The Good Neighbor

by Cathryn Grant

  The few times I’d sucked in smoke from the joint Ashling offered to me, I’d felt relaxed and kind of giggly and like my brain was floating. The disconnected feeling I had now was nothing like that.

  My brain strained and twisted, trying to remember things from when I was little. It was all a blur. I remembered going to school once or twice. My mother said I had started school, but the kids were so badly behaved she couldn’t bear having me around those little monsters. That’s what she called them. I do remember them being mean. They wouldn’t play with me, and they said bad things to me. Once a kid threw a rock at me, but that might not have been at school. It was near my house. I tried to picture that house. There had been a few photographs of it, but I didn’t remember living there for long.

  As I crossed the street, I felt like I was going to start crying. I could not do that in front of my new friends. If I did, they’d know I was too young to hang out with them.

  I couldn’t think. I wanted to find my baby self, but if it was on the computer, it was hidden. I wanted to remember what it was like to be little. I couldn’t remember anything except blurry pictures that seemed like they were pieces that had broken off from a dream.

  34

  Luke

  My mom was pissed that the cops wanted to talk to me again. At the police station this time, which was clearly a major escalation. We were told they’d decided Brittany was a runaway. It was weird how they said that—a runaway—like they wanted to distance themselves from the actual person and make her a type. We wondered what had made them decide to talk to me. If they thought she ran away, what did that have to do with me? Something must have happened.

  My mom insisted she would sit there with me. The cops weren’t thrilled that she was so aggressive about it, but she was not backing down. I’d never seen her stand her ground like that before. It was kind of impressive.

  We all sat at a cliché of an industrial table on the most uncomfortable chairs designed by the human race. I could have sworn they were like the restaurant chairs you hear about where the front legs are shaved a fraction of an inch so you’re pitched forward but you don’t realize it. You just get antsy and all you can think about is busting out of that chair because it’s torturing you and you think there’s something wrong with the inside of you, not the furniture.

  My mom, warrior woman that she was now, stood behind my chair. I wondered if she’d bop me on the head if I said something she thought was better left unsaid. The cops sat across from me, side by side but with two feet of air space between their chairs. They did not look at all uncomfortable. I checked the back of my chair to see if it was marked to show them which chair should be given to the person under interrogation.

  “You said in your earlier interview that you’ve never spoken to Brittany Cushing.”

  “Did I say that?”

  They both stared at me. So maybe I hadn’t said it; they were trying to mess with my head. I honestly couldn’t remember what I told them. I hadn’t thought it was a big deal, so who knows what I said. The truth? A lie? A half-truth? Whatever sounded like the right thing in the moment.

  “Did you ever talk to her?”

  “Yeah. A few times.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  I shrugged. “Regular stuff.”

  “Such as?”

  “School, music.”

  “Were you watching her? Observing her coming and going? Paying special attention to her?”

  I didn’t like this at all. It sounded like they were working off some kind of specific information. That made it feel like a setup. My mom said Taylor had been dissing me behind my back, although she wasn’t specific about what she’d said. Was Taylor trying to create trouble for me? I couldn’t figure out why she would do that. And I wasn’t sure how much to say.

  The one person I wished I could talk to before I answered all these questions they were ready to fire at me was Ashling. That wasn’t realistic though. As friendly as she was, saying she wanted to come over without her posse, that hadn’t happened. I never got to talk to her alone anymore, so I couldn’t find out what she would think of my situation.

  “Mr. Walker?”

  “Uh…”

  “Were you watching Brittany Cushing?”

  “No.”

  “But you observed her parents. You told us they kept Brittany on a tight leash.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t use those words, but you had an opinion about the family dynamic.”

  I shrugged.

  Officer Carter wrote something in her notebook. “Can you recall the date you last spoke with Brittany?”

  “Um…two or three days before she went missing, I think. It’s hard to remember.”

  “How many times did you have conversations with her?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “So more than three?”

  I shrugged.

  “Four? Five?”

  I wished I could see my mom’s face. I really had no idea how to handle this. Was I in trouble for letting a minor smoke weed, because it was my house, my weed? Technically I was underage. That would mean my mom could be in trouble, but they were totally ignoring her.

  The room was dead silent. And I mean dead. I could feel my mom’s presence behind me, but even her breathing was so soft it didn’t reach my ears. After another few seconds, she said, “Just tell the truth, Luke.” Because the room had been so quiet, her voice sounded alarmingly loud.

  “I am.” Now I wished she’d shut up. I wished she wasn’t there.

  “What else did you talk about during these conversations that were too many to recall?”

  I wondered if cops were allowed to be sarcastic like that. Of course, who would ever stop them? I suppose you can file a complaint, but the hassle factor must be huge, and in the end, I bet they would win. “I didn’t say there were too many to remember. It was only a few times, and I didn’t keep track.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I told you.”

  “School and music are broad categories. Can you be more specific?”

  “I dunno…movies we liked. Yeah, movies, which ones were good, the ones that sucked. Some bands we liked.”

  “Does we refer to you and Brittany liking the same music?”

  “She didn’t say much.”

