by T. Greenwood
And I hate that this always comes back to money. I see you silently calculating: the cost of the failed treatments, the IUIs, the IVFs. Our account dwindling with each visit to the pharmacy, each bill that arrived from the clinic. And then the money we have sent to the agency, the amount staggering. I fear you have a running total in your head, that when we finally get her, you will be measuring her against what we have spent. Seeing if she was worth it. If the value of this warm flesh in my arms matches this second mortgage it will take another thirty years to pay off. I know that there is a part of you that thinks we are purchasing her, and this makes you uncomfortable. There is some primitive place inside of you that wonders if human flesh should be for sale. And of course, I agree, but I would do anything. You don’t understand this. I cannot seem to make you understand this.
“Wait,” you said.
But I could not wait. She was being held only twice a day.
And so while you were sleeping, I sat in the darkness in the other room, the laptop on my lap, my face illuminated by the screen. I searched the Internet and found the hotel in Guatemala City. In Zona 10. I used Google Earth and zoomed in on the address I found after they finally gave me the name of the orphanage. I studied it so intently, I could find my way through those streets from the hotel to the orphanage with my eyes closed. I speak only a small amount of Spanish (recollected from high school), but I am learning. I listened to the lessons online with headphones on, pretended I was only listening to music.
And it is music, this language that belongs to her. I learn a lullaby so that when she finally comes home, I will be able to sing to her these familiar words. “A la roro niño, a lo roro ya, duérmete mi niño, duérmete mi amor.” Lullaby baby, lullaby now, sleep my baby, sleep my love.
But now, here alone in this shabby hotel, I wonder if you were right. Leaving my job, coming here all by myself. I am in a city where I do not speak the language, and the food has made me sick. For three days I can’t leave the bed, because I am feverish and vomiting. This city is rejecting me.
Outside my window I hear music, and laughter and sirens. Life goes on all around me, but I am enclosed in a cocoon of cold sheets and a threadbare blanket. I hung the DO NOT DISTURB, NO MOLESTAR sign on the door. When the maid comes, I poke my head out and whisper, “Estoy enfermo. Hay servicio de limpieza.” I am sick. I think I have told her I do not want housekeeping. I am relying on Google Translate on my laptop.
I text you photos of the hotel, of the city.
And I wait for you.
Back at camp, there is a flurry of activity. Zu-Zu is running around, grabbing things from the washing machine, from the closets.
“Oh my God, Mom, where’s the box of pointe shoes?” she asks, frantic.
“They’re already in Daddy’s truck,” Effie says.
Devin and Plum come into the kitchen through the back door, and Zu-Zu almost knocks him over.
“Slow down.” Devin laughs.
Jake is outside loading up the back of Devin’s truck with his own stuff. Early tomorrow morning, Devin will drive him back to Brooklyn and drop off Zu-Zu at the dorms in the city. Effie and Plum and I will stay here. After that, I have no idea.
I sit on the daybed on the porch, looking out at the lake, while the others hustle about. I feel like a stone in the water, everyone moving around me as I remain immovable, unyielding.
“Want some company?” Effie asks. She’s wearing her bathing suit top and a pair of sweats. She still looks like a kid.
She sits down on the other side of me, puts her arm across my back, and holds me. I shudder. She leans into me, squeezing me as hard as she can, and I remember. She was there when everything fell apart before. When I fell apart. It was Effie who put me back together, who gathered the shattered pieces of me, who made sure none of the shards were forgotten. Discarded. Swept away.
“You okay?” she asks.
I nod, though I am not okay, not okay at all.
Sunday morning. For the girls we pretend that everything is okay. Zu-Zu is trying to be brave, blasé about leaving, but I can see how nervous she is. This is the first time she’s left home. Effie too is pretending that everything is fine. Just a normal morning. She makes pancakes, bacon. But Plum is the only one who can eat.
I take my coffee outside as we gather around Devin’s truck to say good-bye.
