Losing Francesca

by J. A. Huss

  I push my creeper out from under the Jeep and stare up at him. "You're fucking with me, right? They would not be that rude."

  "Dude, this is Woods on the Lake, it doesn't take much to work us up into a frenzy, you of all people should know that. Oh, hey, that reminds me, my uncle said he can get you out of that ticket Abe gave you. Emotional distress or some shit."

  "How the hell does he know about my ticket?"

  He spreads his arms. "Like I said, doesn't take much. Your ticket was major news that day, until we all found out Fiona was back."

  I push myself all the way out from under the Jeep and stand up. "Maybe I should go over there? You think people are messing with her?"

  "I doubt they'll be mean, if that's what you're asking. But she's running the shaved ice truck with Quinn and Jake, and her cash register is the only one with a line." He shrugs. "They want to see her. You can't blame them, she's big news."

  "Yeah, but I'm not sure this publicity is good for her personally. Her dad has taken all sorts of insane precautions to keep her hidden."

  "The news is there, anyway. Trying to get an interview."

  "No."

  He nods. "Yeah, all day, I guess. I was over there earlier, bought a pineapple shaved ice from her and everything. Of course, I've already seen her, so it was no big deal, but she sure the fuck looks like Fiona. The news crew was camped out next to the trailer, waiting for her to go on break or something. Frank was pissed, but it's a public event, so nothing he can do."

  I pull my shirt off and wash my hands, then go inside, jog upstairs, and pull on a clean one. When I come back down to the garage, Grip is still talking, like I never even left.

  I grab the keys to the dirt bike and head out.

  "Hey? Where you going?"

  I start it up, kick it into gear, and head down the road. As soon as I turn the corner onto the road that leads to the Sullivan farm, the whole place is clogged with trailers and trucks. I have to slow down and weave my way through and people are shouting at me as their horses shy away from my bike. But I do not care.

  "This is my fucking road, you assholes. You're lucky I let you park here." It is too. We own half and the Sullivans own half.

  They stop yelling as soon as 'fuck' comes out of my mouth. It's like the magic word with these snooty horse people.

  I rev the bike a little as I pull in. It's a fucking madhouse. TV crews, crowds of kids, parents, horses—everything and everyone who can possibly be crowded in front of the shaved ice truck is.

  Frank and Angela are pushing the reporters, Lindsey and Aimee are crying, Sean and a camera guy are almost throwing punches and the fucking cops are pulling in the front driveway, lights flashing.

  Horses go crazy. Kids start screaming.

  I ride right up to the crowd and rev the bike again. People shoot me dirty looks but I keep going. "Get the fuck out of the way or I swear, I will mow you down!"

  They move and I ease my way through to the back door of the trailer and pound my fist on it.

  Quinn appears. "Dude," he says. "Make them go away!"

  "Fiona! Bring her here, I'll take her out." The crowd starts to push their way into me and I elbow someone in the face.

  Fiona appears, a hoodie draped over her head, and slips on the back of the bike. The crowd is crazy again. "This is insane!" she yells.

  I nod and kick the bike in gear, then move forward. A camera guy is right in front of us, shooting the whole thing. "Move your fat ass or I swear, I will knock you down. You've been warned."

  He hesitates and I gun it. We lurch forward and he steps aside, loses his balance, and slams down on the ground. I maneuver past him and weave my way through the crowd.

  Everyone is taking a picture.

  Fiona's face would be everywhere if she wasn't covered.

  I zip past Abe in his patrol car thinking I'll make my escape down the front drive, and then have to skid the bike abruptly to the left to avoid hitting a long black limousine.

  I hear Fiona gasp behind me.

  She grips my waist tightly.

  The limousine has little flags attached to the roof. Flags I do not in any way recognize.

  And I realize—it's happening. Right now—it's happening.

  More cars pull past us. Cops are everywhere, men in suits are everywhere, those little red laser lights are flashing through the shadows of the trees as men take up their positions. The crowd is being held back by a whole slew of police cars, more than this little town owns, that's for sure.