  “You didn’t answer the question. Who does we refer to?”

  I couldn’t tell them about Ashling and her other friends. I’d never have a chance with her if I said something that got the cops sniffing around her condo and finding out about her parties, sticking their noses into her life.

  “My friends. Brittany didn’t talk a lot. She mostly listened.”

  “We’ll need the names of any of your friends who met Brittany.”

  I nodded.

  “It’s been suggested you were staring at Brittany in a lascivious manner,” Officer Carter said.

  I laughed.

  “Is this amusing to you?” Officer Carter sounded pissed.

  “No. I just…that word. It hit me funny. I’ve only seen that word in books and on spelling tests. I didn’t know people used it.”

  “Don’t avoid the question.”

  “I told you no. I didn’t stare at her. She’s a kid.”

  “Did you ever touch her during the conversations that were too many to recall?”

  “No! Never. And it wasn’t too many.” Fuck protecting that kid from whatever. I should just tell them she hung out while we smoked and stuff. But then my mom would definitely be in trouble. I honestly wasn’t sure how cops felt about weed. I thought it was mostly a problem if you were under twenty-one, but I couldn’t be sure. Some of them, I’d heard, were rabid about the fact that it had been legalized, so they didn’t treat it the same as they would if they caught someone like me with a beer. They had a vendetta. They wanted to punish people for getting high.

  I wanted to get up and walk out. Could they really ask me all these questions without arres
ting me? My mom wasn’t saying a word. My dad would say, What were you thinking, talking to the cops without legal representation? And your mother doesn’t count. Ashling would probably say the same thing. She’s smart about stuff like that. She reads a lot online. She’s very concerned with people’s rights, about government intrusion, about parental and teacher overreach.

  “Is there anything you want to tell us about Brittany? About your relationship with her?”

  “We didn’t have a relationship.”

  “About your interactions with her?”

  “No. I told you, she’s a kid, and all I did was be nice to her. She seemed like she needed a friend.” I was pissed for letting that slide out of my mouth. I should be wrapping this up, not giving them a fucking open door like that. I could see by the way they leaned forward and their shoulders kind of straightened that they would be all over it, dissecting the words for meaning.

  “Why did you think she needed a friend?”

  “Cuz there were never any kids at her house and she never went anywhere.”

  “So you were watching the house fairly closely.”

  “No! It’s just what I noticed. I hang out in the front yard, and I see everyone on the cul-de-sac when they leave or come home. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Is there anyone else on the street you think has behaved in an unusual manner since Brittany and her family moved into their home?”

  “No. Look, I just sit out there and snapchat with my friends or play games on my phone or do homework. I took a European history class in summer school, and there was a shitload of stuff to read. I just notice when cars come or go, that’s all. I’m not watching anyone.”

  They asked again what I talked to Brittany about. They asked two more times if I was staring at Brittany in a lascivious way, although they didn’t use that word again, just tried to imply it with smirks and leaning on the word watch. When they finally said I could go, I wanted to get home and smoke a joint, but my mom said I needed to go online and look for jobs. By dinnertime she wanted a list of five potential jobs I could apply for. She said I needed to stop hanging out doing nothing; I needed to get some direction in my life. Right now.

  35

  Crystal

  It had been four hours since my last message to Taylor, and I did not appreciate her ignoring me. I’d kept a close watch on Facebook and had seen her face pop up and disappear twice. She’d absolutely seen my message. She knew I was waiting. I was super tired of her entitled attitude. She thought she could ignore me and not believe that I gave birth to that sweet little girl and I would just go away. Obviously the woman didn’t have kids, or she’d know you can never turn away from your child.

  I never did turn away. Not for all these years. It might seem like I had, but I couldn’t help how I was, and it didn’t mean I forgot that Brittany was part of my body and all of my heart. Until you’ve suffered back pain that they determine is not a candidate for surgery and you have to learn coping techniques and do physical therapy and all that shit that hurts even worse than the pain, no one can know how hard it is to keep your life going.

  I had to have oxy for the pain. And then the other stuff, cheaper and easier to buy in some ways. I couldn’t live without some help for the pain. It was that or lie on the couch and never eat and basically pee on myself because sitting up was torture and walking to the bathroom was not doable. It was not.

  I sent Taylor another message.

  Mrs. Green: I need to talk to you.

  The minute I tapped send, I was sorry. I should have waited until she signed on so the messages wouldn’t be piled up, so she’d see it flash across her screen.

  I could see she’d signed on and was making updates to the Find Brittany page. She added a picture of a new tree in her yard, planted with hope because they all had hope, and confidence that Brittany would be returned. I thought it was stupid and wouldn’t accomplish anything. She should be actually looking for my daughter, not planting trees. But other people loved it, and she got over two hundred likes in fifteen minutes.

  I started typing. I would spray her with messages like she was drinking out of a fire hose. I sent one word in each message, twenty-three in all, telling her to answer me and work with me and I would not tell the police what she’d been up to. She was protecting kidnappers.

  She told me to stop messaging her.

