Unleaving

by Melissa Ostrom

  What Maggie hadn’t expected was the longing. The visceral way she’d experience the mountains and familiar farms and white churches and rushing streams and twisting roads.

  This was her home. Or it used to be. But she’d left it, agreed to an exile she didn’t deserve. Conceded her territory to bullies and haters and people who felt uncomfortable around her—not because of what she’d done but because of what had been done to her.

  Maggie was keenly aware of just how much she’d lost over the course of eight months. How much had been stolen from her.

  She ran a hand over Fluffster’s head, suddenly grateful for the dog’s friendly nature. He whined, snuffled closer, and let her hug him.

  Well, she was back. For now. But she couldn’t shake the certainty that she didn’t belong. And never would again.

  * * *

  Maggie hurried down the campus walkway and kept her head half-turned toward Bosworth Hall when a group approached. A girl was saying something about a ski getting stuck in a lift. The students leaned into one another and laughed.

  Maggie felt like an outsider. No, worse than that. An invader. She missed Linnie and Caleb, even though she was the one who’d waved them off, deciding it would be better if she talked to Jane alone. But they were somewhere on campus, walking Fluffster. They’d all agreed to meet in front of the Swan Library in an hour.

  Maggie had a good idea of where to start looking. Jane had mentioned her environmental studies coursework in an email. Most of that major’s first-years lived in Nash Hall.

  Environmental studies had been Sara Wood’s major, too. It probably still was, though Sara would have already moved out of Nash. She’d planned to get an apartment after her freshman year “since the dorms suck”—a criticism Maggie had answered with a shrug. Her own plan had been to apply for a loan so she’d have enough money to move into the dorms her sophomore year. She’d avoided revealing this. Sara would have laughed.

  Maggie scowled at the wet walkway, remembering how Sara used to tease her about attending a local university and living at home. Sara had been allowed to choose Carlton—the college had meant escaping the Midwest and her family. It had meant excellence plus freedom. For Maggie, it had meant only the former. She’d justified her decision by bringing up Carlton’s top-notch English department, by pointing out that she wasn’t rich and the only way she could afford a private college was by living with her parents and saving on room and board. But Maggie had sensed the futility of her own argument. She’d simply come across as shy, unadventurous, scared. Scared to leave home.

  Or had Sara just worked hard to make her feel that way?

  “You’re like the baker’s daughter,” Sara had said once. “The baker’s daughter, like any kid from a decent family, gets to choose what she’s going to eat on her birthday. And sure, if she wants, she can wander through the bakery and go crazy, picking cakes or pies or tarts or scones, the kinds of treats kids love. But she gets those things every day, whatever sugary sweet she digs. So on her birthday, she says, ‘I don’t want my candles in a cake. I want them in a plate of lobster ravioli.’ Except you didn’t. You still went with the cake. See?”

  “I love cake,” Maggie had snapped, annoyed with the analogy.

  “But you might have loved lobster ravioli, too.”

  Maggie shook off the memory. People were leaving Tanner Center in a rush, probably glad to get out of class and into the sunshine. They looked happy, despite it being a Monday.

  Maggie wished it were a Friday, when the campus turned into a ghost town. Practically no one took Friday classes.

  She unzipped her jacket and walked faster. It was warmer today. The thaw made the campus noisy with pings, plops, crunches, and splashes. Icicles oozed from eaves. Between short lawns of softening snow and walkways, between the main road and the curb, wherever two places met in a dip, water ran.

  Up ahead stood the statue of Ebenezer Carlton. It used to make Maggie smile, how the artist had given the college’s founder such a pissed-off look. Not exactly a welcoming expression.

  Two girls stood at the statue’s base, their heads almost touching. They were watching Maggie and whispering.

  Maggie stifled an urge to break into a run. She could see the tidy row of freshman dorms just past the fountain and gazebo. Nearly there.