Zu-Zu curls up into her mother’s arms, and I have to look away. Effie’s eyes are filled with tears, which makes my eyes fill as well.
“I’ll be down in a couple of weeks,” Effie says. “Do you have Baby Z?”
Zu-Zu nods.
“Bye, squirt,” Zu-Zu says, reaching for Plum.
Plum is the only one who isn’t misty-eyed. She hugs Zu-Zu and then wriggles out of her arms. “When we come visit, I want to go to the Statue of Liberty. And to see the Rockettes. And to that big toy store, what’s it called, Mama, Effie-O?”
“FAO Schwarz,” Effie says, laughing. “We’ll do all those things. I promise.”
Devin comes and gives Effie a hug and then hugs me too. He pulls away but keeps holding on to my shoulders. “Listen, Billy is going to keep the search going. There are at least fifty people planning to go out today. I’ll be back in a few days, and we’ll figure out where to go from there. Okay?”
I nod. I am so grateful to him.
Jake comes out of the camp and barely speaks to me as he gets into the passenger side of the truck, Zu-Zu sandwiched between them.
“I’ll call you when we get there,” he says.
I nod. I don’t wish him luck with the auction. I don’t say anything. I have no words for this moment.
And then the truck is backing up out of the driveway and onto the dirt road. But instead of feeling sadness or fear, I only feel relief. I am startled by this; by the peace, by the release, of this moment.
“Let’s go finish up breakfast,” Effie says, reaching for my hand.
It’s Sunday, so she doesn’t have to work. She has promised Plum that she’ll take her strawberry picking at a local farm, and that they can make a strawberry-rhubarb pie to have with supper tonight. I offer to make dinner for them: homemade mac ’n’ cheese, Plum’s favorite.
“Are you going to join the search today?” Effie asks quietly.
Plum has slipped back into the kitchen nook, where she pushes what’s left of her breakfast around her plate. I think it might just be hitting her that her sister will be gone all summer.
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging. “I figure I’ll go down to Hudson’s and see if anybody else shows up.” What I don’t tell her is that I’m worried that instead of a group of eager volunteers waiting for me, I might be facing a lynch mob. Devin assured me that just because the police have given up doesn’t mean that the community will. He said that Billy Moffett is taking over the volunteer efforts, that the search headquarters are still open. That most folks still believe what I said I saw. And they won’t stop searching until they find her. But I felt their anger at me as I walked through the crowd. I felt their suspicions, their disbelief.
“Hey,” I say when Effie slips into the nook next to Plum. They both look so sad. Effie’s eyes are puffy, and I have a feeling she was up crying last night.
“Maybe we can watch the DVD of Zu-Zu’s recital tonight. Coppélia, right? That’s the ballet she did this year?” I suggest.
Effie nods. “That would be nice. God, I miss her already.”
“Me too,” Plum says.
“Me three,” I say.
The phone jangles on the wall, startling me. It’s early, really early.
Effie stands up and grabs it. I can tell she’s worried it might be Devin. That something could have happened, though they just left a few minutes ago.
“Yes, hold on one moment. Let me see if she’s available,” she says stiffly.
I cock my head at her as she covers the mouthpiece.
“It’s Lieutenant Andrews,” she says softly. “Do you want to talk?”
I feel my skin
flush hot. I think of how awful it felt having all eyes on me in the parking lot at Hudson’s. At the humiliation. At the frustration.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding, and take the phone from her. I stretch the cord into the living room, but I can feel Plum straining to hear.
“Miss Waters?” he says.
“Yes?”
And then I wonder if maybe he’s calling because some new evidence has come in. Something to prove I was telling the truth. Maybe they’ve found her.
“Ma’am, I’m going to need to have you come into the station. Can you make it into town this morning?”
“What is it?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss this on the phone,” he says. “I just need you to come by the station at your earliest convenience.”
