by Julie Clark
Once I was in, I dialed Petra’s number again, imagining the relief I’d feel to hear her voice. To see her standing on Eva’s front porch, hired car idling at the curb, ready to lift me out of this nightmare and deposit me somewhere safe. A fancy hotel in San Francisco where we’d order room service and wait for Nico’s guy to make a new set of documents for me.
But the call ended again with the three tones. No longer in service. I tried a few variations, transposing numbers, swapping different ones in. I reached a deli, an older woman who spoke only Spanish, and a preschool before I gave up. Nico’s words floated back to me: You can never go back. Not once. Not in any way, ever.
I look out the coffee shop window and watch Berkeley come to life. A small trickle of people enter, order, and leave again, the morning rush aligned with a college town’s later start. By six thirty, it’s empty again, my coffee nearly gone.
The barista comes out from behind the counter and begins wiping down the table next to me. “You from out of town?” she asks.
I freeze, unsure how to answer, afraid that I’ve somehow been recognized. But she keeps talking a steady stream, giving me time to catch up. “I know just about everyone who comes in here—if not by name, then by face. But you’re new.”
“I’m just passing through,” I say, gathering my things and preparing to leave.
She gives the table one last swipe and looks at me. “No need to go,” she says. “Take your time.” Then she moves behind the counter and starts a fresh batch of coffee. I lean back in my chair and watch the light at the intersection blink from red to green and back again.
Around seven thirty, the shop grows crowded and I leave. The girl behind the counter gives me a wave and a smile as I exit, and I return it, feeling a tiny tendril of pleasure wrap around me.
* * *
I decide to push myself out into the world and go for a walk, knowing I can’t hide forever. So instead of heading back to Eva’s, I turn west on Hearst Avenue and trace the northernmost perimeter of campus, marveling at the giant redwood trees that stand, thick among the buildings and grassy expanses. When I hit the western edge of campus, I turn south, and circle back east again, this time on the south side. This is the Berkeley you see on television and read about in books. A drum circle has positioned themselves outside the student union, and people swarm past them, on their way to class or their offices, heads down in the brisk morning air. As I make my way up the hill toward the old stone stadium, I turn and look west, a sharp wind cutting through my thin sleeves. I shiver, staring at the white expanse of San Francisco, the gray water contrasting with the deep greens and golds of the hills to the north, the Golden Gate Bridge a dusty-orange silhouette. Somewhere out there is the convent where Eva grew up. An entire childhood lived and lost among the buildings that seem to shimmer in the distance.
As I cut across campus, I imagine what it would be like to be a student here, one of the many people hurrying to class, and try to picture Eva among them. I slow down as I approach a bridge that traverses a small stream and lean against the railing, looking down into the swirling water making its way downhill toward the ocean. Above me, the breeze whispers through the tall trees, a quiet rush that makes my thoughts slow. I can’t imagine ever wanting to leave a place like this.
I push off the railing and continue my walk back to Eva’s, past the coffee shop, where the barista is still working the morning shift, and past several other closed businesses—a used bookstore, a hair salon—until I’m back in Eva’s neighborhood again. My breath comes faster as I make my way up the winding hill, past apartment buildings and small houses and duplexes similar to Eva’s. I peer into them as I pass—a woman sitting at her dining room table, feeding a baby in a high chair. A messy-haired college student, eyes puffy and barely awake, staring out his kitchen window.
As I round the corner onto Eva’s street, I collide with a man walking toward me. He grabs my arm to keep me from falling. “Sorry,” he says. “Are you okay?”
He has dark hair, with a few flecks of early gray, but he doesn’t look much older than me. Sunglasses cover his eyes, and he wears a long coat, with a flash of color under it. Dark pants, dark shoes.
“I’m fine,” I say, and I look beyond him, up Eva’s street, wondering where he came from, whether he’s a neighbor of Eva’s.
“Beautiful morning for a coffee and a walk,” he says.
I give him a tight smile and step around him, feeling his gaze press against my back until the street curves and I’m out from under it.
It isn’t until I’ve closed and locked the door behind me that it registers. How would he know I’d just been for a coffee and a walk? I feel a heavy thump of apprehension pass through me, a low tremor that leaves me even more unsettled and on edge.
* * *
Back in front of my computer, I check Rory’s email and see a new one from the NTSB that he forwarded to Danielle. A request for a DNA sample and my dental records. His directions are short and to the point: Handle this.
I look toward the window, bright morning light flooding through it. If they’re recovering bodies, it’s only a matter of time before they figure out I’m not there. And that someone who isn’t supposed to be is.
I toggle over to the Doc in time to catch the tail end of a conversation between Rory and Bruce, and I have to scroll up to find the beginning. But it’s not about the body recovery like I expected. It’s about an email that arrived late last night from someone named Charlie.
I can practically hear Rory’s sharp tone, the clipped words of his directions.
Rory Cook:
This was dealt with years ago, with cash. You need to remind Charlie what coming forward will cost.
Charlie? The only Charlie I can think of is Charlie Flanagan, a senior accountant with the foundation who retired two years ago. I read the rest of their conversation, noticing Rory’s words agitating upward, Bruce’s becoming placating and conciliatory. But it’s Rory’s final comment that puzzles me the most, because buried inside his usual bullying tone is a flash of vulnerability.
