The Beautiful Lost

by Luanne Rice

  I sat down at the wide oak library table, where the computers were. The two girls there were hunched over books, papers spread around them. I thought of the school assignments I was missing. I had chosen a good topic for English, the literature of whales, wanting my class to know that Moby-Dick was far from the only book to read on the subject.

  “Hey,” the girl on the right said quietly, giving me a very intense stare. She had super-short black hair tapered sharply against her neck. Her bangs were cut in a straight line above her thinly plucked eyebrows, one of which was pierced with a stud. She wore a plain white T-shirt and long silver necklaces layered over one another.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “You’re new blood,” she said.

  “Are you a vampire?” I asked, laughing nervously.

  “No,” said the girl next to her. She was really skinny and had long, pure white hair, obviously bleached, a bunch of earrings in one ear, and she wore a red fleece jacket that said ALL-MAINE ORCHESTRA on the front. “Just that this is a small town and we know everyone.”

  “I’m only visiting,” I said.

  “Passing through?” White T-shirt Girl asked.

  “Uh,” I said.

  “Don’t invade her privacy,” Red Fleece Girl said.

  “I’m Darrah, by the way,” White T-shirt Girl said.

  “Cleo,” Red Fleece Girl said.

  I hesitated and decided to use my middle name, my parents’ tribute to Rachel Carson, the greatest environmentalist ever. “I’m Rachel,” I said.

  “Huh,” Darrah said, squinting a smile at me.

  “What grade are you in?” Cleo asked.

  “Tenth,” I said. “How about you?”

  “That’s complicated,” Darrah said. “Not for me, but for our dear Cleo. I’m a junior. And … you want to tell or should I, my love?” she asked Cleo.

  “You,” Cleo said.

  “Well, we’re together,” Darrah told me with a smile. “As in in love.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “Why is your grade complicated?”

  “Long story,” Cleo said.

  Since I had one of those of my own, I knew to leave it alone. I logged into my email and saw that I had fifty-seven new messages. I glanced through them. As usual, most were from Gen and Clarissa. I wanted to sit there and DM with them for hours—there was so much to say. It killed me to hide my online status, but I knew if I started I might never get off the computer.

  There were lots of other emails from my dad, and—of course—Astrid. I took just enough time to open the one I’d sent myself, and smiled to see the selfie of Billy and me in Mystic.

  Then I closed that email, opened a new message box, and started typing.

  Dear Dad,

  I am sorry for leaving without telling you. I know you must be worried, but please don’t be. I am fine, I haven’t hurt myself, and I promise I won’t. I took the car, but I’m sure you figured that out already. I am fine. Do not blame Billy.

  Love,

  Maia

  “Are you checking in with home?” Darrah asked me.

  I nodded, not wanting to go into it.

  “They’re super worried about you,” Darrah said, and I froze.

  “We spotted you and Billy as soon as you walked in,” Cleo said.

  My blood stopped in my veins. How did they know his name?

  “Don’t take it the wrong way, and we totally understand,” Cleo said. “I’d give a fake name, too, Maia.”

  “Oh, no, oh, no,” I said, jumping up, nearly knocking my chair over, looking frantically around the library, outside the computer room’s window, for Billy. I had to tell him, we had to leave.

  Darrah reached across the table, grabbed my arm, gave it a firm shake. “You’re safe with us. We should have told you we recognized you right away, but we didn’t want to spook you. You should know you’re on the news.”

  “Like, everywhere,” Cleo said.

  My teeth were clenched, and I could barely speak.

  “What are they saying?” I finally asked.

  “They don’t know what happened to you. They’re worried you might have done something to hurt yourself. And they think Billy’s bad news.”

  “No,” I said. “He’s wonderful.”

  Cleo nodded. “You two are together, right? Like, you’re not his prisoner?”

  “No!”

  “Didn’t think so,” Darrah said. “I know a couple when I see one. Comes from being with Cleo. There’s love electricity or there’s not.”