“Can you just tell me what this is regarding? Did they find her?”
But he’s hung up before I can even finish my sentence. Effie comes into the room.
“What’s going on?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
In small towns, Sunday mornings belong to the faithful. There are four churches in Quimby, and each of their respective parking lots is full, but the sidewalks are empty. Deserted. None of the shops are open on Sundays. The banks and businesses are all dark. Only the Miss Quimby Diner is open. I can see its neon sign from here, and in about a half hour the churchgoers in their Sunday best will file from their cars into the restaurant to load up on chicken-fried steak and biscuits and gravy.
I drive down Main Street and turn off onto the street where the police station is. It’s a small, two-story brick building. And in all the years I lived in Quimby, I’ve never once set foot in here.
Inside the doors, I am greeted by a sickly looking ficus tree and a counter like at the doctor’s office. The architecture inside is gorgeous though; it looks more like a library or old train depot than a police station. The woodwork is cherry, and there is a winding staircase that leads to the second story.
I go to the counter, where a woman who looks vaguely familiar is on the phone. I struggle to remember how I know her as she finishes up her conversation, gesturing that she’ll be right with me. And then I realize that she’s my prom date’s mother. The last time I saw her, she was snapping photos of me in a green monstrosity of a dress.
“Mrs. Gagnon?” I say, smiling when she gets off the phone.
“That’s me,” she says. “And you are?” Her tone is short, as though she’d like me to get to the point. And then I remember where I am; a police station is probably not the place for friendly chitchat.
“I’m Tess Waters,” I say. “Tess Mahoney? Your son, Mark, and I went to the prom together.”
“Junior or senior?” she asks.
“Senior.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re that girl who went off to Boston.” It’s a simple fact, but it feels like an accusation.
“Yes, but I actually live in New York now,” I say, as if this can somehow remedy whatever it is about Boston that has upset her.
“You’re also the one that got everybody riled up about a missing little girl,” she says, raising a single eyebrow skyward.
“Yes,” I say, bitterly. “I’m the one who found her.”
What I want to tell her is that her son is a pig. That he got wasted on peach schnapps before we even got to the prom and kept trying to grab my breasts all night. That he ditched me when I wasn’t receptive to his groping, and I had to walk the whole way home in that stupid dress.
“About that,” she says. “Lieutenant Andrews said that you’d be in. He’s expecting you.”
And then she is on the phone, letting him know.
Two officers enter the building, a woman handcuffed between them. Her face is gaunt, pony-like, her hair thin. She is braless in a man’s ribbed wifebeater, and her thin, bare arms are mottled like bruised fruit. I think of the syringe I found in the woods. She catches me looking at her and stares back; her face is defiant, her jaw grinding. I look away. Ashamed.
Andrews comes out into the waiting area all smiles, reaching out to shake my hand. I wonder if this is his MO: butter me up before giving me the bad news. Jake does that too.
He leads me to an office with his name on a brass plate on the door and ushers me in.
He sits down behind his desk and motions for me to sit in the chair across from him. Outside the door, I hear commotion (raised voices—the woman’s?—a slamming door, and squawking radios), but it doesn’t seem to register with him.
“Thanks a whole lot for coming down here on a Sunday,” he says. “Hope I didn’t wake you up this morning.”
I shake my head. “No,” I say. It already feels like entire days have passed since Devin, Jake, and Zu-Zu drove off in the truck.
“Why am I here?” I ask. “Did you find her?”
He grimaces.
“Still sticking to your story, huh?”
“My story?”
“Listen, ma’am, I understand that this has all been pretty exciting. What with the whole community rallying to find this kid. I’m sure your adrenaline is still going. All this attention. All this drama.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know how intoxicating it can be. To have the media hanging on your every word. To be the center of attention. Hell, I can’t say I blame you. It’s only human nature.”
“I’m sorry, sir, Lieutenant. I’m not sure I’m following you?”
