“I love you, too.” She put the phone down and dashed up the stairs to see the dog next to her bed. He had knocked over her Saint Anthony altar and was crouched down, his head under his paw, looking guilty, which made her laugh. She picked up the broken plastic saint from the floor. “Hey. My Saint Anthony.”
The dog’s ears perked up.
“Anthony? Saint Anthony?”
He cocked his head, which made Jesse laugh again.
“Should I call you Saint Anthony?”
FOUR ASPIRIN AND THREE cups of coffee later, Jesse wandered into the dining room, dressed in old gray sweats and a white long-sleeved L.L. Bean T-shirt of Cooper’s she’d never returned. Saint Anthony, her new shadow, followed her. She petted him, and he settled himself on the rug.
The long pine dining room table had become another catchall. It was covered with more piles of her finds: losing lottery tickets, black-and-white Polaroid photos from the sixties, scraps of clothing, and plastic pieces of toys. Months of stuff she’d yet to log in. She had created a database on her computer similar to the one she’d set up at Blue’s, where she logged the used books. Where and when she’d found the items, what their possible connection to Sophie could be—she analyzed and tallied everything, making comparisons and suppositions.
Early on, Jesse had shown her finds to several police officers, private detectives, and Cooper. They’d all just looked at her funny and shook their heads at the crazy grief-stricken woman hoarding junk. From then on, she’d kept them to herself to figure out on her own.
Lately, though, her database had become cumbersome and was hard to keep up with. She had started to fiddle with the finds on her dining room table and had begun making visual calendar-like boards by gluing bits and pieces of the finds in squares, each square representing a day of the month. She didn’t need the writing anymore. Jesse repeated patterns and themes, moving the pieces around, making arrangements. On one, small strips of stained material that could have been either blood or ketchup from a white sailor’s shirt, girls’ size six, that she’d found on a hiking trail lay next to one another in rows like a line of little girls, all standing tall.
She let her finger run over the pieces of fabric, up and down, one strip at a time, and suddenly, Jesse was back sitting on the couch with Sophie on her lap, taking turns reading aloud from Sophie’s favorite book, Madeline.
When Sophie was six, she went through a three-month phase where she spoke only in made-up French with a made-up French accent and answered only to Madeline. “Mademoiselle Mom, pass the cereal, s’il vous plaît.”
Star had played along with her and was relegated to being Miss Clavel, the tall headmistress who was always shouting, “Girls!”
It was cute at first, but like the other things Sophie hyper-focused on, after a while, it became exhausting. She had demanded that her parents play a role in the French charade, all the time, too. They would go along with it for a while, but both Cooper and Jesse would forget or get tired of the game, which was not Sophie’s plan. Shouting and tantrums ensued. It never ended well. Around that time, kids in her class had stopped inviting Sophie to birthday parties and sleepovers. Except for Star, other kids thought she was weird and just gave up trying to relate to the girl whose face was perpetually hidden behind binoculars.
The dog lifted his head and barked at something outside, pulling Jesse out of her memory. She looked back down at August’s pile of junk, which was spilling over onto September’s. She got to work and pulled out a large piece of trapezoid-shaped plywood. She quickly took materials from the pile: one shoelace, corduroy fabric, a New York City subway map, old photos, rusted wire, and a grocery list that included eggs, milk, bread, and mousetraps. She began to lay out the scraps in a different way. No squares for days. No structure. She was deconstructing the finds, working quickly, thinking less. Weaving the items together. Tearing pieces by hand. Gluing them. Collaging. Then she shellacked over the piece. It was satisfying. A calming way to keep her hands busy. And it gave her a feeling of accomplishment.
She stepped back and looked at the piece she had created. It bore no resemblance to the earlier visual calendars and was certainly far removed from her chart-like database, but the result felt just as urgent. Just as important. Maybe more so. It was dark: blues and blacks with large textured shapes, with parallel strips of fabric and bits of maps here and there. It felt strong. It was evocative and, to some, might suggest a story. The process felt intuitive. Organic. It felt right. Who needs therapy? Screw Lila.
