A Map of the Dark

by Karen Ellis

  “What is it?” Elsa asks.

  “I think it might be cocaine.”

  “You think?”

  “He said it was better not to label experiences, to try something first and find out for yourself what it is. He told me that if I wanted to, I could snort it, so I figured it was coke.”

  Elsa holds the bag up to the light. It looks like cocaine, but then again, it could be white heroin.

  “Auntie Elsa, I’m really sorry. I really am. I was never going to snort anything. I never should have taken the Adderall in the first place. It was stupid. I swear, he pushed that into my pocket when I was leaving and he whispered in my ear. It happened so fast. I should have thrown it in the garbage can—I didn’t know what to do.”

  Elsa lies there, wildly awake. Teenagers, drugs, a convincing replica of a gun. There is something here she needs to see. Finally, she gives up on sleep and gets out of bed. Puts on a clean pair of slacks and fishes out one of her lightweight long-sleeved summer shirts, tired of broiling under the strong June sun. Slips the bag of white powder into her purse. Creeps through the living room, where Mel sleeps soundly on the couch. Pulls shut the door, bracing at the heavy thunk of the turning lock, pausing for a reaction from Mel. Nothing.

  She parks on lower Tenth Avenue. A middle-of-the-night visit to the DEA’s Northeast Lab used to mean negotiating desolate streets on the edge of the Meatpacking District, ignoring gaggles of transvestite prostitutes who’d decry her boring sartorial choices—the pants and long sleeves in any season, never a bright color. Now, the massive government building sits entrenched in the trendy, well-heeled bar scene of Chelsea, a geek sitting on a billion-dollar property.

  Elsa presents her credentials to the security guards in the lobby. Upstairs, a block of weak light falls from the glass window in the door of the lab, illuminating the sleepy hallway in which her footsteps echo. The moment she pushes open the door, a head of thick graying hair rises above a microscope.

  “Clyde!” Elsa says. Glad to see the seasoned tech she’s worked with often.

  His coffee-stained smile and his eyes winked up at the corners greet her. “Elsa! Long time.”

  She hands him the bag of powder and asks for a quick analysis, knowing from experience that sometimes, in the middle of the night, you can get a lab tech to nudge your job to the head of the line. But Clyde does even better, touching the white powder with the tip of his finger and tasting it.

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Sure, but I’d bet you money it’s heroin. Where’d you get it?”

  Unwilling to implicate Mel, she answers, “A case I’m working—friend of a missing teenager.”

  He shakes his head. “Well, I’ll be in touch later. Good luck.”

  Elsa makes her way downtown to Federal Plaza and her desk. Alone in the quiet, she leaves a message for Lex, then sits down to wait for him to call her back, feeling ashamed for drinking too much and talking too much—for telling the brothers about her mother. And for allowing herself to want something she knows she can’t have; enjoying David’s kiss was a mistake. She closes her eyes and tries to exile the memory. She has learned, or tried to learn, not to punish herself too harshly for her lapses. She thinks of Whitelaw Street and banishes that thought as well. Then her thoughts swing to Mel. Promising to keep the drug use a secret is one mistake she can correct before she lets it go too far. She picks up her phone and dials Tara.

  On the other end of the line, she hears the workaday clanks and voices of a 24/7 hospital ward. Tara whispers “Hello” and then “It’s so late.”

  “Sorry, it’s been a hell of a day.”

  “That’s all right, I wasn’t really sleeping anyway. When are you coming back?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Bring your partner—he’s cute.”

  “Very funny. How’s Dad doing?”

  “The same.” Tara yawns. “The transition lady came in before to talk about transferring him to hospice.”

  “So he can do hospice at Atria?” Relief at the prospect that he could return to his own apartment, his own whittled-down life, and fade there amid his personal comforts.

  “Looks like it.”

  “Did you talk to Mel tonight?”

  “No. How’d her class go?”

  “Well,” Elsa begins, “that’s the thing.” And then she tells her sister everything.

