by Abe Moss
“I hope you’re hungry,” Jessup said once they were in the car.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Maria retorted. “I bussed your table after you left today. I saw how many plates there were.”
Jessup laughed embarrassedly—loud and abrupt.
“Don’t hold it against me. And I am. Hungry, I mean. I can always eat.”
✽ ✽ ✽
It was just a quaint diner. Paul’s Diner, was the name of the place. Maria thought she’d been there once at least, but couldn’t remember. Jessup admitted he’d never been before.
“I looked up small, hole-in-the-wall places we could go as a way to impress you with someplace you’ve never been before. Except… I’ve never been here before, and… now it turns out you have.”
“I really don’t remember. I’ve only been here a year.”
Jessup looked surprised. “So you’re just here for school, then? Where are you originally from?”
“Stansfield, a couple hours away.”
“Oh, okay. I have some family in Stansfield. But you’re going to school here, too?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Mhmm. Just a couple more years!”
“Are you a sophomore, then?”
“Yeah. And you’re a freshman, right? I think Dolly mentioned that…”
They talked amicably over their burgers until Jessup, having finished everything on his plate, sat back in his seat with a moan, hand on his stomach. Maria had the distinct suspicion he was not, in fact, as hungry as he pretended.
With a playful temptation she couldn’t resist, she asked, “How does a walk sound?”
Jessup opened his mouth, surprised. His eyes swam over the table, their empty plates.
“That sounds great,” he said with horror in his eyes.
Maria waited, watching him closely. She leaned toward him, as if about to share a secret.
“I was joking. We don’t have to go for a walk.”
“No!” he said. “I think that’s a great idea.”
He grabbed the check from the table and got to his feet, breathing deeply.
“Oh, I’ll pay for mine,” Maria insisted.
“No, I got it…”
Maria stood with him. As he went to the counter to pay, she waited by the entrance. Soon he joined her, smiling through his discomfort.
“I’m serious,” Maria said. “We can sit and talk some more. We don’t need to go for a walk.”
“But it’s so… nice, outside. With the streetlights and all that.” He took yet another deep breath—the breathing of someone who might lose their meal if grabbed by the shoulders and shaken. “I’m ready when you are.”
Have it your way, Maria thought, and led the way outside.
To be fair, it was a good night for a walk. The sun was down, but it wasn’t entirely dark yet. The hour of twilight. The air was cool and crisp. The street was narrow for a two-lane, the streetlamps bright and cozy between the trees. Over the sound of their shoes on the sidewalk, Maria listened to the soft breeze, and Jessup’s labored breathing at her side.
“You’re dedicated,” she told him. “I’ll give you that.”
“What do you mean?”
Maria thought for a bit, choosing her words. “I’m just flattered, is all.”
“Really?” he said, and his handsome face lit up in that boyish way of his which sent Maria’s butterflies into a frenzy once more. There was nothing stoic about him. It was nice, Maria thought. Except he must have detected his own eagerness, as he suddenly scrambled in search of something else to say, a change of subject. He cleared his throat. “So… um, you have anything planned for spring break? Anything fun?”
The butterflies disappeared. Scattered. A cold pit replaced them.
“I might go home for a few days. To visit family. I don’t know yet…”
“That makes sense.” He put his hands in his pockets as they walked. “Your parents? Is it just you, or do you have siblings?”
Now she took a deep breath, and found it difficult.
“Just me,” she said.
She could have left it at that, she thought. It was true enough. But to say nothing more about it would have felt like a lie. A lie of omission. Of course, he wasn’t owed anything more. It was a first date, after all. And if it ever came up again, say on a third or fourth or fifth date, she could be honest about it then. He’d understand why she didn’t mention it earlier.
“Actually…” The cold nausea in her stomach expanded. “I did have a brother, but he’s gone.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” Jessup took his hands from his pockets, rubbed the back of his neck. He folded his arms. Fidgety. “How did he die? I mean… Sorry. When did he die. If it’s okay to ask.” He rubbed his face nervously.