  When she reached the first dorm, Finn Hall, four guys were exiting. Talking loudly about a hockey player’s injury, they formed a single file to trudge past Maggie. She avoided eye contact and stared straight ahead at the mountains, rolling in their layers, blue by blue by blue, cleanly outlined against one another—a teeming ocean under an empty sky. Off Finn’s steep roof, snowmelt dribbled and formed a wet shape on the building’s side, like a crouching shadow, but the front bricks shone pinkly in the light, and the windows reflected the day’s sparkle. The sun felt hot on her head. Maggie lowered her eyes from the glare and walked past the second hall, McCullers, and toward the third—Nash.

  A young woman wearing a gray sweater solved the problem of Maggie’s lack of a cardkey. She stepped out just as Maggie got to the doors. With a murmured thank-you, Maggie slipped inside and blinked. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.

  The smell of sweat and soap hung in the air. This familiar odor, combined with the familiar, dingy brown tiles, the familiar signs advertising meetings and readings, and the familiar, small whiteboards, colorful with loopy-lettered messages, hearts, and flowers, hit her all at once. She stood stock-still and tried to get her bearings. Everything was the same here, it seemed. Everything except herself.

  Holding her coat together at her throat, she hurried past the doors. Sara had lived with her roommate, Tina, on the third floor. Their RA had occupied the largest room on the left-hand side at the far end. Hopefully, the first floor was set up in a similar fashion.

  When she reached the last door, Maggie wiped her damp palm on the front of her coat and knocked.

  The door opened immediately. “Oh.” A freckly woman, glasses askew and reddish braids coming undone, pressed a parted book to her chest and smiled. “I thought you were Flora. She left her key on the dresser.”

  “Are you the RA?”

  She shook her head. “That’s Flora. She went to pick up our pot stickers. She’ll be back soon…” Suddenly, the smile slipped. Her eyes bugged out. A hectic red seeped up her cheeks. She inched back. “Do you want to wait for her?” she asked reluctantly.

  Maggie dropped her gaze. “I guess.” The floor was streaked with salt from the outside. “I don’t know. I’m looking for someone.”

  “Maggie?”

  Down the hall, Sara Wood leaned out of a doorway, her mouth hanging open. She looked like she’d seen a ghost.

  Maggie could relate. “What…” She shook her head. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here. You know that.”

  Hardly registering the redhead’s mumbled sorry-gotta-go and the closing of the door, Maggie stammered, “But—but you said you were moving off campus.”

  Sara lifted her chin. “My mom said I had to wait until I’m a junior.” Defensively, she added, “But I have a single this year.”

  She nodded slowly, still reeling from coming face-to-face with Sara Wood, the girl she’d counted as a friend, actually, her closest college friend … until she’d realized she wasn’t.

  Sara ran a hand over her silky hair and tucked a dark strand behind her ear. “Well, got to go.” She shuffled into her room. “I have a ton to do.”

  Maggie dazedly followed.

  Sara yelped and jerked back when Maggie reached the doorway. “Um … nice seeing you.” She had both hands on the door, as if preparing to slam it. “Good luck.” The words were as final as get lost.

  Maggie didn’t budge. Couldn’t. It was as if her feet had taken root on the threshold. A word echoed in her head. The word was why.

  Sara’s eyes flashed. “Stop looking at me like that.” When Maggie frowned, bewildered, her old friend continued in a near whi
sper, “Like I went out of my way to—to wrong you or something.” She thrust up her chin and crossed her arms. “You blame me, and that’s totally unfair.”

  “You ditched me.” Hooked up with a guy, took off without warning, left me at a party where I knew absolutely no one. “I don’t know why you did that.”

  “I am not responsible for what happened. I didn’t do anything to you.”

  She stared at her mutely. Why had she ever wanted to be close to this girl? Maggie knew what good-friend material looked like. Sam, Linnie, Caleb—they were going out of their way to help her. Ran, Colleen, Julia, Hope—they were sweet, too.

  Maggie couldn’t even claim that she hadn’t known better last year. As a kid, she’d formed great relationships with Jen and Shayna. So what had happened to her judgment when she’d started college? Why had she admired Sara’s sharp edge? Why hadn’t she seen it for what it was? Not wit, not strength, but masked insecurity, weakness cast in meanness.

  Maggie was disgusted, but mostly with herself. Her own insecurities had drawn her to such a toxic person. “You did do something,” she said at last. “You criticized me for going to the police. And then, when the detective interviewed you, you went on and on about the crush I had on Matt Dawson.”

