The Lost Night

by Megan Maguire

  “I can’t live like this anymore!” she screams. “I don’t need to tell you what I’m doing.”

  “But you can call me for a ride when your car gets stuck in the snow at his office? Are you that much of a bitch?”

  “Don’t you dare call me that!”

  “Don’t do this, Joel. Don’t do that, Joel,” he says in a whiny voice. “Don’t talk.” He turns around and flaps his hands over his head. “Only talk when it’s convenient for you. Is that it? When you need something? Then I’m allowed to talk?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Fuck you, too, Lona.” He unlocks the side door of their house, pushing it open with a grunt. “Are you going to call me after the divorce when the dishwasher breaks, or just when you need me to come over and unload it for you?” The door slams shut, and their words get trapped inside.

  “You can’t ask them now,” Sean says.

  “Guess not,” I say.

  “But we can listen to them fight.” Autumn moves into the neighbor’s front yard, screened by the row of pines. She forges through knee-deep snowdrifts, clearing a trail for us.

  “Good idea.” I follow right behind her.

  “Really? We’re gonna listen?” Sean huffs. “You guys … what for?” He blows out his cheeks. “Fine, wait up.”

  A light turns on in the Andersons’ front living room, then the entryway, and then the office. Shadows merge as Joel and Lona stalk one another throughout the house, their shouts muffled by the thick exterior walls.

  Taking the lead, I duck past windows, creep across the back patio, and wedge between the overgrown boxwood bushes under their kitchen window. I gesture to Autumn and Sean to stay low. They elbow their way in next to me, and we peep over the windowsill, the top of our heads disguised under a frosting of snow.

  A fluorescent light in the kitchen flickers on. Joel walks in, Lona a step behind, hurling her purse onto the center island.

  He points at the refrigerator door. “Where is she? Where’s Heather’s photo?”

  “Safe.” Lona opens the fridge, slamming it shut a second later, carrying a yogurt container across the room.

  “Safe where?”

  She digs through a silverware drawer, flips off the lid, and shoves a spoonful into her mouth.

  “I told you not to touch any of that. Put her back. Put it all back!”

  I’ve never seen him this angry, or his face bright red, or his fist hit the counter, or hit anything for that matter.

  “Put her back!” He beats the fridge where her photo used to be.

  “Never!” Lona screams.

  I shake my head. Joel Anderson is a mouse. The man before me isn’t him. The aggression and loss of control—I don’t even recognize the guy.

  “You did this.” He follows her around the kitchen island. “She’d still be alive if you hadn’t—”

  “Hadn’t what? Been open with my daughter? Told her what was happening in our marriage?”

  “If you hadn’t cheated on me!”

  She throws her hip out and licks the spoon. “Well, I wasn’t getting any from you.”

  “Wow,” I whisper.

  “And don’t you dare lay this on me.” She drops the spoon inside the container. “It wasn’t my fault. Dylan did this to us. You know that’s true.”

  Joel crosses his arms. “That’s what you always say. You blame Dylan. It’s so much easier than taking responsibility for being a whore, isn’t it?”

  “Heather wrote ‘it was a blow to the head.’ That means something, Joel. It’s about him. I bet he hit her.”

  Sean covers my mouth before my response to Lona’s comment comes flying out.

  “She also wrote about a twig.” Joel paces. “Is that slang? Is it pot? Was someone smoking weed that night? Or was blow about coke? We don’t know. We’ll never know.” His hands flap over his head again. “It could be about anything. She was drinking after she got back and the note is a mess. It’s just a bunch of wild scribbles.” He stops pacing and glares at her. “I know Heather was upset over you, not Dylan. Face it. The clearest part of her note to him is her first word. Pregnant. After that, it’s an incoherent rant!”

  “Oh my God,” I whisper, choked by that word. Pregnant.

  Lona throws the yogurt container in the sink, splattering it on the counter and up the backsplash. “Heather was upset over Dylan.”

  “Over me? Why?” I stand, and Sean tugs me down.

  “Don’t let them see you,” he says.