I glance around, as if someone is going to come in and help translate what he’s saying to me. But we are alone. It feels like he’s a cat, toying with me. Batting me around before he pounces.
“Ms. Waters,” he says. “We’ve done a little bit of... homework, shall we say? And it’s our understanding that this isn’t the first time you’ve been in the limelight.”
I shake my head, feel my stomach plummet.
“That about eight years ago you got yourself caught up in a bit of a media frenzy too.”
My heart starts to pound hard in my chest, knocking against my ribs. Jesus, of course he’d do some digging. Find that specter that is always, somehow, hovering, haunting me. I have to will myself to stay seated. Not to run.
“I don’t see what any of that has to do with this,” I say.
“That’s funny, because I think it has everything to do with it.” He sits back smugly in his seat and strokes his mustache. “I’ve seen it before. Somebody gets a little taste and wants the whole cake.”
“I’m sorry, and with all due respect, none of this is cake. Two nights ago, I found a child, a little girl, wandering around, by herself, hurt. Just because your team wasn’t able to find her, doesn’t mean that she doesn’t exist. Or that I somehow conjured her up for my own amusement.”
He grins as if I am amusing him.
“Your search lasted less than twenty-four hours,” I say.
“And cost this town thousands of dollars, never mind the manpower that could have been dedicated to other, legitimate, concerns.”
“So this is about money?” I say.
“It’s about resources,” he says. “And funny thing. People around here don’t like to see resources wasted. And when resources are squandered, somebody’s got to pay up.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re trying to say.”
“Well, let me make it crystal clear for you then,” he says, and his expression changes from one of mild amusement to accusation. “You lied to this community. You lied to the police. It cost this town a whole lot of money it simply does not have. And now the pressure is on me to make things right.”
“So you want me to pay you back?” I almost laugh.
“What I want you to do is admit that you lied. Because the DA is considering pressing charges against you.”
“Pressing charges against me for what?” I am seething now.
“I’d like to see prosecution for knowingly making a false report of an emergency. And even if the DA decides to shit-can the case, our department is going to
pursue a cost-recovery suit. To pay back this community.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I say, standing up.
Andrews stands up too, puts his hands up in a sort of mock surrender as though I might strike out, attack him.
“I’m going to contact my attorney. This is bullshit,” I say. I feel vertiginous, my legs weak.
“Meanwhile, I think it’s best that you stick around town.”
“Meanwhile, there is a little girl out there in the woods,” I say, shaking. “If anything happens to her, I hope you can sleep at night knowing that you did nothing.”
And with that, I storm out of the building and into the bright and beautiful Sunday morning.
I drive back to the lake in a fugue state. My mind is spinning, imagining everything that will happen next, could happen next. I try and fail to come up with a plan for how to deal with this. Earlier I was happy that Jake left, but I now worry about how I will handle this on my own.
I know I need to contact a lawyer, but it’s been years since I needed a lawyer. Eight years. And I haven’t spoken to our “counsel,” Jake’s best friend, Oliver, since. Things went so badly, I couldn’t bear to even see him afterward. I know he and Jake have maintained their friendship, but that it is strained now. A delicate, tenuous thing.
I can’t call him. And I certainly don’t want to talk to Jake about this. He’s likely not even on the Jersey Turnpike yet, and my entire world has been turned inside out. A pocket plucked from a pair of pants, the pale lining exposed. Shaken and empty.
My hope is that Effie will know what to do. Know someone I can speak to. I will need someone local who can help me sort this out. There has got to be someone with legal qualifications here. Someone to defend the drunk drivers, the wife beaters, the junkies who seem to be proliferating here.
Andrews’s accusations feel like beestings.
But though my brain is swirling, I feel a new sense of resolve and purpose as I round the lake and see the camp through the trees. I will talk to Effie, find a lawyer, get some help. Deal with the cops. Keep them from pressing charges. Find the girl. Find the girl. How has this fallen so far down the list?
