It Was Always You

by Sarah K Stephens

  “Nothing on my end either,” Annie concurs. She looks thoughtful for a moment. “Aren’t there back issues that we can look through?”

  Before I can protest that this wouldn’t be helpful in finding info on the crash, she holds her hand up and continues, “Not for what happened to you and Justin, but just to find information about his family. Especially in the local paper—they post info about graduations, local competitions, sports games. There’s bound to be something about Justin’s family. If we can find out names, we can narrow down who they are from the white page searches online.”

  It takes a moment for what Annie is suggesting to click into place.

  “I know where to go,” I say.

  Annie feeds me another bite of chocolate, and the taste floods my mouth.

  23

  The next day finds me on YSU’s campus for the first time since the accident, while Annie stays back at my apartment, trying to catch up on some work related to her upcoming exhibition. This morning I had an e-mail waiting for me from my Department Head, explaining that my class would be covered for today, which was a relief given everything else I’m trying to sort out.

  Walking across campus feels surreal, and it’s strange to me that the familiar landmarks all look the same. Part of me wants to call out, demand an explanation for why people are buying coffee and going to class when my entire life has turned inside out.

  Another larger part of me already knows that indifference is the world’s status quo.

  At least the meeting with Dana had gone well this morning. Annie and I had driven to her office, which sits next door to the rescue mission shelter in downtown Youngstown, just a few minutes from campus. Inside her beige office that smelled faintly of Murphy’s oil soap and the rotting wood of the old Victorian house that had been transformed into offices decades ago, Dana was matter-of-fact. She’d take my case, she told me, but she had a few conditions. Her dark hair was pulled back into a sleek bun at the nape of her neck, and it wobbled back and forth when she shook her head from side to side, as if she were recalling all the clients before me who’d disappointed her.

  “I haven’t served as defense counsel in a criminal case for a few years now,” she’d said. “But you and I know each other well, and I know you can follow instructions.” She cast a shrewd glance at both of us. “When you want to, that is.”

  Annie and I had both been in family court with Dana enough times to understand that she was basically a bulldozer who set a path and went for it. As long as you stayed behind her, you’d be fine. That’s how she’d managed to emancipate me legally from my mother—termination of parental rights, in fact—despite all bureaucratic red tape to the contrary. It’s also how she’d managed to keep Annie and I together at the group home for so many years, instead of having one of us cast off into the abyss of foster care again when beds became scarce.

  The air outside is warmer than usual for December, and the sun actually makes an appearance as I walk past DeBartolo Hall and head further into campus. I’m not going into my office today. I can’t bear the kind faces and probing questions of my colleagues. There’s too much of my old normal waiting for me at my desk, and so instead I’m heading to a place less familiar.

  I pull the collar up on my coat and silently wish I’d worn a hat today. Despite the sun, a bitter wind still manages to work its way through the trees growing in the center of campus.

  “Here’s what you need to do,” Dana had said towards the end of our meeting, after I’d explained everything that I knew about Justin, me, the accident, and the two detectives. “You do not—I repeat, do not—speak to the police unless I am present. If they try to ambush you again, you call me straightaway. Secondly, you need to avoid the press. It’s not likely unless you’re actually charged, but there’s the possibility of them catching wind of this case and coming down hard on you if it’s made known that you’re a suspect.”

  Dana had taken a pause to take a sip of water from the Nalgene water bottle sitting in pride of place on her desk. Despite all the years I’d known her, she still looked like an ambiguous thirty-something. Her caramel skin was pristinely smooth, her eyes a vibrant golden brown, and it seemed obvious that she still ran marathons in her spare time given her compact and toned figure.

  The woman is a powerhouse.

  “Finally, you need to refrain from undertaking your own investigation. We don’t need you getting into trouble because you’re trying to beat the police to the punchline.” Dana had leveled her gaze at me then, locking her eyes onto mine. “Do you understand?”

