Secret Girl

by Terri Elliot

  I feel like it might even be the same for Henry, appearing as excited as I have to participate in this privileged, wealthy lifestyle. Something inside him is rotten, though, and the decay is inching towards his skin. I look at him and feel cold. I don’t hold any certainty what exists behind his eyes. Do they project love, respect, admiration? I can’t feel any of those things, so when I don’t see them, I allow doubt to spoil my confidence.

  He floats back into my vision, I feel the smile stretch across my face. “Alright, babe,” he says, leaning in. Our lips meet, a sound, soft and intimate, emanates from their disconnect. I only hear it. After, my lips feel uncomfortable. “I’ll see you in a few days. You going to be alright?”

  “Of course,” I reassure him.

  “Hang out with some girlfriends?”

  “I’ll probably smoke some weed, catch up on some classical records.”

  He pushes a little air through his nostrils, a faintly patronizing, subtle laugh as if to pat my head and call me cute. It rolls off me.

  “Good luck, baby,” I tell him.

  “Thanks,” he says, halfway out the door. I turn to the window and watch with curiosity as he unlocks his car, loads his luggage, and sits behind the wheel. He finds me and grins while reversing, an expression I return with a wave. When he’s gone, it lingers, the smile, the raised hand. I don’t immediately drop the facade. It’s worn into me, the muscles flexed into its posture. I feel a bit of air in my lungs, though, and slowly I begin to slump into the nook, let a little of the exhaustion, stress, and tension into my body, what I’ve kept balled up in my thoughts for so long. I have to stretch out, relax, and refocus. I have to be sharp for my trip.

  When the date drew nearer and I knew I’d have a few days to myself, I began to think of the little encampment Geoffrey had told me about just east of Idyllwild in the mountains. I called him back after a length of silence to tell him I was going to see if I could meet Casey. As expected, he recommended against it. He offered his services to accompany me and ensure no harm would come to me. I accepted at a discounted rate, a dollar amount he insisted upon. It was a scheme I didn’t readily admit to myself I was running, but the outcome was favorable. Having someone along who was larger, male, and experienced was preferable than going into a meth camp alone. The closest I’ve ever been to hard drugs is cocaine in the bathroom at the Silver Lake Blend on Sunset. They say cocaine is inescapable in LA, though I’ve had limited experience. I think about the relatively tame life I’ve led while my eyes zone out on the spot where his car had been parked a minute ago. An ex-elementary school teacher turned Silver Lake wife. One pleasant existence to another. I’ve never known someone to spend time in jail. I look around at the houses that occupy the bend of our street as it winds up the hill. I know two of my neighbors, the others I’ve seen around. Well-kempt, polite, white. Not that it matters. Affluent. I peer down at my vegan bacon bits. I lift the plate and exit the nook, my bare feet carrying me into the kitchen where I dump the remnants of breakfast into the sink and wash them down into the disposal. I flip the switch and listen to the blades tear through the food until they spin without a grinding sound. I leave the switch up a moment longer before turning it off. The house is quiet, save my own breathing. I hold it. I hear my heart. It quickens. In the center of the first floor, standing between the kitchen island and the fridge, looking over the living room to the windows overlooking the Silver Lake hills, populated by million dollar homes owned by an enviable elite I’m lumped in with, I feel sweat beads fill in-between my fingers.

  Am I really going to do this?

  I release my breath.

  I don’t have a choice. I can’t be a ghost in my own home. Who would envy that?

  I rush back to the nook and seize my phone, lifting it before my face and stabbing it with my thumbs. “He’s gone,” I text. “You can come now.” I press send and see the blue bubble show up in a new chat with Geoffrey’s phone number, a series of digits I’ve memorized so as not to save the contact.

  I clutch the phone in my hand and press the hand against my lips. I feel a tremble in my fingers and have the inclination to nibble at my knuckles. My mother used to chew her cuticles and it disgusted me. Without thinking, I do the same until I bleed.

  “Fuck,” I whisper.