  Tara takes the news with uncharacteristic silence, punctuated by a moan. “I can’t believe it. I never thought Mellie would do something like that.”

  “Teenagers try stuff.”

  “But heroin?”

  “I’m not a hundred percent sure that’s what it is, and anyway, she didn’t touch that—she was never going to.”

  “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Do?”

  “I’m her mother, and Lars isn’t good for…well, I can’t just do nothing.”

  “Maybe you can. I thought you should know, but she seems pretty sincere about not doing it again. Adderall, I mean. And I believe her. Why not just let her feel the impact of the experience?”

  “Elsa, that’s not the point.”

  “I think it is. I think—”

  “You’re not a parent. You don’t know. There have to be consequences or they don’t learn.”

  “They?” Something hard drops inside Elsa. Mel isn’t a they.

  “I have to process this. Shit, shit. Why did she have to do this now? With Dad in the hospital. I’m calling her right this minute and telling her to get back up here.”

  “Let her sleep,” Elsa begs. “You can talk to her in the morning.”

  “Thank you for your input,” Tara snaps, “but I’m the mother here and I’ll decide what to do.”

  After the call, Elsa rests her head on the back of her chair, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. Tara, who thinks she knows so much. Her father, lying there, sleeping, dying. Ruby. Mel. Locke. The day. Nothing sits well; everything fights.

  15

  As soon as the commercial comes on, you pick up your chart and add a name: Angie. You fish out your red marker and draw a line from Angie to Marian, complicating an already chaotic web. Babe is connected by blue to Greg and Jenny. Orange and green lines intersect to unite Tad and Liza. Every color connects in one way or another to Erica. You look over your work; it’s coming together.

  All My Children comes back on and you pay close attention. You don’t know why they call them soaps—maybe because the story is slippery? In the two weeks that you’ve been unable to walk without throwing up, spending your days trapped on the island of your parents’ bed, you haven’t missed the program even once. The chart is for Tara, a visual aid to help you explain, so that she won’t get so confused.

  “Are you hungry, Elsa, honey?” Sitting at her fold-down desk, paying bills, your mother turns to look at you. She took the day off from her teaching job to stay home. For some reason, this embarrasses you. There is no doctor’s appointment today, nothing special, just another day with you stuck here and no one knowing why. Then something occurs to you.

  “Where’s Sally?” The housekeeper whose bright teeth make the prettiest smile in her dark face. Her favorite show airs directly after yours, and you always watch it together on the bed.

  “She called in sick. Do you want me to bring you a tuna sandwich?”

  Tuna is stinky, but you don’t want to complain. “Yes, please.”

  “Sally should be back tomorrow.” Deb gets up and on her way out lays the palm of her hand gently on your forehead. You haven’t had a fever at all, that’s the funny thing. No one can figure out what’s wrong. Not your regular doctor, who came to the house to visit you. And not the other doctor, the one to whom you were carried and driven, whose strange metallic smell lodged itself in the top of your nose for a whole day.

  “Nothing seems to be wrong with her,” the smelly doctor said, three whiskers flaring from a mole on his chin. He had chalky eyes that smiled when he talked. “Let’s wait and see how she does. If there’s no improvement
, bring her back in a week.”

  Here’s how it works: You feel fine until you stand up, and then your stomach heaves and if you don’t get to the bathroom pronto it’s a terrible mess for the adults to clean up. Every couple of days, Deb or Sally comes in with a bucket and a towel and stands you on your feet to see if the mysterious affliction has passed, but so far no luck. Because Roy has been away for a long time, he’s never the one with the bucket. He's traveling with a string quartet that’s performing some chamber music he wrote. You know what a string is and Deb told you that chamber means room and quartet means four, but you don’t understand. You are only seven.

  You have to pee but you don’t want to miss even a moment of your show, so you hold it in. While Deb is out of the room, Erica slaps a policeman across the face, and then a grizzly bear comes after her. While the credits roll you note these new developments on your chart. By the time your mother is back with your lunch tray, your bladder feels like a water balloon on the brink of explosion.

