Remember Mia

by Alexandra Burt

  I remained motionless on the cold tile until the buzzing in my head stopped. I sat up and realized I was covered in dust and feathers and other debris from the attic. As I picked off a plume stuck to my pants, I watched the rainbow-colored feather drift toward a narrow gap between the wall panel and the floor. Its downy barbs quivered in the draft, then it was sucked underneath the panel and it disappeared.

  I scooted closer, blanket around my shoulders, and noticed the same persistent breeze that had sucked up the feather. The draft was so strong it made me shiver. I managed to get up off the ground, holding on to the countertop, but it took immense effort to stand up on my feet. My skull was buzzing like a beehive. The draft became stronger and colder, the closer I moved toward the panel.

  The apartment’s walls, as in so many older row houses, were covered in wood paneling, mostly for decorative purposes. There were alcoves, niches, false walls covering windows, doors leading to brick walls. There was even a door without any hardware, concealed by paint in the hallway. Neglecting those details probably saved money during the renovation process and I wasn’t sure just how many fake panels there were throughout the apartment. Maybe the panel the feather had disappeared underneath was one of those panels, just for show and not insulated properly.

  When I tapped my knuckles against the panel’s corners, it produced a hollow sound. The baseboards continued on both sides of the panel but were noticeably missing where the panel met the floor. Like the draft, I hadn’t noticed the missing baseboard before, either, but I could have sworn they had been uniform all around the walls. But maybe not. I was no longer sure. I bent down and poked my fingers under the crack. The draft became even stronger.

  Moving around proved more difficult than I imagined. My vision grew blurry, my legs were wobbly, and my tongue kept clinging to the roof of my mouth. I managed to reach the cupboard and I downed three cups of tap water. I had to fight to keep it down and decided to wait before attempting to eat anything.

  When the pigeons outside my window started cooing, a recollection of the attic emerged, nebulous at first, then it came into stark focus. The notion of my jumping off the roof now seemed overly dramatic, silly almost, just another moment when illogical actions seemed rational and well thought out. My daughter had been in the attic at some point and I wasn’t crazy after all.

  I tugged at the bottom of the panel where the draft was strongest. Nothing. I yanked the knob attached to the panel. It didn’t budge. I kept yanking, gently at first, then I gave it my all, using both hands. First the panel creaked and screeched, then it popped out of its rectangular frame. I fell back, and the panel landed flat on the kitchen floor.

  I found myself staring into a compartment the length of a narrow door, its depth that of a pantry or small coat closet. The floorboards were the original hardwood boards, not porcelain tiles like the rest of the kitchen.

  And there it was. The shiny rainbowlike pigeon feather. There was a battlefield of dead insects, countless bugs, some flattened, and sticking to the floor, some on the outer edges still plump and stout, and dusty remnants of construction debris, wood, and drywall. Dust covered the floor like powdered sugar, except for a visible disturbance within the layer. And there were wood shavings and flaky particles.

  There was a knob attached, not only to the outside, but also the inside of the panel. I stuck my head into the space. An icy draft descended upon me from the darkness above. A sliding door replaced by a panel? There were no visible motors or electrical wires, no ropes, no pulley mechanisms. It was definitely a remnant of an old dumbwaiter from when the row houses were first built.

  The discovery was equivalent to having a couple of large cups of coffee and two aspirin. I was more alert than I had been in days. Logic prevailing, short of walking through walls, this was the entrance point into my apartment. I grabbed the opportunity like low-hanging fruit, stepped in, and looked up. The space felt like a small shower enclosure, and lifting my arms was impossible without elbowing the walls around me. Once my eyes got used to the darkness, I made out a rope dangling from above. The breeze was even stronger now and there was a faint sliver of light coming from a source less than eight feet up.

