Of Things Unseen

by L. Jaye Morgan

  Tony took a deep breath but said nothing. He knew my history. Most of it. He’d been surprised by my anguish when I talked about my childhood. He saw my mother’s house and neighborhood and assumed I’d lived a Huxtable life. The reality was that my brother and sister hated me. Or maybe they just resented me because my mother left me with them while she worked. What kid wants to play parent to a child whose existence they had no say in? I didn’t blame them for it but sometimes things were...bad.

  I sniffed. “You and Nikki, and maybe Toya...y’all are the only ones who really love me. It’s like...you choose to love me. Everybody else does because they have to. Or they’re supposed to.”

  My eyes welled up again. “Mostly I’ve just been feeling useless. Maybe I’ve felt useless my whole life and just didn’t realize it.” I stared at the wall behind Tony, too embarrassed to make eye contact. “My parents didn’t mean to have me. My dad didn’t wanna raise me. My brother and sister hated me.” I sniffed and closed my eyes. “Has there ever been a time in my life when I wasn’t a burden?”

  Tony grabbed my right hand and pressed it to his lips, and I placed the back of my left hand over my eyes to keep him from seeing me break down. I turned away from him and sobbed quietly, but hard enough that my whole body shook. He still said nothing.

  “Why am I here, Tony? What good am I?”

  “You’re good to me.” Nice words, but they didn’t mean much.

  “I’m not. I can’t do anything. I can’t work. I can’t even make it through a whole day without feeling like crap.”

  “Baby, I told you. I don’t need you to work right now. I just need you to get better.” I closed my eyes and shook my head. He didn’t get it. Maybe he would never get it. Maybe this was another burden I was saddling him with, the responsibility to understand things I didn’t even understand.

  “That’s not even the point, though. I feel like I just drag everybody down and I don’t give anything in return.”

  “I really wish I knew what to say to get you to understand how wrong that is.”

  “What I understand is that I wasn’t supposed to be here and now that I’m here, I don’t know why.”

  Tony stared at me. “You’re starting to worry me. Is this just talk or are you really feeling like you don’t want to be here?”

  I just shook my head. He took my face in his hands. “Do you need to talk to somebody?”

  “I’m talking to you.”

  “No, I mean a professional.”

  “No.” I grabbed a napkin and blew my nose. “I’m fine. I just needed to get that out.”

  He looked like he didn’t believe me. He was right not to. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. I’m positive. I got it out, I’m good.”

  Worry clouded his face and I felt guilty about troubling him. It was stupid, all the complaining I was doing. In the larger scheme of things, I had a good life, and he was one reason for that. The last thing I wanted to do was make him feel like he wasn’t being a good husband. The truth was, none of it had anything to do with him, and it would do neither of us any good if he started blaming himself. No need for him to internalize my baggage. I decided then and there that I would stop burdening him. I grabbed two plates from the cabinet and set them on the counter before plastering on my best smile. “Are you ready to eat?”

  Chapter 7

  “Bianca Freeman was 26 years old when she disappeared. Born to Joy and Gordon Freeman, she was the eldest of four daughters, all born in Social Circle, Georgia, about an hour east of Atlanta. The family moved to Decatur when Bianca was ten, and by all accounts, they were content. Gordon was a manager at a Kroger grocery store and Joy worked part-time jobs at various department stores.

  At the age of 15, Bianca lost her father, who was killed by a drunk driver. Despite her grief, she quickly stepped up to help her mother with her younger sisters, essentially becoming a second mother to them.

  Joy had a rough time dealing with the loss of her husband. Deep depression gave way to a crippling drug addiction. By the time she was 19, Bianca was the sole caretaker of her little sisters while her mother cycled in and out of jail and rehabilitation centers.

  Bianca’s uncle Sam, her mother’s brother, also helped out with the girls and was extremely close to his nieces. When she was 20, Bianca decided she wanted to go to school. With very few resources at her disposal, she took out loans and enrolled in cosmetology school. Years of taking care of four different heads of hair had fostered an interest in hairstyling.

