Follow Me Down

by Sherri Smith

  “So what? You saw another financial opportunity?”

  He scowled at me. “Well, I guess I deserve that. But no, I really just wanted to see how she was doing. Let her know I was here to help if she wanted to talk.”

  “Yeah, she probably really needs your help.” I said this more sarcastically than I meant to. Eric flexed his jaw, let out a shallow snort.

  “Listen, Mia, I’m sorry for your situation, I really am, but I am not a bad guy, and I really don’t need this right now.” He picked up his coffee mug, saw it was empty, set it down hard. He rotated it once, twice. I noticed his hands were shaking.

  “Eric,” I started, and was about to say, I thought you were different or Whatever you need to tell yourself, but it seemed too utterly pointless, and then there was suddenly nothing left to say.

  Somehow Eric took this to mean something else entirely. He reached out again and made a play for my hands. Tried to look sexy-sheepish but instead looked old and washed-out. This guy really did think he had a magic penis—like some fairy godmother, he could just wave it at you, and you’d feel better. My stomach turned. I snatched my hands back. He gave me a chilly smirk.

  “Can I least get that pill from the other night, then?”

  I tapped out two Advil tablets and left.

  * * *

  I sat in my car. I didn’t know what to do next. Crazy Carl was a dead end. Eric was a dead end. I was at a dead end. Maybe I needed to look at things differently. If Lucas was actively looking to find out who our father was, then I knew who I had to go see.

  * * *

  Mona and Mimi were proudly Wayoata’s original “cougars.” I still knew Mona’s phone number by heart; her long-suffering husband answered. I was surprised she’d stayed married. I’d met him once, just for a minute when he dropped by to pick her up (she’d passed out on the couch). His name was Andrew, and he looked nothing like the jerk she complained about. He woke her so gently, I remembered feeling just the briefest grinding yearning for a dad while Mimi flitted around the room like she was worried about Mona, all the while casting flirtatious glances at him.

  Now Andrew told me in a cheerful, what-are-you-gonna-do? voice that she was likely playing the slots over at the casino. “Again,” followed by a stoic sigh. The casino was a half-hour drive away, off the highway. Pretty much in the middle of nowhere. The parking lot was gravel, and from the outside, it looked like some roadhouse in an eighties movie. This here, in better days, had been Mona and Mimi’s stomping ground. They fancied themselves Sex and the City type gals, without the city.

  Entering, I was hit with the strong smells of chlorine from a whirring glass cleaner behind the bar and the musky perfume favored by middle-aged women. I scanned the backs of people sitting in front of the slot machines. I tried to remember the last time I saw Mona. Something had happened between her and Mimi sometime before the accident, and they’d stopped talking. This wasn’t unusual, they had frequent falling-outs, mostly spurred on by Mona’s sober stretches, and then suddenly they were back together like nothing had happened and girls’ night was back on.

  After Mimi’s “accident,” Mona showed up once a week with a tinfoil-encased hot dish and made feeble attempts to tidy up the house a bit for us. She’d always corner me at some point during these visits, tell me how sad she was. Poor, poor Mimi. She’d talk about her like she was a good ol’ gal, a best friend that’d been taken away from her. She prodded me to cry with her, she wanted a big sobfest—A girl your age without a mother, it’s just tragic. She’d aim her shoulder in close. I’m here. I’m right here. If I was alone when she showed up, I’d pretend no one was home. I was not interested in a surrogate mother.

  Finally I spotted her by her hair. It was the same bottle-red-bordering-on-orange that she’d always dyed it. Hair that never moved because it was sprayed so stiff with hairspray that it looked coated with shellac. A teal-colored silk scarf draped over her shoulders. Her lips were moving, cursing the machine. I sat down next to her, plunked a quarter in.

  Surprisingly, Mona had aged remarkably well. I had pictured her marshmallowy puckered or sunken and drink-battered, but she looked good. Definitely had had some work done. Her eyes were more cattish than I remembered.

  “Mona?” She hardly looked up. The blinking lights and chirpy music had full hypnotic hold over her.

  “Uh-huh?” Her veiny hand dumped in another fistful of quarters.