  Sara’s mouth soundlessly opened and closed like a fish’s. “How did you know that?” she finally asked.

  “I read the report.”

  “Well…” Sara’s gaze darted around the room, as if looking to alight on an excuse, before she flicked back her hair and declared roundly, “It was true. You did have a crush on him.”

  “I barely knew him.” A moment from the previous fall came back to her: Sitting in the stadium with Sara and Tina, the three of them huddled between shouting spectators. Maggie had easily spotted Matthew Dawson, standing with his teammates on the sideline, his helmet in the crook of his arm, his blond hair glinting in the sunlight, his number, 35, shining golden on the green game jersey stretched taut across his chest. Thinking aloud, she’d murmured, “Matthew Dawson is the most beautiful man I have ever seen.” And Sara had giggled and slapped Tina to get her in on the laughter before answering, “You think so? Ha. You and every other girl here.”

  The memory made Maggie’s skin crawl. Abruptly, she continued, “You made it sound like I’d been pursuing him. Like I wanted him and his buddies to do what they did to me…” Emotion roughened her voice. She cleared her throat, fisted her hands in her coat pockets, dug the nails into her palms. Don’t cry. “I’m looking for someone. Her name is Jane Cannon. She’s a freshman. I think she lives in this dorm.”

  “Never heard of her. And I really have to get back to work. I have an essay due tomorrow, so if you don’t mind—”

  “I do mind. I want you to help me find this girl’s room.” You can do that. That is the least you can do.

  Maybe Sara realized the same, because—after some huffing and puffing and flouncing over to her desk to snatch up a pen and notepad—that’s just what she did.

  15

  IN THE DIM hall, Sara flipped through the student register she’d gotten from the resident director, a woman named Naomi who also lived on the first floor, across from the main entrance. Sara bent her head lower over the pamphlet. “Here she is,” she bit out. “Second floor.” She jotted the room number on a sticky note, wordlessly handed Maggie the fluorescent pink square, stomped away, then disappeared into her room and slapped the door shut.

  Maggie scowled. “Good-bye and good riddance,” her mother would have said. Maggie preferred something shorter and said it aloud to the empty corridor: “Fuck you, Sara.”

  She’d crumpled the sticky note in her hand. After smoothing it open to read it, she headed for the stairwell.

  Room 2E was easy to find. She knocked softly.

  No one answered.

  She knocked again, harder, and waited. A minute passed. She pressed her ear to the door and heard a whole lot of nothing. What if Jane was in class? Linnie and Caleb would be waiting for Maggie by the library soon. She sighed, then tried one more time—a loud rap.

  A girl with spiky black hair and bags under her squinting eyes swung open the door, muttering a groggy “Yeah…?” It was clear she’d been napping.

  Maggie apologized, then asked, “Are you Jane Cannon?”

  She shook her head and said around a huge yawn, “Kimberly.”

  “I’m looking for Jane.” Maggie glanced over the girl’s shoulder at a room strewn with clothes. “Is she around?”

  Kimberly stretched, her arms making a wide arc that ended with her hands slapping her thighs. Flatly: “She’s long gone.”

  Maggie gasped. Oh God! “Dead?”

  “What? No.” She tilted her head to the side, an impatient gesture. “Moved out. She’s back home.”

  Back home? Back home? Where the hell was that? Texas? Missouri? California?

  “… and failing her classes,” Kimberly was saying. The broad shoulders came up. “That much was obvious.” Drily, she added, “You can’t pass your classes if you don’t get out of bed.”

  Maggie chewed on her lower lip. Why had she never guessed that Jane’s silence had to do with the possibility that she’d dropped out of school? After all, it’s what Maggie had done, though not officially—she’d been granted a leave of absence. But maybe Jane had made her leaving official, prompting CC to suspend her email account …

  Cautiously, Maggie asked, “Did she ever tell you what was wrong?”

  “Nope.” Kimberly grunted. “Jane was kind of weird.”

  She grimaced at the assessment—recognized, after everything she’d gone through last year, that the description applied to herself as well. It was hard to stay normal under certain circumstances. “I really need to get in touch with her. Do you have her phone number and home address?” She held her breath, half-expecting Kimberly to shake her head and turn Maggie away.