  When she was 24, Bianca partnered with two other beauticians and opened up a storefront salon in Decatur. Her clientele grew quickly and the salon became very successful, turning a profit in its second year of operation. The women were able to rent out a larger space in a nearby plaza.

  About two weeks before her disappearance, Bianca told Courtney Sills, one of her salon partners, that she had seen a man sitting in the parking lot two days in a row. She had a good view of him because the entire front of the salon was an uncovered window. Bianca said the man would sit in his car and watch the goings-on in the salon. Courtney suggested they write down the man’s license plate number in case he was staking out the salon for a future crime. Bianca agreed but they did not see the man after that.

  The salon normally opened at 8 am, but on the day she disappeared, Bianca had planned to go in at 6 am to take care of a client who was getting married that afternoon. According to her sister, Bianca left her home at approximately 5:40 am.

  When Courtney arrived at 7:50 am, the client was sitting alone in the shop. The woman said she had an appointment at 6:30, but when she arrived, the salon was empty. The client attempted to call Bianca on her cell phone but got no answer. Since Bianca’s car was still in the parking lot, the woman assumed she stepped out and decided to wait.

  Courtney searched every inch of the salon and parking lot. No Bianca. It took her a while but she finally found the master locker key. When she opened Bianca’s locker she found her purse inside. Her keys were there but her phone was missing.

  Courtney didn’t have a phone number for Sam or anyone else in Bianca’s family, so she and the client agreed that she needed to call the police.

  Surveillance video of the plaza around the salon showed Bianca’s car pull into the parking lot at 5:58 am. Bianca could be seen from a distance going into the salon through the front door. She was never seen on video again and her car never moved. The video also backed up the client’s story. No one else can be seen entering the salon before Courtney.

  There was a back door to the salon that led into an alley of dumpsters. Each business in the shopping plaza had its own door and dumpster. It would not have been difficult to drive a car down the alley and park in front of one of the doors. What puzzled the police was how a perpetrator would gain entry to the salon through the back. The door was kept locked at all times, and according to Courtney, they took the trash out to the dumpsters in the evenings before they closed. Bianca wouldn’t have had any reason to open the back door.

  None of it made any sense. Police questioned the client, Bianca’s uncle, and a man she was seeing, but none had the motive or opportunity to harm Bianca. A canvass of the shopping plaza yielded no clues, and no one had any tips about the mysterious man Bianca had told Courtney about.

  At present, Bianca’s case is considered a cold case.”

  WE MET IN MIDTOWN NEAR Nikki’s apartment. Blue Fish was supposed to be one of the best brunch spots in the city according to black Atlantans, and if anybody knew brunch, it was black Atlantans. It was a long drive for me but I didn’t mind it. I hadn’t been out of the house in days.

  “Alright, I’m ready to hear your recommendation,” said Nikki, her hair in a perfect wash-and-go that made me and my hastily constructed bun feel inadequate. My makeup was perfectly done, though. Sheila would have been proud. I glanced at my menu and decided what I wanted. “Okay but you have to promise not to argue with me.”

  “I can’t promise that.
You know I can’t promise that.” Of course not. Because Nikki had a strong opinion about everything. It’s part of what made her a good journalist. She struggled with knowing when to back down and listen, but she was getting better at it. I had cautioned her about taking that into her relationships as my grandmother had cautioned me. It was antiquated reasoning, and definitely sexist, but I found it sound. Fuss and argue all you want with your friends and colleagues but don’t bring that home to your man. I know, bad feminist.

  “Alright, I think the Scotts should be your centerpiece. They’re relatable, upper middle class, father’s an engineer and in the home. She was a young pretty girl in college, whole life ahead of her, blah, blah. If the family was white, they’d describe them as All-American.”

  Our waitress interrupted to tell us her name was Brynnley and she would love to start us off with some drinks. We declined, and Nikki ordered a Caesar salad while I got the lump crab on an English muffin with hollandaise.

