Never Look Back

by Alison Gaylin

  “These are my parents.” She hated the sound of her own voice, the frailty of it. There was quite a crowd in the emergency room tonight—the family of a teenager who’d been in a car accident, a mom holding a toddler, flushed and shrieking from fever, friends of a college student who’d cut her finger on a blender’s blades while making margaritas. She’d heard all their stories while waiting at the front desk, and here she was, the only one who’d come here alone. She moved closer to the nurse. “These are my parents,” she said again, her voice trembling. “They’re all I have.”

  The nurse’s face softened. “I know,” she said. “The doctor will come and speak to you as soon as he can. They’re working hard on both of them, I know that much Ms. . . .”

  “Diamond,” she said. “Robin Diamond.”

  The nurse’s eyes lit up. “From Daily Culture?” she said. “The film writer?”

  “Yes.”

  “I love your column.”

  Robin made herself smile. “Thanks.”

  “I read it every week. I knew you were from around here, but boy . . . never thought I’d meet you in person,” she said.

  “So nice to meet a reader,” Robin said carefully. “Please let me know . . . as soon as you hear anything. Okay?”

  “You bet.” The nurse gave her a smile that was bright enough to restore faith. “And I’m all in for the Femme Seven. Don’t listen to the haters.”

  Robin managed a nod. Today’s column. Well, yesterday’s at this point. She moved away from the desk, took a seat against the wall, a few chairs down from the wailing toddler. She felt her phone buzz in her back pocket—a text. Eric. Something stirred within her, the tiniest spark of hope. She pulled the phone out of her back pocket, looked at the text. It was from an unfamiliar number:

  Choke on your piece-of-shit column and die.

  Robin closed her eyes. Speaking of haters.

  And then she put her head down and started to cry, tears spilling down her face, shoulders heaving. She cried as though she were alone in the room, alone in the world, her sobs rivaling those of the toddler. She was beyond caring or thinking about anything, not the teenagers whispering in the row of chairs across the room, not that bright-faced young nurse standing over her, asking, “Are you all right, Ms. Diamond?” She cried until she felt arms around her, warm and familiar—an answer to a prayer she’d never been aware of.

  The arms of her husband. His voice in her ear. “Oh my God, Robin. Oh my God.”

  You’re here, she wanted to say. But she couldn’t speak.

  Eric held her until her sobs subsided, all the tears drained out of her, her head on his shoulder.

  “How did you find out?” she said, finally.

  “Mr. Dougherty told me.”

  “Oh.”

  “They’ll be fine. Your parents are strong and healthy. Your mom’s barely into her sixties. And your dad. Come on, he’s a bull. He can still beat me at arm wrestling.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I swear, honey, they’ll be okay. And the police will get whoever did this to them.”

  Robin said nothing. She wanted to believe Eric. Just like she wanted to believe that all her suspicions about him were unfounded, that he really was just working late over the past couple of months, that he might have been taking his job too seriously but not as seriously as her, as their love, their future, the things they cared about.

  “You should have called me, Robin,” he said. “I’d have been here sooner.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “I got home and you weren’t there and I thought . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “What?”

  “I thought you’d left me.” She turned and looked at him, the beard scruff, dark circles under the bright blue eyes, the concern in them . . . She inhaled his cologne, but she didn’t ask herself why he’d put on cologne to meet a source. She asked nothing, felt nothing, other than a yearning to know him again. “I would never leave you,” she said. And in that moment, she meant it.

  “ROBIN.”

  Eric’s voice. Robin had been having a dream, a bad one. She blinked the sleep out of her eyes and took in the waiting room, most every seat empty now, save for one of the college student’s friends—a big bearded redhead, stretched out and snoring on a row of seats across the room.

  Eric said, “You were whimpering. Were you having a bad dream?”

  “I don’t remember.” Shards of it stuck in her mind: A rental car backfiring. Her mother screaming. That cop’s voice: How about your mother. Has she mentioned enemies?

  Her own: We’re not going to make it into a listicle or a meme?