  “It’s Mia Haas, Mimi’s daughter.” I pushed Spin and lost my quarter.

  Mona whipped around to face me so fast it looked like it hurt. “Mia? My God!” She cried out. Her twiggy arms outstretched, a dry kiss pressed against my cheek, a second that landed on the corner of my mouth. I suddenly remembered that Mona used to get large blistering cold sores and my lips burned. She kept both her hands over mine. “Let me look at you, it’s been ages,” she purred. That’s what both Mimi and Mona did: they purred or they drawled in husky voices. “I thought you would have come and seen me sooner. It’s all such terrible business, what they’re saying about Lucas.”

  “I honestly didn’t think to. I wish I had.” It was true. I remembered now how warm Mona was toward me before the accident. Before everything related to Mimi felt so tainted, so singed at the edges. She was the giver of those bad, tipsy haircuts, though she’d tried hard to replicate whatever picture I brought her. She’d pay me compliments about my eyes. Once when I had a bad cold, she brought me a package of M&M’s and a People magazine (while my mother shot me a dirty look that said I was milking her friend for attention).

  I knew she had two sons. Both were older than me, and I knew only vague things about them. One still lived in Wayoata; the other lived on the East Coast and worked in computers. I think Mimi had envied her for that, two sons. Some women should never have daughters.

  Mona cashed out, and we made our way to a high table. She was a short woman, though this was easy to forget because she still wore stiletto heels when most women her age had long been sporting Dr. Scholl’s. She had some trouble hauling herself up onto the stool. Finally she set down her purse on its side. Its opening faced me, and I could see sprinkles of tobacco stuck to the blue lining. I was always sure to buy a purse that zipped closed, for fear that I’d accidentally drop it and all the orange bottles would come spilling out.

  “So, have you gone to see your mother?”

  “Once.”

  “Mmm. Well, that’s nice.” She said this in a way that made me feel going to visit my mother only once since I got there was not that nice at all. “Well, I go to see her from time to time. She has no idea who I am, of course. Thinks I’m one of the nurses, but it’s funny, because sometimes I’ll tell her a story about some wild thing we did, and I’ll get a glimpse of the old mischievous Mimi.” Mona sniffed and let out a huffy sigh. “We had a good run. We did.”

  “I had that feeling too.”

  “Well, I guess you never know. Maybe some of the old Mimi is still in there.”

  “That’s true,” I murmured. Quick to move off that topic, I asked, “Did Lucas ever come to see you—asking about our father?”

  Mona ran her tongue over her teeth. Her eyes sharpened. “He did. About three months ago.” She nodded, drummed her clickity-clack nails once, twice. “Your brother seemed very stressed by it. I asked him why he was bringing this all up now, but he didn’t really say. Anyway, I’ll tell you what I told him. I don’t know who your father is. That was the one thing I could never get out of Mimi, not for lack of trying. Of course she’d toss little mysterious tidbits about him; he was quite a bit older than her, he was European, married, and very wealthy, but you know how Mimi liked to embellish.” These were all things I already knew. I was disappointed, not for me, but for Lucas. “I know he gave Mimi child support whenever she started grumbling or threatened to tell his wife. In turn, she never went for more, because he said if she did, he would sue for full custody and win because he could afford the best. Now, whether any of this is true, your guess is as good as
mine. Mimi always had a penchant for drama.”

  This was something new. It was the first time I’d ever heard of child support. To think some man out there had knowledge of us and had discussed us like some fluctuating stock was a punch in the gut.

  “What did Lucas say when you told him all of this?”

  “Well, he was most interested in the money. How much money did Mimi get, how often, how she was paid.”

  These were good questions, I guessed. If the man who fathered us could just toss Mimi some cash here and there, that meant he lived in Wayoata. Mimi always insisted that he’d moved away. That he didn’t even know we existed. But he must have. Lucas would not have taken this news well.

  “Of course I didn’t have any answers for him.” Mona shook her head apologetically.

  “Did he say anything to you about getting close to finding out who he was?”

  “Why, no! Did he find out? I would love to know.” Mona leaned in. Licked her lips.