  It was ironic; with her messy mop of blonde hair and blue eyes, Brynnley was the embodiment of the All-American girl. I wondered if she knew what that meant. If she knew that the entire world would stop if she disappeared on her way home from the lunch shift. That despite her unmistakably average looks, they would take every opportunity to call her beautiful and only circulate pictures that captured her in her best light, wearing her best smile. That she would be described as a great student no matter what grades were on her transcript and her stint here at Blue Fish would become the equivalent of a year in the Peace Corps. People like to believe black women are jealous of white women but in reality, we’re mostly just confused.

  Nikki handed her the menus. “I hear you on the All-American thing but these women aren’t white. Why can’t we just keep it real?” I shook my head. Keep it real. Famous African American proverb. Famous last words.

  “Because real isn’t gonna get the right people interested.”

  “Ughhhh. You know how I feel about that respectability shit.”

  “Yeah, well, it is what it is. Do you wanna succeed or do you wanna be right?”

  Nikki raised her eyebrows and tilted her chin up in surrender.

  “Thank you,” I said. “And remember, it’s not really about white folks. Black folks in this city, at least the ones with resources, they’re particular too. They care about appearances. So like I said, the Scotts fit the bill. Renee has a baby which has the whole mom angle, and normally that would work but she wasn’t married.”

  Nikki made a face. “I don’t know, Tam. I don’t think people care about that shit anymore. I know the South is ass-backward and all, but are you Bamas really out here branding single mothers with scarlet letters?”

  I ignored the insult and plowed ahead. “Look, you said my opinion is valuable because I’m from here. I’m telling you about black folks from here. I know how they think.”

  Nikki shook her head and crossed her arms. “Half the black women in Atlanta are single mothers. Why would they be pressed about this? Please make this make sense for me.”

  “I don’t know how to make it makes sense to you. You just...you have to be from here to know. Plenty of black folks in Atlanta are broke, too, but they don’t wanna be seen that way. And they darn sure don’t want the media announcing it.” She didn’t look convinced but I didn’t know how else to say it. “Southerners are proud, Nik.”

  “Huh. So is that why these white folks drive around here with Confederate fucking flags flying on the backs of their trucks? Because of pride? We know you motherfuckers lost! The jig is up!”

  I cackled and rolled my eyes. “Black southerners. We’re a proud people. And traditional. I’m not saying it’s right, I’m just saying that’s how it is.” I thought back to all the baby showers I was forbidden to attend as a teenager. Sheila didn’t play that, and she wasn’t alone. But she always sent diapers. And money. And reached out to ask how she could help. Nobody’s parents were into throwing parties to celebrate those little miracles, but they were always on deck to support the mothers. “We just need to keep her on track and get her into college,” Sheila would say. And come to think of it, all of those girls went.

  “This is Claudette Colvin all over again,” Nikki said.

  “Eh, not really.”

  “It is. She was a single mother and Rosa was married. Respectability.”

  “It worked though, didn’t it?” I took a sip of water and braced myself for the oncoming debate.

  “Yeah, but we’ll never know if it would have worked the other way,” said Nikki.

  “Do you wanna take that chance with these people’s lives though?” I asked.

  “Am I arguing right now?”

  “Yes. This isn’t about morality, it’s about public opinion. I’m not saying to leave the other girls out. I’m saying lead with the Scotts because they’re the All-American black family. The objective is to convince people that these black girls deserve to be found.” I tore off a piece of bread and buttered it. “Ugh, that sounds so bad.”

  Nikki tilted her head in sympathy. “Messed up, right?”

  “And depressing.”

  “You can’t think about it. Breeze past it. We got work to do.”

  “I know. Alright, first you need to see if you can meet with the Scotts. Interview them, see how well they come across. They should lead your story. I read over every case and I think it’s best to minimize the race thing at first.”

  “Why would I do that? It’s black media. That’s kinda why we exist. Remember Ida B. Wells and her anti-lynching campaign? That was black media.”

