by Betsy Bonner
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“You’re her sister? I’m the guy who arrested her.”
“Oh,” Atlantis said. She looked puzzled.
“Most family members aren’t so happy to meet me.” He glanced at my breasts. “But it’s nice to meet you too.”
The Johnnie Cochran of San Diego showed up late, brushing crumbs off his lapels. I was surprised by how young he looked—we might have all gone to college together.
“Do you really think you can win this thing?” I asked him. “I think you should accept the plea bargain and get her into rehab. My sister needs medical help.”
“Let’s see how this goes,” he said.
·
When the Johnnie Cochran of San Diego rejected the plea bargain, the DA raised the charges against Atlantis to twelve felonies. He claimed there were five other prescriptions of questionable origin that Atlantis had picked up at Walgreens over the previous ten months. Atlantis insisted that all the prescriptions were legitimate. The judge—a stern-looking woman—ordered Atlantis to attend three NA meetings a week until the next court date, five weeks from then.
That evening, Atlantis emailed an account of the hearing to her old friend Tim, who’d played music with her in New York:
Well I asked “Your Honor” if I could approach the bench (against the advice of my attorney) and she said fine. So I suggested I take a drug test then and there (like I said I haven’t even HAD any Vicodin or ANY drugs for that matter since March and before that it had been forever) and the bitch said she thought it was an excellent idea for my next hearing—but *I’d* have to pay for it, not the court. This is so fucking ridiculous.
·
We spent much of that night at the Millionaire from Mexico’s pecking at our laptops.
“If this is the same Tom . . .” Atlantis said.
“What?”
“Betsy, I knew it. Look: here’s why that DEA guy is out to get me.”
“That’s his job, right?” I said.
“No, I mean look.”
She showed me a photograph of someone who looked like the DEA agent I’d met outside the courtroom. Same crew cut, blue eyes, and beefy face. The photograph was attached to his response to a Craigslist ad Atlantis had posted, in which she’d said she needed help with rent and food.
“We went on a date in February, which was, like, months before he arrested me,” she said. “I must have been too out of it to remember who he was when he and the other one broke down my door.”
She sent an email to the Johnnie Cochran of San Diego with the photo attachment.
Subject: Question re: DEA Officer
I know you only saw him for a few minutes and his hair was parted differently, but does this man look like that DEA officer to you?
I accidentally said hello to him before you got there thinking he was someone else and it wasn’t until he introduced himself to my sister as “the officer who arrested me” that I realized it probably wasn’t who I was thinking of.
Both of their names are “Tom”—and if this is the same “Tom” I was thinking of, we could have a field day (long story re: a Craigslist date in which he “solicited” me at the end).
My sister might have been paranoid, but the man in the Craigslist photo did look a lot like the DEA agent.
·
By the time the Millionaire from Mexico got back from work, Atlantis was talking again about running away and buying a new identity; she emailed friends and family that if “things go south” and she wasn’t able to contact anyone for a while, I would have her information. The German Gentleman had claimed to have a “connection” in Buenos Aires and had asked her to think about what name she might want on a fake passport. Her Gmail pseudonyms—which included “Anastasia Blackwell”—usually contained the initials A. B. If she went into hiding, such a name might give her away; but she said she couldn’t bring herself to give them up.
When the Millionaire from Mexico came in, he asked me how long I planned to stay, and I told him the truth: I’d bought a plane ticket back to New York and was supposed to leave in two days. But I’d return to San Diego for the next court date, in July.
He turned to Atlantis. “I can’t be harboring you,” he said.
“I swear to God, I’m 100 percent innocent of these charges,” she said. “Anyway, you’re not fucking harboring me.”
“Look, this isn’t a stable situation,” he said. “You can stay as long as you’re both here—actually, Betsy can stay here longer if she wants. I really am sorry, but I don’t feel comfortable having you in my house alone.”
·
Up in the guest room, I opened my laptop and searched for a sublet that would get her through until July, when she could move into the place I’d found for her. But would there ever be a stable situation for my sister—would she find anyone willing to put up with her? I emailed some female university students with spare rooms to rent, then rolled my dresses into baseball-sized bundles and arranged them in my suitcase.
The next morning, Atlantis sent the Johnnie Cochran of San Diego this email:
Subject: Plea Bargain
Thanks again for yesterday. (Yes, that judge was horrible—LOL). I’m reconsidering plea-bargaining and have a few questions:
I don’t understand the difference between “guilty” and “no contest.” Would it be possible for all charges to be dropped to a single misdemeanor (March 19) to which I would plead guilty/no contest??
If I were to be sent to rehab (and guaranteed rehab) in lieu of jail, would there be a chance of early release?? If I had financial support, could I choose my rehab facility??
And finally, post-rehab, how much probation time would I face??
Thanks again for everything and have a great day!! :-)
·
When we left his house, the Millionaire saw us to the door.
