by Nicole Baart
They were just large enough to hold a duffel bag, a towel, an extra pair of shoes. Definitely big enough to hold a file. Jess realized she was holding her breath.
“Can I help you with something?”
Jess spun on her heel, surprised by the sound, and even more shocked when she saw the weight lifter standing behind her. He had draped a towel around his neck and he was using it to wipe his forehead as he studied her with narrowed eyes. Or maybe he was just exhausted, lids half-mast because he had pushed himself to the very brink.
“A locker,” Jess said, summoning a fragile half smile. The man was wearing short shorts and a gray tank top that was black in all the places where he had sweat through. Jess wasn’t short—five foot seven and then some in her winter boots—but he towered over her as if she were a child. “My husband is a member here and I’m looking for his locker.”
Jess bit the inside of her lip as she waited to see how he would respond. It was late and she was painfully aware that they were alone—that the hallway where they stood was not visible from the parking lot or the street where any passerby could watch people working out as if they were animals behind glass in a zoo.
But the man shrugged and ambled past her on his way to the men’s locker room. “Good luck,” he said. “I hope you know which one it is.”
“Is there anyone here?” Jess called after him. “I mean, an employee?”
“Sometimes,” he said over his shoulder. “Not always. Depends on the night.” He pointed to a corner as he disappeared into the locker room, and Jess was left to follow the invisible line his finger had drawn. A camera was mounted near the ceiling. Of course. When she looked around, she realized they were every-where.
Maybe the cameras should have given her pause, but Jess didn’t care. She wasn’t doing anything illegal. At least, she didn’t think she was. Alone again in the hallway, Jess exhaled and hurried to the nearest bank of lockers. They were all numbered with three digits and fitted with a four-digit combination lock. Turning a slow circle, Jess realized there were dozens of them. Hundreds? How would she ever know which one was Evan’s?
No doubt they were just assigned when a new member joined, but as Jessica walked with her knuckles trailing down one row, she discovered that several of the locks weren’t latched.
What would Evan choose? Max’s birth month and day? 5/24. Jess walked past the 200s, 300s, and 400s until she found the grid of lockers marked with a 5 as their first digit. Locker 524 was unlocked and empty. Dead end.
Gabe’s birthdate was 4/13, but when Jess found locker 413, it was locked tight. She tried several different combinations (important dates and their house number and even 1234), but nothing worked.
It was impossible. Slumping against the metal wall, Jess knew the likelihood of finding the right locker and then thumbing in the right combination was next to none. There were countless possibilities, and she couldn’t begin to channel the frame of mind Evan had been in when he picked the locker and set the combo. She would have to wait, come back tomorrow, and hope that Eclipse kept a comprehensive master list. Jess would have to explain that Evan wasn’t coming back.
But as she pulled the zipper of her coat closed and palmed Evan’s key card, she caught a glimpse of the back. Beneath a black line and a barcode there was the address of Eclipse Fitness. 555 Travers Lane, Auburn, Iowa.
555.
Could it be so simple? Or could Evan have known that when he walked into those woods in Minnesota there was a possibility he would never come back out? Jess thought of the book, the scrap of paper, the number scrawled in Evan’s hand. It was their home phone number, and although she had assumed it was the map that led Deputy Mullen to her, maybe it was meant to chart something different altogether.
555-440-3686
The 555 was taken care of by virtue of the address, so Jess made her way to locker 440—the next series of numbers in their phone number. It was eye-level, in the very middle of the wall. Nothing set it apart from the dull, dented doors around it, and the lock was the same black cylinder as all the others.
Jess held the lock in her fingers and tried to tamp down the emotion that ghosted up in her chest. It was hope or fear or anticipation, she couldn’t tell. Maybe all of them. Maybe love, because she suddenly felt closer to Evan than she had in a very, very long time. If she was right, if she knew this, then she still knew him—even though she had spent the last several months of her life convinced that they had grown irrevocably apart. Perhaps the distance between them wasn’t as great a void as she had believed it to be.