  “I know, trust me. But it’s touchy. Maybe you can dog whistle it like they do. You know what I mean? Black folks are gonna see the race part without having to be told, so just throw something in that acknowledges that you know and that you know they know. You want this to be as appealing as possible to the mainstream.”

  Nikki frowned. “Hmm.”

  “And you also want to build relationships. There needs to be a symbiosis between you and the families, and you and the police. And you’re gonna have to find a way to convince the families they need to build relationships with the police department.”

  “Shit.”

  Brynnley returned with our food and I said my grace silently, praying for good digestion. It was never guaranteed these days.

  “It shouldn’t be that hard,” I continued. “Most of these folks don’t interact with police like that unless they’re the ones calling them. They might have hard feelings about the way the cases have been handled but it shouldn’t be antagonistic.”

  Nikki was writing. “You know what’s funny? You sound real professional right now.”

  “I do?”

  “Yeah. It’s almost like you actually know what you’re talking about.”

  “Imagine that.” I took a hefty bite of my crab cake. “This is so good.”

  Nikki sat back in her chair. “How would you feel about coming with me to the Scott interview?”

  “Why would you want me there?”

  “You can record, help me if I get off track, that kind of thing.”

  “Don’t you do interviews all the time?”

  “Yeah but this feels different. There are more landmines to navigate. Plus you’re a country fried southerner just like them.”

  I took a long look at my best friend. I suspected she was embellishing a bit about how much she needed me but I could indulge her. Anything to help those girls be found. And maybe I could redeem myself in the process.

  “If you want me there, I’ll be there.”

  Chapter 8

  THE SCOTTS WERE EAGER to talk.

  Nikki called the day after our lunch meeting and the news sent me through a range of emotions. It was exciting, knowing we were moving forward on the story. It was also anxiety-inducing. The gravity of the moment wasn’t lost on me and I had no idea how I was supposed to act.

  It didn’t help that I was having a bad morning. Four aspirin had taken the edge off but the du
ll ache in my joints and muscles persisted. Not to be outdone, my stomach had been unruly all morning. I didn’t trust it, so I ate a few crackers and sipped a ginger ale in the car on the way over. Nikki wasn’t too happy about that since her car was her sanctuary. Every crispy bite yielded a sigh and an eye-roll. I didn’t see the big deal. On any given day, my own car looked like someone lived out of it.

  The Scott home sat high on a hill of plush Bermuda, flanked by well-manicured greenery and a rainbow of different flowers. Mint green hydrangeas, baby pink roses, and lavender catmints stole the show. Nikki pulled into the long driveway and drove around the side of the house, past the bronze lawn statues, before parking in front of the garage.

  She turned the car off and stared at the house. “I can’t believe black folks live here.”

  I looked at her mid-bite, my cracker suspended in midair. “Girl, your father is a doctor.”

  “Yeah but general practitioners aren’t living like this up in Brooklyn. I need to get them to move down here. They could be living like royalty.” Ordinarily, I would have had a snappy retort but the mood was somber. Respectful. We were about to talk to a family that was missing a child, and I wouldn’t have felt right making light of anything right then.

  Nikki reached behind her seat and grabbed her messenger bag. “Alright, so just follow my lead. I’m gonna tell them you’re my assistant, which you are, I guess. When I give you the go, you start taping with this little recorder here. Just press this button.”

  “Okay, I got it.”

  “Cool. And try not to react, okay? We’re professionals.”

  “What do I do if I start crying?”

  “Don’t.”

  “That’s helpful.”

  “Alright, here we go.”

  We exited the car and walked gingerly up the pathway to the front door as if even the grounds deserved our utmost respect. A rug emblazoned with a cursive “S” greeted us. The custom etched glass on the front doors was beautiful, as were the Arborvitae growing out of the two large stone pots that flanked the door. Mrs. Scott, or her landscaper, had taken excellent care of them. I liked her already.