by LD Marr
He looked down again. I waited in silence. I kept my legs and arms open and uncrossed. I sat alert but relaxed—trying to look interested but not prying.
“I just got sick of it, I guess,” he said.
Laz tipped his head all the way backward and let out a big sigh.
“That’s a good reason,” I said. “I’d like to hear more about it, but you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Like I said, I’m just here to help you.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Laz. “But I’ll tell you anyway. I got really scared.”
He straightened his head and looked at me. There was a moment of silence.
“Yes?” I encouraged him to say more.
“One of…a friend of mine, like disappeared. A few weeks ago. The last time I saw him was in the Tenderloin Club, and no one’s seen him since then. We think he must have OD’d,” said Laz in a voice that started to crack.
A chill went down my spine.
Just like Chloe! I thought.
Fear gripped me hard.
“Did you check with the police?” I asked him, although I knew the answer to that question.
“No. No way!” said Laz. “I’d never go there.”
His eyes narrowed at me.
I realized I’d lost some ground with that question. But I’d panicked in that moment. The sense of knowing things—whether it was real or imaginary—had made me ask it. And now, I was feeling it strong. Something was terribly wrong. Something bad had happened to this young man’s friend and to Chloe. I knew it, and I was terrified, but I had a job to do. Laz still needed my help. I pulled myself back into the moment.
“OK. I understand why you won’t go to the police,” I said. “I understand because I’ve been there too. I was a drug user. All of us who work here are ex-users. Did you know that?”
“No. I didn’t. But I guess I’ve heard stuff like that,” said Laz.
He sat up a bit and seemed less tense, but I didn’t want to push him to open up any more. I sensed that now was not the time. It was the same kind of sensing or knowing things that had caused trouble for me in the school. My friends had said I was crazy when I told them about it, and they told my teachers. Then my family agreed to send me to a special institution. That was when I ran away.
Now I also sensed that Laz was curious about my own background. But I never told people about the time before my drug addiction or that I ‘knew’ stuff.
“Yes, Laz. I was an addict about three years ago,” I said.
“Wow. You don’t look like it,” he said.
“Well I was,” I answered. “I looked different back then. Big hair, lots of makeup, cool clothes. You wouldn’t have recognized me. I hung around the Tenderloin Club, and that’s where I got hooked.”
Laz’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything. He was probably surprised that I’d hung out there. With my plain clothes and minimal makeup, I wouldn’t fit in now.
“Same here,” he said. “I go to the club for the music, but that’s where I started using. And I drank a lot too.”
I already knew what he’d had been taking from his drug tests. But I didn’t tell Laz that. The important thing was that he was talking.
“So I’ve been there, and I know you can quit if you want to. But I know that unless you’re lucky, it’s not easy. This is just our first meeting. The main thing I want you to know is that if you’re having a hard time, and you’re feeling pressure to start using again, you can call us anytime.”
I lifted a card from the small stack on the table next to our chairs and handed it to Laz. He glanced at it and put it in a jacket pocket.
“Someone will answer and talk to you. Or you can come here. This clinic is open twenty-four hours a day,” I said.
“OK,” said Laz.
He didn’t argue that he wouldn’t need to call or come in. And I didn’t expect him to.
“I’m sorry about your friend and very concerned too. I hope he’ll show up soon,” I said.
But I was almost certain that wasn’t going to happen.
“Thanks,” said Laz.
He crossed his arms again. Eyes lowered behind hair.
“Is there anything else you want to talk about?” I said. “It’s up to you. I don’t want to put any pressure on you.”
Laz brushed hair away from his eyes and looked at me. I waited.
He has beautiful eyes, the thought came unwanted into my head, and I admonished myself for it. I’m his counselor, and it’s inappropriate for me to be admiring his eyes!
“You said you went to the Tenderloin Club,” Laz said finally. “After you stopped using, did you stop going there?”
“I didn’t stop at first,” I answered. “And my friends didn’t pressure me. But they kept offering, and people I didn’t know kept offering, and after I while, I slipped up. And I had to go through everything again—withdrawal. After that, I decided not to go to the club anymore. But that wasn’t easy either. I had to find other things to do. Things that seemed really boring.”
