I was starting to see some parallels between Valerie and I; she had her aunt and I had Hannah. Valerie was untethered, unreachable, disconnected from her old life in Oshkosh, and now I was dissociating from that place too.
There are no roots holding me down to the ground. I’m a tree, full of memory rings and scarred from living … but I have no roots to speak of.
I have no husband to go home to.
But Hannah … don’t forget about Hannah. A sick, sour curd of guilt was creeping under my skin. I shouldn’t have hung up on her like that. She must be so worried.
But she wasn’t the only one who was worried, I was afraid for Valerie. I was afraid for her life … Although we were never close in high school, we had shared a moment once. Valerie, crying in that bathroom stall … even now, I could still imagine the sound of her whimpers, sniffling through the crack in the door …
“Are you okay?” I’d whispered, trying to look through the crack while also looking away. She’d blown her nose loudly, and at first, I thought she hadn’t heard me. But then the latch to the door slid open and she motioned me inside.
We were so close in that cramped stall, our elbows rubbing together …
“I lost my dad. After all these years, he’s finally fucking dead.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, Valerie. I thought you lived with your aunt.”
“I did … I do. My dad’s a deadbeat, but there was this small part of me that hoped one day he’d get his shit together and come back to get me. Now that’s not going to happen.”
I climbed onto the toilet seat and cranked open a window.
“Want a smoke?” I’d asked her. Valerie’s eyes widened. She was impressed.
We stood there, passing a cigarette back and forth, blowing smoke rings out the tiny crack in the window.
“Thanks for doing this, Camilla.”
She knows my name!
“Anytime,” I’d told her.
She never gave me the details of her father’s death, but I’d heard through the rumor mill that it was drugs. After our moment in the bathroom, I thought perhaps we’d be friends. But the very next day, she was ghosting me in the hallway.
Valerie hadn’t messaged me again since leaving Oshkosh. Losing my connection to her should have been a relief, an instant detox … I had an excuse to turn around, run back home. Anyone else would have by now. But a hollow sense of dread had settled in my chest … There it is again, the silent scream that never comes.
Something terrible is going on with Valerie, I feel it inside me, like a rattle in my bones I can’t shake. What if she hasn’t messaged me back because she can’t? … Maybe the mystery man in the photos is holding her hostage. And it’s not like I can go back now, not with Bonnie and the cops looking for me.
I needed my anxiety pill. I could feel myself getting the way I always did when I was nervous—fear knocking around my chest, prickly sparks of amped-up adrenaline coursing through my veins like liquid fire. And this hellish town, with its bleak non-scenery, and shitty radio, and no cars for miles … was starting to freak me out quite a bit.
And Chris was gone … his fingers like whispers on my skin …
I welcomed his ghost to return but all I had now was the plain brown box. It didn’t feel real that he was inside of it.
The sign for Paducah, Kentucky snuck up on me. It was bright, welcoming, a faded blue tugboat on it.
Tall gray buildings loomed like old tombstones as I entered the Kentucky town. They towered over me, looking down … their watchful gazes like an accusation.
Paducah reminded me of Oshkosh, only older, but aren’t all places the same when you cut them down to the core?
After a while, every person and every place starts to look the same … like we’re all just photocopies of photocopies, one updated version after another …
But instead of getting updates, I’ve been getting downgraded.
This is me: version 4.0, series one.
I saw the signs for an elementary school, just as I passed a huge red-brick fire station. The sun was finally making an appearance, sparkling off hundreds of wet windows, reflecting my own bewildered opaque face back at me as I drove through town. A few people were out on the street, their presence a welcome relief. An athletic woman wearing a ballcap and walking a dog jogged across the street in front of me. Crooked sidewalks lined both sides of the street. They weren’t crowded, but people were out and about, and the dreary cloud that had hovered over me for the last two days extinguished.
