Lost You

by Haylen Beck

  Anna swallowed the bubble of anger and said, “I know my own body, Marie, I know my own pain. If they won’t prescribe what I need, then we go to a doctor who will.”

  Speaking was easier now, but the left side of her jaw still felt stiff, the movement lopsided. It blunted her words and she always kept a tissue at hand to mop at the corner of her mouth.

  Marie climbed the stairs and sat on a step three below Anna’s, took her sister’s hands.

  “Can’t you see what you’re doing to yourself?”

  “Please don’t lecture me,” Anna said.

  “But I’m worried sick, so is Mom. We can’t go on like this. It’s going to tear us all apart. Please, Anna, you have to get help.”

  “I have to get my boy back,” Anna said.

  Marie’s head dropped, and she hid her eyes with her hand. “Oh Christ, Anna, oh my fucking God, I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep telling you over and over and over. I’m going out of my mind here. I can’t do it. I can’t.”

  “Then stop,” Anna said.

  Marie became silent, her face hidden. Her other hand kept hold of Anna’s, tight, as if she might be carried away on the wind. Minutes passed before she spoke again.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll make you a deal. Come with me to St. Patrick’s and—”

  “No,” Anna said.

  “Come with me to St. Patrick’s and see the grave and I will get you more fentanyl.”

  “No,” Anna said.

  “Then you can do without. How’s that? You can take some Advil or aspirin or whatever the hell you like, but you don’t get any more fentanyl unless you do this one thing that I’ve asked you.”

  Now Anna became quiet.

  “Well? What’s it going to be?”

  “All right,” Anna said, her voice dry like fallen leaves. “I’ll do it.”

  53

  LIBBY SAT ON THE STAIRS, balancing Ethan on her knee. He pulled at her necklace, turning the pendant over in his fat little hands. She took it from his mouth, ignored the spit.

  “I guess that’s it, then,” Mason said.

  He stood by the door, two bags at his feet. His eyes were red; he’d been crying as he packed. She’d heard him from downstairs.

  “I guess,” Libby said.

  She had no more tears left to give.

  “Call me, let me know when the next home inspection’s coming up. I’ll be here.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  He turned to the door, put his hand to the lock. Pausing there, he said, “I could’ve turned you in. Just remember that. When you’re cursing me for leaving, you remember I could’ve told them what you did.”

  She said nothing. The denials had stopped long ago, but she had never admitted to anything either. No matter how hard he pressed.

  It had taken him days to make the connection. The first news reports had drawn little reaction from him. It was only when the authorities linked the dead man and the injured woman to the incident in the community hospital in Superior, Pennsylvania, that things had changed. And then, ten days after the incident, an appeal went out across the news channels asking for clients of the Schaeffer-Holdt Clinic to come forward. He had become quiet and distant after that, and he had started drinking even more. Not to the point of losing control, he didn’t want to derail the adoption, but it was there nonetheless. The stale odors, the bottles in the recycling box.

  Then this morning, he had said, “I can’t do it, Libby. I can’t pretend this thing isn’t hanging over us.”

  And so, he was gone.

  He closed the door behind him, and Libby listened to him getting into the car, the engine starting, the car receding into the silence.

  Only her and Ethan now.

  And really, wasn’t that all she needed?

  54

  MARIE PULLED UP OUTSIDE THE church, applied the parking brake, let the engine die. Anna shivered in the passenger seat, pain rolling around her body. The aches were always there, but the deeper pains were calling today. The one in her jaw kicked hardest, the hurt unwilling to be contained there, spreading up the side of her head and out through her neck and to her shoulders. She pulled her coat tight around her; Christ, it was cold, even though new green showed on the trees.

  “Here we are,” Marie said.

  “Can I have my patch now?” Anna asked.

  Marie sighed and shook her head.

  “It hurts, goddammit.”

  Marie reached down into the footwell by Anna’s feet and retrieved her purse. She dug inside and found a patch, sealed in a foil pouch. Anna snatched it from her fingers with one hand, undid her shirt with the other. She tore the foil with her remaining teeth, peeled away the paper backing from the clear plastic, and placed the patch high up on her chest, to the left side.

  The hit came quick and smooth, but not strong. Not yet. It would be hours before that warmth enveloped her entirely. But this would do. The sharp edges of the world dulled enough not to cut her.

  “Okay,” she said, aware of the languor of her voice. “Thank you.”

  Marie opened the driver’s door and climbed out. Anna felt the biting chill sweep in until she closed it again. She didn’t move at first when Marie opened the passenger door.

  “Come on,” Marie said.

  Anna considered protesting, saying she’d changed her mind, but she knew there was no avoiding it now. She had to go along, no matter how pointless it was. Climbing out, she realized she hadn’t been here since their father’s burial. How long ago was that? Almost twenty years?

  She followed Marie through the open gates, taking the path to the western side of the cemetery, beneath the shadow of the building. Anna remembered Sunday mornings in there, the commands to be quiet and still, the compulsion to giggle and fidget. A memory sparked in her mind, one that had not surfaced in decades.