Rory Cook:
I cannot afford for this to come out now. I don’t care how you deal with it. Or how much it’ll cost me. Just fix it.
I do a search of Rory’s inbox for any emails from Charlie. There are many, but not the one Rory and Bruce are discussing, and nothing recent. And as far as I can tell, every one of Charlie’s emails have at least two other foundation personnel cc’d on them.
I plug in the thumb drive and search there, but all that comes up is the standard nondisclosure agreement all employees sign. So I organize the folder containing the thousands of documents I copied from his computer alphabetically, focusing on the C’s and F’s. The only thing that would have Rory scrambling like this is if Charlie knows about some kind of financial misstep or fabrication that might derail Rory’s run for office. Information showing that the golden child of Marjorie Cook isn’t so golden after all. It’s why I copied the hard drive in the first place. Like a bear in the woods, you don’t have to see one to know it’s there.
But most of what I’m reading is unrelated. Memos about new tax laws. Quarterly reports. Occasionally, my name crops up in strategy notes. Claire might be better here, one says, in reference to an opening of a downtown art gallery. I click through documents, one by one, but it’s all junk, useless noise, like looking through someone’s garbage.
After an hour, I give up. Whatever Charlie knows that has Rory spooked, I’m not going to find the answers so easily. For now, I have to be satisfied with watching. Waiting for them to say more.
Eva
Berkeley, California
September
Five Months before the Crash
“Put on your shoes,” Liz said one sunny Saturday in late September. “I’m taking you to a baseball game.”
Eva and her neighbor attend a baseball game. “Basebal
l?” Eva asked.
Liz said, “Not just baseball. The Giants. At home.”
“We live in the east bay. Shouldn’t we be going to an A’s game?”
Liz shrugged. “My department chair has season tickets. She invited a few of us, and I asked if I could bring a friend.”
In the three weeks since Eva had been on hiatus, she had been enjoying her very first vacation. Working extra shifts at DuPree’s and spending a lot of time with Liz, she felt the way she imagined a bookkeeper or an accountant might feel on a long-overdue holiday, how they might forget the spreadsheets and financial records after a few weeks on the beach somewhere, the heat of the sun leaching the stress from their body.
But the threat of Castro was never very far from her mind. She found herself playing to an audience of one, walking slower, laughing louder, lingering longer. She made it a game. Every time Liz invited her to do something, she had to say yes. A tour of the UC Botanical Gardens. A movie and shopping on Solano Avenue, pizza at Zachary’s afterward. Every invitation, an opportunity to show whoever was watching that she was no one special.
They talked about philosophy, politics, history. Even chemistry. Eva had shared the bare bones of her own past, what it was like growing up at St. Joe’s, sticking to the truth whenever she could, to better keep track of her lies. She’d made up a story about why she’d never finished college—the money had dried up because of a problem with her financial aid. But this allowed Eva to talk freely about her time as a student at Berkeley, and the two of them bonded over what campus life was like. The various quirks of the community, the ferocious rivalry with Stanford, traditions that wouldn’t make sense to anyone who hadn’t lived inside of it.
“Do you have a family back home?” Eva had asked one evening.
“My daughter, Ellie,” Liz said, staring into the flickering flame of a candle. “I raised her on my own—her father left when she was seven.” Liz had sighed and looked down into her wineglass. “It was hard on both of us, but now, looking back, I think we’re better for it.” Liz described her ex-husband’s exacting nature, the precise way he’d demand his steak to be cooked, or the unrealistic expectations he placed on his young daughter. “I’m glad she didn’t have to grow up with that kind of relentless pressure.”
“Where is she now?” Eva had asked, curious about the woman who was lucky enough to be Liz’s daughter.
“She works for a nonprofit. Long hours, rarely a day off. She sublet her apartment in the city to housesit for me while I’m in California, but I’m worried she’ll isolate herself out there in New Jersey, away from her friends,” she’d said, giving Eva a sheepish smile. “A mother’s heart is always worried.”
Eva had stared at her, wishing it were true.
Other times, Eva would ask Liz questions about the classes she was teaching and then sit back and let her talk. Liz was a gifted teacher, able to make complex concepts seem simple, and it was like being back in college. Maybe better. Dex, who had been a daily presence in her life, had all but disappeared, replaced by this talkative, diminutive, brilliant woman from Princeton.
So when Liz stood before her on this bright September Saturday, two baseball tickets in her hand, Eva was ready to say yes again. Maybe even happy to.
“Sure,” she said. “I just need a minute.”
She left Liz in the living room while she raced upstairs to change. As she slid her feet into tennis shoes, she glanced at her phone and saw a text from Dex.
It’s fixed. F wants you back to work immediately. Plan to meet at Tilden Monday with full supply.
She stared at the message until the Whispr app made it fade and disappear.
Eva sat down hard on her bed, surprised that the first feeling she had wasn’t relief but sadness. This was what she’d been waiting for. All her time with Liz had been to get this exact outcome—Castro gone, and Eva back to work. But it felt like an empty victory, one she no longer wanted, now that she had it. Her gaze flicked toward the doorway, where Liz waited downstairs, unaware that she was no longer necessary.