Clearly, he was anxious as she was. Curiously enough, now the subject had been broached, it seemed less difficult to share.
“It’s almost been a year,” she said.
“Wow. That recent. I’m sorry.”
Maria looked him in the eyes and smiled comfortingly, as though it were Jessup who needed comforting.
“It’s okay. It would have come up sooner or later, I’m sure.”
“So, um… how old was he?”
“He was eight.”
“Ah…”
“Yeah.”
They walked in silence for a minute, nearing the end of the street. The intersection there was a busy one, headlights and brake lights flashing and passing. Noisy. Without a word said between them, they turned around and started back the way they came.
“I’m sure it’s on your mind a lot, then,” Jessup said suddenly. “Almost a year since…”
“We don’t have to talk about it anymore,” Maria suggested. She meant it nicely, but her words came out rather short. “If that’s okay.”
“No, yeah. I’m sorry…”
She wished he’d stop saying that.
They walked again in silence. The longer they said nothing, the more uncomfortable it became. Maria could hit herself, mentioning it at all. He’d asked, of course, but it was an innocent question, and there was no reason why she had to bring up something so miserable, on their first date of all times.
“I shouldn’t have brought that up,” she said. “That was a real downer thing to tell you…”
Jessup stopped in his tracks. Maria stopped a couple steps ahead of him. He moved toward her. “Don’t apologize for that. I asked.”
“I know, I just feel like I made things weird, mentioning it. Way too heavy for a first date…”
“I don’t feel weird at all,” Jessup said. “I just feel bad I reminded you of it.”
A chill ran up the back of her neck, her scalp. A pleasant one. She met Jessup’s eyes, and like everything else about him, he wore his regret plainly for anyone to see. Having no filter could be both good and bad, she realized… It meant he was honest, at least.
“Trust me,” she answered, leading the way along the sidewalk once more. “You didn’t remind me.”
✽ ✽ ✽
When she arrived home, she found herself in a much better mood than she expected. Light on her feet. Despite a couple bumps in the road, it was just as Dolly said it would be. Fun.
The apartment was empty when she arrived. She closed the door and called for Dolly, which there was no answer. She was out. Probably another weekend house party somewhere. There seemed to be no shortage of them on any given night.
Maria made a beeline for her bedroom, where she dropped her bag to the floor and immediately changed out of her clothes into comfier ones. Hoodie. Sweatpants. The usual. When she was changed, she strolled leisurely into the kitchen and opened the fridge, searching for an after-dinner snack. The fridge was quite full, but not with snacks. Dolly’s healthy junk. Nothing but healthy junk. She closed the fridge, disappointed.
“I want cookies,” she said aloud. “Or cookie dough…”
As she stood fantasizing about desserts she didn’t have, something moved. A whisp
er. It came from the living room. Maria tensed. She turned toward the sound, toward the dark window on the other side of the apartment. In the corner beside it, a figure stood. Featureless. A man.
“No, no—”
“Please.” His voice came quietly to her. Not a whisper, but as though his volume was turned down dramatically. “Help me.”
Maria was rooted in place, eyes on the unmoving shape. She bore into it with her hardened stare, willing it to vanish from the dark, to poof it out of existence. But it remained.
“I can’t help you,” she said. “Leave me alone.”
In that same faraway voice—the figure physically so close—he said, “You’re the only one who can help me.”
She furrowed her brow, simultaneously sorry and afraid and spiteful.
“No, I can’t. I can’t help you. You have to go. You need to—”
“You’re all I have,” the man said. “I’m trapped. But you can set me free.”
Her lips trembled. Coals burned in her eye sockets. Her vision blurred with tears and she blinked them away.
“I can’t set you free. I can’t do anything for you. I need you to go. I need you to leave me alone. Please.”