  “Mom?” you say. “Mommy?”

  “Yes, Elsie?”

  “I gotta go.”

  Deb settles the tray on her bedside table and bends to lift you, cradling you in her arms like a giant baby. When she carries you to the bathroom you bury your nose in her neck so you can smell her perfume. She lifts your nightgown and sets you on the toilet, and you wiggle your underpants down to your knees. You can’t pee with her standing there, which she knows, so she leaves you alone. Obviously she listens outside the door because the second it’s quiet, she’s back. She carries you to the bed.

  Another whole week goes by.

  Your chart grows more complicated and colorful, but Tara can’t follow the story no matter how hard you try to explain.

  “You’ve missed a lot of school,” your mother points out.

  You nod. It’s true. And no one seems to know when your confinement will end.

  The best day is when Sally brings her baby, Roger, along and he takes his nap lying on top of you. He’s the softest, springiest creature you have ever held, and the fact that his sleep is so heavy still feels like the greatest honor of your life. Because he trusts you. Somehow he knows that you would never, ever hurt him.

  Then one day your father returns with stuffed monsters for his girls, matching except that yours is red and Tara’s is blue, and you’re so happy to see him that you jump off the bed and run into his arms and don’t throw up, because he’s home now, and for some mysterious unknown reason your inner topsy-turvy regains its careful balance.

  Tuesday

  16

  The quickest way to get to Forest Hills from lower Manhattan is to cross the Brooklyn Bridge and do some time on the expressway before turning onto Flushing Avenue. But Elsa can’t resist. Off the bridge, she detours onto Atlantic Avenue instead. From there, it’s a direct shot into Ozone Park.

  Darkness, quiet, the day still so young that it masquerades as night. She flies along the normally congested avenue, making such good time that she doesn’t pause to question what she’s doing. Where she’s going. Tricking herself, through speed, into believing that this is a good idea; a passable idea, at least. She turns on the radio and coasts from station to station, never finding one that pleases her. The music is too harsh or too boring, and at this hour talk radio only seems to care about extreme religion or the concerns of insomniacs. Finally, she reaches Whitelaw Street.

  The house, her house, the lady-with-dyed-blond-hair’s house sits quietly on its plot, windows darkened. Elsa notices that an upstairs pane is broken, a long jagged crack running diagonally from the top right corner all the way to the sill. It was her bedroom window, once. All those nights she used to lie in bed, unable to sleep, watching the moon shine silver through the glass while shadow patterns slid along her ceiling and bent onto the walls.

  “Why am I here?” she mutters to herself, the note of bitterness sharp, unheard by anyone else. “Fuck.” But she can’t stop herself.

  She eases the car door closed behind her.

  Creeps up the driveway to the back door, which this time is unlocked.

  Walks through the demolished kitchen and dining room and up the stairs to the second floor.

  Nothing is left, just scratched floorboards covered in white dust. Footprints of round-toed work boots. She steps past heaps of broken drywall, inspecting the raw beams laced with ancient dust, little piles of mouse droppings. A rusty nail. The pleated metal cap of a beer bottle. As a girl she used to wonder if she’d find old love letters hidden in the walls if she ever had a chance to look, which she was sure she wouldn’t. She scans every open wall. There are no letters; none.

  Her father was right. There is almost literally nothing left.

  Back in her car, she no longer needs headlights. Dawn opens the new day like the soft flesh of a perfect peach, sweet, promising. She drives into it, enjoying the moment, allowing herself the respite of having proved her father right by proving herself wrong. Could it be true? That what she feared no longer exists? That when Roy is gone, the worst of her past really will go with him? That she is safe, or as safe as she could hope to be?

  Woodhaven Boulevard is sparsely trafficked; every bleary-eyed driver has one hand on the wheel and another on an oversize travel mug, a phone, a tube of lipstick. Windows down, music, voices, tender early sounds filtering into the simple quiet.

  Elsa drives and drives, willing herself to believe that it is true, that the house really is devoid of everything that was once them.

