by R. J. Jacobs
He took my cup and poured some fresh coffee that I hadn’t asked for.
“Want any sugar in this?”
“No, thanks.”
Let’s get on with it, I thought. “What’s happening with the search?”
From his pocket, he pulled a rectangular video recorder the size of a deck of cards and set it on the table beside us. He glanced at its small screen, which I couldn’t see. He pressed a button on top, and a red light appeared. Then he folded over a page on a pad and clicked his silver pen.
“The local police had a diver looking for the last two days.” This was his on-camera, being-recorded voice. This was the voice, I realized, he wouldn’t mind being heard if the recording was played later. Prior to that moment, Mason had seemed uptight in a self-proving, young-professional sort of way. Camera rolling, he faded into the sort of no-personality personality that I could never read. “So far, the only thing they’ve found aside from a few rusted cans and fishing gear was a corkscrew.”
Like the one Paolo had slipped into his pocket, I thought quickly. “You say that like there’s nothing much to find. They’re not about to stop searching?” The question came out as more of a demand than I’d intended.
Mason frowned. “No, but they can’t search forever. There’s something like two hundred and forty miles of collective coastline. They’re going to do their best with the resources they have. My understanding is that the lake’s topography makes the currents pretty strange—it’s basically a flooded valley. Eventually, the water flow leads to the Elk River Dam, but there are weird back currents.”
I knew what he meant. On a map, the lake looked like spiny aloe branches.
“Debris, like a piece of clothing, for instance, could float in a hundred different directions,” Mason said solemnly. For the first time, I thought I could hear a hint of accusation in his voice. He held my gaze steadily, as if gauging my reaction.
I could only imagine how I looked on camera: like I’d been in bed without sleeping for most of the last two days. Like I hadn’t eaten. Like I should have washed my hair. I touched my ponytail, smoothed the sides, and tried sitting up a little straighter.
“What about his Jeep? Is it still at the marina?”
“His friend came out and drove it back to town. It’s at Mr. Fererra’s apartment now.”
This was a surprise. “His friend?”
Mason hesitated briefly, igniting my paranoia. I imagined his mind working to filter what information was and wasn’t appropriate to share with me. “Sure. We’ve been in touch with Mr. Fererra’s friends and relatives for information; his boss, Dr. Silver. Mr. Fererra’s friend Calvin volunteered to handle transporting the vehicle back to Nashville.”
Cal. He was probably Paolo’s best friend outside the lab, super-serious about softball in a way that had always seemed silly, and stoic to the point of being monosyllabic. I’d spent many evenings with his daughter, Olivia, who liked to climb all over the bleachers and me during their games. My interactions with Cal had usually consisted of him casting protective glances in our direction, as if I might just put her under my arm and run off.
Once, I’d asked Paolo what Cal’s problem was. “He’s just quiet,” he’d said.
“Cal drove it home?” I asked Mason, not wanting it to sound as sulky as I did. “I mean, I would have done it.”
I noticed Mason hadn’t touched his coffee. His mouth slowly worked a piece of gum. Occasionally, the red tip of it—incidentally the same color as his rose tattoo—poked out between his lips like a snake’s tongue.
“Have you ever been to the precinct before?” Like he was asking out of curiosity.
“It’s been a while, but yes. Last time I was here was to meet with a patient of mine.”
“Oh, that’s right.” He flipped a page on his pad, squinted. “You’re with the Department of Children’s Services.” Soft-voiced, he looked back at his pad.
The vinyl of his chair squeaked. “I want to ask you about your relationship with Paolo Fererra, then about last Saturday night and Sunday morning. Are you okay to talk about those things?”
“Of course.”
He kept his eyes down, but his nostrils flared like he was trying to detect a particular scent on me.
As a supervising psychologist, Marty had taught me not to say more than I had to if I was ever testifying in a deposition. In this case, I knew that would be a struggle. Detective Mason wanted to know about Paolo, and I irrationally hoped that by telling him everything, the chances of finding Paolo might improve.