  Motion through the window distracts me. A tan SUV pulls into the driveway. I squint to see the driver. It’s Geoffrey. I look down at my phone. A mere two minutes have passed since I sent the text message.

  “Were you waiting around the corner?” I ask aloud. I unconsciously wipe my bloody finger against my seventy five dollar blouse until I catch the stain in my periphery. What is wrong with me? I look back through the window and see him leaning over the steering wheel. He’s not coming to the door. He’s probably already uncomfortable with having waited until my husband departed. Probably more invested with my case than an unwritten personal policy would ordinarily allow. I wonder for a moment why that is before realizing it’s time to go.

  I raise a single finger indicating I need a moment, then rush towards the bedroom. I pull a backpack from the closet and toss in a handful of items - a pair of underwear, socks, a shirt, jeans. I don’t even know if this will be an overnight excursion, but the packing seems necessary. I need the motions, I need to prepare. I head back towards the hallway, then stop myself. I think about my breath, our soon to be close proximity. I rush into the bathroom and swish a mouthful of mouthwash, then snatch my toothbrush and toothpaste and stuff them into the backpack. I don’t care to cover the toothbrush, my body is already shaking with anticipation. It’s still a three hour drive, but my nerves are pulsating through my body. It’s not just the moment. It’s the collected weeks of repression, of holding this back. It’s all rushing to the surface. I take a deep breath. I don’t want to appear manic in front of Geoffrey. He could abort the mission, his prior reticence indicates a likelihood. I look at myself in the mirror. My face is flush, my normally light complexion made red. Especially my neck, like an allergic reaction. My eyes look wild. I have a stray thought catch in my head. This is only a taste.

  I shake my head and take a breath. I adjust my hair and watch myself until my eyes settle. Small bags appear beneath them, I hadn’t noticed until now. I pull them back, then allow them to droop once more. I scowl and think of all the poor sleep I’ve gotten. Sleep will come when this is over. I exit the bathroom and storm towards the front door. I swing it shut behind me and seat myself beside Geoffrey in his immaculately clean, albeit aging, SUV. He takes pride in his things. Or maybe he’s conditioned to take care of them.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  I can’t speak. Instead, I nod.

  He gives a nod towards my house. “Nice place.”

  “Thanks,” I say with a burst of air.

  He nods towards the entrance. “Lock your door?”

  “Oh,” I say, lifting my phone to open the security app and press lock. It’s fairly often I forget to lock the door, Henry’s always yelling at me for it. As if we need to keep the criminals out. I think for a moment, they’re already inside. “All set,” I say, trying to conceal my breathlessness.

  His eyes cross between my phone and my eyes. There’s a trace of a scowl, I think, a feeling of being beyond the border of his familiarity. He’s taken money from rich clients, watched their lives. He’s never lived it himself. The look is masked with a playful smile. “Fancy,” he says, switching the car into reverse. And like that, I watch my house recede in front of me as we back into the road. A road which leads into uncertain territory for the both of us.

  “I know it’s no Rolls, but she’s done well by me for the last decade,” he says, caressing the wheel.

  “I didn’t realize you and your truck were so intimate,” I tease.

  He narrows his eyes on me as he turns down the hill, a playful reproach. It’s a moment of levity I invite into me, smiling back at him. What comes is a descent into a darkness I have no context for. A bit of comfort in a mildly flirta
tious exchange with the man leading me there is a welcome respite.

  17.

  I awaken to the uncomfortable feeling of a hard, curved surface against my forehead, pressing at my right temple, introducing a headache. I choke on my next inhale and pull my head away from the window. I feel a bit of drool in the corner of my mouth. I spy Geoffrey beside me, dutifully maintaining eye contact with the road before him as it rises into the curves that spiral up into the mountains. I covertly wipe the spit off on my shoulder. This shirt is already ruined, and I gather the cleanliness of where we’re headed will add still more stains. I’ve written it off. Maybe I’ll use it as an excuse to go shopping when we return. A bit of therapeutic splurging sounds nice. Or maybe I’m just distracting myself, minimizing the oncoming whirlwind of shit with a fantasy. I’m realizing I have no idea what I’m getting myself into.

