Blink

by Sasha Dawn

  “It’s always gotta be about you,” I say.

  She meets my glare with one of her own.

  I step over the sponge and leave her there, in a puddle of her overly dramatic tears.

  I detour down the hallway to the girls’ room. They’re both sound asleep—Margaret in the twin bed, Caroline on the trundle—with their rainforest CD and their butterfly nightlight that sends light-images of butterflies chasing around the walls of their room.

  It’s a serene image, compared to the one I just left. And I still hear Rosie’s bawling all the way down the hall. I close their door.

  I pad down the steps, but when I get there, my room is empty.

  I check my closet, under my bed.

  I peek in the bathroom, sure to pull back the shower curtain just in case.

  Chatham’s gone. Probably shimmied out the window, like I’ve done so many times myself.

  I go back into the den. I lower myself to the sofa and stare at the fireplace, its electric flames licking at the ceramic wood inside.

  Like the fake fire, this whole place is an illusion. A façade constructed to mask the fucked-up people who live here.

  I glance down at the Scrabble board, at the game Chatham and I hardly began.

  She played off my t.

  Later.

  S c a r T i s s u e

  Later.

  How am I supposed to take that? Is it the ultimate kiss-off? I was getting real with you. You left to fight with the bitch upstairs. You’re not worth it. Later.

  I guess I can’t blame her. If I was in the middle of telling someone the things she started telling me—and of everyone in town, she chose me—and she asked me to hide in the closet so she could go talk to her mother, I probably wouldn’t be too happy about it.

  Or did she mean later. Like we’ll talk about it later?

  Either way, I’ll make it up to her.

  I text Aiden: Favor.

  A few minutes later, he returns: All ears.

  Me: It’s for Chatham.

  Aiden: Door one?

  (Translation: weed.)

  Me: Door two.

  (Translation: ID.)

  Aiden: No problem.

  He’s such a fucking criminal.

  I’m drained like usual after one of Rosie’s episodes, but this one is amplified because it cost me precious time with Chatham. Worse, we were talking about Rachel Bachton. And while Chatham probably doesn’t know anything about her kidnapping—what would be the odds of that?—it’s obvious her life is as chaotic as mine.

  The scar on the inside of my left forearm feels like it’s throbbing, which is obviously a trick of my imagination because it healed a long time ago. But when I’m feeling this bruised and raw from an emotional standpoint, it’s like the scar buzzes. I looked it up. It happens to veterans, too. It’s post-traumatic stress. Phantom pain.

  When I’m thinking clearly, I know the pain is not real, not really there. I’m just haunted by its memory.

  Still, I feel the slice of it even now, hear the scream.

  I close my eyes and rest my head against the back of the sofa. Take it all in. Let the event play out again—it’s on a continuous loop in my mind—and wait.

  I got a little dizzy when I saw all the blood. It soaked through a dish towel in a matter of seconds.

  The sting of air in open flesh . . .

  The vibrant scarlet dripping from my arm . . .

  Pinching my skin together while Rosie used superglue and surgical tape to close the slice. That’s what they’re going to do at the ER, she’d said. No one uses stitches anymore.

  I give the coffee table a shove with my foot and force myself to stop thinking about it. The Scrabble board jostles a bit, but the words remain, shifted just a touch from their original squares.

  I leave the board and tiles where they are—I think I’ll leave them there in testament to someday finishing the game with her—and head to my bedroom. I have a paper due on Monday. Maybe it’ll be a nice distraction from the whirlwind of tonight.

  I pull my school-issued Chromebook from my backpack and yank out a spiral notebook I actually took notes in (last year, I hardly took notes at all).

  My phone buzzes with a Snap.

  It’s from Chatham! It’s a picture of a signpost. She’s just a few blocks away, at the corner of Barron and Wise.

  Is it a hint to meet her?

  Just as I’m pulling a sweatshirt over my head, another Snap comes through—a picture of the next signpost, at Barron and Heath.