  Anna had been twelve, maybe thirteen, a couple of years at least past her confirmation. She had been doing homework at the kitchen table while Marie cleaned. Their mother had been at work. There was a knock on the door, and Anna had gone to answer it. It was Father Turlington, and he said he wanted to take Anna back to the church for some special instruction. Before she could answer, Marie had appeared at her side and asked Father Turlington if it was the same kind of instruction he’d given her?

  Perhaps another time, Father Turlington had said, and he wished them a good day before leaving the step and retreating along the path.

  Never go anywhere with that man, Marie had said, and Anna had accepted the advice without question. The episode hadn’t crossed her mind for the best part of two decades, and now here it was, bright and solid as the world all around.

  They navigated the paths between the graves, heading for the cluster of cherry trees at the far end of the cemetery. Anna slowed her pace as they approached the family plot, and Marie looked back, told her to come on, keep up.

  Soon, they stood at the foot of a large square grave. Two headstones at the top, three generations of names carved into the marble. All of them familiar, but only two conjured a face to go with them: Grandpa Henry—Henry Joy McKracken Lenihan—who had seemed planted in the corner of the living room when she was a child, always in his chair with a blanket over his knees, always with a quarter to find behind her ear. He died when she was six, but she had images of him burned into her memory. The smell of him, warm like fresh bread, and the glass of Guinness he had before supper every evening. And her father, who was buried here six years later. Oddly, her recollections of him were less clear than those of her grandfather.

  And now a new name, down below the men’s. Except it wasn’t really a name at all, was it?

  LITTLE BUTTERFLY, L’IL B, TAKEN AT JUST DAYS OLD.

  “We didn’t know the birthday,” Marie said. “Father Murtagh christened him at the hospital before they called
it, so he’s, you know…”

  “Not in Limbo,” Anna said.

  “Yeah,” Marie said. “It was important to Mom.”

  They stood in silence for a while before Marie said, “Do you understand now? That he’s gone?”

  Anna shook her head. “It’s just words on a stone.”

  Marie turned to face her. “What do you mean?”

  “Show me his bones,” Anna said.

  “What?”

  “You dig him up and show me the bones of him,” Anna said. “Until you do, it’s just words on a stone.”

  Marie’s open hand struck her hard on the right side of her face, and she felt sickly heavy pain in her nose and eye. She tasted blood as heat coursed over her lip.

  “I want to go home now,” Anna said.

  * * *

  —

  SHE AWOKE WITH a start, suddenly aware and tingling all over. The fentanyl had pulled her under at some point in the late afternoon and held her there until now. She rolled over onto her side and peered at the clock by the bed. A quarter after one. Somewhere along the hall, she heard the chatter of one of the late-night talk shows in her mother’s room. Philomena would be deep asleep on her bed, entirely unaware.

  Anna stretched, savoring the smooth ride of the fentanyl. Two days of numbness from this little plastic film that adhered to her chest. It seemed a small miracle. But she had no time to wallow in it now, as tempting as it might be.

  She had fallen asleep in the same clothes she’d worn to the cemetery that morning, including the coat. Hadn’t even kicked off her shoes. She eased herself off the bed and went to the closet. The bag lay on the floor, already packed, save for one thing.

  Anna descended the stairs, wary of every creak of wood, each whisper of fabric. At the bottom, she made for the kitchen. The drugs were kept in the top cabinet, above the fridge, had been since she was a kid. But now it was sealed with a small padlock on a latch.

  She rummaged through drawers until she found a stout-bladed screwdriver. A few seconds of prying, and the latch and the padlock fell to the floor. She opened the cabinet door and reached inside. Her fingers found the old tin tea caddy, and she lifted it down, set it on the table. Inside, a bundle of foil pouches, held together by a rubber band. She counted twenty-three and wondered for a moment where Marie had gotten these from. No legitimate source, Anna was sure of that. Didn’t matter. She grabbed the bundle and stuffed it into her bag.

  Outside, under the pale streetlights, she pulled the tarpaulin from her car in the driveway. At least five months it had been standing here. God knew if it would start. Anna unlocked the driver’s door, tossed the bag over to the passenger seat, then lowered herself in. She inserted the key in the ignition and turned.

  The engine barked a series of hacking, jerking coughs and splutters before it finally caught. She pressed the accelerator pedal, felt the car vibrate with the revving of the engine.

  “Thank God,” she said.

  What now?

  She had no idea where she might go. All her money was gone. Marie and her mother would be saddled with the hospital bills for years to come. She might have felt guilt over that, but there were a great many things vying for that particular emotion.

  Only one objective stood clearly in Anna’s mind: find the woman who took her boy. Find her and take him back. Didn’t matter how long it took. She had years.

  That decided, she put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway. She paused for a moment on the street, looking up at the house that she was leaving for the second time with no expectation to return.

  Then she put the car in gear and drove away, thinking only of her destination, no matter how far away it might be.