  “What blow to the head? What did Heather know?” My words gush out. “Was she at the party? Do you remember her being there?”

  “Of course not. I would’ve told you.” He grips my shoulder and holds me steady. “Be quiet and listen.”

  “Her mom was pregnant? Or was Heather pregnant? Which one?” I ask.

  “Dylan, drop your head. Don’t let them see you.” Autumn puts her hand on my head and drives it downward.

  Joel stares at the fridge. “Put everything back, Lona.”

  “I’m not putting anything back.”

  “Then get out!” He makes a swift turn and puts a massive dent in the freezer door with his foot.

  “I’m not leaving the house where I raised my baby girl!”

  “This is my house.” He pounds his chest. “I bought it from my parents before I even met you. You’re not welcome here.”

  She waves her spoon at his face. “I’ll kill you if you don’t stop punishing me.”

  “With what? A spoon?” He catches her wrist. She squirms, but he refuses to let go.

  I stand up, pitching forward and back like I’m revving up to crash through the kitchen window.

  “Dylan, don’t.” Autumn waves me back down. “Let them fight it out so you can get some information.”

  A burst of wind breaks through the backyard. I raise my arm over my face as it powers into me. The gust harvests an avalanche of snow that plummets from one end of the roof to the other. A clump lands on my boots, stirring up a flashback of Heather’s funeral when Joel took a handful of freshly dug dirt and dropped it onto her casket. A fierce wind picked up and the dirt settled on my boots. He released the earth to his daughter as he said his goodbyes, but it came to me. A horrifying experience I’ve never been able to shake.

  I kick the snow off and hunker down before the Andersons see me, suddenly nauseated … and needy. I want to embrace something that isn’t here, and at the same time, I want to embrace something that is here. Lines are crossing in ways I don’t understand. I stare at the beauty of Autumn, her cheeks dusted with specks of snow, tiny flakes glistening on her long eyelashes. She’s all in, with me, for me, considerate about life in its entirety. And I look through the window at Heather’s parents, remembering the beauty of Heather’s life as it was, wondering what we’d be like today, the two of us, here, now.

  Lona breaks free of Joel’s grip. “Touch me again and I’m calling the cops.”

  “Heather should’ve called the cops on you.”

  “What for?”

  “Abuse! You insisted she couldn’t do it. She should’ve come to me.”

  “That’s not what happened!” Lona clutches her hair with both hands. “You’re wrong, Joel. Dead wrong.”

  My legs tremble. I lower my head between my knees and suck in ragged breaths. “Heather would’ve told me if she was pregnant. It can’t be true.” I spit into the snow, about to heave. “Why would she keep that from me?”

  “She wouldn’t have,” Sean says, helping me back up. “She didn’t.”

  I grip the window ledge and peek back inside the kitchen. Joel has his palms flat on the kitchen island, his chin to his chest. “Put everything back, Lona.” He claws the counter. “You need to look at Heather’s photo every day. Every god-awful morning when you come in here, her face should be the first face that you see.” He hugs himself and rubs his arms. “And put that card to the Women’s Clinic back on the fridge so you can remember th
at you cheated on me. I wanted it there for a reason. Do it, or get your ass the hell out of my home.”

  I turn to Sean. “Was Lona pregnant? Who was pregnant?”

  “I don’t know.” He looks at Autumn for an answer. She shrugs.

  Lona picks at her nails, purposely ignoring him.

  “Now!” Joel shouts.

  She snubs him and marches to the sink to clean up the yogurt that’s running down the wall. “Go to hell, Joel.”

  He rakes his fingers through his hair on his way out of the kitchen, abandoning her in the dark when he turns off the light. His office door bangs against the wall, making Lona jump. She lowers her head, her long nails clinging to the counter, sobs heard before her shoulders begin to shake. She slides to the floor with tears on her cheeks.

  Watching her crumple leaves me feeling empty. There is no home here, only a giant wall holding them as prisoners.