  I could trace her steps, follow her.

  I’m already tying my shoes.

  It’s not like Rosie will come down looking for me, not after our altercation in the kitchen. And I hate the thought of Chatham walking all the way home—wherever home might be—at night.

  The next Snap is a picture of the stone wall at the entrance to the Palisades, a subdivision of posh, luxury homes built up in the boom of the late nineties, before Rachel Bachton happened, before the safety of this town was ever called into question.

  Is that where Chatham lives? The Palisades?

  Damn, she had to be so-not-impressed with the dark and dingy paneled walls of my lair. Still, there are perks to living in the dank basement of a 1970s raised ranch: I open my window and climb out of it, head to Barron Boulevard.

  I pick up the pace, and I’m in a full-out, fast-paced jog by the time the next picture comes in: it’s the boardwalk.

  I’m gaining on her. I’m only a few minutes behind her now.

  And she doesn’t live in the Palisades, if she’s already past it. Not that it should matter, but what would a girl from that neighborhood ever see in a guy like me?

  Then with another buzz of my phone, a picture of the Tiny Elvis Café comes through.

  Perfect. The diner is closed by now—what time is it, anyway?—but we could sit out front on the sidewalk and finish the conversation my mother interrupted.

  I hook a right onto Second Street. Almost there.

  But my phone alerts again, this time with a picture of the Churchill Room & Board with the commentary Home sweet home.

  I slow my pace.

  She lives at the Churchill? They rent rooms there by the week. I suppose it makes sense. They dropped into town unexpectedly, and they don’t know how long they’re staying.

  I feel my heartbeat in my feet, hear it in my ears.

  Wait.

  That means they could leave at any time. As soon as they realize Savannah’s not here, they’re gone.

  I’m an idiot.

  And—it occurs to me—I’m sort of stalking her because I don’t turn around and head back home.

  I slow to a trot but finish the jog to the boarding house, situated above Churchill General, Sugar Creek’s version of a dollar store. From the curb, I study the windows, looking for her silhouette.

  A flash in my mind takes me back to the beach, where I watched her plunge into Lake Michigan—those sexy shorts, the fringe of the denim framing her cute ass. I can see her silhouette any time I want, if I close my eyes and think about her.

  My gaze trips along the front of the Churchill, from window to window, desperate for a glimpse of her. Frantic now, I give all the windows another pass, which is ridiculous, because she could be in a room facing the back alley, for all I know.

  Jesus, Josh. She’s home. Safe. Stop the disturbia and go home. Write your paper.

  I move on, but only after running around the block and cutting down the back alley, rationalizing that it is a way home and if I happen to see Chatham, so be it. Seeing her would be a bonus to my route home, but not the reason for taking it: cherry on top of a sundae.

  Eventually, I’m near passing the Churchill altogether. But there’s no proverbial cherry visible from the street. I slow my pace until I’m jogging in place. And then I see her: second floor up, third window from the left. Accessible via fire escape, which might come in handy someday, if she ever decides to sneak out and meet me again.

  Jus
t knowing where she is calms me. I’m sure that makes me sound creepy, but after everything Damien’s put me through, I know bad things happen to good people. I feel better actually seeing proof that she’s home safe after her walk in the dark. And now that I have, I can go.

  But I can’t force my feet to move. I send a snap of the fire escape and caption it: Say goodnight?

  A second later, she parts the curtains and opens the window. She’s smiling, climbing out, but whispers, “Are you crazy?”

  I jump to grab the ladder and climb the fire escape.

  But now that we’re both out here—she’s shivering, I’m sweating—I don’t know what I expected to happen. I take her hand.

  “We’re going to find your sister,” I say.

  She leans in, brushes a heavenly kiss over my cheek.

  A rush of electricity darts through me.

  “Good night, Joshua.”

  “Good night, Chatham.”

  She ducks back through the window, and I make my descent.

