by Lisa Unger
He’d called Merri’s therapist and rushed her to the office, Merri dazed and pliant. She was committed at NYU Hospital within a few hours, and she’d stayed there for more than a week before snapping out of it as quickly as she’d succumbed.
“Her psyche, overwhelmed by the events of the last few months, did what it needed to do to survive,” her doctor explained. “It gave her a little vacation.”
As frightening as the episode had been, Wolf envied her.
“Shouldn’t you be up there with her?” Blake asked now.
“She doesn’t want me, man,” he said. Wolf put his forehead in his palm. “Who can blame her?”
“Maybe she doesn’t know she wants you,” said Blake. “Maybe you need to be there for her so that she can remember what it’s like not to be alone. Look, bad shit has happened, the worst things possible. But I think you two can find your way back to each other.”
Blake was a hopeless romantic, a depraved optimist. There was no problem, in his view, that could not be solved by love.
“What about Jackson?” Wolf asked. “The kid’s a wreck. I can’t leave him. And I can’t take him back up there.”
“We’ll take him,” said Blake. “The girls love him. We’ll make it fun for him, like a sleepover.”
Wolf nodded, as if considering. Even Blake, who was so close to them, so well meaning, just didn’t get it. There were no “fun sleepovers” in Jackson’s immediate future. He’d been shot by a man who’d abducted his sister, almost bled to death while he thought he was watching his father bleed to death. He was shattered, glued back together, and barely holding on to the pieces of himself. It was true of all of them. Other people, even close friends and family, their lives were moving forward, as they should. But Wolf, Merri, and Jackson were still back in those woods while Abbey was being dragged away. That sick feeling of helpless rage was an echo in his psyche. How could he ever forget those moments, watching her while nothing in his mind or spirit could make his body do what it needed to do? He still regularly dreamed about it, woke up in a sweat, searching for their faces. But he’d never seen them, the men who took Abbey. Without his glasses or contacts, they were just dark, nebulous forms. He looked down at his hand. The beer bottle was empty. He lifted it to the bartender for another.
“I’ll think about it,” said Wolf. “Thanks.”
“You know we’ll do anything,” said Blake. Wolf knew that his old friend was one of the few people in the world who said it and meant it. But there was literally nothing anyone could do for them. Except …
“I wanted to ask you something,” said Wolf. He took the article he’d printed from the web and unfolded it, smoothed it out on the bar in front of them. “Hear anything about this?”
Blake put his glasses back on. “Yeah,” he said. “I heard about this guy on the news and then there was some chatter about it at the office.”
Blake was a criminal defense attorney, had lots of connections with other lawyers, cops, and detectives. He had been a huge help in dealing with the police, especially when they were tearing Wolf and Merri apart.
“What kind of chatter?” Wolf asked.
“Well, foul play is definitely suspected. The guy was like Mr. Nice, happily married, very successful, into his job, no debt, no affairs, not even a parking ticket. Not the kind of guy who typically takes off on his family. There’s no signal from his phone, which means it was probably destroyed. No credit card activity.”
Blake looked down at the article again. “The Hollows,” he said. “Where Abbey—I’m sorry, man. I didn’t make the connection.”
Wolf nodded quickly. “Jackson’s obsessed.”
“The news thing?”
“Yeah,” he said. “But it’s more intense than it’s been. He thinks the story has something to do with Abbey.”
“Why does he think that?” asked Blake.
“I don’t know,” said Wolf. He took a sip of his next beer, which was ice cold and tasted good. Usually, he tried not to drink when he wanted it as bad as he did right now. Because when he felt this bad, it all went down too easy; he drank too much, did stupid things, was useless the next day. It was the only thing that smoothed out the jagged edges of his inner life. But he couldn’t afford that kind of carelessness anymore. “I don’t think he even knows.”
Blake tapped a finger on the bar, thinking.