  I use Sean’s shoulder as a crutch to stand. I’m pissed off that Lona has the nerve to cry over her daughter. And pissed off that she has the nerve to feel sorry for herself. I may never come back here. I don’t want to hear how cruel she was to Heather, or arguments over the Andersons’ botched marriage and their hatred of one another. I don’t want to hear that they use Heather’s death to punish one another either. I can’t take it. I just can’t.

  Heartbroken, I gesture to Sean and Autumn that it’s time to head back to the truck. Droplets of sweat on my palms have turned to ice. My socks are wet, my toes numb. We’ll all have frostbite if we stay out in the cold a second longer.

  “You gonna be okay?” Autumn asks, her teeth chattering.

  “No. I need to get the hell out of here before I take your gun and kill them both.”

  19

  I gave Autumn only a quick kiss when I took her back to the bar to get her car. She understood I needed to be alone. She didn’t complain, completely tolerant of my mood swings and all my other baggage. She’s a rare gem in Northland’s crummy wasteland.

  But that was Monday. Two days later, we still haven’t talked about what was said at the Andersons’, sending only a short text here and there to keep in touch. I let her know Lona Anderson hasn’t become a hit-and-run statistic or been in any mysterious accident. Not yet, anyway.

  And I haven’t talked to my dad, or responded to Sean’s barrage of questions about Heather and the note. He’s been asking what happened last year after Jake and I left the party. As I’ve said to him before, Jake fell through the ice. There’s nothing more to tell. But he keeps nagging me about it. He thinks I’m not remembering. And I keep saying he’s wrong.

  Two days.

  I’ve spent two days in bed, staring at the ceiling, tossing my football in the air like I did when I was ticked off over pointless groundings as a kid. Two days taking Ibuprofen for my head and back, wishing I had Autumn’s bottle of Vicodin. Two days of not shaving, showering, or brushing my teeth. Two days depressed, living in a total state of shock.

  Lona doesn’t want me to read the suicide note because she’s hiding the fact that she’s a disgusting slut. She’s to blame. Not me.

  She cheated. She got pregnant and had the audacity to tell Heather, pitting Heather between her and Joel. I’ve heard of people doing some sick shit, but I never thought a wealthy, educated woman like Lona Anderson would stoop to the level of tabloid talk show shame. She used Heather. I have to believe that’s what happened. Heather would’ve been crushed for her dad, for her parents’ relationship, for the destruction of the entire life she’d known. It crumbled that night, and I wasn’t there for her.

  “Dylan, wake up!”

  I roll over and stare at the blank wall where a map of New York State once hung, torn down one night in a drunken rage. Colored push-pin map tacks marked the spots Heather and I had traveled to during winter and summer breaks from school. Blue, green, purple: lakes, parks, and museums. Yellow: our favorite beaches. Orange: her favorite shopping trips. Red: where we’d made love along the road, one time at a rest stop in broad daylight, another time at a cheap ’60s motel, the neon sign of a sparrow flashing through the side of the thick curtained window. My memories of those trips are clear, only our final night together is fogged by an eternal sleep.

  “Dylan, get up!” Sean bangs the wall, calling up from the bottom of the stairs.

  “I’m sleeping.” I drop my football on the floor.

  Sean stood in my bedroom doorway yesterday and said it was time to stop inventing stories in my head, that I shouldn’t be so fixated on the unknown. I told him being fixated on the unknown is why I’m still alive, and how I’ve been able to sort out part of that night. Bits and pieces, daydreams of what I think I remember…

  “Dylan, it’s been a long—”

  “Heather, stop.” I kill the engine of my truck. “I heard you the first time.” I rest my hand on top of the steering wheel, my eyes focused on the smoke trailing off my cigarette.

  She waits for me to say something, but I feel a weight on my chest and can’t breathe. She scoots next to me, close enough that I smell her strawberry lip balm, her hands unusually cold when she brushes my cheek. My gaze remains straight ahead, not on her.

  “I’m late. I gotta go,” I say, puffing on my cigarette, keeping it pressed between my lips so she can’t kiss me.

  “Since when are you such an ass?” She gets out and slams the door with all her might like our relationship is over for good.

  “Dylan!” Sean calls again.