  My muscles are tired by the time I hit Carpenter Street. I ran at least four miles.

  I shower.

  Put on a Blackhawks sweatshirt and flannel pants.

  My laptop is already open and on my bed where I left it. I pull it closer and type Chatham Claiborne into a search engine.

  Links to stories pop onto the screen, but none have to do with the girl I can’t stop thinking about. I add Moon River, Georgia to the search.

  Chatham County. It’s in Georgia. So is the city of Savannah. Interesting.

  But that’s as far as the Internet will take me. She doesn’t have a Facebook page, or an Instagram. Unless . . . I suppose it’s possible she doesn’t use her last name on her accounts. It’s probably safer not to. Or she might have one of those clever handles for social media. Something like SculptorGirl456. Except her Snapchat is a straightforward Chatham1009.

  I try something else. I type in Savannah Claiborne.

  All sorts of profiles flash on the screen, most with variations of the name, but it essentially gets me nowhere. I don’t know what Chatham’s sister looks like, so I wouldn’t know whose pages to open or lurk on.

  I try a search on her parents, Loretta and Wayne Claiborne, both individually and collectively, in Georgia.

  Nothing.

  I close out of social media and type in the search engine: Savannah missing runaway Moon River, Georgia.

  Nothing.

  If your kid was missing, even if she left of her own volition because she was whacked out on some mood-altering substance, wouldn’t you report it? Wouldn’t you do anything in your power to find her?

  But in this case, there are no websites dedicated to locating her.

  Chatham said this wasn’t the first time her sister had run away. She’d said Savannah was always running away. Maybe they’re used to her coming back when she’s ready to come back. But even then . . . wouldn’t there be a record, at least, of the first time she took off? An Amber Alert issued when the family didn’t know for certain where she was, if she’d come back, if she’d even run away rather than been kidnapped?

  There’s no report of Savannah’s going missing. Yet the family is here, a third of the way across the country, looking for her. Renting by the week, so they can zip out of town as quickly as they came in if they find her—or don’t.

  And what appeal would Sugar Creek hold for Savannah? Why would she want to come here? It doesn’t add up, unless they really do know something about Rachel.

  I do another search, this time for Rachel Bachton updates, but there’s not much new. Definitely nothing since the discovery of the bones at the meeting of two rivers. Just for good measure, though, I scan through some articles I’ve already read—some of them I’ve maybe read several times—to see if anything Chatham said tonight clicks with anything already printed.

  There’s very little catalogued about the girl Rachel was talking to before she was snatched. Beyond mentioning that Rachel was in line waiting for a balloon animal with her younger brother, amongst any number of children, there is no description of the child witness, even though there’s a call for any little girl to come forward and tell what or who she saw.

  When Rachel was last seen, she was wearing blue-jean leggings and a white T-shirt with a screen-printed kitten on it, and a pink sweatshirt. She had on a gold necklace with a single charm: a red-stone heart, set in gold. Her shoes were white sneakers from Stride Rite.

  Mrs. Bachton has appealed to Rachel in interviews and press conferences to come forward. She says she’ll know her daughter before DNA testing is even complete, because her daughter will be able to describe the charm on her necklace. It was a gift from her Nana, and Rachel loved it.

  She was there, and then she wasn’t. Reports of her seen on a train on the East Coast were unsubstantiated.

  It occurs to me: if Savannah is really as troubled as Chatham let on tonight, could she have fabricated a connection to this case to feel important? To feel as if she has purpose? Maybe, in Savannah’s mind, she really was there, but now that I think about it, I wonder if she hasn’t simply convinced herself that it happened, that she talked to Rachel, or witnessed her abduction, even if she didn’t. Wouldn’t that make more sense, considering Chatham doesn’t remember it? Wouldn’t it stand to reason that if their father Wayne was really that much of a jerk, that Savannah would try to get him into trouble by accusing him of taking Rachel?