  Over the years, Dana had come face-to-face with the initiative Annie and I both possessed when it involved making our lives a little less PBS-after-school-special. The wheels of justice and child welfare turn at a glacial pace, and so Annie and I had often tried to extract signatures, paperwork transfers, or guardian ad litem assignments ourselves. That is, until Dana made it clear we were only gumming up an already disabled system.

  “Yes,” Annie and I said in unison. It wasn’t the first time we’d lied to Dana, despite all our best intentions.

  Dana had given both of us an almost imperceptible nod, and had dismissed us with an, “I’ll be in touch,” followed by a repeated command: “Remember, don’t talk to the cops without me.”

  By now I’ve made it to Maag Library, which sits on YSU’s campus like an ode to 1960s architecture. A tall tower of a building with floor-to-ceiling glass windows interspersed with aquamarine paneling, it was admittedly an ugly addition to campus, although I still love it. It’s a library, after all. YSU’s collection of books is pretty phenomenal, ranging from precious historical pieces to the most up-to-date best sellers. Today, though, I’m not interested in the stacks holding shelf after shelf of books. I’m heading to the basement, where the microfiche machines can still be found.

  The online archives of the Town Crier are practically nonexistent, but a quick search on Maag Library’s site revealed that they carry decades’ worth of microfiche for the Town Criers of all the surrounding suburbs of Youngstown. The librarian working the basement information desk is an elderly man in a burgundy sweater vest and fragile-looking bifocal glasses. When I ask for film of the last ten years of the Canfield Town Criers, he smiles. Scanning the basement level of the library, I’m the only person on this floor besides my friendly librarian. I’d bet my lunch most of my students don’t even know what microfiche is.

  The librarian returns with a wood box housing the microfilms and asks if I need help using the machine. Although I wince a bit as I take the box from him, the pain in my ribs duller than it was in the hospital but still an active reminder that my body is less than healthy, I shake my head in response to his question. I do not. Back when I was an undergraduate student here, I found myself regularly seeking out ancient research articles that seemed to be available only on microfiche.

  As I load up the film, I decide to start with the present and work my way back, scanning for any reference to Justin or a McBride family that might fit the little I know about them. Justin’s an only child, so references to siblings would rule them out. His mother and father are still married, so divorce filings wouldn’t be relevant either.

  And that’s all I know, aside from their home being in Canfield.

  I’ve approached today with a clinical precision. I have a to-do list, ready to check off each of the boxes as I complete the task. When everything else is chaos, a detailed checklist can make or break you.

  Meet with my lawyer. Check.

  Find the microfiche. Check.

  Look for Justin’s family. Working on it.

  But as I scan through the happy headlines of prom kings and queens, newly engaged couples, weddings, birth announcements, and high school sports teams winning some regional or state championship, the truth of my situation coils itself around my body like a snake.

  Life hacks are for ripening avocados and decluttering your kitchen. Not dead boyfriends and police investigations. And, however much I don
’t want to admit it, Justin’s made me partner in his own self-destruction. It puts everything between us under suspicion, because how could you love someone and at the same time try to harm them?

  My mother used to say she loved me. Between the booze and the men and the fits. And calling me the devil.

  I’m nearing the end of the stack of microfiche by the time my eyes scan over an image where a face strikes me as familiar. It’s Justin, much younger but still as handsome, standing in a cap and gown with a man next to him. The headline reads “Canfield High School Graduation Ceremony 2006.” I work the wheel of the machine to zoom in on the caption, which reads: “Ronald McBride stands next to his son, Justin, at the annual Canfield High School Graduation ceremony held this past Saturday, June 3, at the High School stadium. Justin McBride graduated as salutatorian for the class of 2005–2006.”

  A lump grows in my throat as I stare at Justin standing next to his father, both of them looking so happy and healthy in the bright sunshine of early summer. Still, I manage to take out my phone and take a picture of the photograph and caption, and text it to Annie. My message to her is more confident than I feel.