But Eva would go to the game and play the part a little longer. She tossed her phone onto the dresser, harder than necessary, surprised by the sharp sound it made as it slid across the polished wood and hit the wall.
* * *
They took the BART across the bay, walking with crowds of people toward the stadium. As they waited in line, Liz nudged her toward a photo station, where people could pose next to cutouts of players Eva didn’t recognize. “Come on,” she said. “It’ll be fun. My treat.”
Eva hesitated. She wasn’t the kind of person who had her picture taken, aside from school photos that no one ever bought. She couldn’t remember a time anyone had pointed a camera at her and said Smile. But Eva went along with it, a small part of her glad to have a souvenir.
Inside, they found their seats, Liz’s colleagues from the political science department greeting her warmly. There was Liz’s closest friend, Emily, and her partner, Bess, plus their department head, Vera. Eva took the seat on the end and let their conversation flow around her—gossip about who was getting grants and who wasn’t, who was getting published and who wasn’t. Complaining about who always burned popcorn in the office microwave.
To Eva, it was like getting a glimpse into the life she’d once dreamed she’d have herself. There had been a time, before everything went wrong, that she’d imagined herself a professor at Berkeley. Delivering lectures in Gilman Hall. Supervising graduate students. Striding across campus, smiling a greeting as students said Hey, Dr. James.
Eva felt a sharp stab of regret, surprising her after so many years of believing she’d made her peace with how things turned out. That was the funny thing about regret. It lived inside of you, shrinking down until you could almost believe it had vanished, only to have it spring up, fully formed, called forward by people who meant you no harm.
Eventually they turned their attention toward the game. Vera kept score, talking about player statistics and upcoming trades, while the rest of them debated whether spitting sunflower shells was any better than tobacco juice. Eva cheered when the Giants scored, drinking a beer and eating a hot dog. It was a slice of life Eva thought only existed in movies, this idea that everything could be so perfect—the grass, the sun, the players in their crisp white uniforms, hitting home runs over the fence and into San Francisco Bay, where a cluster of people with baseball gloves in kayaks waited to catch one of them.
Right before the sixth inning, Emily leaned over and said, “I’m so glad you could come today, Eva. Liz has been talking about you nonstop for weeks.”
A ripple of pleasure passed through Eva, but she offered her shyest smile, the one she reserved for bank tellers and police officers. “Thanks for inviting me,” she said.
Liz was quick to jump in. “I’ve seen a lot of brilliant minds in my time, but Eva’s is one of the sharpest I’ve ever encountered,” she said. “The other night, she nearly had me convinced Keynesian economics might be better than free market.”
Emily looked impressed. “That’s no small feat. Where did you go to college?”
Eva hesitated, imagining the questions they’d have if she said Berkeley. What was your major? Who were your professors? What year did you graduate? Do you know Dr. Fitzgerald? And how quickly one of them would discover the truth—an innocent comment at the faculty club, someone quietly recounting her story. The chemistry department was small, and people didn’t move on from Berkeley to better jobs elsewhere. There were probably several people still there who would remember her.
Luckily, Liz must have sensed her discomfort. “She studied chemistry at Stanford,” she said, giving Eva a tiny smile. “Try not to hold it against her.”
* * *
“You didn’t have to lie for me,” Eva said later, after they’d said goodbye and were strolling along the Embarcadero, making their way back to the BART station. The e
vening air was gentle on her skin, faint traces of the afternoon sun still present.
Liz waved her words away. “They’re all a bunch of aunties. They would have given you a ton of unwanted advice about going back to school and finishing your degree. It wouldn’t have mattered to them that you’re smart enough to have figured out how to do that if you wanted to.”
Eva thought about what was waiting for her on the other side of the bay. Certainly not the possibility of going back to college. That would never be an option for her. Until Liz came along, Eva had been happy. But now there was a hunger rumbling deep inside of her, a desire for more time with Liz and her friends. But not as a visitor passing through. She wanted to be a part of it, to live inside of it. Eva wanted to complain about why women didn’t have the kind of grant opportunities that men did. She wanted to feel the thrill of announcing another article placed in a peer-reviewed journal. She wanted to be the one who burned popcorn in the office microwave.
The idea of resuming work—the hiding, the lying, the vigilance that accompanied her every time she left the house—descended, pressing her into a tight knot, and a grief she hadn’t felt since her expulsion from Berkeley swirled around inside of her, as a part of her brain began to map out what needed to be done. Buy more ingredients. Clean the equipment. Start setting the stage for her withdrawal from Liz. She’d have to start talking about picking up more shifts at the restaurant, or perhaps invent a boyfriend who would soon consume her free time.
But there, in the darkening twilight, the water of the bay lapping against the pier pilings, the lights of the Bay Bridge sparkling in a graceful arc above them, shooting like an arrow into the dark, Eva felt the urge to reveal something more of herself. To tell Liz something completely true. “My last foster home was just on the other side of that hill,” Eva told Liz, pointing west, toward Nob Hill.