“I cannot thank you enough for letting me stay as long as you did,” Atlantis said, “and for taking in my sister too. You’re an incredibly kind man, and I know that my being here put you at risk. I won’t forget you.” She kissed him on the lips.
I stalked out to my sister’s truck. She slipped behind the wheel and lit a Marlboro Light; I rolled down the window. “Why were you so nice to him?” I said.
“He’s dying, Betsy,” she said. “He has HIV.”
“So it’s okay for him to drop you as soon as he finds out that you’re in deeper shit than he thought?”
“No; he’s right,” she said. “It’s not safe for him to associate with me.”
·
We got keys to her new sublet, which we mercifully had to ourselves that night. I stir-fried broccoli and tofu until it had a golden skin, the way Atlantis liked it. We watched 8 Mile, one of Atlantis’s favorites. Later, she made me a plate of crackers topped with orange cheese and microwaved. “Is it all right?” she said. “I can’t really taste anything anymore.”
It was revolting. “It’s delicious,” I said.
·
In the morning, Atlantis said she wanted to look for a bartending job; she’d heard that a place called the Last Day might be hiring. She wore a skimpy T-shirt, torn jeans, and a wide black belt with silver studs. Except when she was taking lingerie pics, she always refused to wear a bra.
“Is that how you’re dressing?” I said.
“Nobody cares about clothes out here,” she said. “It’s not snobby like New Yawk.”
“Take this.” I unzipped my cardigan and gave it to her. She put it on and slung her purse over her shoulder. It sounded like a rattlesnake.
“Did you rob the whole drugstore?” I said.
She sighed, opened the bag, and dumped its contents on the counter. One by one, she lined up the little bottles of pills. “These are my antiseizure meds. Zoloft and Klonopin for depression and anxiety. Ambien for sleep. All prescribed and legit.”
“If you went to rehab now, would they drop the charges?” I said.
“I’d go to rehab in a heartb
eat—I already told my lawyer. But not that nasty county place. You know what they do to people there?”
“I’ve asked Mom for the money so you can go somewhere decent. She’s thinking it over. But if they really let you work, are you sure it should be in a bar?”
“I need flexible hours for my NA meetings. Anyway, I know more about beer than any stoner in this town.”
At the Last Day, I saw her hand trembling while she filled out the job application. “Does La Jolla have one l or two?”
“Let me do it,” I said. “You write like a serial killer.”
·
The night before my scheduled departure for New York, Atlantis told me she’d been in touch with our next-door neighbor, her molester. She’d brought him up out of the blue, but that didn’t startle me; we’d been talking about him for twenty years. Now she’d learned that he had a job as a prison guard at the maximum-security facility in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania. “And get this,” she said. “He has a three-year-old daughter.”
“Christ,” I said.
“But you know what’s really true, that I’ve discovered? Time and dates mean nothing at all. When I try to sleep at night, I close my eyes and I’m right back there, choking. I didn’t even have pubic hair when he did that to me. Remind me not to commit any crimes in Pennsylvania.”
·
In leaving Atlantis behind in San Diego, I wasn’t practicing Mom’s tough love. I was simply exhausted, longing for my bed, my books, and the comfort of my friends. I needed that teaching job in Westport, and to get my own life in order: find an apartment in New York or Connecticut and prepare for the classes I was scheduled to teach that fall. It was already mid-June, and I would begin working in August.
She drove me to the airport, and I said again that I’d return to San Diego in time for the July court date. She had only enough cash to last her for about a month, but she’d spent some of it on a parting gift. The paper bag she handed me—with a glittering, winking fairy on it—contained two chocolate bars and a pound of coffee.
THREE
14.
Once, when Nancy was twelve, she told me she’d decided to run away by hopping a freight train. Her best friend, Jen, had done it. When she invited me to join her, I refused, and threatened to tell our father.
“Don’t be a wuss,” she said. She stared me down and ordered me to say nothing to anyone, even if she never came back.
She was gone for several hours. Mom had a doctor’s appointment that day but wasn’t leaving her room. I was about to wake her when Nancy came in the front door and breezed past me into the kitchen.
“Did you do it?” I called.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“You couldn’t have gone that far, or you wouldn’t be back,” I said.
“Did Mom even go to her appointment?” she said.
“She hasn’t left her room all day. Dad said we could order a pizza.”
That night, she came into my room, lay down on the floor, and began to talk. She said that she never intended to go all the way to Harrisburg, or wherever that train was heading. She rode it for a few minutes, and then jumped off to spend the remainder of the afternoon in the woods with Jen. I knew, then, that she could disappear whenever she wanted, whether to scare me or to feel alive or to imagine herself gone.
ATLANTIS’S FACEBOOK UPDATES
June 15
Atlantis has relocated once again because she’s sick of being followed. She’s sad that Betsy had to leave today.
Atlantis has routed her course to other continents and beyond and is waiting to hear back from several connections. She keeps forgetting her new name.
Atlantis was finally able to masturbate today, being that she was alone for the first time in a month. I think the echos [sic] can still be heard up in L.A.