  Sean and Frank walk up next to us and stand calmly.

  The door of the long black car opens and a man gets out. His legs come out first, then his hand grasps the window and he pulls himself up to his full height.

  And I see it immediately. As soon as his eyes settle on Fiona, then track up to my face like he's a predator and I'm about to be killed, I know it as soon as I look at him.

  This man is definitely Fiona's father because she looks just like him.

  He's got a white dress shirt on, sleeves rolled up haphazardly, and some dark slacks, but the coat and tie that probably went with it are long gone. And almost every body part that's visible, aside from his face, is covered in tattoos.

  In that one instant, I know what he is as well.

  He's not a drug dealer, he is Russian Mafia.

  His silver eyes are almost shut, that's how hard his scowl is, but I can see them clearly in the small patches of sun that creep in through the trees and light him up. The steady gaze passes over me, stops on Sean, and then rests on Frank. We all look at Frank. Every head turns to Frank.

  Everyone is silent.

  There must be a thousand people milling about the Sullivan farm behind us and all I can hear is Fiona's breathing behind me.

  "Daddy," she says softly.

  He looks over to her for a moment, then back to Frank and holds up a piece of paper. "She," he says in a perfect American accent as he points to Fiona, "is my daughter."

  We stare at him. No one says anything. Fiona stays still behind me. The FBI guys walk calmly over to the big man and the oldest one holds out his hand for the paperwork. Her father allows them to take it, never taking his eyes off Frank.

  "She," he says again, his voice rising, "is my fucking daughter!"

  Fiona starts to cry and he stops looking at Frank and takes his attention back to her. He beckons to her with his fingers.

  "Faina, come now."

  I put the kickstand down and get off the bike. Fiona slouches to the side and then I take her hand and pull her off as well. She stares at the ground, trying her hardest to cry silently, but not entirely succeeding. "Fiona—"

  "Faina!" her father yells. "Her name"—I look over at him and he's talking directly to me now—"is Faina Saburov." He stops to take his menacing snarl to the FBI guys in suits. "Are you happy now? I am here. You have the papers. The DNA test run by your lab. My daughter is Faina Saburov. And everything…" He stops to pick up some anger here and then he takes a deep breath. "Everything I've done to keep her safe is wiped away in one minute. I am here and you cannot even touch me." He laughs as he waves his hand at the flags affixed to the top of the long black car. "I am diplomat," he says in a thick Russian accent. "I have immunity," he says, switching to perfect American English. "She is my daughter and she is coming with me."

  Fiona begins to let go of my hand but I grip it tighter. "Fiona, please. I don't care what he says, it's not true. I don't care what the papers say, you are her!" She looks up to me and I beg her with my eyes. Then my words. "Please. Listen to me. Tell him you want to stay—"

  I catch some movement out of the corner of my eye and then I'm laid out on the ground, the Russian is on top of me, and his entire body is covered in jerky red laser light dots.

  Fiona is screaming for him to let me go. The FBI is pulling on his arms, but he barely moves. He barely even recognizes they are there. His attention is only on me. "She is mine."

  He allows them to pull him off and another guy ap
pears. No tattoos and dressed casually in street clothes. The muscle. "Nic," her father says, still watching me as I pick myself up off the ground. "Get Faina in the car. We are leaving." The other guy comes around to Fiona and speaks gently to her in another language.

  She responds with a nod.

  She doesn't even look back.

  She doesn't even say goodbye.

  She walks away.

  Chapter Thirty-Five - Brody

  The car does a tighter three-point turn than should be possible in the narrow driveway surrounded by thick woods on both sides. I watch it drive away, then slowly follow. The car takes its time, like it's not stealing Fiona away from me. Like it's taking her to the mall, or to a friend's house to sleep over.

  It acts like it is not ripping us apart and tearing us to pieces.