Jess turned each dial carefully, deliberately. They clicked slowly beneath her fingers until the final number ticked into place: 3686.
The little silver loop snapped up and swung open.
* * *
Evan’s backpack was nestled on Jessica’s lap, wedged between the steering wheel and her puffy winter coat. It was crazy, she knew, but she couldn’t stand the thought of putting it on the seat beside her. It had to remain in her possession, touching some part of her body, or she feared it might evaporate into thin air. Surely this was a dream. For a minute or so, as Jessica drove down darkened streets on her way home, she was fully convinced that she was sleeping in her bed, Gabe curled up beside her. She wanted answers so desperately that it only made sense she had fabricated an alternate reality in her subconscious. A reality where she wasn’t paranoid and out of touch, where someone had broken into her house and Evan was involved in something she didn’t understand—and maybe his death wasn’t an accident after all.
What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone, grieve her husband’s loss, and try to get on with her life?
Because she was right. And the backpack proved it.
It was the only thing in the locker, a worn, navy canvas pack that Evan had carried for years. White threads crisscrossed the straps where her husband had, on several occasions, attached identification tags before he flew with it. He had a bad habit of ripping off the paper but leaving the tiny loops intact. Jess knew the bag was his the second she laid eyes on it.
In the hallway at Eclipse, she had quickly unzipped the main pocket. A brown accordion folder was inside. That was all Jessica needed to know.
The clock on her dashboard glowed 11:00 as Jess pulled into her driveway. It was later than she hoped to be, but there was nothing to be done for it. She was home now. Though the lights in the garage were on and the door to the house was cracked open. Jess didn’t remember turning the lights on (the bulb over the garage door opener was enough) and she certainly didn’t recall leaving the door open. She was a stickler for closed doors, especially when it was cold, and was forever chastising the boys for leaving them unlatched. People do unusual things when they’re stressed, Jess decided. And in a hurry, uncertain, maybe a little obsessed.
She kicked off her shoes, let her coat fall to the floor, and slid the strap of Evan’s backpack over one shoulder. Even in her own home she wouldn’t let it out of her sight. The pack was light enough, easy to carry. Jess could take it with her to check on the boys—and then she would spread everything out on the kitchen table. Start to make sense of the last few months of her husband’s life.
Deputy Mullen. He came to mind unbidden, but Jess knew the second she pictured his weathered face that she would have to call him. Just not quite yet.
The lights in Max’s room were off, and Jess squinted in the darkness to try to make out his shape in the bed. A pile of blankets and books and a couple of pillows created a tangled landscape that made Jess roll her eyes. How could he sleep like that? But when she tiptoed to the edge of the bed and gently patted her hand against the various lumps, she found his leg rather easily. He was under there, head buried beneath a pillow and his science textbook digging into what she assumed was his hip. Max was out cold.
Jess’s bedroom was equally dark, but her eyes had somewhat adjusted to the dimness, and the moonlight reflecting off all the snow bathed her bed in a wan glow. It was empty.
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Comforter thrown back, white sheets exposed to the cool night air, no Gabe.
Jess felt the backpack slip from her shoulder. It hit the floor at the same moment her heart seemed to plummet to her feet. She could feel the fall, and it almost took her to her knees.
The bathroom. He had to be in the bathroom.
Jess rushed across the bedroom and flung the door to her en suite open. It was filled with shadows and decidedly empty—she knew that Gabe wasn’t there even before she whipped back the shower curtain and poked her head inside the linen closet. “Gabe?” she whispered. And then, because it was ridiculous to try and hush her alarm, Jess shouted: “Gabe? Gabe!”
Turning on every light in her bedroom, Jess threw back her covers, looked in her closet, and dropped to the carpet to rummage under the bed. Nothing. Then she was up and running down the hall to his bedroom, still yelling his name. But Gabe’s bedroom was as desolate and hollow as her own. His PAW Patrol comforter lay flat against his mattress, leaving no room for a stuffed animal beneath its smooth surface—never mind a little boy. He wasn’t in his closet, toy chest, or hiding in his curtains.