  Found them, I write.

  On my way back to the kind librarian with his delicate glasses, I manage to stumble only twice as I try to steady myself.

  24

  Walking back to my apartment brings me to the steps of Tod Hall and, not quite ready to face Justin’s parents, I find myself opening the door and climbing the stairs once again to the anthropology department. Nothing much has changed in the days that have passed, and the plastic taping remains at the end of the hallway, although the signs announcing fresh paint have been removed. At first I think I might stop by the graduate student office again, in the hope of finding someone besides the redheaded girl I spoke to last week. Searching through the archives of Justin’s hometown has left me feeling ripped open, and the knowledge that I barely knew anything about him stings like a fresh wound rinsed with salt.

  In the ill-lit hallway, I pass by the door marked Professor Joseph Farak. And stop. It’s a safer place to start, I think. The glaring “Mom” filling the void of the car just before impact—I know it won’t be easy to talk to Justin’s mother.

  I knock on the door to Professor Farak’s office, and the sound echoes down the lonely hallway. There’s no light on behind the door, and after another round of knocking I turn around and set my sights on the grad student office. As I turn, though, I almost trip over a small man wearing a grey suit jacket, a full beard streaked with grey, and a tonsure of similarly grey hair cropped close to his scalp. He’s at least six inches shorter than me.

  Instinctively I offer an apology and notice, thankfully, that I haven’t dislodged the mug of coffee the man is carrying in his right hand.

  “It’s no problem at all,” he offers, his blue eyes twinkling until they take me in. Annie spent a long time this morning applying makeup to make my face look relatively normal before we went to our meeting with Dana, but my cheeks still burn under his scrutiny. Professor Farak’s voice has a soft lilt to it that I can’t place. It sounds vaguely South Asian, but I’m not sure. “I was just out for a coffee break.”

  “I’m looking for Professor Farak,” I say, wanting to explain why I’m hanging around in this deserted section of campus.

  “Well, you’re in luck,” the man says, as he moves past me and unlocks his office door. “That’s me.”

  He sweeps his arm forward as a means of ushering me in, and I find myself inside an airy office with beautiful oak bookshelves, a pristine desk with a closed laptop at the center of it, and two ancient wooden chairs opposite the desk. The office certainly doesn’t look like it’s been under construction as Justin had claimed, and the heartache I felt coming into the building starts to build into something else. Beads of sweat break out at the base of my neck.

  I take a seat in one of the chairs and rush in to explain why I’m here.

  “I’m a professor in psychology,” I explain. “A student of yours has been attending some of my classes.” At this, Professor Farak looks up intently. He’s seated himself in his office chair on the opposite side of the desk, his coffee cup set in the exact center of a coaster to the right of his computer.

  “You must be speaking of Brady,” he says.` “She’s the only undergraduate I’m working with currently.”

  I’m not sure at this point if Professor Farak knows that Justin is dead, and because I don’t want to blindside him I decide to avoid the topic and just focus on Justin’s work with him.

  “No, not Brady. The student I’m thinking of is a graduate student. His name’s Justin. Justin McBride.”

  There’s a pause, and I watch as Professor Farak furrows his brow. “You’re speaking of an undergraduate student, I’m assuming? Unfortunately, I don’t know the names of all my students.”

  “No, not an undergraduate student. Justin was a graduate student of yours.”

  “Was?” Professor Farak chimes in, picking up on my slip.

  “I mean, he was this semester, I believe—but he’s been killed in a car accident.” I say the last few words quietly, with as much self-control as I can muster. “I wanted to stop by and offer my condolences.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” the man says. He’d been reaching for his coffee mug just before I mentioned this piece of information, and now he sets his arm down limply on his desk. “But, as I said, I don’t know this Justin McBride. Perhaps he worked with a different professor?”