  I sent more. I told her more stories about when Brittany was a baby. I told her how sad I was and about all my dreams of Brittany and how I had that hallucination in the field by the mall. I think it was a sign that Brittany had been taken, and what I saw was some kind of apparition. Another part of her separated from her own body and came looking for me in that field. She was trying to communicate with me, I was sure of it. Unless it was really her. Thinking it was possible that I’d actually seen her made me sick to my stomach, so I preferred to think it was an apparition.

  I asked Taylor if she wanted me to post publicly on the page.

  That got her attention. It always did. She begged me to stop bothering her.

  Mrs. Green: I will never stop. She’s my baby and I deserve to have her, even though more than half her life has been stolen from me. Think about that! They STOLE part of her life from me. I will NEVER get it back, even when she comes home. It’s gone forever.

  I thought about Barry, about being gone forever, but it was too much and I was trying to be strong, to take my Apache hits farther apart. I was down to three a day. With not sleeping and my hands shaking and sweating all the time, I wondered if I should have just quit altogether.

  Taylor Stanwick: I’m sorry you’re hurting, but Brittany is not your daughter.

  Mrs. Green: Why do you believe them and not me?

  Taylor Stanwick: I’ve seen how devastated she is without her daughter. I’ve seen how close their family is.

  Mrs. Green: Lies and bullshit. She’s not “devastated,” she’s scared she’s gonna get caught and do actual jail time without her hubby to look after her. She’s scared shitless. And you’re being duped.

  Taylor Stanwick: Insulting me is not the way to get me on your side.

  Mrs. Green: You aren’t on my side, and you won’t even listen to my side, so it doesn’t matter.

  She didn’t answer.

  Mrs. Green: You’re aiding and abetting criminals. There’s a specific law about helping criminals. Did you know that? You could go to prison too. Think about that! Have you asked them about Brittany’s childhood? Have you told them about me?

  Taylor Stanwick: My focus is on doing my small part to help locate Brittany.

  Mrs. Green: And what part is that?

  Taylor Stanwick: Maintaining this Facebook page. We’ve put up posters around the area. Being supportive of the police investigation.

  Mrs. Green: What police investigation? Have they found a single thing to tell them where she might be?

  Taylor Stanwick: It’s difficult.

  Mrs. Green: Those people are liars and criminals. Maybe they know very well where Brittany is. Has anyone checked into THAT? Based on my experience, she’s probably close by and no one realized it.

  Taylor Stanwick: The police are investigating. That’s all I can say. I’d rather not communicate with you anymore. I don’t think this is productive.

  Mrs. Green: So you do want it posted in public?

  Taylor Stanwick: I don’t see what that would achieve.

  Mrs. Green: Letting everyone know what liars they are.

  Taylor Stanwick: The objective is to find Brittany.

  I dropped my phone on the couch and went into the kitchen. I didn’t want to post it where everyone could read it. Not really. The internet can turn into a monster. I didn’t want people judging me and saying awful things about why did I wait so long, why didn’t I try harder to find my baby all those years ago?

  My skin was crawling, my hands shook, and I felt sweaty one minute and was shivering three seconds later. I opened a can of Coke and rummaged around for something to eat. Th
ere wasn’t much. For a few days after I realized where Brittany was, or at least where she’d been last, I didn’t have much appetite. All I did was read and reread all the comments, all the information on people seeing her, and send messages to Taylor.

  There was an apple in the fruit drawer. I grabbed it, washed it, and took a bite.

  Gnawing my way around the apple, I walked through the living room and turned off the TV. I went into Brittany’s bedroom and looked at her things for a few minutes. I picked up her security blanket. She’d given it up when she started preschool, but she’d wanted it close by where she could always see it.

  I carried it into my bedroom. I balanced the wobbly apple on my nightstand and dropped the blanket on my bed. In the nightstand drawer was my checkbook. I flipped through the register. If I only ate fruit and tried not to buy fast food for a while, I could have extra cash way before the credit card bill came.

  After scribbling on the back of a deposit slip for a few minutes, I returned to the living room, leaving the apple and Brittany’s soft, abandoned blanket behind. I picked up my phone and Googled cheap flights to San Francisco. It was doable. I took a deep breath.

  If I could go ten hours, maybe a little less, without my Apache, I could make it. If I got desperate once I was in California, finding someone who was selling would be easy. My hands shook in a good way now as I pulled my credit card out of my wallet and tapped through the steps to buy a ticket.

  Mrs. Green: I don’t think the search for my daughter has enough heart. A child’s mother has the energy and the heart that will find her. I’m coming to California. See ya Thursday.

  36

  Luke

  The more I thought about Taylor, the more pissed I became. She’d gotten me in trouble with my mom, and she basically told the cops that I was lascivious with Brittany. That was total bullshit. They hinted around that Brittany’s mom said that to them, but she and Taylor hung out all the time now, and I figured she’d said it to Taylor. I had a feeling it was Taylor who told the cops. Taylor liked to be in the middle of everything. She’d always been that way, trotting across the cul-de-sac to say hi to people when they were pulling into their driveways after work, always wanting to know what was going on. She was friendly, but she also liked sharing information, and I could totally see her making a big deal out of it. I could see her using that word. Lascivious.