Chapter Eight
With Saint Anthony beside her in the pickup, Jesse stopped on Main Street in front of Canaan Hardware. She took a handful of flyers out of a box in the bed of her truck and walked into the shop. The owner, Bert, a gray-haired man wearing his signature red suspenders, was standing behind the counter. He was having a friendly conversation with Martha, a nurse from the elementary school. They were laughing. Jesse heard the words “cat got out” and “broken screen door” amid their chuckles. She walked up to the counter, holding one of the flyers. Last year’s missing person poster was in the front window of the store, obscured by Weber grills, bags of charcoal, and birdseed. That flyer was almost identical to the new one in Jesse’s hand, except the sixteen-year-old version of Sophie had a different hairstyle than last year’s. A few store owners still had the poster prominently displayed, but Jesse noticed that many seemed to have grown tired of the whole affair and had taken it down.
“Hey, Bert. Hi, Martha. Sorry to interrupt. Mind if I put this new flyer in your window?”
He didn’t make eye contact with Jesse. Many of the locals didn’t anymore. And Martha just looked uncomfortable.
“I guess so.” Bert held his hand out, and Jesse gave him one, but she had a feeling it wouldn’t make it into the window. As she walked out the door, she heard them whisper, “Five years.”
“No, six.”
“When’s she going to let it go?”
“Fucking idiots,” she mumbled under her breath. They were parents. They both had children. She sucked it up and went into the other shops on the street, handing out the new flyer. Some locals were pleasant and sympathetic, wanting to chat with Jesse. But others just looked uneasy, as if they picked up Jesse’s discomfort.
Back in her truck, she turned off Main onto Church Street and pulled into the parking lot of Blue’s Book Barn. It was a creakynineteenth-century barn painted an eye-catching yellow with purple trim.
Inside was homey and welcoming: reading nooks with overstuffed chairs, used books spilling off the shelves and onto the floor and side tables, and free cookies and coffee for customers. “Blue’s Picks,” brief synopses of recommended titles, were handwritten on index cards and thumb-tacked around the shop under his chosen books. The Barn was a quaint throwback to a time when people browsed in an actual store, lingering over print on paper, instead of frantically texting, tweeting, and downloading onto pads and pods.
Blue had made a killing with a start-up technology company during the early dot-com days and got out at the right time. That was the only reason he could afford to run a used bookstore that never made money. Jesse, on the other hand, had been a struggling artist in New York during those years, working a day job as an office assistant for a nonprofit arts organization. She’d known nothing of computers or IPOs back then. She’d lived in the top floor of a walk-up above a funeral home, using the bedroom as her painting studio since that room had the best light. She’d met Cooper at CBGB’s the night Puffed Gorilla played there for the first and last time. And although the band really wasn’t any good, Jesse was smitten with the lead singer, and he was taken with her beauty. Cooper bought her a drink after his set, and from then on, they were a couple.
Now Jesse went about her morning ritual, flipping over the Open sign on the double-wide door, turning on lights, and making coffee. Then she headed to her hideout, the cramped back office, and the dog followed. There were two old walnut desks, Blue’s and hers, both with clunky desktop co
mputers. A pink Post-it stuck to her monitor said, Professor Pollen stopped in again asking for you. I told him you moved to Alaska, but he didn’t buy it. Blue had drawn a funny little man wearing round eyeglasses and a bowtie with little hearts circling his head. Smiling, she added it to the others he’d left before. It reminded her of when Cooper used to leave her notes around their apartment, little love poems stuck to the fridge with a magnet or sexy messages on her pillow. So sweet and unexpected.
She went back to the books. They were everywhere. Stacks on each desk waited to be catalogued, stacks on chairs waited to be shelved, and stacks in boxes on the floor waited to be put outside in front on the Free table. Jesse arranged a blanket on the floor next to her desk, and Saint Anthony circled then settled in on it.