  I didn’t kiss her goodbye? I thought I did. I thought I told her that I loved her. Why can’t I remember?

  “Hey Dylan. I said, Eddie’s here.”

  “What?” I spring out of bed and grab my hoodie from my footboard, scrambling to get dressed.

  “Eddie’s here.”

  “I heard you, Sean. Don’t let him in.”

  “Too late. He’s in.”

  I tie my flannel bottoms and walk to the landing, staring down at Ed. He’s wearing sunglasses, but it’s evening and dark outside. “Get the hell out of my house.”

  He pulls his baton and widens his stance. “You got one minute to explain why the Andersons filed a report about boot prints around their home. One minute.”

  “It wasn’t us,” I say.

  “Us?” He twists his lips. “I never said there were more than one set of prints.”

  “Oh.”

  “Get down here.” He taps the railing with his baton.

  “No. Seriously, get out of my house.”

  “Get down these stairs!” He bangs the railing harder.

  After a loathsome sigh, I schlep down the steps. He grabs my arm the moment I reach the bottom, spins me around, and cuffs my hands behind my back.

  “What are you arresting me for? I didn’t do anything.” He traps me against the wall and leans into my back. “Come on, Ed. Careful with my stitches.”

  “You have to read him his Miranda rights.” Sean jumps in and blocks the front door. “You can’t come in here like this. What if I was the one at the Andersons’?”

  “Get out of the way.” Ed taps Sean’s shoulder with his baton. “Away from the door. Now.”

  “No. This isn’t legal. It can’t be.” He reaches for his coat.

  “Get back!” Ed pushes him into the living room. “Sit down.” He shoves him onto the sofa. “If your puny ass lifts off that seat, my baton will be up it quicker than you can clench it shut, you hear me?”

  “Sean, I’ll call you from the station. Stay here, okay?”

  He leans back and crosses his arms with a frown and a headshake.

  Ed’s fingernails prod the back of my neck. I’m forced out the front door without boots or a coat. He opens his Tahoe and pushes me inside. The scent of beer is on his breath when he crosses the seat belt over my chest. He sucks in a wad of snot, spitting it onto the street as he shuts the door in my face.

  “Pig,” I whisper.

  He walks around the Tahoe and drops in
to the driver’s seat, sniffs, sucks in more snot, rolls down his window, and spits.

  “Repulsive,” I add.

  “Hush up.” He takes off his sunglasses and puts them between us.

  “You have no proof I was at the Andersons’ house.”

  “Don’t need it.” He starts the engine and pulls onto the street.

  “You haven’t read me my rights.”

  “Don’t need to.”

  “I’m supposed to be in the back seat.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “What does matter, Ed? That you come out number one in your department no matter who you hurt?”

  He swats the back of my head. “I said, hush up.” He drives in the direction of the station, the heater vents on full blast and aimed at my face. I turn away from the hot air drying out my eyes.

  Damn that Lona Anderson. She did this. She told the police to arrest me. Bet she even mentioned the unreported break-in at her house.

  “What matters, Dylan”—Ed clears his throat—“is that your girlfriend left a body at my place the other night.”

  I won’t respond to that. Autumn said she had nothing to do with it. Certainly, cops in another district were getting Ed back for something. Indisputable.

  “I’m not a happy camper, buddy.”

  I turn farther away from him and shut my eyes, but instead of darkness, I see an image of the Andersons’ fridge. Heather’s photo. Lona’s reminder card for the Women’s Clinic.

  Heather must’ve walked in on her parents in the middle of a fight after I dropped her off. They were arguing about the pregnancy. No, arguing about Lona whoring around. That’s what happened. And Heather overheard.

  She walked in.

  She heard.

  “I’ve given you warning after warning.” Ed’s words are distant.

  Heather was distraught. She grabbed her coat and slid into whatever boots were within reach, racing out of the house to find me.

  “There’s no trust left between us,” Ed continues.

  She left her cell in my bedroom that night. She couldn’t call when she left her house. It’s been the “what if” scenario in my mind all year. What if I had … what if she hadn’t … what if we … what if?