I kept driving, slowing down to let a blue mini-van whir by as I gazed at the buildings and people on the street … I could almost see her there: shimmery blonde hair with streaks of pink floating around in the wind, big sunglasses perched on her shiny face as she trapezed through the tiny knots of crowds … Oh Valerie, if only it were that easy to find you. Tell me where you are!
The buildings faded away, residential houses puckering out left and right. The houses were small, some more decayed than others.
Two miles outside of the main street, I saw Paducah Primary School perched on the top of a hill. It was a small postage stamp that could have been any small-town school in America. The parking lot was deserted, two yellow school buses parked in the corner.
Across the street from the school, I spied exactly what I’d been looking for: the open, comforting hands of a “safe space”, the image of a stack of books … the Paducah local library.
The truck sputtered and shook as I turned into the nearly empty parking lot of the library.
Back home, our local librarians treated their books and computers like prisoners—you had to sign in, show ID, and produce a local library card just to get near them. I hoped Paducah was a little laxer on their policies. I had ID but no library card … I prayed they would let me use their computers anyway.
My legs like bowls of jelly, I climbed down from the truck and grunted with pain. My incision sites were achy from the long ride, and my head felt tight, swollen from the inside out. My mouth was watering involuntarily, the way it always did when I was due for a pain pill.
I yanked on the door handle of the library entrance, immediately subdued by the unseasonably cool blast of air conditioning and the woodsy aroma of old, used books. My heart slowed down, my breathing became calmer … I’m safe here. No one knows me. Now I can get to work on what I came here for: tracking down Valerie Hutchens.
A man behind the counter greeted me. He was handsome in a messy way—ruffled black hair too long around his ears and in the back, and a scruffy goatee to boot. Kind, green eyes met mine and for once, I didn’t shy away from a man’s gaze, although I did pull my hood up over my head. What must he think of me?
“May I use one of your computers?” I asked, shyly.
There were a few patrons perusing the shelves, and one teenage girl was using a computer in the corner, but there were several other empty stations.
“Sure.” The librarian smiled, studying my face a little too long. He opened his mouth, then closed it and smiled again. I could see it in his eyes: curiosity. He wants to ask who I am, if I’m new in town …
Like Oshkosh, Paducah was a small town. Everybody probably knows each other here, too, I realized, uncomfortably.
“I’m just passing through town,” I said, putting an end to the mystery for him. “Truth is, I’m getting shitty phone service and I need to send out a few quick emails. Would that be okay?” I cleared my throat, my hood slipping down to my shoulders. It was a relief to see that I hadn’t forgotten my manners, but it had been so long since I’d interacted with people. Yet some things do come back, I suppose … like riding a bike or doing a cartwheel.
“No problem. And I’m sorry about your phone, that really sucks. Follow me.” He had a peppy hop in his step, as though he enjoyed his job, and as he led me over to an empty station, I smiled tightly at the young teenager at the computer next to it. Her eyes widened in horror when she saw my mangled face.
“Will this one do?” He pointed
at the station beside her.
I found myself liking this man … Hopefully, everyone in this town is as nice and helpful as he is.
He had looked at my scars, but he had seen me, too. It was a strange feeling, realizing that perhaps my scars weren’t all that repugnant, not to everyone at least.
“It’s perfect. Thank you.”
I took a seat, aware of the teen side-eyeing the lumps and lines on my face. I waited for the librarian to get back to his post before I pulled up Safari. Truth was, I was starting to get a little paranoid about my phone—What if the cops in Oshkosh were able to track me down with it? There was an app that let you track iPhones, but surely, they couldn’t do that, right …?
Although every ounce of my being wanted to pull up Valerie’s Instagram page, I found myself typing my own name into the Google search bar instead.
I have to know. If the police are really searching for me, I have to know that now.
A sigh of relief passed through my lips as I came up empty on my first try.
But then, I typed in Bonnie’s name and searched for Oshkosh crime reports. It was not unusual for Oshkosh to go days, even weeks, without a crime being reported. Unfortunately for me, one had been reported yesterday.