She picked up a book from a stack to be logged in, turned it upside down, ruffled the pages, and gave it a shake. A few flattened rose petals drifted to the floor. She picked one up and brought it to her nose. Surprisingly, it still carried a faintly sweet scent. She flipped through the rest of the books and found a few more left-behind notes, which she set aside: someone’s to-do list and the start of a Dear John letter. Then she began to log the books into the database.
The Barn had fewer and fewer customers since most people preferred to buy books online or download them onto their e-readers. Bound books printed on actual paper were becoming extinct. They were Jesse’s pleasure, though. The smell and feel of a real book were part of her lifeblood. She would never understand ebooks, although the lack of customers actually suited her. She huddled in the back office, speaking to as few people as possible.
When she was shelving, she allowed herself to pluck random books off the shelves and skim, slipping into other worlds for a few brief moments. With minimal people contact and a flexible schedule, the job was perfect for her. And, of course, there were her finds. They were an added bonus.
Hearing the ting-a-ling of the front doorbell, Jesse leaned over in her chair to get a look at the person entering and was astonished to see that it was Star Silverman. Even though Blue had warned Jesse that Star was going to be working, seeing Star up close was a shock. Her heartbeat quickened, and her hands actually began to shake. Usually, when Star came to the Barn looking for her dad, Jesse ducked into her office to avoid any contact or slipped out for a cigarette until she saw Star leave. As the girl got older, she came less and less.
Jesse quietly went over to the Local Authors section, where she stood hidden behind the stacks, watching. Star was dressed in ripped jeans and a long-sleeved black thermal shirt, the kind that looked like long underwear. Her stringy hair, parted in the middle, hung down, obscuring much of her face. A darkness hovered about the girl.
She sat on the high stool behind the cash register, “working” at the front counter, although the word hardly applied. She busied herself texting, her thumbs flying over the tiny keypad of her cell phone, while listening to something via her earbuds. She ignored a female customer who walked in. When she finally glanced up and noticed the customer who had asked her a question, Star plucked the tiny plugs out of her ears and shuffled toward the stacks in mannish construction boots.
Star stopped at Women’s Health, looking up and down the shelves. She sighed then mumbled to herself, “How are you supposed to find anything here?”
Jesse caught a strong whiff of Star’s scent—stale cigarettes mingled with coffee and something else... antiseptic, like rubbing alcohol.
As Star pulled a hardcover from the shelf, Jesse noticed a greenish-black barbed-wire tattoo that went around the girl’s left wrist, a drop of tattooed blood at her pulse. The sleeve of Star’s shirt slid up, and Jesse also saw what, at first, she thought was another tattoo peeking out on the same arm. But on second glance, the color and texture made Jesse realize it was a dried bloody scab from a cut. The cut was about an inch long and went perpendicular to the tattoo, a few inches above it. Jesse didn’t want to think about it. She’d thought she could handle it, but seeing Star made her feel sick. She was definitely not the same girl Jesse and Sophie used to bake cookies with. Star clomped to the front of the shop, handing the book to the customer. Maybe Jesse could put in her hours and not have to deal with Star. Maybe the girl would be so absorbed in her music, she would never even realize Jesse was in the back office. But then again, maybe better to slip out and avoid her altogether.
Just as Jesse turned to sneak out of the shop, Saint Anthony barked. Star looked up and saw them both.
“Why are you creeping around back there? Are you spying on me?”
“What? No. I was looking for something. A book.” Jesse grabbed a random book off the shelf and waved it in the air.
“I thought you weren’t working today,” Star said.
“No, today is my regular day. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Well, I’m here.”
Saint Anthony whined. Jesse looked down and petted him. “What is it, boy?” She wished he could speak. He gave a woof, loud and deep. Star got off her stool and walked over to look at him, giving Jesse a closer view of the girl. She was very pale, and it made Jesse wonder if she’d been out partying all night.
“What’s that?” Star asked, nodding toward Saint Anthony.
“A dog,” Jesse said.
“Duh.”
“You asked.” Jesse took a breath then said tentatively, “Star, are you okay? You look terrible.”
