Tiffany wrapped her arm around my shoulders, trying to calm my nerves. She understood how big a deal it was that Gil would send me something so personal, but only I understood the gravity of our family’s code word for “the shit has hit the fan.” I flipped through the book again looking for clues. The pages were filled with oddly drawn trees with bare branches.
“What are those drawings?” Tiffany asked.
I traced my finger along the lines of the crudely drawn pictures. “They look like trees. But I don’t understand why he would send me a journal filled with leafless trees.”
“Who’s Noah Brown?” she asked, pointing to a name written on one of the branches.
“He’s a cousin of ours. Lives in New York,” I told her. I stared at the picture and willed my brain to comprehend what I was looking at. Each branch had a name written on it, and as the pages progressed, more branches appeared with new names on them. I recognized the names, but their connection to one another on the trees made no sense.
They were family trees.
“Maybe it got lost and someone found it and returned it,” Tiffany suggested.
I examined the first and last pages in hopes that she was right and that I had just missed an obvious clue.
“His name isn’t in it and there’s no address, Tiff,” I countered.
“So . . . what’s ‘oxblood’?”
“It’s a color. A shade of dark red. It was our mother’s favorite. She used colors to describe feelings: chartreuse for happiness, ebony for sadness. Mom always said oxblood was actually a muddled-up conglomerate of other colors. That’s what she said about problems, too. So, oxblood always meant something was very wrong,” I explained.
Worry filled every inch of my heart and I knew I had to do something. What was Gil up to? How had a simple research trip turned “oxblood” dangerous?
I grabbed Gil’s itinerary from the fridge and darted into my room for my laptop. The thirty seconds it took the screen to flicker on seemed like an eternity. I went straight for my inbox.
Still no email from Gil.
I’d heard from him last Sunday, but his email was shorter than usual. Still, everything seemed fine. He told me about the progress he was making on his immigration law research and how working on a culturally diverse team could be challenging, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. He even shared a funny story about mixing up the Italian words for door and port—la porta and il porto—when giving another student directions. There was nothing to indicate there was any problem, except now it was almost ten o’clock and I still had no email from my brother.
“He’s supposed to be in Palermo right now, but the postmark is from Bologna.” I quickly googled a map of Italy and found that these two cities were nowhere near each other.
“That doesn’t mean anything. It can take weeks for a package to come from overseas. And, look, he was in Bologna right before Palermo,” Tiffany pointed out on the itinerary. “I’m sure everything is fine. You’ll get an email from him any day now when he finds out the university in Bologna sent the journal to his home address. And he’ll explain that he wrote the . . . what is it . . . the ‘oxblood’ code for some random reason.”
“If they were sending it to him here, why was it addressed to me? And Gil would never use the word oxblood randomly. Seriously, Tiff. We hated when our mom made us use her color chart to describe our feelings. He’s not going to start using it again on a whim.” Out of reasonable answers, Tiffany looked at me and shrugged and squeezed my shoulder.
I found the last email Gil sent and replied to it again. First, I yelled at him in bold, capital letters to emphasize how freaked out I was. Then I told him to contact me right away to tell me what was going on. He knew what sending me a journal would mean, let alone using that word.
I went back to Gil’s itinerary and began emailing the law school department chairs at the universities directly. Gil didn’t leave phone numbers because he said it was silly to waste an international call.
I pretty much cut-and-pasted the same message to the seven email addresses he left me. I told them who I was, that there was a family emergency, and that I needed to speak with Gil as soon as possible. I didn’t want to sound like a crazy person just in case Tiffany was right and there was nothing to worry about, but I definitely wanted them to have a sense of urgency.
“You’re going to feel really silly when Gil replies and gives you a completely reasonable explanation for this,” Tiffany warned. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep? I’m sure you will have heard from one of the universities or Gil by morning.”
“I can’t sleep, Tiff,” I protested.
“You can’t just sit here and stare at your inbox all night. There’s nothing you can do about anything, if there is even anything to have something done about. . . . You know what I mean.” Tiffany knelt down next to me by the desk and covered my hands with hers. “I know you’re afraid of losing him. You’re not going to lose him, Vic.”
Fear was rushing through me, the same fear from the day Gil said he was going to Italy for his exchange program. After losing Mom and Dad, I couldn’t handle the thought of losing Gil, too. But he went back and forth a couple of times for interviews before he actually began his six-month project, and I slowly acclimated to the idea. To think that he got all the way to Italy only to have something horrible happen to him filled me with dread.
I stared at the screen for thirty minutes, repeatedly refreshing my inbox, before I conceded to Tiffany’s insistence that I sleep. I shut down the computer, changed into my pajamas, and crawled into bed.
It took longer than usual to fall asleep because my mind was imagining terrible things. I understood Gil’s desire to go to Italy to study. We had talked about wanting a better life. We knew it was what Mom and Dad would have wanted for us. Gil was going on this trip to make him a better lawyer. I may have even been a bit jealous—he was in one of the most beautiful countries in the world, and I was waiting tables at a diner in one of the worst parts of Miami—but I was happy for him.