  When it gets to the end of the long driveway it stops. Not to check for traffic, but to open the sun roof.

  My heart pounds as someone pops their head up. And points a rifle at me.

  The red dot bounces along my chest as I stare at the man who talked so softly to Fiona not one minute earlier.

  He says nothing, but he says everything at the same time.

  I swallow as they pull away and the man disappears back inside the car.

  The car turns right, heading into town. And I turn left, heading any fucking place but town.

  I end up at home eventually. Where else is there to run to? The whole town knows what just happened. The whole state knows what just happened. The whole fucking country knows what just happened.

  I park the bike, get off, and lace my hands behind my head as I stare off in the direction of the lake. Is this what it comes down to? Not even a goodbye? Just here and gone again in an instant?

  My feet answer me by walking. I picture her swinging my hand as we walked this same path just last night. She talked about lightning bugs. I step on the dock and the old wood bounces as I travel down to the edge. This is not happening.

  This is happening.

  I shake my head and go back to the beach and skip a rock across the lake.

  I am seven-year-old Brody. I am standing at the bus stop, looking down the dirt road at Fiona's tree. And I think to myself, She's right up there. This is not happening. She's right there!

  I talk about her all day at school. I make up lies. Fiona's sick today, but she'll probably be better tomorrow. I'm taking her soup after school, my mom said I could.

  I can only imagine the pity on the faces. I have to imagine because I never saw any of it back then.

  When the end of the first day of school became the end of the first week I changed my story.

  Fiona is still on vacation. They were having a good time, I say. They decided to stay a little longer. And to me this makes perfect sense, even though Sean is standing right next to me at the bus stop and sitting next to me in math class.

  When the end of the first week turned into the end of the first month, then the second, then the sixth, then the twelfth I was still holding out hope. Of course, by that time I'd already heard about the possibilities of bodies being brought home, but after a while that stopped bothering me.

  Who? I asked myself over and over. Who in the world would want to kill Fiona Sullivan?

  It was not even within the realm of possibilities to me. She was so perfect. So sweet and gentle. And she still is. Fiona is still the perfect girl twelve years later. I bow my head as the grief washes over me.

  I skip another rock.

  I am nine-year-old Brody. I am looking for Fiona in the woods. I see her kidnappers behind every tree. In every rotten log, in every boat that passes the beach out by the wood shed. I leave before anyone gets up in the morning and return just before dark because even though I am on a mission to rescue Fiona Sullivan, I'm still a kid and I have to live by the rules.

  Sure, sweetie, my mom would say. You can play in the woods. Just be home by dark.

  That year in school I still talk about Fiona, but this is the first year I refer to her in the past tense. The counselors tell my parents it's a breakthrough. He's accepted it, he's moved on. He's OK now.

  I skip another rock.

  Because I'm not OK. I wasn't OK then and I'm not OK now.

  I am eleven-year-old Brody. I lost Fiona, but I lost myself too. I am angry now. I hate her. I have her school picture from kindergarten in my hand. The one that had her sloppy kindergarten handwriting on the back. And I set it on fire.

  I set something else on fire that day too.

  The counselors have no explanation as to why I'm setting fires, but I do.

  I want to scream it at them. How can you not know? I want to ask Sean when we stand together at the bus stop with his new sister Lindsey. How could you ever stop looking? How could you replace her, for fuck's sake?

  I skip another rock and I am thirteen-year-old Brody. I am more than angry now, I am mean. I am violent. I fight almost daily. The counselors say I'm not adjusting. I'm traumatized. I need help.

  And I want to scream at them again. I need help? I need help? I'm not the fucking one who needs the fucking help! Fiona! Fiona needs help! Someone, just please, help her. Find her!

  But no one does. She is just gone.