“I heard today that the guy had some kind of new technology in his car. If it’s tampered with, reported stolen, or damaged, it apparently sends off some kind of beacon to the leasing company. They can control the car remotely, render it inoperable, find out exactly where it is in the event that it needs to be repossessed.”
Wolf felt an unreasonable flutter of hope, in spite of himself. This was a symptom of Jackson’s PTSD, and it was contagious in a way because the shattered, hopeless mind reaches for any kind of hope, no matter how dim. Ostensibly, Wolf was only asking because it helped calm Jackson down. Once he realized that there was no connection between whatever news story and the fractured lives of the Gleason family, Jackson moved on. Of course, Wolf didn’t actually believe that this story had anything to do with Abbey. But still, wasn’t there just the faintest glimmer of maybe? “So—”
“There are channels that need navigating, some initial resistance to the warrant that was needed because there’s no real evidence of foul play,” he said. “It’s taking some time. They were talking about it today, privacy and legality issues.”
Wolf thought about the man’s family. How infuriating it must be to have a technology that could help you find your missing loved one and then not be able to use it. The delays for reasons of legality seemed inhumane to the point of being Kafkaesque when you were frantic with fear and everyone else was following rules. How many hours did the police spend grilling Wolf and Merri while Abbey’s abductor was getting farther and farther away?
Wolf ordered another beer, and a shot of tequila. Blake looked at him but didn’t say anything. Blake and Claire were real friends, and even if they didn’t, couldn’t, understand, they’d been there every step of the way. Blake had been in The Hollows hours after Abbey disappeared, advising them, supporting them.
“Will you keep your ears open about it, let me know if you hear anything so I can tell Jackson?”
Jackson’s doctor had advised them not to dismiss the kid’s fears, but to help him work through things. Help him to see that there were no patterns, no way to predict the future to prevent bad things from happening. Wolf wasn’t sure what good it did for him to know that, that no one had any control over anything, that life could spiral out of your control in a moment.
“Sure,” said Blake. “Want me to make some calls?”
“That would be great,” he said.
“I’m interested anyway,” said Blake.
The place was filling up, and the voices around them getting a little louder. They both zoned out on the game. During a commercial break, Wolf watched a preview of the weather. The first winter storm was on its way, and it wasn’t even Halloween. Snowfall in the city was going to be light, but it looked like they were going to get dumped on farther up north. The sight of that gray graphic over the upstate region gripped him with sorrow. Another winter coming without Abbey, and Merri getting farther away every second.
“You should go up there, man,” said Blake again, reading his thoughts. “At least bring her back before that storm hits.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Wolf.
A girl sat at one of the high-tops, surrounded by a crowd of coworkers, her blazer off, her sheer blouse revealing a cream-colored camisole. Her blonde hair was silky and a little wild around her face like a mane. She was smiling at Wolf, sweet and shy. She laughed at something, turned back to the young man beside her.
In another life, Wolf would have lingered after Blake went home. He’d have found a way to strike up a conversation with the pretty girl. If she’d been a certain type, he’d have wound up back at her place. But he liked to think th
at he was a different man now, someone who’d learned from his mistakes, made better choices.
So when Blake picked up the tab and gathered up his things to go home, Wolf left with him.
*
Back at the apartment, Wolf’s parents had gone to sleep in the master bedroom, and his mother had made up the bed for him on the couch. He looked in on Jackson, who was sweaty and fitful in sleep, his leg kicked out from beneath the covers, still wearing his glasses, his night light on. The scar on his thigh was a large but tidy keloid mark that looked like a star. A book on quantum physics lay spine up on the floor. Wolf touched his son’s head, took off his glasses, and turned out the light.
On the couch, he dialed Merri and was surprised when she answered.
“There’s a storm coming,” he said. “I think you should come home.”
“I can’t,” she said. He could tell she’d been crying.
“Then we’re going to come up,” he said.
“Don’t,” she said. “It’s not healthy for him.”
“Then I’ll leave him with my parents,” he said. “Just for a couple of days.”