  Smudges in my memory took shape, things that I’d never really thought about. Those wet conversations Mimi had in her bedroom, door locked. An empty bottle of wine on her nightstand by the time she hung up. Or in the bathtub, emitting little, ragged sobs through the door, a wineglass smashed against the toilet. Finding fine shards of glass for weeks after. I’d ask, Who were you talking to? And she’d just shake her head like she had no idea what I was talking about. Once, once—how could I have forgotten this?—I picked up the extension. A man’s voice, low timbre, saying things to her like Calm down, don’t disrespect me, then cajoling, Yes, fine, I know, I know. Mimi not sounding like Mimi, because she was so pared down. The voice had been unfamiliar, which had made me think he was someone new, because we were still at an age when Mimi would have us call her boyfriends and ask things like when they were coming over or if they would like to do something with us sometime soon. Yet he didn’t sound like someone new, because Mimi wasn’t using her steamy voice.

  “That night…” Mimi’s intended destination that night had been something Lucas had fixated on right after the “accident.” I knew better; I knew it didn’t matter. She still would have had the brain injury. But Lucas always treated it as a missing piece.

  “I know what you’re going to ask me because Lucas asked too. Just like I told him when it happened, I don’t know where Mimi was going that night. Honest to God.” She held up her hand like a pledging member of 4-H. “Maybe she had no idea herself. She was always so up and down with everything. Unpredictable. She drove men away with her intensity and lured more in just the same. It’s almost too bad that this artistic thing she’s doing now didn’t come earlier in her lifetime. I bought one of her pieces at a LightHouse fund-raising event and had it framed. It hangs right in my living room. She’s quite the artist. The way she was, would make a great biopic wouldn’t it? This town was just too small for her.”

  “She always said that, but she never left.” So apparently it wasn’t too small for her. Or maybe it was the deep-voiced man who kept her here, especially if he was married. She would have got off on traipsing us around in front of him. She’d cast him some vengeful looks at the supermarket over our heads, and we’d be oblivious that our father was right there. I really didn’t like how Mona was romanticizing my mother, either. She wasn’t deserving of it. “What happened to her, my mother? What made her so, I don’t know, the way she was?” For a second, I thought Mona would play dumb, say something patronizing like Mimi tried at least to be a good mother.

  “Well, you know Mimi didn’t like to talk about the past.” It was true. Five minutes could pass, and Mimi considered it the Past, and the Past was deniable and therefore immune to criticism. Bringing it up made one unforgiving and spiteful.

  “I know she didn’t get along with her own mother. Maybe that set the tone. The way Mimi talked about her, she was very cold and distant. She put herself first, even when it came to sharing Mimi’s father. I think sometimes that kind of selfishness can run in the blood.” Mona caught herself. “Of course that means you and Lucas have a lot to be proud of, becoming such considerate adults all on your own.”

  I had nothing to say in return. My head felt like it was filling with radio static.

  Mona reached over, gripped my wrist. “You know, I always felt bad for you. I know Mimi was especially hard on you. Some women, they just don’t know how to get along with their daughters. They can flirt with their sons, but they just don’t know what to do with their daughters. I guess Mimi was more like her mother than she cared to admit, but she did love you in her own way.”

  “Hard on me” was an understatement. It didn’t matter. Nothing would change how I felt about her.

  We said our good-byes, and Mona wrapped me up in another tight hug, and I found myself clinging back. A feeling of intense tenderness swept over me. Even a dash of homesickness for this town. I suddenly didn’t want to let her go.

  * * *

  When I stepped outside, the daylight burned into my eyes. The car was suffocatingly hot. I rolled down the windows, fought a wave of nausea. My thoughts were scattering, I needed a handful of Adderall to corral them in, Valium to calm down, an Ambien to blink out and disappear. Craving started to broil my skin. I drove to where Mimi had had her accident. She’d veered off Main Street and smacked into an old oak tree. Several trees lined this section of the street. She wasn’t heading home, because our house was in the opposite direction. But who knew, maybe she got turned around in her drunken stupor or was in the middle of trying to do a U-turn. I parked, walked the sidewalk. Tried to see if I could pick out the tree. I could not. I’d have bet Lucas could.