  I skip another rock and now I'm fifteen-year-old Brody. My parents are dead. Renn is in college now, almost finished. We sell some land to the Sullivans, cash in all the life insurance policies, and Renn goes to court and fights for us. He fights to keep us together. He shows them the bank accounts. We are rich, see? he tells them. We are rich, we will take care of each other. He tells the judge, as I sit there in the front row watching him beg, that I need him. I need him and if they take me away from Renn I'll be all kinds of wrong. I'll never be good again. He tells the judge, If you rip us apart, you'll tear us to pieces.

  We will not recover, he says.

  And they take pity on us. The judge speaks to me privately in his chambers. And he says, Brody, this is your last chance. You have to grow up now. This will only work with your help.

  And I nod and say, OK. I'm OK. I will be OK.

  And I was.

  I skip another rock and I am twenty-year-old Brody.

  One week ago.

  One week ago life was normal. Renn and I proved them all wrong. We grew up that day in court. He went back to Ohio State to finish his last semester and the rest of us moved down there with him, switched schools, and stayed in an apartment near campus until graduation.

  And then we all came home and got on with things.

  Renn got a big important job with a firm in Cleveland and lived there during the week while I cared for the little brothers at the house, then he came home every Friday night and took over. Case and Park went back to our old school. I transferred to a tech program for mechanics and started my own shop in the garage. We took the boat out to South Bass Island every Fourth of July and stayed in our family beach house. We celebrated birthdays, we made bad turkey dinners on Thanksgiving, and we bought each other presents to put under the Christmas tree.

  We brought it together. We did not fall to pieces.

  We survived without parents. We survived alone, just four brothers in a big house, on a big piece of land, on the lake shore in Northeastern Ohio. In fact, we did more than survive, we thrived. Case is playing football and basketball. Parker is his class president and on the honor roll. Renn is so successful in his market research position at the Cleveland firm, they've promoted him twice in the last year. And I have my own garage.

  We're not perfect, but we made it.

  And then Fiona came home.

  And even though I felt I was whole, that there was nothing more I needed in this life than some cars to work on, a boat to go fishing on, Renn to be my sounding board, and my little brothers safe at home every night—I never knew how much was missing until she came back and filled me up.

  I was in so many pieces before she came, I just stopped noticing. She brought me back together. She pieced me back together with her talk of feet and hors
es and tropical islands.

  I throw a whole handful of rocks across the still lake and they shatter the surface like glass. The ripples propagate out until they fade away.

  And that's how I feel right now.

  I am fading. Like a ripple from a skipping rock across the lake.

  I am dying.

  I will be dead by tomorrow, so I just lie down in the sand and wait for it.

  Chapter Thirty-Six - Brody

  Somehow, some way, the next day comes and I am still alive. My chest hurts though, so I figure it's only a matter of time. I just wait it out.

  The crunch of feet on the gravelly sand brings me back to reality but I don't open my eyes or sit up.

  "Brody?" Renn calls.

  How did it get to be Sunday already?

  "Brody? You OK, dude?"

  My throat is burning, I want to say. It's on fire. I might think about answering him, but it hurts too much. There's a huge lump in there and I'm not sure what it means, but it's preventing me from talking and I think it might be affecting my vision a little, because my eyes are suddenly watery.

  Renn sits down next to me and starts playing with the sand. "I talked to Sean when I came home. He said he came out here and tried to talk to you, but you wouldn't answer."

  I don't have any recollection of Sean being out here. Ever.

  "Shit, I go away for a week and the whole world falls apart. I guess I won't be taking that job in Savannah."

  I turn to look at him and croak the words out past the lump. "You got it?"

  He nods. "Partner in the firm down there. But I'm not taking it, bro. There's no way I'm taking it. We don't need the money, we're set."

  I sit up now. "You're staying because of me and this Fiona stuff?"

  "No, not really," he says as he picks up a rock and skips it across the lake. "I'm just not sure it's the right opportunity. I'm not sure this is what I want, you know? There's lots of choices out in front of me right now, lots of paths to consider. And I'm not sure I'm ready to trade in what we have here for more money I don't need."