  Instead, she said, “Sure,” and trudged across her room, swatted a hoodie off her desk, and yanked open a drawer. She pulled out a notebook and opened it to its first page. “Thought so. Jane lives in Wilson.”

  Hope flared. “That’s outside of Albany, right?” Not far away at all. She, Linnie, and Caleb could drive straight there.

  “Close to Saratoga.” She picked up what looked like a short essay, made a face at the grade, and turned it over. As she scrawled across the blank side, she said without looking up, “Tell Jane I said hi.” Holding out the paper, she added, “She left her ironing board. It’s still here if she wants to come and get it. You can tell her that, too.”

  * * *

  Maggie didn’t realize what she’d expected to find until she and her friends finally reached the Cannon residence, then the truth struck her—she’d assumed the address would lead them to a modest, two-story Colonial, just like a house in Carlton. The one Maggie had grown up in.

  But there was nothing middle-class about the Cannons’ house.

  Linnie, sitting in front, summed it up: “Wow. A mansion.”

  Caleb gave the steering wheel a nervous drum. “I feel funny parking my car here.”

  “Like a big brown turd on the side of the road,” Linnie murmured.

  He frowned. “Hey.”

  Maggie pulled out her phone. “Half past four.” She glanced up at the big brick house. It was old and elegant, but the long windows gave the facade a disapproving aspect, maybe because of the time of day. The glass panes caught the setting sun and glinted redly, like angry eyes. “I’d better do this on my own.”

  “Yeah, I think you should, too. Jane might not appreciate an audience.” Linnie poked Caleb in the shoulder. “Want to take Fluffster to the park we passed?”

  The dog obviously recognized the word park. He leaned toward Caleb, tail wagging like crazy.

  “Let’s wait until we find out if anyone’s home.” He patted his panting dog away from his face. “Looks empty, doesn’t it?”

  Maggie nodded and chewed on the corner of her lower lip. She hadn’t called beforehan
d—had felt as if it was better to handle this kind of situation in person. She pushed open the door. “I’ll ring the bell. If someone lets me in, you guys can feel free to take off.”

  “You’ve got my number,” Caleb said. “Just call or text when you’re done.”

  “Thanks.” Maggie got out and made her way up the paved path.

  She rang the doorbell. She’d heard it chime inside, so she knew it worked, but she went ahead and knocked as well. No one answered. She waited. And waited. After a few minutes, she gave up.

  Caleb peered at her ruefully when she slipped back into the car. “No one home?”

  Maggie shook her head.

  Linnie, eyes fastened on the upper story of the house, said, “Someone’s there.” While Maggie turned and Caleb leaned sideways to follow her gaze, Linnie added, “Just no one interested in seeing us.”

  A pale curtain, barely visible in the glinting window, twitched and fell.

  “Should I knock again?” Maggie asked.

  Still eyeing the window, Linnie said, “Whoever’s in there knows you’re here. If she wanted to see you, she’d open the door.”

  “Let’s try tomorrow,” Caleb said. “Maybe she’s sick or something.”

  “Hmm.” Linnie continued to stare up at the house. A strange expression crossed her face, something like skepticism or defeat, but whatever she was thinking, she kept it to herself.

  * * *

  “Maggie!” Dad swept her, along with her duffel bag and half-full Starbucks cup, into a bear hug. “Oh, my goodness, how did you get—wait.” He scanned her face. “You okay? It’s not your aunt, is it? Don’t tell me you had it out with her, too. Poor Minnie’s been a wreck. She won’t say what the ruckus is over.”

  Her smile dimmed. “I’m just visiting for a couple of nights.” His comments worried her. Mom was good at keeping a cheerful front, even in the worst situations. The fact that Dad (loving and easygoing but, well, kind of oblivious) had clued into the depths of her unhappiness didn’t bode well. Mom clearly wasn’t on her game. Apparently, she hadn’t told Dad she wanted Maggie to move back home, either. But why? “Everything’s fine with Wren,” she added belatedly. Not really, but hey—she was her mother’s daughter. Everything’s fine. Absolutely fine. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.