  Love electricity? Between Billy and me? I knew it was sizzling inside me, and I wanted to ask them if they saw it going both ways, but this wasn’t the time to obsess over my crush.

  Darrah and Cleo seemed nice, but would they report us the second we left? I itched to get away.

  “They don’t know where we’re going, or how we’re getting around?” I asked.

  “They said you’re driving the family Volvo,” Cleo said.

  “I’ve got to find Billy,” I said, backing toward the door.

  “Look, you’re here—maybe you should read the news stories online? Go ahead,” Darrah said.

  “It’s okay,” Cleo said, giving me an encouraging smile.

  I sat back down, went to Facebook, scanned the news feed—it was all about us, Billy and me. My friends’ posts were filled with news stories from the Hartford Courant and the New London Day, video clips from Channel 30, a rehash of Billy’s father’s murder trial, a statement from the Stansfield Home: William Gorman is part of the Stansfield family. We thank the Connecticut State Police and all who are working so hard to bring him home, and we won’t rest until he returns to us.

  My timeline was also full of personal pleas from kids in our class.

  From Jenna Bridges: Maia & Billy, if you’re reading this, we love you and want you back home!

  From Cathy Alfonso: We miss you—that’s all I can say. If only you knew how much, you’d come back right now.

  From Peter Barowski: Dude, where’d you go? We’re thinking of you. Seriously. Call someone.

  From Lisa Brown: Prayers for our classmates, please!

  Gen posted a photo of us in gymnastics class, standing side by side on the balance beam. Maia, you’re my heart. I need you home—don’t do this to us, we’re all so scared. Hurry back.

  Clarissa’s photo showed me, her, and Gen last Halloween, when we’d all gone to the school dance as witches. We’d sprinkled glitter on our black hats, painted our faces green, and wiggled our fingers toward the camera as if casting spells. If I could perform magic right now I’d bring you home safe and sound, she’d written. I’d make sure you were okay. Please be okay, Maia. Please please please.

  I brushed away tears and couldn’t take any more Facebook. I closed the window and glanced back at my email, ready to log out. But then I saw this unfamiliar address:

  Beluga.GS@QuebecEast.com

  And I knew. My mother.

  She NEVER emailed me. All our communication was by letter. I drew in a sharp breath and held it. I couldn’t let it out or breathe right.

  Dear Maia,

  Wherever you are, wherever the tides have taken you, know I love you. I am with you.

  Use your strength, your tools. Be my strong daughter. You are an invincible woman. Feel me with you, Maia. Remember you are named for one of the brightest stars in the sky, and use the constellations—including your own—to guide you.

  Right now I am watching a beluga mother and calf, and I know they will share the sea forever, whether together or miles apart. The mother is teaching the calf lessons that will save her life, keep her safe from predators, guide her to the richest feeding grounds. Mother and child whales can hear each other’s songs hundreds of miles away from each other. That is science, not poetry.

  Follow your instincts; they will never fail you. Our communication is complex, like whales, and it carries far and forever. Never forget that.

  I love you,

  Mom

  I s
tared at the email and this time I couldn’t hold back my tears. I printed it out. And I thought of that albatross and her chick, the beluga and her calf, my mother and me.

  “Hey,” Darrah said, snapping me back to reality. “Do you need a safe place to stay and hide out for a while?”

  “All I know is we have to get on the road,” I said, rising to my feet. “Right now.”

  “There’s an abandoned inn,” Darrah continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “It belonged to my great-aunt and -uncle, a total wreck. The roof leaked and part of the third floor caved in after a blizzard last winter. The heat and electricity have been turned off, but you could chill there, get some rest.”

  “Where is it?” I asked.