  CHAPTER 17

  There was no cracking, no wailing, no flushing toilets, no water running upstairs. I knew David Lieberman lived in an apartment above mine with an identical floor plan, while the other two apartments next door were under construction. I had seen some of the workers but never talked to any of them, didn’t even know how many there were. The workers wore hard hats and passed me in the hallway carrying boxes of tiles, wood, countertops, and kitchen cabinets. They disposed of the rubble and debris through a bright yellow construction chute leading to a green metal container sitting outside in front of the building. I had seen some of the workers carry boxes outside too large to fit through the chute.

  I stepped outside my apartment door and listened for any noises in the hallway. The church bells from across the street earlier reiterated the fact that it was Sunday and the construction site was abandoned, explaining why there was no whistling, no banging, no screeching of saws and other power tools coming from across the hall. The building was eerily quiet.

  The construction site was straight across from my door, its entrance covered with a heavy blue tarp. I moved its first layer. Then the second layer. I stuck my hand through and my fingertips bumped against a smooth surface. I parted the tarp’s last layer and realized a door had been installed. It was identical to the one leading into my apartment. Metal and fireproof, and it was locked.

  I went upstairs, knocked on David Lieberman’s door, and waited. I knocked again. No answer. Less than a minute later I stood in my kitchen dialing his number. I heard the phone ringing through the ceiling. The answering machine kicked in and I hung up. I dialed his cell and it picked up on the first ring.

  Beep. I’m sorry but the person you called has a voice mail box that has not been set up.

  After I hung up the phone, I stepped back into the dumbwaiter. The end of the rope dangled from above, swinging back and forth, its end tied into a large nautical knot. I tugged gently but it didn’t budge. I pulled harder. After a few tugs, I used my entire weight to test its strength. I was weak, but I was determined. My slight frame made up for the strength I didn’t have. I held on to the knot, locked my elbows, and, inch by inch, moved, with my feet, up the wall. My hands took turns reaching up the rope, moving higher and higher until I was perched at the very top of the dumbwaiter.

  I listened for a few seconds but heard only the beating of my own heart. My arm muscles twitched and I felt like a pigeon trapped in a chimney. A sliver of light escaped from the panel in front of me; it was not enough to illuminate the walls around me but sufficient to make out most of my surroundings.

  I ignored my sore leg muscles but knew I was going to start spasming under the weight of my body eventually. I felt my way along the bottom crack of the panel, one foot pressed against the wall, the other pushing against the panel. I pulled back my right foot and kicked the panel, which popped out of its frame. I swung back to gain momentum and flung myself into the light. I landed on a cold tiled floor, taking some dust and debris with me. I allowed my muscles to rest, and looked around.

  My first thought was one of confusion: had I walked in circles and ended up at the same place? This was my kitchen; same flooring, same cabinets, same everything. My second thought was what wasn’t there. No sponge in the kitchen sink, no coffeemaker on the counter, no garbage can, no mail, no newspaper. It was the apartment of someone who either just got here or was about to leave. My third thought was to snoop around.

  I started pulling the kitchen drawers open and found all of them empty but one: mismatched silverware and matches, a can opener, a piece of string, and a few pencil nubs. I opened the cabinets: lonely dishes and boxes of cereal neatly lined up.

  A cardboard box sat on a cheap folding table and a fe
w more flattened boxes were stacked on the floor. Two metal folding chairs rested against a wall. A tool belt was draped over the pantry doorknob.

  I pushed open the bathroom door. There were the usual items—shaving cream, a toothbrush, and a bar of soap on the rim of the sink—and a box of Moldex hearing protection earplugs, still sealed, under the sink. I opened the mirrored cabinet: aspirin, Alka-Seltzer, and nasal decongestant. On the top row sat a terra-cotta army of medicine containers, most of them filled to the brim; only a couple of containers were almost empty. I recognized allergy medication by name, some pain medication.

  The bedroom next to the bathroom contained large cardboard boxes marked with colorful moving company stickers that, after I gave them a shove, turned out to be empty.

  Lieberman’s bedroom, dark and musty, was bare but for an inflatable mattress covered with a crumpled sheet and a flattened pillow. There was a desk without a chair and the desk drawers opened and shut with a screech as if they hadn’t been opened in a while. All were empty.