Her feet carried her toward her bedroom door, where she would escape for a short time. Perhaps he’d appear there, too. Teleport. There was no escaping it. Him. Whoever he was. She didn’t know. Not really. Only his name…
Just as she was about to step through her bedroom door, the figure in the corner spoke a final time, and its voice was fuller now. Complete. Present. She came to a stop, helpless not to listen to what the apparition needed to tell her.
“They’re looking for you,” he said. “They’re going to find you.”
She turned to see him, a pillar of shadow amongst the usual ones, when suddenly the front door opened behind her. She spun around, heart leaping into her throat.
It was Dolly.
“Oh, you’re home…” Dolly said, shutting the door and dropping her purse on the end table there. She kicked her shoes off, moving stiffly like she’d just run a marathon. Or drank a shit ton, though Maria thought it was a bit early for that…
Smiling pleasantly, she glanced up to see Maria standing there, framed in the bedroom doorway with tears in her eyes, and her smile melted away.
“What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”
Maria couldn’t speak. Now Dolly had asked, the coals behind her eyes lit anew, fiery hot, and a lump the size of a baseball grew in her throat. Dolly came toward her and put a comforting hand on her arm.
“Did something happen with Jessup?”
Maria shook her head. “No, no… That was all fine…”
Dolly watched Maria for a moment as she tried her best to avoid being seen. Then Dolly guided her, a firm hand on her shoulder, toward the sofa in the living room. Maria looked to the dark corner and saw the man’s apparition was gone now.
“Tell me what’s up,” Dolly said, and sat Maria down on the sofa. Dolly flipped the lamp on, soft and warm. She took a seat next to Maria, rubbed her back. “What happened?”
“It’s really nothing,” Maria said, trying to convince herself as much as Dolly. Judging by the ever-growing lump in her throat, in her chest, it wasn’t working. “It’s just family stuff…”
“Tell me.”
Maria sniffled. She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her hoodie.
“It’s just… my mom wants me to come home for spring break, and… I don’t think I can do it. I know I can’t do it.”
“Your brother…” Dolly said, following along.
“I told her already. I don’t want to visit him. His grave, I mean. Maybe it gives her comfort, but not me. I’m not ready for that… And I know when I go down there, she’ll try to convince me anyway. I know she will…”
Dolly listened, rubbing Maria’s back in circles.
“Maybe you don’t have to go home for spring break, then. If you don’t feel you’re ready, you’re not ready. Have you talked about this with your therapist at all?”
Maria cleared her throat. Finally, her emotions were settling and she could speak without sounding on the verge of a breakdown.
“Not this specifically. I see her again on Monday, though.”
“Oh, that’s good. Definitely see what she has to say.” Dolly paused, thinking. “It’s been a couple years since I saw a therapist, but I remember how surprised I was at how helpful it is to have someone else’s perspective. I mean… a professional perspective. Not everyone’s input is helpful, I can tell you that…”
Maria wasn’t telling her everything. Though the figure had faded from sight, she felt it there, in the corner. Watching. Listening. Waiting for her to be alone again so it could reappear and antagonize her further. But there was no way she could tell Dolly about that, she knew.
Not any of it.
There they were again. The burning coals. The swelling seed of emotion caught in her throat, sprouting into her mouth. She knew better than to ask it, but she did anyway. The words fell out like sickness.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Maria asked.
As soon as the question was spoken, she flushed with embarrassment. Dolly was silent for a time. In that silence, Maria found the answer already.
“Um…” Dolly hesitated. Maria cringed. “I like to tell myself I don’t, but… the idea of it still makes me uncomfortable, I guess. Why?”
With both her hands covered by the ends of her hoodie’s sleeves, Maria wiped her tired eyes, her whole face. She sighed, a bit more relaxed than she’d been.
“No reason,” she said.