She didn’t say anything, her breath filling the space between them.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Merri, I’m truly sorry. I’ve been a shit husband and a worse father.” How many times had he said it? Were there ever more pointless, impotent words in the English language than “I’m sorry.” The words uttered when all was lost, when nothing could alter outcomes.
“Let me try to do better,” he said. “Please.”
There was only silence on the other end. He thought that maybe she had hung up, as she sometimes did, without a word. Even when she wasn’t angry, she would every once in a while just absently end a call, her mind on to the next thing.
They were so different, always had been. He was a writer. She was an editor. He created; she corrected. There’s a right way and a wrong way to do things, Wolf. Most grown-ups know that. Was it Ray Bradbury who said, Stay drunk on writing so that reality doesn’t destroy you? On the page, you could write the world. Off the page, the world would crush you, if you let it, with its harsh consequences and brutal outcomes, with all its banalities and dull day-to-day slog.
“Merri?”
“Okay,” she said. “Try to do better.”
And then she hung up.
NINETEEN
It was Abigail who wanted the rings. Patience said not to. And, of course, Sarah said nothing because she never had an opinion of her own. She swayed between the two of them, following whoever was stronger, not unlike Finley.
Finley had noticed the rings a few times, when she’d been up at the chalkboard, working through equations with Mrs. Frazier. Finley knew all about diamonds from her mother, who never tired of leafing through Tiffany catalogs, showing Finley the jewelry she liked, teaching her about cut, color, and clarity. And Amanda had plenty of gems of her own, a drawer full of glittering stones—some costume, some costly. Finley had grown to associate jewelry with apologies. When Phil screwed up, a little blue box appeared shortly after.
Mrs. Frazier’s engagement ring had a cushion-cut stone, more than a carat, but not quite two, with a neat row of smaller stones, alternating diamonds and blue sapphires around the band. It glittered and drew attention to itself, and Mrs. Frazier always had her nails done. And such pretty, soft hands. The wedding band was a simple matching ring of small diamonds.
Finley could tell how proud her teacher was of those rings. Leading up to her wedding, there had been a stack of wedding magazines in her drawer, along with a binder of all her plans. She was all business in the classroom; but Finley could see how happy she was, how excited. She’d slide the magazines out as soon as the classroom was empty; Finley would see them when she stayed after class for one thing or another. One afternoon, Mrs. Frazier had showed Finley a picture of her dress, her ring and manicured nails glittering as she pointed to the picture. So pretty. Finley wondered what it would be like to be so happy, to be in love. Had her mother been so in love with her father once upon a time? Amanda said, yes, she’d never loved anyone like she’d loved Phil. And she probably never would again and maybe that was a good thing.
Mrs. Frazier took her rings off sometimes, put them in a little ring dish on her desk.
Take them, whispered Abigail one day. Finley had been taking a make-up test, and Mrs. Frazier got up to go to the bathroom, an act of tremendous trust.
Finley knew better.
“No,” she whispered. “Go away.”
But wasn’t there, deep beneath what Finley knew was good and right, a throb of desire? Was it hers? Was it Abigail’s? The room was cold, smelled of chalk dust and mold, the fluorescents flickering their sickly blue-white light. Finley really liked Mrs. Frazier, formerly Miss Grant. Finley would never steal from her, or anyone. But those rings were so pretty. And what would it be like to have something like that?
He’ll buy her another one. No one would ever suspect you.
Sarah stood by the chalkboard looking uncertain, glancing at the door. Her dress was long and sky blue, in tatters around the hem. The girls all smelled faintly of smoke. Patience was by the window, staring at Finley with dark eyes. Her dress was black, buttoned high up the throat, her hair tightly pulled back. She looked the most like Faith, though Finley didn’t know that at the time. She never met Faith until she moved to The Hollows. There was anger etched deep around Faith’s eyes and into her brow, even around the corners of her mouth. It was righteous, the anger of a person who had been done wrong. Abigail, Faith’s most unruly daughter was angry, too. But she wanted to do harm. She wanted to hurt because she had been hurt. She didn’t give a damn about justice. Finley knew all of this without exactly having words for any of it.