I inhaled sharply.
There I was, nasty scars and all, a bug-eyed side-view of my face … and it was front and center on page one of the Oshkosh Gazette. Hood up around my face, eyes downcast, I stood in the dark on Bonnie’s porch, one hand reaching for the door … in the pale moonlight, my creepy face reminded me of Nosferatu.
And the headline said it all: Caught on Camera, Local Widow Accused of Breaking and Entering, Felony Theft.
I mashed my teeth together, reading through the lines again and again, until they finally made sense. Horror and fear bubbled inside me, my hands trembling as I forced myself to read it one more time:
Retired teacher, Bonnie Brown, is distraught after she came home to discover a beloved family heirloom and her late son’s ashes missing. Luckily, before her son died, he had installed safety cameras outside her home for protection. Much to Ms. Brown’s dismay, when she checked the footage, she caught a clear view of the suspect’s face, a face not easily mistaken in the town of Oshkosh: her daughter-in-law, Camilla Brown.
Camilla and Christopher Brown were in an automobile accident last Spring, which caused severe injuries to Camilla. Christopher Brown died of his horrific injuries when the vehicle they were traveling in collided with the backend of a semi transporting drainage pipes. The town of Oshkosh is still in mourning over the loss of Chris who was well-liked locally.
When asked why her daughter-in-law would commit such a crime, Ms. Brown said: “My son’s former wife has always been unstable. A heavy drinker, she showed up at his funeral intoxicated, so we turned her away. His siblings and I suspected that she was drinking at the time of the accident, but this was never proven. We offered to share the remains, if she wanted to have her own service at a time when she was sober enough to properly mourn my son. She didn’t take too kindly to my suggestion, and if you want to know my opinion, these recent acts are all about her getting revenge. I’ll be pressing charges, to the fullest extent.”
Although one might conclude that these are the words of a grieving mother, there does seem to be some truth to Ms. Brown’s claims. We contacted the driver of the truck involved in the accident. Mitch Reynolds said: “Well, nobody can prove she was drunk when she hit me. But we all suspect it. I could see her flying fast in the rearview, the backend of the Buick fishtailing from side to side. I feel so sad for Chris’s mother. It must be heartbreaking to lose her son that way.”
Sergeant Brent Matthews said: “All I can say at this time is that we are taking Ms. Brown’s report very seriously. Camilla Brown’s current whereabouts are unknown, but she is wanted for questioning. Please do not hesitate to contact us if you know where she can be reached. In the town of Oshkosh, we stick together, and we certainly don’t desecrate a young man’s ashes or victimize upstanding residents, such as Bonnie Brown.”
We will follow up with more details on this case as more information comes available.
“That lying bitch,” I hissed through my teeth. I scooted back, the metal legs of the chair getting hung up on the thinly carpeted floor of the library and pitching backward. I caught myself, squatting like a football player getting ready to tackle someone, just as the chair hit the floor behind me with a dull thud.
The girl at the terminal beside me widened her eyes and muttered something that sounded a lot like, “Psycho”, under her breath.
My eyes fixated on the inky screen and I stared at the reporter’s words until they blurred and melted away completely. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe … I need to get out of here.
“You okay?” the librarian called after me as I half-jogged, half-slammed, through the library doors.
Outside, I bent over, hands clutching my knees for support, as I willed my lungs to take in air. Breathe, dammit, breathe.
In my sheer panic, I began to count … an old trick I’d learned from Chris. Just start counting. Do it. Focus on the shape of the words, don’t let your mind go anywhere else.
I closed my eyes and counted, the memory of Chris on the couch beside me, tracing slow circles on my back to soothe me while I panicked over … what had it even been about? I couldn’t really remember.
After the accident, the doctor informed me that I had quite possibly suffered some minor brain damage, and that some memories could be lost. Was this one of them? I don’t want to forget anything that happened between Chris and I …
Still counting, I made it to two hundred as the door behind me opened and slammed shut.