  Robin said, “It might be my fault.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The break-in. My parents . . .”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Listen to me. I wrote a column yesterday. Did you read it?”

  “I didn’t have a chance.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Robin said. “It got a ton of hate. More than usual. I had to turn all my notifications off, and even then, I . . . I got a text.” She dug her phone out of her pocket, handed it to him. “Look at the latest text, Eric.”

  He stared at the screen. “That’s terrible.”

  “How did they find out my cell-phone number?”

  “Robin, it’s a huge leap to think some troll would be able to track down your parents.”

  “The nurse at the front desk,” she said. “She reads me. She said she knew I was from around here.”

  “Robin . . .”

  “I’m serious. If an ER nurse I’ve never seen before knows where I live, then who’s to say some psychopath doesn’t know it too? Who’s to say that psychopath didn’t track down my parents and break into their house?”

  “Over a film column?”

  “Yes, Eric. Over a fucking film column.”

  “Robin,” he said slowly. “You’ve got to get a grip.”

  Her jaw clenched up. “The cops asked if my parents had any enemies,” she said. “They told me to think about it hard, Eric. They didn’t tell me to get a grip.”

  He stared at her. “They asked you that?”

  “Yes . . .” She stared back. His face was pale, eyes wide. “Are you okay?” she asked him.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Stop it,” she said. “You aren’t allowed to tell me, ‘Nothing.’ Not tonight. You have to let me know what’s on your mind.”

  “You aren’t the only one who’s pissed people off.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Eric started to answer. At least she thought he started to answer, but she’d never be sure of that, riveted as she was by the doctor pushing through the ER doors, asking, “Are you Robin Diamond?”

  “Yes.” She thought about whether she should stand up to greet him, as though there were some ceremony to this, the Receiving of News. In a type of compromise, Robin half stood up, then fell back to sitting again. “That’s me.”

  “We worked very hard, ma’am,” he said. “There’s no easy way to put this.”

  “No,” she whispered. Or thought. She wasn’t sure. No, please, no.

  She didn’t want the doctor to speak. But the words kept coming. “Ms. Diamond,” he said, and then, “your father.” And then, “I’m so sorry.” And then, “entrance wound” and “blood loss” and “vascular structure,” each word as pointless as a scribble on a piece of paper, as pointless as Eric’s hollow gasp and his arm across Robin’s shoulder, as all the prayers she’d said, all the pleading to a God she was never sure she believed in. Each word he said as pointless as life.

  Nine

  June 12, 1976

  7:00 A.M.

  Dear Aurora Grace,

  For the past two nights, we’ve stayed at a Motel 6 in West Covina. I haven’t left the room, and neither has Gabriel. A couple of times he’s sent out for Shakey’s pizza and paid out of Papa Pete’s wallet. When the delivery guy shows up, he makes me hide in the b
athroom, just like he made me hide in the car when he checked in to the motel. Gabriel doesn’t like anyone looking at me besides him. He says it’s a safety thing—witnesses would remember a young couple more than a single guy on his own. But I don’t think that’s the real reason.

  There’s nothing to do here and I’m bored. I’ve asked if we can go out and buy magazines, but Gabriel doesn’t think that’s safe either. He thinks the cops are after us, and actually, as far as that goes, he may be right. Papa Pete’s murder was on the news last night. And even though nobody said anything about Gabriel and me, someone did see a car with two people in it pulling out of the driveway. And the news reporter said the witness gave a description to the cops. The newscaster had also said that both of Peter Cooper’s stepdaughters were missing. “It’s only a matter of time,” Gabriel kept saying. “We have to get out of here. It’s only a matter of time.” He hasn’t turned on the TV since.

  It’s driving me nuts, the quiet. I’ve tried reading Once Is Not Enough again, but I guess I don’t like the book so much anymore. January’s life is 99 percent miserable, and as much as her dad may love her, he can’t protect her from any of it.