Mason leaned forward in his seat. He glanced down at the device on the table, cleared his throat, shifted his gum from one cheek to the other, dissatisfied. “The police there said you didn’t seem to think Mr. Fererra drowned.”
“No, I don’t.”
He coughed. “Where would he have gone?”
Glare from the lights seemed to brighten, but that was from not sleeping.
“That’s what you’re here for, right? If I had all the answers, I’d go find him myself.”
He leaned farther forward. “Let’s back up. Two days ago, you and Mr. Fererra went to Tim’s Fork Marina. Can you tell me everything you remember?”
“Everything. Everything I remember?”
I heard myself describe the drive down—our laughter, the music playing, the knot in my stomach from hiding the fact that I couldn’t swim. I understood suddenly why patients with PTSD don’t like to just review details over and over.
“Let me jump in there,” he interrupted, the point of his pen lifted off the pad. “You’re saying you can’t swim. At all?” His hands cut the air, as if severing something, pen catching the fluorescent light.
“That’s right.” I looked down as I said it, surprised at my embarrassment.
“But you were willing to go sailing?”
I looked at Mason. He obviously didn’t understand something important. “We’re in love,” I explained to him, the way I’d explain it to a kid in my office. “I trusted him.”
Mason clenched his teeth around his gum, and the pen returned to the pad. “Sorry. Go on.”
I told him about Paolo’s plans to fish, the family on the other boat, Paolo diving in after their keys.
He asked if I’d seen the family before, the make of their boat. I’d been through it all already. My expression must have answered half his questions.
“Hmm, okay.” He sounded incredulous, but I couldn’t see what was hard to believe. “There are parts of the night you don’t remember?”
“I guess.”
“Do you remember lying down, going to sleep? Was Mr. Fererra with you when you went to sleep?”
I hated what I was about to admit. “That … I don’t know.”
A curt nod. Then Mason asked, “How often do you not remember things that happened the day before?”
Something about the question made my stomach drop like we’d taken a sharp turn—or like I’d sat down to take an exam I hadn’t studied for. Anxiety nightmares about unpreparedness, vulnerability. My hands were slick with sweat. Behind my eyes burned a crimson-colored anger.
Why couldn’t I remember? He’d asked a sensible question, but the seeming unfairness of it ate at me. I knew how unreliable memories can be, how they can get distorted and fragmented, and how those distortions can grow into severe inaccuracies. But I trusted my memory—it was a steel trap through the heights of mania and the pits of depression. Likewise, alcohol never took a single memory—even if later I wished it had.
The night aboard the sailboat had been different. I remembered the taste of more wine, the unsteadiness in my lower legs from the boat’s gentle rocking. I remembered darkness falling, and then afterward, nothing. It was as if my mind was a computer that someone had hacked to delete one specific file.
“Not often,” I answered, finally.
“You two were drinking?”
This again, I thought. “A little wine. A glass or two.” Not nearly enough to erase memories, or stop
them from forming. I pictured the cords of muscle in Paolo’s forearms as he twisted open the wine bottle, and then him casually dropping the corkscrew into his pocket.
His disappearance had to have happened while I was already out. My stomach sank with the idea. Or rather, with the nightmare I could barely let myself consider.
My hands were sweaty and I could feel my jaw working, grinding. I stared at the tabletop and felt like slamming my forehead against it.
Detective Mason squinted slightly. “You mentioned something to the police at the scene about talking about a previous boyfriend of yours?”
“Oh.” My eyebrows crunched; I was midsip with that second cup of coffee. I set the cup down. “Yeah, but that was silly. It was nothing. Not like a real argument.”
“Was Mr. Fererra upset?”
I couldn’t stop myself from rolling my eyes. “Maybe for a second. Really, it was not a big deal.”
“Were you upset?” Mason’s eyes narrowed further.