  The living room was sparse, the furniture cheap and mismatched. A green threadbare throw rug, a couch with sad cushions and saggy pillows, and a coffee table with glossy magazines. They stuck out like a sore thumb, misplaced in otherwise gloomy surroundings. The magazines were travel-related, titled Caribbean, Islands in the Sun, another one Afar. Luxury Hotels, Adventure Travel, all of them neatly laid out in a row. A flat-screen TV was mounted to the wall, a dining table pushed under the kitchen counter, an office chair on a plastic mat and a frayed mouse pad completed the bleak picture.

  I hit the light switch. The dining room chandelier, too bright for the small area, cast a glaring light on its surroundings. The bookshelf on the wall next to the computer held a collection of leather-bound books on military strategy. The books were in chronological order, drab, colorless, with tatty spines, old and worn as if from a library giveaway. From Genghis Khan to Napoleon, to Waterloo and World War I.

  I pulled out the first book of the top row and opened it to the title page. The book smelled stale and grassy, with a hint of acidity. It was titled Baron de Rais subtitled The Trial of Gilles de Laval, Baron de Rais. I leafed to the introduction and then read the blurb: “The ultimate portrait of the face of evil who has come to personify mankind’s greatest fears.” I quickly shut the book and shoved it back into its spot and wiped my hands on my thighs.

  A lower shelf contained a collection of Fodor’s Travel Guides: glossy, cheerful, in alphabetical order. Amsterdam, Bermuda, Cayman Islands, Florence, Paris, Italy, London, St. Thomas, the Black Forest, Spain, Turkey. The books seemed new with their spines intact, as if sitting on a bookstore shelf, waiting to be cracked open.

  Life in 1B was dreary overall. There was a utilitarian aspect to the place; no family pictures, no knickknacks. The harsh overhead light made the rooms uncomfortable while an annoying fan clicked away above. Its clacking seemed to urge me to move on, reminding me that I had come here for a reason.

  The file cabinet had a magnetic pull on me. I opened the top drawer and it swayed toward me, stopping just short of toppling the entire cabinet. There was an array of uniform folders with plastic tabs, handwritten capital letters, all tilted to the left, in unsteady handwriting. I stared at the tabs of the manila folders and imagined the pages contained within. I thumbed through a few folders, clumsily and not very efficiently. There were instruction manuals for TVs, computer warranty information, and contracts from furniture and computer stores. The last folder’s label was blank and it contained a collection of newspaper articles, some original, some photocopied, and some printed. I skimmed through the articles:

  BRUISES THAT COVER BODY OF INFANT MADE BY TASER

  FERAL CHILD RESCUED FROM MOBILE HOME

  BOY LIVED IN CLOSET FOR EIGHT YEARS

  MOM CHARGED AFTER BABY DIES IN HOT CAR

  TWINS DIE OF NEGLIGENCE

  LOCKED AWAY IN CAGE FOR 10 YEARS

  MOM OF 5 HIDDEN FROM SOCIETY, LIVING IN SQUALOR

  REMAINS OF THREE INFANTS FOUND IN LANDFILL

  A thought took shape, it rose like dough, increasing its volume, a dense mass turning into a well-risen realization, yet I punched it down, refused to allow its expansion. I couldn’t permit the possible implications to take hold and so I stood rooted to the spot, heart in my throat.

  This had nothing to do with Mia. Nothing. I was oddly captivated by Lieberman’s collection of horror: news articles of neglected children he chose, for whatever sick reason, to save.

  True, we read these stories every day—hardly a summer went by without a parent forgetting a child in a hot car, infants left unsupervised in cribs while Mom enters a crack house or a casino. How could she? we’d ask, but all that remains is a faint memory, if that. I read about a mother once who . . .