Not going to college was my choice so it wasn’t like I could complain. I knew college wasn’t for me. Maybe my feelings would change once Gil was done with law school. Perhaps I’d find something I could be passionate about the way Gil was about the law. Until then, I felt fine about getting by on my street smarts.
But I missed him. All the time. What was Italy really like? Who was he meeting? What exciting things was he experiencing? Was he touring the Colosseum and tossing coins into Trevi Fountain? I wanted so desperately to hear the ping on my phone telling me I had an email. One from Gil, apologizing for making me worried, for forgetting to write.
That email never came.
What did come were seven emails from seven universities in Italy that had never heard of Gil Asher. They were all very sorry for the confusion and offered to contact me if they heard anything from him.
“Can’t you just call his cell?” Tiffany suggested as she handed me a cup of coffee. She offered to make me some breakfast, too, but I had absolutely no appetite. It was barely after eight in the morning and too early to eat anyway.
“His phone doesn’t work internationally. I wouldn’t let him spend the extra money to have temporary service abroad,” I told her. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“Why don’t you contact his professors here? If he’s on this exchange program, surely they’ll have some information. Maybe all those professors have teaching assistants who answer their emails, and they just didn’t know who he was?”
“No one has heard of him? That’s crazy, Tiff. You’re right, though. I should just call and talk to his professors here. I’ve never met any of them, but he talks about his favorite one, Professor Engskow, a lot. If I can’t get in touch with him, I can at least call the school and talk to someone in that department.”
I spent the next thirty minutes on hold listening to the
University of Miami’s prerecorded commercials for everything from their biology degrees to their prestigious law degrees. Twice a woman picked up and asked if I wanted to leave a message or speak with someone else, but I refused to become a lost piece of paper on someone’s desk or get the runaround from a random teaching assistant. I was determined to speak directly to Professor Engskow as soon as was humanly possible.
“Miss Asher?” the voice on the line said through the speaker on my cell phone. “I’m Jim Engskow. How may I help you?”
“Yes, Professor Engskow, I need to speak to you about my brother, Gil,” I told him.
“Oh yes! How is Gil?”
“Well, I don’t know. See, I’m having trouble contacting him in Italy and I wondered if maybe you or someone in your department could help me reach him at the university in Palermo where I think he’s supposed to be right now.” I tried not to let it, but desperation filled my voice, making me talk too fast.
“Oh, I’m sorry you’re having trouble connecting with him, but he didn’t leave any contact information with us. Well, at least not with me. But I’d be happy to ask around the department. I didn’t realize he was going to be in Italy! When he said he was taking the semester off to dive deeper into his thesis paper, I just assumed he would be burying himself in books and interviews locally.”
“Wait. What? He’s on an exchange program with the universities in Italy.” I hoped to jog Professor Engskow’s memory.
“The law department at the University of Miami doesn’t have an exchange agreement with any university in Italy, Miss Asher.”
“But . . . he went to Italy to interview for the program. He said the university told him it was required for such a competitive internship,” I explained.
What the hell was going on? Nothing was making sense. Before the six-month visit, Gil had taken three trips to Italy for what he told me were interviews and meetings to finalize the exchange program. What had he really been doing? More importantly, why would he have lied to me?
“I wish I could be of more help,” Professor Engskow said. He sounded concerned.
“Well . . . um . . . thank you for your time, Professor Engskow. Sorry to have bothered you,” I said with a shaky voice.
“It’s no problem at all. I’ll ask around. If I hear anything, I’ll be sure to contact you.”
“Thank you.”
“Okay. We can worry now,” Tiffany whispered.
I put the phone down and tried to think, but I was completely out of ideas. Did Italy do APBs? Would they even care enough to do one for an American citizen?
That’s it! “Gil is an American citizen missing in a foreign country. The FBI or the US Embassy or somebody has to do something, right?”
“Oh my God! Yes! They have to!” Tiffany sat down in front of my laptop and began googling the number for the FBI. “Holy crap! There’s a field office here in Miami. We should totally go down there. If you’re there, if they see you, Vic, they’ll have to help!”
“Okay. First, let me find a recent picture of Gil so they have something.” I grabbed the laptop from Tiffany and began searching my Facebook pictures for a good one of Gil. I only had to scroll down a few times before I landed on one of Gil from his birthday last February. I got dressed while it printed.
Tiffany and I were out the door and following the Hugh Jackman–sounding voice on her phone’s GPS in no time. In forty minutes, we were parking outside the FBI’s Miami field office. It was a square white concrete building, and I assumed they were going for discreet when they designed it. The only thing it had going for it was the line of palm trees in front, standing like lazy soldiers.
It felt surreal walking up to the front desk to tell the receptionist that I needed to report my brother missing in Italy. Like I was watching someone else live an alternate version of my life. Finally, the last piece of my old existence was getting ripped from my hands.
Apparently, my idea of emergency and the FBI’s were two different things. Tiffany and I waited thirty minutes in the stark white waiting room before an agent graced us with his presence.