Follow her lead and you’ll know nothing but heartache. Trust me, said Patience.
Shut up, said Abigail venomously.
“Go away,” said Finley. “I have to finish the test.”
She ignored them and went back to work, using all her mental resources to block them out. When she was done, she put her head down on her desk. She was so tired when the girls were around; they exhausted her.
She must have drifted off, and Mrs. Frazier was leaning over her, her walnut hair falling in a pretty sheet, her cornflower eyes thickly lashed and worried. “Finley. Finley? Are you all right, sweetie?”
Finley roused herself as if from the deepest slumber, disoriented, a little confused, and with the sense that something was terribly wrong.
“You must still be a little under the weather,” Mrs. Frazier said, putting a hand to Finley’s forehead. Finley had been sick with the flu for a week, that was why she had to make up the test. She didn’t feel totally better. “I’ll wait with you out front until your mother comes.”
Somehow—and Finley honestly and truly did not know how—those pretty, glittering rings wound up in her pocket. She must have gotten up from her seat, walked over, and put the rings in her pocket. But she had no memory of doing it. Had she discovered them herself, she’d have tried to find a way to return them without getting caught. Instead, they dropped out of her jeans when her mom was cleaning up her room that evening.
The shit storm that followed was epic. The suspension from school and grounding were bad enough. The disappointment of her parents and a beloved teacher was worse still. More than that, from that day forward Finley felt like she was a “bad kid.” Like there was something wrong with her that could not be fixed. She was a thief, a liar. Maybe that’s what attracted her to Rainer and his friends; they were bad, too. Her kid shrink believed Finley when she said she didn’t remember doing it. And he had suggested that it was some kind of fugue state, a dissociation, which in turn was a suggestion that Finley was seriously mentally ill. Which was scary enough that Finley tried to tell her mother the truth.
Naturally, her mother wouldn’t even hear her about The Three Sisters.
“Stop it, Finley,” she said. “Just stop it. You have to start taking r
esponsibility for your own actions. I’m not buying this whole I-see-dead-people routine. It’s pure bullshit.”
What made it worse was that she knew her mother did believe her but just couldn’t accept that something she had tried so hard to control was beyond her abilities to manage.
“I want to go live with Mimi,” Finley had said miserably, using the name she’d used as a little girl for Eloise, during one of the million arguments that followed. “At least she understands.”
Finley still felt a pang when she thought about the look on her mother’s face—rigid with pain and anger, her eyes glittering with tears.
“Over my dead body,” Amanda had said softly, then left the room.
*
It was midnight when Finley knocked on Rainer’s door, fully aware of herself. He came to her sleep-tousled and let her inside. She shivered in the transition from cold to warm. She wasn’t dressed warmly enough for her bike, and she felt so stiff and cold that she could shatter like an icicle.
“You’re freezing,” he said. He shut the door and wrapped her up tight in his big arms. Despite all the drama that had characterized their relationship in the beginning, his friendship was the safest place in her life. He was wide open and always there for her. She’d pushed him away hard, but he’d followed after her just the same.
He let her go for a minute, then moved over to the thermostat and turned up the heat. When he returned, he proceeded to vigorously rub at her arms until she laughed.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I think so,” she said. “Yeah, I’m okay. I just had a weird night.”
She shouldn’t be here; she knew that. It was a mistake. Still, she found herself pouring out all the events of the day since she left him. She told him about her internet search and everything she’d found out about the mines. There was a lot of information—old drawings, unofficial maps, photographs posted by cavers and spelunkers, old news articles about kids falling in and getting hurt, town meeting minutes about making them safer. They sat cross-legged on his mattress, for lack of any other furniture, as she showed him everything and told him about the things that had happened. She held back the part about Abigail, about not remembering sending him the text. That was a little too weird, even for Rainer.