  As I scan the first story, I shudder. This is beyond a mother failing to button her children’s coats, a lack of lunch money, or uncooked dinners. Stories that spoke of neglect so terrible that seasoned police officers broke down on the stand once the case went to trial. There were mentions of bite and whip marks, lesions and scabs. Scattered feces, swarms of flies, smashed skulls. Six-year-olds appearing to be half their age with scars covering their entire bodies.

  There was a medical article titled “Alarming Brain Scans and the Impact of a Mother’s Love,” emphasizing that children nurtured by their mothers have larger brain structures, and that developmental delays affect children for the rest of their lives. It explained how parents who mistreat their children were also neglected and concluded that neglect is a vicious cycle. The article closed with a list of numbers to call when one suspects abuse.

  Was I that mother to him? The one who neglected her child behind a façade of wealth, passing him on the street with a designer stroller? Did a colicky baby trigger images of cigarette burns and a bloated belly from malnutrition?

  Ring.

  The sound of the phone startled me. The phone’s caller ID displayed the name of the caller as Seagram Construction, Inc. When the answering machine picked up, the caller hung up.

  I panicked, wondering if I had left the folders out of order. I scanned from the front to the back; they were at least straight and still alphabetized. I closed the cabinet door and resisted the urge to open it back up again.

  Ring.

  I felt my stomach twisting into a knot. From the corner of my eye, I caught a green object. Somewhere in my gut there was a faint hint of acknowledgement, its cheerful green apple shade—or was it lime, malachite even—seemed familiar, yet oddly out of place in a room of tans and browns. Ring.

  The green object was perched on top of the bookcase, shoved back as if someone wanted it hidden from plain view but still wanted to know that it was there.

  I approached the shelf.

  Ring.

  The answering machine picked up.

  Please leave a message after the beep.

  “Mr. Lieberman, it’s Frank from Seagram’s Construction. I know you are out of town on the weekends, but I need to do an inspection on the progress early Monday. Call me when you get this.”

  The phone went silent.

  But there she was, like a ghost, fading in and out in her emerald glory. I closed my eyes, then opened them again.

  She sat atop the shelf. A plastic figure in a sitting position with a hidden button below her skirt that made her glow-in-the-dark wings wiggle. The centerpiece of Mia’s mobile above her crib. My heartbeat made the top of my skull pound. Tinker Bell looked discarded, tossed aside. I reached out to her. My fingertips touched her wings.

  Ring.

  My hand jerked backward. I held myself still, wishing I could will the phone to stop ringing.

  Ring.

  I had never looked at her this closely, had never really paid attention to her. A green strapless dress with a petal skirt. Blue eyes, blond hair. Pointy ears.

  Ring.

  Cle
ar wings on her back. Tinker Bell, the fairy whose body turns fiery red when angered because her fairy size prevents her from holding more than one feeling at a time.

  Please leave a message after the beep.

  A female voice, sharp, impatient.

  “David, are you stuck in traffic or something? You’re not answering your cell and I can’t leave a message. You need to set up your voice mail.”

  I grabbed Tinker Bell and, as if someone was chasing me, I ran for the kitchen. I was neither crazy nor delusional, I was not losing my mind. The blanket is one thing. It could have fallen out of the stroller, I could have dropped it by mistake. Dragged up there by who knows what. But this? Had he found Tinker Bell, had he run across her in some random fashion, in a hallway, or even on the street, by my car, or on the steps, he would have discarded her or left her where she was to begin with. But Tinker Bell, in his apartment, left deliberately on top of a shelf?

  Am I going off the deep end again? I must focus. I must concentrate and think this through.

  Was Lieberman a kidnapper? The man who took my child? The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. I didn’t care where the truth was trying to drag me; I was willing to follow. I entered the dumbwaiter and pulled the panel back into its frame by its knob, and, to my surprise, it popped easily back into place. I wrapped the rope around my wrists, my feet securely placed against the walls around me.

  Back in my apartment, I dialed Lieberman’s cell number, and as expected, it went to voice mail. I needed to find him. If I couldn’t find him, I’d have to find the sister he visits on weekends, a woman whose name I didn’t even know.