  Was that what Chatham was hinting at when she said Savannah wasn’t reliable? I can’t very well sit her down, cut through all the bullshit, and jump ahead months in advance to the time in our relationship—assuming it develops—she’d tell me every thought that crosses her mind. If I expect her to trust me with these things, I have to give her time. I just wish I knew more about what she’s thinking.

  At this point, she isn’t obligated to tell me her life story. We hardly know each other.

  I’m going to change that. I have to.

  She fills in blank parts of me somehow, makes me feel like my life isn’t all that unusual, or maybe like everyone’s life is a little fucked up—just like mine. It’s like the skin growing over the slash on my arm. When you look at it, you still see the wound beneath the surface, and it’s still ugly. And I can’t forget why it’s there, but it’s different now. The scar healed in a few weeks’ time following the incident, and now, years later, it’s a reminder of how far I’ve come.

  I text her: Trip out to Northgate Lighthouse soon?

  She returns: Yes!

  W h i t e c a p s

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Rosie appears at the top of the stairs with a spatula in her hand. The smell of slightly over-grilled cheese wafts down to where I’m standing on the small landing at the front door. “You’re grounded.”

  “Library. I have a paper due. Bandwidth in this place sucks.” It isn’t exactly a lie. I do have to finish my paper. I even have my backpack with me. And the bandwidth does suck. While the twins are streaming a movie, there’s no chance in hell I’ll get fast Internet.

  “You think I don’t know when you’re lying to me?”

  “You gonna have me followed again? Because you’ll be disappointed when your Neanderthal ex only follows me to the library.”

  “My what? Josh, I have no idea—”

  “I’ll be back in plenty of time before you have to work tonight. Library’s only open until four on Sundays.”

  “I’m exhausted. I barely slept last night after the shit you pulled.”

  “You mean the tantrum you threw? For no good reason? That was two nights ago, Rosie.”

  “Mom. You call me Mom. And I’m talking about you leaving in the middle of the night and not coming back until sunrise.”

  Oh. So she knew about that. “I just went for a run.” To the boardwalk. To meet Chatham, who sneaked out, too. There’s something about a girl leaning her head on your shoulder as the sun comes up. A girl you’d give anything to kiss standing right there on the sand, but a g
irl with whom you just can’t risk fucking things up to try kissing this early on.

  “I was worried sick,” Rosie says. “Up pacing until I heard you come back. If I’m expected to pull a double tonight—and we need the money, so I have to—I’m going to need a nap, and your sisters . . .”

  My sisters . . . what? It’s like she doesn’t even have a valid reason they might need her. When they fall and scrape their knees, when they’re scared in the middle of the night, when they need anything at all, who do you think they look for?

  Not Rosie.

  Me.

  “I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

  “I need to sleep. What do you expect me to do with your sisters?”

  “Find some duct tape and sheet metal.”

  “What? What am I going to do with—”

  “Build a time machine, and go back to the night it all happened and decide to say no this time.”

  Before she has time to process and react, I leave and slide into my car, and turn the key in the ignition. She pounds on the driver’s window, and her face is all screwed up in this vicious expression.

  “I hate you!” she yells. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”

  I give her a nod. Mutual.

  It doesn’t hit me until I’m halfway to the Churchill: my mother said she hated me.

  What kind of a mother hates her own kid?

  What kind of kid deserves to be hated?

  Maybe I do deserve it. I mean, I love my sisters, and a few minutes ago, I all but said I wished they hadn’t been conceived.

  I roll down the windows, let the early autumn breeze, still calm and somewhat warm, wash away all the ugliness I feel around me. It’s practically clinging to my clothes. It’s like the air around my mother is a toxic cloud, and because I breathe it, I’m polluted, too.

  Air it out. Can’t have that pollution contaminating the space.

  God, I hope Margaret and Caroline didn’t get what I was saying. And I hope my mother has the sense not to explain it to them if they have questions. Can I ever forgive myself for wishing they weren’t here?