My fingertip found the little handcuff scar on my left wrist. There were no tears, yet; they were still down way below the surface, under the weight of all that forced concentration. “You’d be making something out of nothing if you called that an argument. It was nothing. Do you know what I mean? You can ask me again and again; it’s still going to be the same.”
A scribble. Another nod. “You’re taking some prescription medications. That you brought on board.”
I was ready for this one. “I am. Paolo never, ever would have taken my medications. We weren’t using them recreationally. He hardly drank. I mean, he works like …” I stumbled. “He worked a lot. He wasn’t like that.”
“The medication was for your bipolar diagnosis. Yes?”
A slap. “Yes. This was antianxiety medication. I’ve been diagnosed with Bipolar II.”
“Two? Can you explain that?”
How much to explain? “It means I never really go full manic. No days and days without sleep, no hallucinations. Just depressed. Then sometimes, what they call hypomanic. Revved up.”
“Out of control, you mean?”
I shook my head. “No.” I’d said enough.
“So, later, you just went to sleep?” he asked, affecting some confusion. “Revved up, but you fell asleep all right? You got used to being on the water?”
“I wasn’t revved up—hypomanic—that night. I haven’t been in months.”
He flipped over a page and went on to ask me about waking up and getting back to the dock. When we finished, Mason leaned and turned off the camera with a small sigh. His terrible cologne wafted toward me. “You know how to get in touch with me. We’ll let you know if there’s anything else.”
He shook my hand on the way out—his grip cool and tight, the grip of someone who wanted to be more than what they were.
* * *
I strode past Allie’s office toward the light-gray rectangles of the front door. Her voice called after me, but I kept walking, not slowing down. Outside, the sun had come up fully, and the lazy light from earlier had broken through the clouds, baking everything.
“What was all that?” I asked, not bothering to slow down. I didn’t know why exactly I was so surprised. A part of me knew I shouldn’t have been.
The psyche is no good with past, present, future. I was in junior year again. Allie was a freshman—never mind the new truth that we both had gray strands in our hair. I felt like a goalie left undefended. I rubbed my hands together, my body overcaffeinated. Anger, in that moment, tasted like powdered creamer. I squinted in the unyielding light, my eyes scanning the parking lot for the sleek red hood of my car. I couldn’t get away fast enough.
I was talking over my shoulder. “He questioned me like I’m a suspect! How did I not know I was, like, under suspicion or something?” I swiveled, and Allie was in front of me. “And how the fuck could anyone think that anyway?”
She was out of breath, eyes wet, holding her glasses. Regret for the way I was ranting swept through me, then it disappeared, like an ember floating off a fire. I didn’t know what I’d expected of her—to step in? Be my lawyer?
“Let’s talk in my office. Okay? Please.”
I could see my car out of the corner of my eye. I turned away from her, but my voice softened, just a bit. “Let’s talk out here.”
I knew she wasn’t the one I should be mad at.
We got in my car and closed the doors. I turned on the engine, and the white noise of air conditioning blew over our faces.
Allie looked past me toward the walkway, where a blue uniform moved toward the entrance. She’d pushed up the sleeves of her yellow sweater. “I can’t really sit out here for long. I’m sorry you got so caught off guard. Really. I was trying … If it means anything, I don’t think they’ll pursue it.”
Pursue it, I thought. They probably won’t pursue me. “Well, that’s good.”
I reminded myself she wasn’t a cop, exactly. And that the cops weren’t the enemy. They were being responsible, doing their jobs. Questioning me was not a personal attack.
But once the protective/aggressive part of the brain gets activated, it takes a while to start thinking clearly again. I let out a long exhale and held my hands over my hair like I was trying to keep my head from blowing up.
“Emily.”
“There’s nothing to pursue except finding Paolo.”
“I know. They just have to—” She shifted as though the seat were hot.
I held up my hands in surrender and spoke slowly. “I know you’re in the world’s worst position here.”
She looked appreciative of the recognition, that I’d gotten outside myself for a second. “He’s just being diligent. He’ll move on.” She touched my arm. “I’m sure.”