CHAPTER NINE
MEMORIES AND OMENS
I don’t know what I’m supposed to believe. It’s almost been a year, and no amount of medication or… talks, or sessions, make me feel any differently about it. So, I feel… frustrated, because… what? Am I just supposed to accept that I’m crazy? No one believes my story. My own mother doesn’t believe me. I’ll never forget the look on her face when I tried telling her what happened. She didn’t even want to listen. She said, ‘Maria, the police already told us everything…”, you know, meaning they warned her about me, probably explained to her that I had funny ideas about what happened. She could hardly look me in the eye, she was so afraid that I was… that I was… beyond repair. Now she wants me to come home so I can grieve with her, but… how am I supposed to do that? I thought grieving was about coming to terms with something. I can’t grieve with someone who doesn’t even acknowledge my side of what I’m feeling. I… I can’t grieve when I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be grieving. Apparently, I hallucinated the whole thing, because they found traces of some… drug? In my system? I don’t remember anything like that. There’s no part of my memory that’s foggy. Not about any of it. Not like a dream, or a hallucination, but something that really happened. I was there. No one else can say that. And now… I don’t want to see my parents. I don’t want to pretend for them. You know… never mind the scars all over my body. They don’t argue I was attacked by a dog. They don’t argue that they found the necklace I was wearing that night behind our motel, exactly where I told them I was taken—where Michael was taken. And it’s been a year now. My parents want to know why I’m not making progress. They want me to come to my senses, and to run home to them into their arms and accept their reality, which… isn’t reality. And I know how my story sounds. I can understand how… it might be hard to believe. No matter how much I swear I’m telling the truth, it never sounds any less crazy. They say they believe I believe what I’m saying. They just… don’t want to hear what I’m saying…”
Maria sat on the end of the sofa farthest from her therapist’s desk. In her hands was a tissue which she was meant to cry into, but instead she’d mangled it to shreds throughout her rambling—picking and tearing and crumpling it up as she vented her frustrations.
“What about in the desert?” her therapist asked. “You mentioned before that the police conducted a search where you
said you escaped?”
“They didn’t find anything. No trapdoors in the ground. No caves. Nothing. I don’t know what to make of that… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about any of that. I can’t prove any of it…”
“I want you to know I believe you.”
Maria looked at her therapist with dull eyes, expecting a caveat to follow. But her therapist—a kind-looking woman with incredible, enviable hair, Maria thought—only looked back seriously.
“You mean you believe that I believe. Like everyone else.”
“I don’t think you’re making any of this up.”
“Right. But you think I’m crazy.”
“No…” her therapist corrected her. “I don’t think that at all. But I also want it to be clear that what I think doesn’t matter. Not one bit. Nor does it matter what anyone else thinks. All that matters, the only place where progress can be made, is what you think.”
“I don’t feel like I’ve made any progress.”
“We’ve spent a lot of our sessions talking strictly about feelings, and your relationships with your parents. And Michael…”
Maria winced. She always did, hearing anyone else use his name.
“I understand you’re concerned with what others think, and whether or not they believe your story. But I want us to disregard that for a little bit. It’s not a matter of you accepting their reality. It’s about you accepting your reality. So let’s process that. What you experienced, and what you remember—it’s all real. It all happened. Now how do you accept it?”
Maria said nothing for a time.
“I can’t. I’m being told that what happened is different than what I remember. That I don’t remember…”
“They’re wrong. Not you. It’s them. Your story is real. Not theirs. So… how do you accept that?”
“I don’t understand…”
“Maria…” Her therapist waited until she had her full attention. Eyes locked. “We’ve been seeing each other nearly a year now. As far as I can tell, you’re a perfectly healthy young woman. You’re intelligent. You’re reasonable. You’re vulnerable. You’re honest. I see no reason why you should be convinced to believe what anyone else believes regarding your experience. So, let’s say it’s true. You’re the only one who knows the truth because you’re the only one who was really there. How do you accept the possibility that no one will ever believe you?”