“Thanks a lot.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s all you have to say to me after all this time?”
“No. I’m glad to see you,” Jesse said, but it sounded unconvincing. She’d hurt the girl by the way she’d abandoned her. But Jesse had hardly been in a position to nurture herself, let alone others, back then. “How’ve you been?”
“Oh, just great.”
“It’s just that, well, I’m concerned. Are you feeling okay?”
“You must be kidding, right? You’re concerned about me? That’s a laugh.” Star turned away self-consciously.
Jesse wanted to put her hand on Star’s forehead to feel for a fever. She should call Beth and tell her that her daughter looked sick, or maybe she was on drugs. Then Jesse heard that overriding voice in her head that said, Don’t get involved.
“I doubt my dad would appreciate a dog in here.”
“He’s friendly.”
“Whatever.” Star walked back over to her stool and slumped into it. “By the way, you look like shit, too.” Then she put her earbuds back in, tuning out the world.
Jesse headed to her office but turned back to see Star at the front counter, holding her head up with her hands as if it were the heaviest thing in the world. What was most upsetting was that it was like looking in a mirror, seeing her own pain reflected in the girl’s face.
Chapter Nine
“Saint Anthony, come,” Jesse shouted, her voice high-pitched and happy, as if she were talking to a child. The dog trotted over, his tail swishing about gracefully like a paintbrush. Her sleep had been surprisingly restful with him curled at the foot of her bed. It felt good to wake clear-headed and hangover free.
She rubbed the brown dog’s ear between her fingers and let herself enjoy the new companionship. She smiled at him. Scratching his chin where he’d begun to go gray, she guessed he was somewhere in his middle years. Maybe five or six.
She could take him for a walk behind her house, up to the Norton meadow. He would like that. She rubbed his chest in circles and found herself thinking about that detective again. Barnes. His steadiness. His calm manner that she found both off-putting and attractive. She thought about the article he had given her and got up to retrieve it from the kitchen drawer.
She looked at the photo of April then unfolded the Xerox copy of a newspaper article from the New York Post.
Parsippany, N.J. Teen Missing Since Monday: Parsippany authorities are searching for a missing teen, April Johnson, 17, last seen leaving her home on October 5. The girl is described as five feet tall, weighing 98 pounds, with long
blond hair. She was wearing blue jeans, a white top and red hoodie, and she has a distinctive high-pitched voice that many thought sounded like a little girl’s.
Jesse reread the last sentence three times. She took another long look at the photo. If April had dyed and cut her hair, maybe, perhaps, she was the girl Jesse had followed from the Zone the other day. The one who’d sounded like Minnie Mouse. And there was still something else that had drawn her to that girl. A sadness. A secret.
The article went on to quote the girl’s mother: “I know April. She’s not a runaway. I’m afraid for her.”
Jesse remembered saying those same words about Sophie.
A private detective hired by the family, Kentucky Marcus Barnes of Parsippany, said they are checking out all leads and have no evidence of foul play. Her family, however, fears this is a kidnapping.
A familiar pain jabbed her chest, and she pressed her hand there. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. When the sensation had first occurred years ago, she’d thought she was having a heart attack. She’d come to understand it was anxiety, and she’d learned to breathe into it until it subsided. If all else failed, she popped a Xanax.
She imagined calling April’s parents. “I saw your daughter. Well, maybe, possibly, I saw her. I have no idea where she is now, but if it was her, she is alive.” That was all Jesse longed for someone to say to her. She’s alive. And, oh yeah. It wasn’t your fault.
Then the scolding, guilt-inducing voice that haunted her piped up. Who are you kidding? Gone. Missing. Vanished. Totally, one hundred percent your fault.
JESSE DROVE TO THE Book Barn with the dog for her Saturday morning shift. After opening the place up and turning on lights, she made the coffee. Then Star entered, looking no healthier than she had the day before. The girl slunk into her seat at the front desk without making eye contact.
Sophie Last Seen Page 7