“Miss Asher? I’m Agent Stokes. Please follow me.” Agent Stokes was a tall, older gentleman who looked to be about fifty. His eyes were dark and his aging face was mapped with lines—proof, I guess, of the stress of being an FBI agent. As he approached, I could see his left arm was stiffer than his right; it didn’t swing with the same ease when he walked. There was a faint scar next to his left eye, too, and I wondered if that side of his body had been injured on an assignment.
We walked down a long, industrial-looking hall and stepped into a waiting elevator. Agent Stokes pushed the number two, and we quickly traveled up. Tiffany and I followed him out of the elevator and down the hall to a conference room.
In the center of the room, there was a large, dark wooden table with twelve chairs tucked neatly under. A huge modern art canvas adorned one end of the long room, while a television hung opposite it. The inside wall was made of glass. The windows overlooked the parking lot, and I could see cars zooming along I-95 and the Ronald Regan Turnpike. When I turned around, Agent Stokes was closing the door behind Tiffany.
“Would you like to have a seat, Miss Asher?” he offered. I sat down and my shorts slid up my thigh. Why didn’t I think about wearing something more professional, I chided myself. Then I instantly took it back. I was here to find my brother, not interview for a job. “How can the FBI be of assistance to you?”
“Well,” I began. My voice seemed small. Tiffany put her hand on my arm and gave me a nod of support. “My brother is missing in Italy.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. How long has he been gone?” the agent asked. He flipped open his legal pad to an empty page and my hope that he was going to take the case rose.
“He left three months ago for what he told me was an exchange program between the University of Miami and several universities in Italy. He’s a law student with a focus on immigration law and was there for research. I lost contact with him, and now I can’t find him.”
“Did you try contacting the universities in Italy, or his professors here?” he asked as he scribbled something on his notepad.
“I did,” I said hesitantly. I didn’t want to admit it, but evidence was mounting that Gil dropped off the map of his own volition. Evidence to anyone who didn’t know him, that was. “That’s what was so strange. I emailed the universities in Italy where Gil said he’d be, and none of them had heard of him. And when I called the university, the professor I spoke to there said that they didn’t have an exchange agreement with any Italian universities and that he had no idea Gil was in Italy.”
“I see,” Agent Stokes said. He dropped his pen and my heart went with it.
“But there’s also this.” I pulled the journal from my bag and laid it on the table. “He’s incredibly protective of his research and has always forbidden me from even breathing near it. But then he sent me this. It’s one of his research journals. For him to have packaged it up and sent it to me from Italy . . . well, I can’t begin to explain how out of character that is for Gil. And there’s more.” I opened the front cover. “He used a code word from when we were kids. We only used it when something was terribly wrong.”
Agent Stokes took the journal and flipped through it, showing no emotion at all as he read a few pages.
“Have you read this?” Agent Stokes said.
“Not completely,” I answered. “Well, I looked to see if there was anything that jumped out at me like a note as to why he would send it to me, but I didn’t find anything.”
Agent Stokes nodded. “Well, it doesn’t appear that there’s anything illegal in here, so that should put you at ease. Honestly, it looks to me like a regular journal. Maybe even a memoir of sorts. Here’s something about a summer vacation up to the Tampa Bay area.”
“What?” He passed me the journal. The page opposit
e was another one of his crazy family trees. I recognized a few of the names, but closer examination of it revealed that the tree was filled in with people we knew but were certainly not related to, unlike the tree I had examined at the apartment that was filled with family members.
“I don’t know what’s going on with the journal. But you have to understand that none of this makes sense . . . really. It is completely out of character for Gil. It’s some kind of sign.” Tiffany tried to reiterate the magnitude of this act, but it was clear Agent Stokes was not getting it.
“I can see that you’re genuinely concerned about your brother. But sometimes people choose to disappear on purpose. He gave you false information about why he was going to Italy and now he’s fallen off the grid. There’s no evidence of foul play or that anything illegal has happened. I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but in my professional opinion, it looks like he wanted to disappear.”
My face became hot as I listened to Agent Stokes shoot down my hopes at finding Gil. I didn’t know if I wanted to scream or cry. Seeing I was visibly shaken, he said, “But if you have a recent picture of him, I’ll send it over to our attaché office in the US Embassy in Rome and ask them to keep an eye out.”
“But they won’t do anything?” Tiffany asked for me.
“I don’t have any evidence to indicate that he’s disappeared under suspicious circumstances. I’m sorry.”
“I understand.” I took the picture of Gil I printed out and handed it to the agent. “I appreciate you being willing to do this much.”
“I wish I could do more. This is my direct line here.” Agent Stokes pulled out his business card and handed it to me as Tiffany and I stood up. “If anything else comes up, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”
I took a deep breath and extended my hand to shake his. “Thank you for your time.”
He escorted us back to the lobby, we thanked him again, then walked back out into the Florida sunshine. I immediately crumpled up his card and threw it in the trash.
I didn’t say anything as Tiffany drove us back to my apartment. My mind was too busy working out my only option. By the time we walked through the door, I had made my decision. It would be the stupidest, or the bravest, thing I’d ever done, but I didn’t have a choice.
Oxblood Page 3