  Professor Farak is still sitting, willing to speak with me for as long as I want to, it seems, but I’m desperate now to get as far away from this kind man as possible. I stand up too quickly, and my vision swims with bursts of white fireworks. I sway a little, and then feel the man’s small hands gently grip around my arm and keep me upright.

  “Are you alright?” he asks, and I’m able to focus my eyes again and take in the look of concern on his face.

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine. I just forgot to eat breakfast this morning.” Which is not true at all—Annie plied me with scrambled eggs and French toast, claiming I was wasting away and needed to keep my energy up—but it is the most believable excuse I can muster.

  “Would you like to sit for a bit longer? I have some cookies in a tin—here.” Professor Farak retreats back to his desk and starts rummaging around in one of the drawers.

  “Really, I’m fine,” I say, and make a meager attempt at a smile. “I’ll head over to Kilcawley Center now and grab a bite to eat. Thank you so much for your time.”

  I rush out the door, not even waiting to hear his goodbye or well wishes. Despite my disorientation earlier, I take the stairs two at a time and soon find myself outside again in the fresh air. I breathe in huge gulps until I feel my body relaxing, even as my mind twists itself around the hard fact I’ve just confirmed.

  Justin was a fraud.

  I pull out my phone to call Annie, but as I’m about to dial a notification appears.

  Text from Justin: What are you hoping to find?

  I stare at the screen for a long time, trying to process what this might mean. When a second text appears on the screen, I take off running, ignoring the pain streaking through my body. Towards home. Towards Annie.

  What are you waiting for? it read.

  Speak of the devil, my mother’s voice says from the dumpster fire of my memory.

  25

  Two hours later, Annie and I are in the car again, driving down Route 11 to Canfield, which sits just at the southwest corner of Youngstown city proper. We are going to talk to Justin’s parents.

  It only took a few minutes searching online to find their address and phone number, once we had a first name to narrow down the McBrides that came up in our search. Jean and Ronald McBride, residents of 2957 Palmyra Road.

  After I’d told her about the two texts from Justin’s phone, Annie wanted to scrap the entire plan, until I explained to her that this was the best way to figure out whether Justin’s mom had
any part in the accident, or the messages I was getting.

  Rather than go as Justin’s ex-girlfriend, Annie and I decided to play the part of reporters investigating the accident. I couldn’t guarantee that Justin’s parents didn’t know what I looked like, but this option seemed more likely to get us the info we wanted rather than us showing up at their door as the injured girlfriend and her sidekick. We’re dressed up like the door-stepping reporters you see on TV in those police procedurals. When I looked in the mirror in my apartment, my subconscious must have been playing tricks, because my outfit was a dead ringer for Detective Miller’s. White button down, black pants, black leather-ish jacket. At least my purse was a brown messenger bag instead of Miller’s pink gorgon. I pulled my hair back in a tight bun, grabbed a notepad and pencil—Miller 2.0—and we were off.

  Neither of us wants to listen to music on the way over to the McBride house, and after I try to check in with Annie about her exhibition work, which she brushes off by assuring me everything’s fine, we both just sit and keep our thoughts to ourselves.

  It’s only a twenty-minute drive from my apartment to the McBride house, and as we pull off Route 11 at the corner with an Arby’s restaurant and a BP station, my phone vibrates. Annie and I both flinch—each of us expecting another text from Justin’s phone—but it’s just a notification from one of my apps that it’s been updated.

  Soon we’re pulling into the McBride’s driveway. The house is all gingerbread and sunshine—a split level with a large picture window and huge pine trees littered through the yard. Christmas lights are already hung around the bushes in front, and when we walk up the sidewalk to the front porch, we’re greeted by a wreath on the front door with a wooden snowman holding a cardinal bird and a sign that reads: Snow Days Are My Favorite.

  Jean McBride answers the door almost as soon as we knock, as if she were standing behind the curtains of the huge front window waiting for visitors, and when she opens the door, the smell of baking sugar and butter wafts over us. Jealousy sparks inside me, because Justin had all of this once.