·
Two days later, she emailed about ten friends and family members:
Hi all—
Sorry for the horrific impersonal mass-email, but I didn’t want to disclose any of your information to the other 100+ people on this list.
I will never be able to contact any of you ever again, except through postcards from various countries.
So if you’d like to hear from me now and then over the next 60 years, or until I am assassinated, by all means, email me your mailing addresses.
I love and miss you all :)
XOXO
Assassinated? Had anyone—other than Atlantis herself—wanted to kill her?
ATLANTIS’S FACEBOOK UPDATES
June 19
Atlantis is planning to do something dangerous today. (Nothing illegal). But dangerous.
June 21
Atlantis tried to go through the looking-glass last night but it didn’t work. Her muse is telling her something.
·
That same day, she left me a voicemail:
I just got off the phone with Mom. Don’t worry; we didn’t talk about you. Really no drama; she was, like, half-asleep when I called. But, um, there’s something I told her, and I need to tell you this, Betsy, okay? Um, this is extremely complicated, all right? And I have my reasons. Um. Gretchen did not make the call. Okay? I want you to know that. Someone else did. And it was not me, and it was not Gretchen.
It sounded like she was reading from a prepared script. She was over-insisting, and I didn’t believe it. And I felt certain that my sister was getting ready to do something irrevocable.
But I needed to have . . . to like pin it on someone out of state, who I would not ever give up. It could not be in the state of California. Okay? So I have my reasons for doing this. And one day I can probably explain it to you, but now is not the time.
Pin what, exactly? On whom? What could not be in the state of California? Was she talking about the call to the pharmacy, or about something that hadn’t happened yet?
So I just want to clarify that with you and Mom. In case, God forbid, I have, like, a fucking heart attack or something right now. And, you know, I want people to know the truth, okay?
Gretchen is actually . . . a really good person, and um, she’s hooking me up with one of her really high, you know, top-notch attorneys who will have a free consultation with me whenever I call her. Um, she’s really good friends with Gretchen, and Gretchen recently joined the ACLU because of what happened to me in jail.
Again, who was this Gretchen, and just what was her connection to Atlantis? And why would she have more than one top-notch attorney?
They’re gonna, like, try to find someone who can take this case head-on with, you know, more, uh . . . gumption, shall we say. Okay, that’s it. Bye-bye.
·
I heard from my new employer, the founder of the Pierrepont School. She offered me free rent in a sun-filled two-bedroom apartment on the top floor of the school in Westport. The current tenants would be moving out in July.
I called Atlantis, and to my surprise, she answered her phone. She sounded calm. Maybe she was trying to keep me calm. I told her my good news about the apartment and invited her to come live with me.
She said no thanks. She liked her new sublet and she’d applied for a job at Whole Foods. I assumed she’d changed her mind about disappearing.
15.
On June 25, 2008, someone from the US consulate in Tijuana called my mother with the news that a body had been found with my sister’s IDs. The suspected cause of death was accidental drug overdose—there were needle marks on the arm—with no indication of suicide or murder. Mom called my uncle, and for some reason they decided to wait a day to tell the rest of our family. Nobody called me. My uncle sent a group email the following morning.
I couldn’t move to Westport for another week, and I was living in a sublet on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. It was eleven in the morning when I read my uncle’s email. By then the body had been lying in a Tijuana morgue for a day and a half.
I called my mother. No answer.
·
My cousin Elizabeth called me from San Francisco, and
she suggested that I contact the Tijuana consulate and get them to email me the autopsy photographs. I was scared to do it, but I was next of kin, and my mother didn’t have an email account. It sounded simpler than all of us getting on planes.
I called the consulate and spoke with a man named Craig Pike. I asked if I could view the autopsy photographs. He had a few questions for me.
“Does your sister have any tattoos or other markings that might help us to make a positive identification?”
“No.” As a Buddhist, my sister believed that tattoos trapped the soul in its current incarnation. “None that I’m aware of,” I corrected myself.
“When were you last with your sister?”
“She drove me to the airport in San Diego on June 14.”
“Have you spoken with her since?”
“We normally speak every couple of days,” I said. “She hasn’t answered my last two messages.”
“Did your sister use drugs?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “She’s mentally ill, and she’s been very unstable since she got out of jail. Would you please send me the photographs?”
Pike’s voice turned gentle. “People look different after an autopsy. There may be blood and discoloration around the face.”
When I saw the photos, I would revise my long-standing opinion that the only person my sister had ever really harmed was herself.
A half dozen photographs were attached to the email. I looked at the first one and saw a dead young woman. I looked at the second and there was Nancy sleeping. I closed the email without examining the rest.
I called Elizabeth and asked if she was willing to view the autopsy photographs, and to keep them for me. I didn’t really doubt that it was Atlantis I’d seen in the photographs, but I felt that somebody else in my family should verify them too. And I didn’t want to risk having them pop up on my laptop. I attached them to an email saying: “Thank you for keeping these safe.” Then I deleted them.