  “It’s actually pretty far away, over a hundred miles—in Canada, in New Brunswick,” Darrah said. “And you don’t want to get there after dark, it’s too hard to find, so you might have to save it till tomorrow. It was a fishing lodge, but my relatives got old, and the fishermen found other places to go. It’s abandoned now. But it’s cool. Cleo and I have stayed there. Here, I’ll give you directions.”

  I hesitated, unsure of what to say. Darrah started scribbling in her notebook, filling nearly half a page.

  The glass door opened, and Billy walked in. He cleared his throat, a signal we should leave.

  “This is Darrah and Cleo,” I said.

  “Hi,” he said, looking nervous.

  “We’re on your side,” Darrah said.

  “Our side?” he asked, startled.

  “They know,” I said. “The word is out. You should see Facebook, our friends …”

  “We have to take off,” Billy said, grabbing my hand.

  “They won’t tell,” I said at the same time Darrah said, “We won’t tell.”

  “No offense, but we don’t know you,” he said.

  “Trust issues much?” Darrah asked.

  “Yeah, actually,” he said, turning red.

  “They have a place we can hide out,” I said quickly, before Billy could bolt.

  Billy frowned, looking both angry and worried. “Thanks anyway,” he said.

  “Look, the inn is hidden,” Darrah said. “Save it for tomorrow, it’s way into the woods. Here—directions, and our phone numbers.” She tore the page out of her notebook and thrust it at Billy. He read it.

  “Birch trees?” he asked.

  “You’ll know them when you see them,” Darrah said.

  “C’mon, let’s go,” he said to me.

  He was being rude, and I shot him a look as I left a dime on the printer for my copy.

  Outside, the sun had gone behind the trees. It stayed light past seven thirty this far into May, but it was getting late and the shadows were long.

  Darrah and Cleo walked us to the truck. Aware of Billy’s impatience, I turned away from him to face them.

  “Hey,” Cleo said. She had been quiet up until now. “You asked why I wasn’t sure what grade I was in. I missed a little school.”

  “Like Billy and I are doing now,” I said.

  She nodded. “Yeah,” she said.

  “Our parents didn’t approve of us being gay,” Darrah said. “They took a very Romeo-and-Juliet approach and tried to separate us by moving Cleo in with her grandmother, way up in potato country.”

  “Aroostook County,” Cleo said with an exaggerated shiver. “I’m the least farming-type person you can imagine, and being so far from Darrah, I kind of lost my mind.”

  “Kind of?” Darrah asked. “You did lose it.”

  I waited for more: a girl who had lost her mind? Kids who’d had mental illness had an instant shorthand language. It felt as if they knew about my depression, that I was a kindred spirit. Billy stood right there, listening.

  “Anyone who hasn’t lost her mind at least once is just boring,” I said.

  “Did you have to go to a hospital?” Cleo asked me.

  “Oh, yes. Six weeks, locked in.”

  “My kind of girl!” Cleo said. She reached over to link pinkie fingers with me, like a secret, ex-mental-patient handshake.

  “Are you better now?” I asked.

  “Much, thanks to the wonders of medication. And you?”

  “Antidepressants-R-Us,” I said.

  Everyone but Billy laughed, but I was surprised to see a certain look of recognition on his face. What did that mean?

  Cleo kissed the back of Darrah’s hand. “Before they sent me to the clinic, Darrah and I ran away to the lodge. It’s a hideaway, in the backwoods on a river, and no one will find you.”

  “You need a refuge. Being on the run is exhausting,” Darrah said.

  “Yeah,” I said. But honestly, it hadn’t been. I felt guilty, because obviously people were worried about Billy and me, but it felt thrilling to be with him, on our way to my mother’s fjord.

  “We’d better go,” Billy said.

  Cleo, Darrah, and I gave each other a long hug. They stood in the library parking lot waving good-bye to us, and I waved back. I glanced over at Billy, figuring he would have his eyes on the road as we pulled out of the parking lot.

  But he’d stopped to let a row of cars go by, turned toward me. His eyes were steady, not even blinking.