From my half-bent position, I glanced over my shoulder, surprised to see the kind librarian again.
“Alright?” he asked, his face stretched tight with concern.
“Just a panic attack. No big deal,” I breathed, standing up. Moments passed as we gazed into each other’s eyes. He already knows I’m lying, I realized. And that’s when it occurred to me: the article. I’d knocked my seat back and ran out of there like a mindless ghoul … but I’d forgot to close out the screen.
I took my keys out of my pocket, then dropped them. Stooping down to pick them up, I could feel his heavy gaze on me. He knows.
“It’s you, right? The girl in the article …?”
I narrowed my eyes at him, one foot pressed forward. Ready to run.
But his expression was soft, worrisome.
“Camilla, right? It’s okay. I closed out the screen and logged out your station.”
“Why? What’d ya do that for? You don’t know me. Why do you care who I am?”
He shrugged. I noticed that his khaki pants were frayed on the ends. His loose-fitting sweater vest scuffed and worn. Something about his casual, but neat, appearance, reminded me of a college professor. Not that I’ve ever actually been to college.
“I was married once.” His words threw me off, and then he surprised me further by shrugging a loose pack of Camels from his side pocket. He lit one and handed it to me.
“So?” I took a long drag on the cigarette, instantly hit with the heady rush of nicotine and cancer.
“So, I know what it’s like to hate your in-laws. My father-in-law hated my guts.”
I watched him struggle to light his own cigarette, his hands shaking as he tried to cup the lighter with one hand to block out the wind.
“Here.” I plucked his cigarette from between his lips and used the tip of mine to make fire. “I didn’t take the ashes because I hate my mother-in-law. Former mother-in-law,” I corrected. “And I didn’t take that pot they’re claiming I took. She’s a fantasist. Always has been.” I winced, my own words reminding me of hers when she referenced my instability. Perhaps there was some truth to her words, I considered.
“I wanted the ashes, that’s all. I didn’t mean any harm.”
He nodded and flicked ash onto the ground. “So, what brings you t
o Paducah then? Do you have family here, or are you just hiding out?” His eyes floated from my eyes and down to my scars, then back up. For some reason, being seen by him felt like a relief.
“I’m looking for a friend. Her name is Valerie. She was staying in a hotel here on business, and nobody’s heard from her for a couple of days. Any idea how many hotels there are in this town?”
He let out a soft, suppressed chuckle that seemed to come from his nose. It was a strange laugh, but I liked it for some reason. I’d never heard one like it before.
“What’s so funny?”
“There’s only a couple to choose from here. And if she was here on business, and had any sense at all, she probably chose the Marriot on Skyward Drive. I’ll give you directions if you want.” He poked a finger at the door, encouraging me to come back inside.
“That would be great. Thanks.”
Every pair of eyes was on us as we re-entered the library, but I didn’t care. For the first time, I had a real lead. If I could find the hotel room from Valerie’s pictures and question the staff, I might be able to track down where she went …
“I’ll be right back,” I said, as he scribbled down directions on Post-it notes at the counter.
The teenager was gone from the computer area. I bent over the desk, and quickly logged into Instagram. I checked Valerie’s profile and my inbox for any new messages. Nothing. Just as I suspected.
My phone service wasn’t messed up—Valerie just wasn’t writing me back …
A quick scan of the comments on her last post revealed more concerned messages from Aunt Janet.
I can’t reach you, Val. Please call me.
Where are you? I’m getting worried.
Checking in again …
I found no news reports on Valerie Hutchens. Why hasn’t Aunt Janet filed a missing person report if she’s so concerned?
“Here’s the address.” The librarian was standing behind me again. Quickly, I closed out both screens and shut the computer down.
“Thanks again,” I said, standing up and pulling my hood around my face. “I really appreciate your help. And … your discretion.”
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