“What are you doing?” Max bumped into the doorframe of Gabe’s room and leaned there, rubbing his eyes as he stifled a yawn.
“Where’s Gabe?” Jess asked, her voice splintering on his name.
“In your bed.”
Max turned, ostensibly to climb back into his own bed because his mother was being mental, but Jess caught him by the shoulders and twisted him around to face her. His hair was sticking up all over his head, his cheek already lined from the creases in his pillow. Max had always slept like the dead.
“He’s not there,” Jess said. “He’s not in my bed. Where is he, Max?” She wanted to shake him a little, wake him up, but she restrained herself.
Her son’s gaze sharpened as he caught a whiff of her panic. It was contagious. “He’s got to be around here somewhere.” But Max didn’t sound convinced. Jess had been shouting his name, and Gabe hadn’t emerged from wherever he was hiding. Their house wasn’t that big, and from where they stood on the landing above the main floor, it would be easy to hear Jess’s shouts. If he was in the kitchen or curled up on the couch in the living room, Gabe should have come running by now.
“Gabe!” Max’s voice split the silence of the empty house, and Jess felt her self-control shudder. She was seconds away from losing it completely, from running through the house like a banshee or maybe crumpling to the floor in a sobbing puddle. She hadn’t left the garage light on or the door open. Jess knew it.
Gabe was gone.
Max was already down the stairs and Jessica followed on legs like wet cement, heavy and soft and not nearly stable enough to support her frame, no matter how slight. She clung to the banister with two hands, and stayed standing by virtue of willpower and little more.
“He’s not in the kitchen,” Max said, racing back to her. “Not the pantry or the porch.”
Jess felt a waft of cold air then, the breath of winter that Max had let into the house when he wrenched open the door to the porch and scanned the icy space. A tremor began at her center and rippled out until her hands were shaking. She clasped them together to stop the hysterical motion.
“Think,” Jess said more to herself than to Max. “Where would he go?”
“What if . . .” But Max didn’t finish. They couldn’t imagine the what-ifs or they might never summon the courage to go on.
“I’m calling the cops.” Jess stumbled toward the kitchen, desperate for the telephone and the promise of help. She had never dialed 911 before, but the thought of doing so now was such a comfort she couldn’t stop a moan from escaping her lips. How could Jess explain this? How could she help them understand that she was only gone for a little while, that Max was old enough to babysit, that this wasn’t her fault? But it was. It was all her fault and she knew it.
It took Jessica three tries to press the on button on the handset, her fingers were vibrating so badly. She managed to key in the nine, but just as she was about to complete the call, Max shouted from the living room.
“Mom!” There was something about the way he said her name that made Jessica come running, phone still clutched in a death grip.
There, standing in his football pajama pants tucked into his winter boots, was Gabe. Jess sagged to the ground, knees hitting the hardwood with a sickening smack as she stretched out her arms. In an instant, Gabe was in them. But not before Jessica noticed the tear stains on his cheeks, the coat zipped up to his chin, a John Deere stocking cap that she didn’t recognize crammed onto his head.
“Where were you?” Jess wanted to cry. She wanted to hold him at arm’s length and make sure there wasn’t a single scratch on him, not a hair out of place. And then she would demand to know where he had been. Why he had left the house on a snowy night in November. Where he had gone. Jess wanted to ground him from ever leaving the house again. At least until he was sixteen. Maybe twenty. But she couldn’t say or do anything at all other than cling to him for dear life.
After a few moments he wiggled, pushing away from her so that he could look her in the eye. “Where were you?” Gabe asked.
Jess laughed, but it turned into a sob.
“We thought there must be some sort of mistake.”
The sound of an unfamiliar voice snatched Jess’s attention from her son. Standing in the entryway, just behind a very confused-looking Max, were her neighbors Harlan and Betty Henderson. Or Mr. Henderson and Betty, as Gabe liked to call them. They were retired farmers, well into their eighties but happy to garden the little plot they had cultivated in their backyard. Gabe had a deep and abiding love for Mr. Henderson, and had learned to prune the leaves from a tomato plant and when to pick green beans for peak flavor and tenderness by apprenticing under the older gentleman’s watchful, wrinkled hand. The breast pocket of Mr. Henderson’s shirt always held a couple of chocolates for Gabe, and their sweet, intergenerational friendship had been a source of great joy for Jessica over the years.