  “Do you still have the sand dollar?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I said, taking it out of the glove compartment, where I had carefully placed it, wrapped in tissue.

  “Don’t forget our promise,” he said.

  “I won’t,” I said. “But why did you have to be so rude to them?”

  He leaned across the truck seat. For a second I thought he was going to put his arms around me, but all he did was stare hard into my eyes.

  “Because you trusted them too quickly. What if they tell?”

  “They won’t.”

  “You don’t know that, Maia.” He paused. “You told them more about yourself than you’ve told me.”

  “You know almost everything!”

  “The hospital? Medication?”

  I felt rattled. He was right; I hadn’t talked to him about it. “Maybe I didn’t want you to think less of me.”

  “As if I would. It’s just a lesson.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re not the only one. I was on it, too, for a while.”

  “Medication?” I had no idea—I was shocked, even though it made perfect sense.

  “Yeah. It was all part of going into foster care. It was supposed to help ‘ease the transition.’ It sort of took away the sharp edges. I don’t know, it’s hard to figure out.”

  “I had no idea. I haven’t seen you take them, the whole trip.”

  “I don’t anymore. The doctor took me off, once I got used to Stansfield. But see?”

  “See what?”

  “When it comes right down to it, you don’t trust me. It’s not your fault. You’re just like everyone else. No one should believe in anyone.”

  “Billy,” I said, shocked by the tone of his voice. Hurt shot through me, from the top of my head down to my toes. He exhaled, sounding exasperated, speeding us down the town’s main road.

  * * *

  A few miles later, when the streetlamps thinned out and the sky turned darker, I glanced over at him. I wanted to say I believed in him, he could count on me. We could count on each other. But his silence made it clear he wasn’t in the mood to hear anything.

  I reached for the radio dial and tuned it away from the alt station till I found jazz. A mournful trumpet played. I was pretty sure it was Miles Davis. But it didn’t seem as if Billy cared or even heard.

  He just drove.

  We have to change our plan,” Billy said after a long time.

  “Which part?”

  “Pretty much all of it. If our pictures are on the news and even people up here recognize us, we have to be more careful. Let me see the atlas, okay?”

  He pulled over and turned on the cab light. We examined the map of Maine, places where the state line intersected the Canadian border. If we k
ept going straight, east along the coast, we would hit less populated territory.

  “Where’s the best place to cross?” he asked. “We have to look for big green patches on the map, woods, where there aren’t towns or too many roads.”

  “This part looks pretty rural,” I said, my finger trailing along the red line of the St. Croix River, hugging the easternmost part of southern Maine, separating it from New Brunswick. There was nothing but green on that part of the map, wide-open space with no one to spot us.

  “It would be so much faster to head this way,” he said, pointing at Quebec, the province where Tadoussac and Saguenay Fjord were located, due north from where we were. “But we’d hit Bangor and too many other towns. Let’s keep driving along the coast for now, then toward the spot you picked out.”

  “Darrah did say Calais would be good,” I said.

  “Maia …” he said.

  “What’s your problem?” I asked.

  “People betray you,” Billy said, pulling back onto the road and driving ahead. “They can look nice, and act like friends, then stab you in the back.”

  “You have to trust your instincts,” I said. “How else can you make friends, let people into your life?”

  “Instincts can lie,” he said.

  He still sounded angry. I pictured him the way I knew him from school and from looking up the hill—mysterious, full of secrets, but, well, adorable. Right now his expression was hostile, as if everything he’d been through was finally coming to the surface, directed straight at me. He looked tough, a different person, as if he’d turned from Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you much about that part of my life,” I began. But he cut me off.

  “You know that house you asked about?” he said.

  “The one you parked in front of?”

  “My girlfriend lives there,” he said. “Helen.”

  I couldn’t speak. Of course he had people in his past: I knew that. But the way he said her name with such intensity gave me a pit in my stomach. And he’d called her “my girlfriend.” Present tense.