  The only other book in this room is the Bible in the nightstand drawer, so I’ve been reading that, just to look at something that isn’t Gabriel’s face.

  The good news is, he got us a room with twin beds. He said he doesn’t want to make me do anything I’m not ready to do. “You’re lucky. I’m not like other guys. I care about your feelings.” This is what he tells me, this boy who wouldn’t let me break up with him, who killed the only father I ever knew and made me shoot him too. Who sleeps with a gun to make sure I don’t get away. Who won’t even let me buy a fucking magazine!!! Sorry for swearing, but come on, Aurora Grace. My feelings. Sure.

  Last night, when G was sleeping, I got the knife out of my bag and I stood over his bed for so long I got light-headed. I kept telling myself it’s like opening a door. Just push it and you can be free. The police will understand.

  But I couldn’t do it.

  It wasn’t that I was scared. It was something he had said to me, as he was falling asleep. “If you’re good, I’ll let you talk to Jenny tomorrow.” It’s 7:00 A.M. He’s still asleep. When he wakes up, I will remind him.

  Love,

  Your Future Mom

  June 13, 1976

  11:30 A.M.

  Dear Aurora Grace,

  I spoke to your aunt Jenny! Gabriel took me to a pay phone and called the people who are keeping her. He put me on the phone with her, and she didn’t say anything but I could hear her breathing. I know the sound. Back home, I shared a room with her and sometimes, to get to sleep, I’d listen to the way she’d take the air in through her lips and push it out so fast, like she’d changed her mind and wanted it out of her as soon as possible. Shallow, baby breathing. I always wondered how any of it had time to reach her little lungs.

  Sweet Jenny. I miss her so much. Talking to her on the phone, I told her I loved her, and I told her not to be afraid. “See you soon, kid,” I said, like it was no big deal and she was silly to be scared. She didn’t say anything, but I could tell she understood me.

  When I hung up with Jenny, I felt a little better about everything. Even Gabriel. He’s been telling me how sorry he is for “all the stuff.” That’s what he calls it. He tells me how he let his passion for me get the best of him, and that he’ll make it up to me by becoming a better person after we’ve escaped. How he’ll be the best man he can possibly be, so that he can be deserving of my love.

  It’s hard to trust him, but when I opened the motel room Bible this morning, this was the first sentence I read: “For I will forgive their wickedness and remember their sins no more.” Could it be a sign? I want to believe in signs, Aurora Grace. I want to believe in things.

  Right now, Gabriel and I are driving to the house of a man he knows. The man doesn’t live far from the Motel 6, which is kind of weird. I never knew Gabriel had any friends outside of Santa Rosa. Anyway, this man we’re going to see is a property master for TV shows. His job is to buy and keep track of all the props you see on-screen, whether it’s guns on the cop shows or stuffed animals, like Boo Boo Kitty on Laverne and Shirley. It sounds like a good job to me. I can’t think of a single TV show that doesn’t have props in it. And Gabriel says that this man has worked on a whole bunch of them, including Starsky and Hutch. I wonder if he’s met David Soul, who plays Hutch. In case the show isn’t on anymore by the time you’re born, I should tell you this: Hutch is my Dream Man. He isn’t beautiful, like David Cassidy. But he’s good-looking in a subtler, more grown-up way. The thing I love the most about him, though, is the way he acts. Hutch seems so calm and serene all the time, as though nothing could ever upset him—what Papa Pete used to call a “cool customer.”

  Someday, I’d like to meet a man like that, a man who doesn’t let his emotions get in the way of being a good person. Gabriel is more like Starsky.

  Anyway, Gabriel swears that this property master guy is superrich and can set us up with another car, more money, maybe even new identities. Gabriel’s convinced that, when all this blows over, this property master can help us break into the movie business. I have no idea how Gabriel knows this superrich man with a job in Hollywood, but I’m going to guess he’s sold him weed. We’re about fifteen minutes away from the property master’s house. His name is Ed Hart. I hope he’s not as weird as Gabriel (ha ha).

  Love,

  Future Mom (FM!!!)