  There’s a buzz at my hip. My phone is ringing. It must have been what woke me. I fish it quickly out of my pocket to see Henry is calling. I watch his name appear above the slide bar to answer. It disappears before I really comprehend it. The notification replaces it, one missed call from Henry.

  I turn to find Geoffrey’s broken his driving trance to look at me. “Husband?” he tersely inquires. The way the word tumbles from his lips sounds as though tinged with disdain. I don’t know why, from where it might come. Perhaps he’s bought into the journal’s portrait of Henry, he’s come to dislike such a sociopathic character. Or maybe it’s just that the phone call reintroduces the complication of his involvement, the secrecy of his role. Maybe it’s something else. He turns back to the road. “Maybe you should call him back. Nip suspicions in the bud.”

  I think to question his assumption, that partners instantly jump to suspicion when separate and communication unanswered. Then an inkling of what Hollywood elite get up to when traveling arises a microdose of concern, just on instinct, but I have to cede to Geoffrey’s point. I slide the missed call to the side to return it and lift the phone to my ear.

  It rings once.

  “Hey, babe,” I hear his voice through the speaker. My thumb depresses the volume down button while I turn to Geoffrey.

  “Hey!” I return excitedly. “Sorry, I was dosing,” I say, using a bit of truth to hang my tone on.

  I hear him chuckle. “That’s alright. I’m here at the airport, about to board. Just wanted to hear your voice one last time, tell you how much I love you.”

  “Aww,” I go. I picture a kitten. It’s all the same. “I love you, too.”

  There’s a pause before he speaks again, “Alright, I won’t keep you from your dosing.”

  “Have a good trip, baby.”

  “Thanks. Bye bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I lower the phone and press the end call button in my lap. Grease warps the lock screen image, a sunset selfie of the two of us at Santa Monica pier, distorted by smudge. It fades to black.

  “That was cute,” I hear Geoffrey comment beside me.

  I turn a glare towards him. “Sweet is not necessarily shallow.”

  “In my experience, it’s skin deep,” he says, holding a stare with the road. I eye his fingers squeezing the top of the steering wheel.

  “Sorry to hear your personal experience hasn’t been so wonderful,” I jab. “I assumed you were divorced when I met you.”

  He turns towards me, his eyes narrowed. He doesn’t speak, only pierces me with his gaze. It’s intense, but harmless. I see him as a bear in this moment. A creature of habit, of size and strength, but interested in its own meager existence. He finally turns back and speaks lowly, “The great people reader.”

  “I’m intuitive,” I tell him. “I can feel when someone is being truthful.”

  He scoffs. “How’s that worked out for you and your husband?”

  “We have a wonderful marriage,” I reply defensively. “Everyone wants to tear down the lives of those that seem picture perfect, like there has to be something seething beneath the surface. We can be happy like anyone else.”

  He doesn’t say anything. I see him tensen. Then I realize what a fool I’ve made of myself. The diatribe might work on anyone, save the one person who knows better. Who I’ve literally paid to investigate the seething thing lying beneath our surface. I feel my face flush. I cross my arms and turn to face the road. Trees sway against the altitude’s wind, large, green, casting shadows on the road. His SUV wraps around a curve and ascends into a light fog. It envelopes the car, making the distance opaque. “Let’s say my marriage is in flux right now.”

  “And only one of you knows it,” he nearly mutters.

  I turn to face him, as though to confront, but when he returns it, I’m disarmed. I’ve made Geoffrey into the embodiment of truth, an immovable figure for which there is no passable excuse. In this moment, I feel exposed, belittled. A bit like tears might well. But I know better than that. Instead, I hold the stare. I look deep into his eyes, and see honor in them. I also notice how magnificently blue and entrancing they are this close.

  I break the stare and find something to distract me. I press the button on the glove box which open just above my knees to reveal, among the registration, flashlight, and gum, a jet black pistol resting right on top. I stare into while I watch Geoffrey’s hand reach between my legs and close the glove box. It grazes my knee as it quickly returns to the wheel.

  “What is that for?” I question.