  Puts on the radio. Stops dialing at the luscious sound of Adele.

  Turns onto Yellowstone Boulevard, into the heart of Forest Hills, her thoughts now realigning themselves to the official reason for her visit to Queens: Ruby. Allie. Charlie. Mel. Adderall. Heroin, Clyde confirmed, and Elsa was finished waiting for an appropriate hour. It’s time to make demands, and she wants it all: everything the missing girl’s so-called friends have not been ready, or willing, to tell.

  The doorbell chimes into the lush quiet of a sleeping neighborhood. Ten to six, the sun streaking orange on a white-blue sky. Too early in the sane world for an unannounced visit, but tough luck. Elsa rings Allie’s bell again and again, finally summoning footsteps.

  A diaphanous curtain inches aside and a pair of eyes peers through the glass half of the door. At first she thinks it’s a child but then realizes that it’s a very short woman. The woman’s curiosity gives way to alarm when Elsa produces her identification card. She stares at it, brow creased, and finally unlocks the door. Her robe hangs open over a too-large sleep shirt bearing a half-washed-away slogan about TEEN-RAGERS AND PSYCHOPATHS.

  “Is something wrong?” The woman’s morning voice is scratchy, belligerent, a little afraid.

  “Sorry if I woke you,” Elsa says. “Are you Mrs. Franconi, Allie’s mom?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was hoping to have a word with her.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Isn’t she home?”

  Mrs. Franconi shrugs. “You’re welcome to take a look. First door on the left.” She points to a hallway. In response to the startled expression Elsa fails to hide fast enough—how could you not know if your child is at home?—the mother explains, “Listen, she’s eighteen years old and does whatever she wants. I learned when she was sixteen that I can’t stop her, and now that she’s legal, it’s even worse. I keep my eyes and ears open, and I can tell you she wasn’t here when I went to bed at one o’clock and she didn’t answer any of my calls or texts. I try to keep up with her. I always try. But is she home? Honestly, I don’t know.”

  The hall smells musty, as if the doors and windows are never left open to air the place out. An odor of mildew seems to waft up from the beige carpeting. Mrs. Franconi follows closely as Elsa knocks on the door with a stop sign nailed dead center, its red metal twisted and frayed where it was wrested off its post.

  “Go the fuck away,” a voice moans from within.

  “Hallelujah,” Mrs. Franconi says, “she�
�s alive. Can I get you some coffee or tea? A glass of water?”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.” Elsa knocks again.

  “I said—”

  “Allie, it’s Elsa—Special Agent Myers. We met yesterday at Ruby’s house.”

  Feet thump and the door swings open to reveal Allie, eyes alert despite her rat’s-nest hair and smeared makeup. “Did you find her?”

  “No. Can I come in?”

  Allie slumps back to her bed and doesn’t object when Elsa pushes clothes off the desk chair so she can pull it near and sit. The shades are open, sunlight trickling in. She must have come in pretty late and fallen into bed. Clothes and shoes and books and used dishes are strewn everywhere.

  Elsa says, “Would you talk to me about Ruby and Charlie?”

  Allie rolls her eyes, yesterday’s restraint abandoning her. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Because I want to hear Ruby’s side of things and I think you’re the one who can tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  Elsa pulls her chair closer, nearly touching the mattress. “How long has Charlie been selling?”

  Allie stares, calculating her answer. “Selling…?”

  “Stop jerking me around, Allie, and tell me what you know.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “What, how much, to who, when, where?”

  Allie turns over so that her back faces Elsa. Under the covers, the dips and curves of a womanly silhouette she hasn’t yet earned.

  The standoff soaks up a long, slow minute, until the bright smell of coffee wafts into the room. Mrs. Franconi follows closely, bearing a tray with two mugs and what looks like homemade scones. “In case you change your mind,” she says to Elsa. “And this one can’t think without caffeine.” Using the corner of the tray, she edges open some space on Allie’s crowded bedside table, knocking loose change and an EpiPen to the floor.