  55

  IT TOOK THREE YEARS TO find him. Anna had been to hell and back in that time. There were long gaps in her memory, periods of haze when the fentanyl dragged her as low as a human being could go and still claim that title. Looking back, there were periods during which she couldn’t even recall where she lived. She had vague images of sleeping in hallways, doorways, the floors of abandoned apartments. She supposed those had been the colder times; others, when she didn’t risk freezing to death, she slept in her car, which she still owned. It was the only thing of value she had left.

  It was a church-run shelter that finally helped her get straight after two years without a home. They sponsored her detox, then gave her a place to live while she straightened out. As soon as she was able, they had her working again. A coffee shop run by the same church, employing homeless people to help them get back on their feet. After six months, she had her own place again, as wretched as it was. She had an address, a bed of her own, and something resembling a life.

  But she never forgot L’il B or the woman who took him from her. There was only one reason in the world to get herself straight, to have a place of her own, and that was to get him back. If not for him, she would gladly have given up on living. So as soon as she had the money, she bought a secondhand laptop from a pawnshop, and got herself an Internet connection. She lost days and weeks to searching through social-media sites, looking for a woman called Libby with a son of around the right age.

  In the end, it was a dumb little Facebook app that made the connection. The app could take one photograph and scan through all the many millions on social media and find people who looked alike. Looking back, Anna couldn’t clearly remember the other woman’s features, only the idea that she looked like her. So she tried the app, uploading a photograph of herself.

  The first two matches were women who were either too old or too young, and neither of them called Libby.

  The third hit was a Liz Moore, from Albany, New York. The photograph was a professional portrait, taken in a studio. And it was not a personal Facebook account, but rather a publisher’s page, highlighting a book that was to come out in the fall. Liz Moore was the author. Liz, as in Elizabeth.

  Libby was also short for Elizabeth, wasn’t it?

  Anna had sat quietly in her one-room apartment for some time before entering the name Liz Moore into Facebook’s search box. A lot of hits, but none of them matching this woman. She tried Libby Moore with similar results, then Elizabeth Moore. Nothing even close.

  Next, she opened Google and entered: Liz Moore author.

  There, first result, Official Website of Author Liz Moore. She clicked on the link and saw a site that consisted of a single page. That portrait again, and the cover of the book, along with a few lines describing the story. And there, at the bottom, in a font size so small she almost missed it, a Twitter handle: @LizMooreAuthor.

  Anna clicked on the link to open the Twitter profile. Like the website, it gave almost nothing away. There were perhaps a dozen tweets going back over a few months, all promoting the book. Nothing personal. Nothing about children.

  She looked at the follower numbers: less than three hundred, and Liz Moore followed only a few more. Did that mean she was in the habit of following back whoever followed her? Anna had her own Twitter account that she had recently created but never used.

  An idea occurred to her. A stupid one, maybe, but worth trying.

  She went to the Edit Profile page on her account and changed the bio section, which she’d left blank, to say: Aspiring author.

  Then she went back to the Liz Moore profile and clicked the Follow button.

  Within an hour, Liz Moore had followed her back.

  Anna felt frozen in place. Could this be her? Could this be the woman who stole her baby? And if it was, what would she do?

  She clicked on the Message button, and a dialog box appeared with a blinking cursor. A deep breath, then she typed:

  Hi—You don’t know me, and sorry to get in touch out of the blue like this, but I’d love to know more about how you got your publishing deal. Yours, a fellow writer.

  Anna hadn’t ever written anything
more than a few notes on a scrap of paper, but the lie came easy enough. She didn’t expect a reply, so she needed to think about another approach. But a reply came, almost instantly.

  Hi, thanks for getting in touch. I got my deal the old-fashioned way—over the transom—by querying agents. I got taken on by a great one who then subbed the book around New York. Not very exciting, but it worked!

  Anna read the words and thought, Is it you?

  That’s awesome. Would you mind if I picked your brains sometime about all this? I’m just starting out and could use some advice.

  Less than a minute before the next reply.

  Of course, though there’s a lot of advice online already, most of which I followed. But sure, drop me a note. Always happy to help another writer.

  “Is it you?” Anna asked aloud.

  She held back, replied with a simple thanks, and let it lie for a week. While she waited tables at the coffee shop, wiped down counters, took out the trash, she thought hard about what to do. The possibility remained that she could be mistaken, that this could be some other woman with a resemblance to her, but she had a feeling in her gut that said otherwise. And she had to tread softly, not rush things. In the meantime, she created a fake Facebook account and added a handful of photographs she’d stolen from someone else’s profile. Called herself Marie Douglas, from North Carolina, created a life for herself out on the Internet with a husband and a daughter.

  After the week of silence had passed, she sent another message, asking about Liz Moore’s book, what it was about, what her inspiration was. Liz Moore, if that was her name, replied quickly, and almost seemed glad of the conversation. They exchanged messages on and off for a few days, then Anna sent one more:

  Hey Liz, I’ve just joined Facebook. Are you on there? I looked for your name so I could send a friend request, but I couldn’t find you. I’m Marie Douglas, if you want to search for me.