  He doesn’t look back at me. “I’m well trained with that firearm, and I have a permit to carry.”

  “I know you’re an ex-cop,” I say, “but why do you carry it?”

  “What do you do, Mrs. Garner-Broadhurst?”

  “I haven’t been called that this regularly since I stopped working. I was a third grade teacher. That was, until I met my husband.”

  He takes a breath and pushes it through his nostrils, before proceeding to lecture, “Well, I can’t imagine you saw much desperation in your brief working life, certainly none after it. Where we’re going, there’s quite a bit, and desperate, hungry people turn to criminality to meet their needs.”

  “You sound like a cop,” I tease.

  His mood doesn’t lift. “It’s the truth. Whether or not you judge, you can’t treat them like everyone else. They’ve decided to traverse a slippery slope. They’re dangerous, Emily.”

  Something about the way he says my name makes me feel small. Like a child. I feel my resolve wane, but I reject it. Nothing, and no one, can stop my journey for the truth now.

  18.

  The rumble from the unpaved road forms a low, growling tone beneath the heavy silence within Geoffrey’s truck. I haven’t seen another car for an hour. Something comes into view, around a bend, through a thicket of trees. As he curves around them, I find the first structure.

  I see the first trailer, a dilapidated, aluminum structure leaning to one side with broken windows and cardboard hiding the interior. Or, I suppose, protecting it from the elements, but Henry’s put me on high alert, I can’t help imbuing everything with a sense of menace. As his tires roll over the gravel road leading down into a sort of dip in the mountains where this makeshift community resides, I can practically hear the foreboding tone rising up to color this moment with dread. Don’t be silly, Em. They may be drug addicts, they may be desperate, but they’re still people. The hairs on the back of my neck seem convinced of a monster in our midst. I rub my hand against them to calm my nerves. It helps.

  But then I breathe in, my breath uneven, shaky. I’m scared right now. I don’t know what will happen when we confront these people. When I come face to face with Casey Simpson. I close my eyes and see myself in the bathroom mirror, shower vapors enshrouding me, obscuring me. I open them and the SUV has advanced towards the trailer, and the rest seem to peek their way through the trees to greet us, each distressed in its own way. Broken awnings, wooden doors, missing paneling. I catch a rat scurry from one to another in front of Geoffrey’s truck. We pull to a halt, Geoffrey shifts into park. We’re alongs
ide the aluminum trailer, which sits a hundred feet or so from the rest, like an outpost. It rests along the driver side of the car. I peer past Geoffrey to see into it, looking for any signs of life. He looks, as well, his more skilled eyes focused, unblinking, untainted by fear.

  “What do you think?” I ask him.

  Without turning his head, he responds first by clicking his tongue. “Strange.”

  Before he has a chance to explain, in a panic, I inquire, “What’s strange? What’s strange about it?”

  He turns to look at me with a stern gaze. He appears calm, though I notice the muscles in his neck are stiff. A body prepared. “Encampments like these don’t let strangers pull up unannounced. There should be somebody checking us out.” He turns his head to the front windshield, through which we view the motionless expanse of the mountainside clearing, the crumbling trailers and their accompanying filth, detritus in the form of water jugs, fast food bags, metal scrap. None of it moves, like a portrait of the American fringe, where junkies, led by their twisted sense of industry, form a society beside the rest of us. I’m attributing too much to the experience. It’s beginning to feel surreal as the danger subsides to a low, background noise behind a budding fascination.

  “Where are they?”

  Geoffrey shrugs. “Moved on? Haven’t seen so much left behind before, though.” He turns the key, shutting off the engine. A true quiet settles in. It’s broken by the sound of his car door. My eyes latch onto his hand pulling back the handle. I was comfortable viewing the portrait from within the safety of my potential escape. The fear returns. He nods at me reassuringly. “It’s alright,” he says. “It’s what we came for, after all.” He reaches over to my side and slides his fingers into the glove box latch. It drops to expose the pistol once again. I eye it while he wraps his hand around it and plucks it from its hiding place. He stuffs it into the back of his jeans as he exits the car.