  The sky had turned a dirty yellow. Back in the car, I was driving aimlessly again. I found myself outside Kathy’s dance studio, so I parked my PT in the lot across the street. I sat watching—for what exactly, I didn’t really know. I guess, for Kathy to come out with a rolled-up carpet, Lucas’s arm falling out at the last second as she loaded it into a minivan. The Wilkeses had a multitude of places where they could hide a body: at their food processing plant, in some unused vat, or in a freezer in pieces. I had a flash of him, lifeless, his eyes dark puddles.

  I caved and took just a nibble of a Valium to keep my nerves steady, two Adderall to stay awake.

  I was there, watching, because it felt like I was doing something.

  From there, I drove past the Wilkeses’ house twice. OK, three times. Just turned around at the end of the road, passed it again. Their sprawling ranch house was practically all windows. It was too bad I couldn’t just park and watch them at home, comfortable in their natural habitat where they might make revealing mistakes that could lead me to Lucas, but there were double the number of media vans. Reporters likely hoping to catch another front-lawn confrontation between me and Kathy. After the second drive-by, reporters did notice me and tried to flag me down, their baiting questions rolling in through the missing back window. “Are you planning to attack Kathy Wilkes again? Is your brother a murderer? How many other students did he molest?” I sunk down and careered past them.

  Now I was back at the studio watching Kathy go red-faced again as she yelled at little girls in pink bodysuits.

  Ben drove into the lot, then out. Odd. I followed him. It was a short drive to a convenience store, where he walked out with a handful of Slim Jims. Then he sat there in his truck, gnawing on them in the store lot. Nothing was happening.

  Maybe I was following the wrong Wilkes. What did Ian do with his evenings when Kathy was at the studio? I drove outside Wayoata to the processing plant, but a heavy-looking metal gate was drawn across the entrance.

  * * *

  I was literally driving around in circles. I decided to go back to Lucas’s. I had the key in the lock, and plans to collapse on the couch with an Ambien-Percocet milk shake, when behind me the door to apartment 45 opened. Just a crack. “Hello?” A voice, high and gentle, little-girl-like.

  “Yes?” I turned around, tried to peek into the sliver opening.

 
“My cat, somehow, somehow, he got out. Can you help me?”

  “I … I can try.” My voice shot up, not sure what exactly she wanted me to do.

  “He’s black with a white triangle on his chest. Can you look for me? I just don’t understand how he got out, I just don’t … We went to bed together and then I woke up, and he was gone.” She sobbed, breathless. Oh, I knew how it had happened. Russ had gone rummaging for booze.

  “His name is Edgar. Here.” She dropped a foil bag of treats. Another cat let out a demonic growl.

  “Shake them. He should come out.”

  I picked up the package of treats. Started down the hall, shaking them. “Edgar, Edgar, come.”

  I went down the stairwell, calling the cat, caught sight of a tail and nearly fell down the stairs. “Edgar, come. Come.” I shook the bag of treats, with hard, desperate flicks of my wrist. I needed to catch Edgar. I could at least do that, catch a cat. I was hopeless otherwise.

  I lost sight of the tail, but descended all the way into the basement anyway. Obnoxious, head-splitting rave music pulsed at full volume at the end of the hallway, where there were two suites. No crevices for a cat to hide in. I took a quick look, then went the other way toward the storage area. A bunch of closet-sized storage spaces with plywood doors, half with padlocks. No cat. The pipes ticked down here. I quickly scanned the hall. There was a mechanical room, but the door was locked.

  There was another exit up a short set of stairs that led to the side of the building. I wasn’t sure if the key I had worked on this door, so I propped it open with a case of empties someone had left, it seemed, for this very purpose. I looked around in the sparse bushes not far from the parking lot.

  Back up on the main floor, I went outside again. Called out for Edgar, shook the bag. My voice echoed back at me in the parking lot. I looked by the garbage bin, hauled myself up to look inside. This was ridiculous. Then back inside and into the laundry room. A washing machine was spinning loudly, and foamy soap escaped through its lid.