  “I am.”

  “Adrienne.”

  We glare at each other. “I am.”

  He relents. “Whatever.” We weedwack forward.

  Mills looks past us, at the stage. His head bops. Julian slaps his shoulder. Mills smiles back, polite-like, grips his arm, then looks away. Julian leans close. Says something I can’t hear. Mills pulls back, drags a pack of Camels from his coat, then heads to the back of the club. We follow him out to the patio. He lights his smoke. Then, out of nowhere, Julian pummels the guy.

  My heart flies to my throat. People part like the red sea. I scream and yank Julian’s jacket, pulling him backward. He’s wailing, shouting, “What did you do to her?! She was eighteen. What the fuck did you do?!”

  Some random short guy helps me hold Julian back. He’s thrashing and bucking like a horse. Everyone stares. Mills blots blood on his sleeve. “I didn’t do anything. Fuck, dude, my nose.”

  Julian inhales. Tries to slow his breathing. His face is freaking me out. Huge eyes, veiny forehead, purple cheeks. After a few silent seconds, people go back to their cigarettes. Julian, shrill: “We found pictures.”

  “Who the hell is ‘we’?”

  “Me,” I say, stepping forward.

  “And who the hell are you?”

  Julian, sounding sad now, defeated: “She wasn’t dressed, man.”

  “Get me a towel,” Mills says. “Someone, please.” He’s pinching his nose.

  I riffle through my purse. Pull two tissues loose. “Here.”

  He takes them. Tilts his head back. “We were working together,” he says, crumpling up the Kleenex. “Those pictures—they were her idea. Cover art. For the demo.”

  “What demo?”

  “Her demo.”

  “She wasn’t working on one.”

  “Dude, she was. And it’s freaking beautiful.”

  Julian looks crestfallen. He shakes out his fist. “Why didn’t I know that?”

  Soft, sympathetic even: “Look, I don’t know. She came to me.” Then, as if suddenly remembering that the sociopath he’s consoling just pounded him like a veal cutlet: “Jesus, man, why’d you have to fuck my face up?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Super sorry,” I echo.

  Mills, clearly conflicted (missing girl, grieving kids): “I can burn you a disc. Of the demo.”

  “Really?” I screech, sounding insanely overeager. “We’d like that.”

  “Wait.” Julian again. “Did you—” He’s halfway out the door, Mills. “Did you sleep with her?” One final, frantic plea for answers.

  MM exhales dramatically. “Dude, no. Come on.” The tissue I gave him is completely soaked through. “We done?” He’s itchy and irritated. “I gotta go deal with my nose.”

  “August eighteenth,” Julian blurts.

 
“What?”

  “The date. On the pictures. August eighteenth.”

  Mills, perplexed, says, “The processing date?”

  Julian raises one hand in surrender. “I’m really sorry, man. About your face.”

  Mills spits out an aggravated grumble. Saunters off. Saunters. Really, truly.

  Julian touches my hip. “I messed up.”

  “You beat the crap out of that guy.”

  “We should leave,” he says. He sounds tired. I am too. “Come on.” He pushes me forward, his hand on my hip still. “Walk fast, let’s go.”

  34.

  “What is wrong with that woman?”

  Five p.m. I’m in the kitchen fixing spiked tea and cookies for Kate. My neighbor is throwing a full-blown fit. “Her boyfriend,” I say, dumping scalding water from the kettle into a teapot. “He won’t commit.”

  High-pitched girl-shrieks rattle the ceiling and walls. Kate winces and blocks her ears with balled-up napkins. “She does this a lot?”

  I nod.

  “She really should move on, don’t you think?”

  “They’ve been together awhile.” Some dull thudding. “She loves him, I guess?”

  Crash.

  We both duck. Kate mashes her finger into an oatmeal cookie crumb and continues: “That don’t sound like love to me. . . .”

  I shrug. Spill some tea into Kate’s cup. “Love . . . hate . . .”

  “Seriously?”

  “Two sides, same coin, don’t’cha think?”

  She pours two shots’ worth of bourbon into her Sleepy-time. Glares at me over her cup rim.

  “What?” I laugh. “What’s with the look?”

  She frowns and lowers her cup. “He’s miserable. You know that, right?”

  My smile wilts. My insides tense up. The neighbor lets out a shrill string of obscenities. “Who? Crazy Girl’s boyfriend?” I ask, feigning oblivion.

  Kate’s face stays stony. “You’re fucking everything up, Knox. Lee loves you and you treat him like shit.”

  I put my palm flat against the side of the scalding kettle. “It’s not the same with me and Lee.”

  “Right.” She sniffs. “Because you spend all your time chasing down a dead girl. Lee’s alive. I’m alive. We’re right here. And you, you’re over there, looking like some goth geek and going on dates with Julian Boyd.”