I was not so sure.
SIX
Over the next few days, I spoke four more times with Dolphin Necklace. When I was in my apartment, her voice sounded like it belonged to someone else—a different woman, someone who didn’t match her compact, tan body, or didn’t wear dolphin jewelry, or live in a southern state. Were the police there doing enough? I didn’t know. Anything less than what it took to find him would always be too little in my mind.
“We’re working to identify the other prescription bottles,” she said.
“No, no, there was just mine.”
She was quiet for a second, then explained, “We’ve verified yours. There were two other empty bottles in the Jeep’s center console that we’re working to identify. You said earlier you weren’t aware of Mr. Fererra taking any prescription medication?”
“I’m absolutely sure,” I told her, a bit too firmly, because suddenly, I wasn’t sure.
“Not to treat attention-deficit disorder?” She said the name of an ADHD drug.
“Nothing like that,” I said, wanting so badly to be truthful. But it wasn’t the truth. Not exactly. I flashed back to something he’d let slip. How long before? Months. He’d mentioned a yellow pill, and then said it was his lab mate’s. An intern. That they both took one to work into the night, and that it reminded him of the buzzing, racing productivity of cramming for tests as an undergrad. He’d hurried to cover it, and I’d let it go just as quickly as he twirled me around, playfully dipping me, us suddenly slow dancing in my kitchen. He told me how much they’d gotten done, how important the work was. I’d released the thought to wherever passing thoughts go—until just that moment, when recognition rushed back like a song I’d never wanted to hear again because it had once been irritatingly stuck in my head. It carried the annoying, childlike nausea of simultaneous guilt and misunderstanding.
After we hung up, I stared out the window. Had he been abusing medications and hiding it?
On the next call, the officer explained how Paolo’s right to privacy had expired as far as their department was concerned. They’d spoken with his friends, his coworkers. When she told me about being in communication with his family in Argentina, I felt an irrational embarrassment, as though I’d lost Paolo—their brot
her, their son—like a borrowed bracelet.
She explained that the police weren’t treating the case as a homicide because there wasn’t enough evidence. They’d gone through his bank records and mine. Everything matched what I’d told them, she said, though accusations curled in her southern voice like a tiny thorn.
I closed my eyes.
“We entered his name into a national database for missing persons,” she told me, “in case he pops up somewhere.” I hung on her words. I hated to acknowledge that this phrase ignited a crazed optimism in me—some nights afterward more vivid than others—as I imagined him reemerging somewhere: Oregon, Phoenix—with a hangover, a terrible story, and a heap of remorse. Those fantasies were all that sustained me.
I fell asleep for a few minutes, and the present rushed toward me insistently when I woke.
It was some day of the week, but which one seemed unimportant. Mom sat on the edge of my bed and pressed her fingertips together beneath her chin, as if praying I might accept the obvious and come to my senses.
“What are your plans tomorrow?” she asked.
“I have to drive to the lake,” I said. “There are some parts of the north side I want to look at.”
Mom sighed. She took her hand from my hair and rested it in her lap. “Em, what happened was an accident. A terrible, terrible accident. You’re torturing yourself. It’s not easy. Losing someone you love.”
“Mom, I …” I wasn’t sure how to be kind with what I wanted to say.
Her voice was soft and cautious. “Have you considered that you may be a little bit in denial?”
I wanted to shout that I was not in fucking denial, but how could I? Not just to the consensus-chorus, but especially to Mom—who seemed, horribly, to relate to what I was going through. To refute her take on what had happened would be to reject her most personal offer—to share in understanding the grief, to join the one-person club she’d started when my father died.
But I couldn’t accept it.
I took her hands between mine. “I want so bad for you to trust me.”
Her expression, just at that moment, I’ll never forget—resignation, disappointment, the temptation to give up. She smoothed the fronts of her jeans and went to the doorway, where she paused and looked over her shoulder at me, wordlessly, before leaving.