Now, her elderly neighbors looked concerned, and Jess realized that standing just behind the diminutive Betty was a police officer in uniform.
Jess pushed herself up, leaving one hand on Gabe’s shoulder as she did so. “What happened?” she asked, swiping the heel of her hand across her cheek.
“You were gone,” Gabe said at the same time that Mr. Henderson said, “I told her not to call the police.”
Betty gave her husband a dark look, but it was diminished by the pink sleeping cap that she had forgotten to take off. She was dressed in a long, old-fashioned nightgown with a hem of eyelet lace, winter boots, and a Mack jacket that was so soft and worn it looked like it had been one of Mr. Henderson’s favorites—forty years ago.
“Mrs. Chamberlain?” The cop stepped forward, hands on hips. He didn’t offer to shake her hand or even introduce himself.
“Yes.” Jessica rubbed a slow circle on Gabe’s back. He tucked himself against her, snaking both arms around her waist as if to stake his claim. Or to stop her from ever leaving again. “I’m so sorry. I stepped out for a minute and Gabe must have woken up . . .”
“He came to our house,” Mr. Henderson confirmed. “He said no one was home, but I knew that couldn’t be true.”
“It is true!” Gabe huffed. “Mom was gone and Max was gone and even the car was gone.” He stuck out his chin, defiant. “I’m supposed to go to Mr. Henderson’s and Betty’s house.”
“If there’s a fire.” Max rolled his eyes. “Or an emergency.”
“It was an emergency! You left me!”
“I was here,” Max said. “In my room, sleeping. Like you were supposed to be.”
“I looked for you!” Gabe shrieked.
“Not good enough.”
“You did the right thing,” Betty cut in, making a move toward Gabe. She seemed to think better of it and stopped, wringing her hands inside of her knit mittens instead. “You are always welcome at our house, Gabriel. I’
m just glad this was all a misunderstanding.”
Mr. Henderson and Betty accepted Gabe’s enthusiastic good-bye hugs, deflected Jessica’s thank-yous, and then slipped out the door to return to their own beds.
“I have just a few questions for you,” the police officer said, lingering. He was imposing by virtue of his starched uniform and the gun holster at his hip, and Jess could feel Gabe stiffen beside her. This was so stressful for him, the sort of event that could send her son spinning off his axis for days at a time. Never mind that the officer had a kind face. The patch on his shoulder said Tunis, and Jess half expected there to be a pin underneath that proclaimed this his first year of service. He looked impossibly young, with a sprinkling of acne around his jawline and a red bump on his neck where it looked like he had nicked himself shaving. But Gabe didn’t see any of those things. He saw the tall, intimidating frame, his thick billy club, radio, and gun.
“Of course.” Jessica forced a tight-lipped smile. She squeezed Gabe’s shoulder and gave him what she hoped was a fortifying look. “Boys, why don’t you head upstairs? I’ll be there in a minute.”
Max crossed his arms and headed toward the staircase, but when he reached the bottom, he waited for Gabe to catch up. As Jessica watched, her oldest unfurled his long arms and swept Gabe up into them, tossing his little brother over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It was “you scared me” and “I’m glad you’re okay” and “I love you” all wrapped up in a little rough-housing. Gabe giggled all the way up the stairs, his anxiety at the presence of Officer Tunis forgotten. Jess had to swallow hard.
“I am so sorry,” she said when the boys were gone. She held out her hands in apology, supplication. “Betty was right. This was all just a misunderstanding.”
Officer Tunis had taken a notebook out of his pocket and he flipped it open, pen poised above the paper as he regarded Jessica gravely. He didn’t crack a smile or do anything at all to ease her discomfort. “I’m a little fuzzy on the details,” he said. “Was Gabriel home alone?”