  Ten

  Quentin

  QUENTIN HAD NEVER met his father, though he did know his name: Hamish Garrison. As a kid, Quentin had believed his mother when she told him that Hamish had been an award-winning investigative journalist for the London Times who had been killed in the line of duty while embedded with troops in Iraq. But in truth, he had been a reporter for one of the supermarket tabloids and had met Kate at a bar in Las Vegas while covering the wedding of Richard Gere and Cindy Crawford. She’d admitted that to him nine months ago, when he’d come to visit her in rehab and started asking her questions, taking advantage of her newfound lucidity.

  Kate had told him the whole story—insomuch as Quentin’s mother could tell anyone the whole story of anything. Hamish had been thirty-eight years older than Kate, who at the time had been living just off the Strip with no real game plan, just a vague idea about setting up residence in a different state. The Garrisons had married the night they met and stayed together just long enough to conceive Quentin, after which Hamish moved back to his native Britain and reunited with his estranged wife. “Your father gave you one thing,” Kate had said, tears in her eyes. “His curiosity. You’re a born reporter.” She hadn’t meant it as a compliment.

  Quentin was in the Rose Main Reading Room of the New York Public Library, having just found Hamish’s obituary on microfilm, in the August 2, 1996, issue of the Mirror. He liked the cool of the room, the dead, cavelike silence and the location of the library, at the center of a bustling city where he knew no one and no one knew him.

  He might stay here forever, he thought. Or at least until no one knew him anywhere anymore.

  Quentin finished reading the obituary, his gaze hanging on the last line: Mr. Garrison is survived by Hannah, his wife of 40 years, as well as his two grown sons Mark and Martyn. No mention of Kate, or of Quentin, who at the time of the obituary had been just four years old. Not even a line about a brief sabbatical in Las Vegas.

  Quentin heard his mother’s voice in his head, weary and mocking, the way he’d so often heard it in the months following her death.

  Seems to me, you’ve lived your life . . .

  Quentin’s phone went off in his pocket, drawing a disgusted look from a nearby security guard—the only other person in this cavernous room on such a warm summer day. The sternness in the guard’s eyes, his uniform . . . It spooked Quentin a little.

  He took the phone out and glanced at the screen—Summer, wanting to FaceTime him. He wished he c
ould turn the phone off, but he couldn’t. She’d been trying to get hold of him since last night, and if he ignored her again, she’d probably call the cops.

  He hurried out of the room, through the lobby and out of the building, to the safety of the steps and the stone lions and the crowded sidewalks below. Summer was trying Quentin for the third time in a row by the time he finally responded.

  “Where the hell have you been?” On the small screen, Summer resembled a horror movie heroine with that paperwhite skin, those huge, wide eyes that seemed to be in a permanent state of shock. She had a way of looking at you too, as though she could see all the way through to your every thought.

  Quentin tried not to make eye contact with the face on his screen. “Hello to you too.” He reached for his pocket. “I lost my sunglasses.”

  “Aw, the ones Dean gave you?” She sounded genuinely upset.

  “I’ll find them. I’m sure they’re around.”

  Summer said, “I hope so.”

  “I know you do.”

  “So what happened yesterday? Did you ever talk to Robin?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “She had no idea who the Inland Empire Killers were.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Quentin thought back to his phone conversation with Robin Diamond, which had taken place a million years ago on the previous day. It had been just a few hours past his arrival on a red-eye flight. He’d managed to get thirty minutes of fitful, Klonopin-aided sleep at his Newark airport hotel, and if anything, it had made him feel more exhausted than he’d been in the first place. He probably should have waited until he’d had some real rest before contacting Robin. But back then—when he was taking his first skipping steps onto that yellow brick road of questions-yet-to-be-answered—Quentin had been excited and hopeful and therefore short on patience. Like her parents, Robin Diamond had an unlisted phone number and home address, and Quentin did not want to think about Closure or Robin Diamond or her parents, especially her parents. Her father . . . “I’m positive.”