“Yeah. I don’t think I’m ready to stop going to the club yet,” he said. “All my friends are there, and we’re into the music.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m not telling you to stop going. I’m not even telling you to never take drugs again. But I hope you won’t because we both know they hurt you.”
“Uh huh,” said Laz.
He slumped back in his chair, crossed his arms and his legs, and let the hair fall down again.
He doesn’t want to talk anymore, that voice in my head told me.
I looked at him, and it seemed like my body was trying to tell me something too—physical attraction. I recognized it, felt ashamed of myself, and then felt tense. I hoped he didn’t notice the tension.
“Well, Laz,” I said. “Our time’s about up today, but there’s one more thing I want to say. It’s great that you’ve gone through detox, and I’m thrilled about that. I believe in you, and I think you can stop cold if you want to. But if you do slip, please don’t feel embarrassed to come back to your next appointment.”
“OK. OK. I won’t let that stop me from coming back,” he said.
“Thank you!” I said.
I was surprised by how relieved his answer made me feel.
I rose from my hard-backed chair. Laz stood up too. I held out a hand to him, and he took it. I gave his hand a squeeze and then let go.
“I’ll see you next week at the same time, right?” I asked.
“Right. I’ll be here,” said Laz.
Then he turned and walked out the door.
I’m only relieved because I’m worried about his well being, I told myself. Not because I’m attracted to him.
Chapter 6
That evening, after unlocking its five locks, I pushed open the door to my apartment in Brooklyn. I pulled off my coat and hung it on a hook on the wall next to Frank’s coat. Two other hooks were empty. That meant Rita wasn’t home.
I pulled off my boots and left them by the door. Then I walked across the worn hardwood floor into the living room on feet that ached from long walks to and from the subway and the four flights of stairs I’d just climbed.
“Hey,” Frank waved a casual hand at me.
He sat on the aged couch in the middle of the enormous, mostly bare room. He didn’t look up from our small TV.
I sat down on one of the two folding chairs near the couch that made up the rest of the big room’s furniture.
“News is on,” said Frank. He didn’t take his gaze away from the television.
My roommates hadn’t asked me to watch TV after the night when I vomited, but I’d been watching the news lately, hoping to hear that the police had found Chloe.
“OK,” I said.
I stared at the television, too tired to move or talk yet. I tried to focus on what the news reporter was saying.
“A teenager has gone missing in Manhattan,” said the twentyish male reporter.
That got my attention.
“The parents of Chloe 847263 reported her, and police surveillance cameras spotted her in the Bowery subway station in the lower east side with an unknown male.”
“Chloe! She was my client!” I said.
“Wow! Really?” Frank looked over at me.
I had a sudden realization.
“The Bowery station is close to the Tenderloin Club! She must have met him there,” I said.
The TV showed a fuzzy film of Chloe walking in the dimly lit subway with the man. They walked with their arms around each other. He was taller than her and buff looking under loose clothes.
“This film was taken about two weeks ago at 2:30 in the morning,” the TV newscaster continued.
“Looks like a hook-up,” said Frank.
“Or maybe that’s what she thought,” I said.
On the film, Chloe and the man receded in the distance, and the film stopped and then repeated. It was a short sequence.
“Unfortunately, the video doesn’t show where they went from here,” said the newscaster. “And there’s no record of this man’s face on file. If anyone has information on him or has seen Chloe, please call the police.”
The TV showed a close-up* of the man’s face side by side with Chloe’s face and a phone number on the bottom of the screen.
I stared at the broad, high cheek-boned face of the man. Pale skin and pale eyes. Straight blonde hair stuck out from under his hoodie. An attractive man in his late twenties or early thirties. His looked exactly like the man who came out of the bloody door in the same station a few weeks ago—the pale blonde version of him. That man’s coloring had changed to brown and then back—in my mind anyway—but this man stayed pale in the video.
Did I only imagine that? I wondered. Am I just imagining now that this man is the same one?
An intense coldness struck deep in my gut. My eyes felt moist, and tears began to drip out.
“Maybe she just took off with him somewhere, and she’ll turn up later,” said Frank.
I turned to look at Frank with water flowing from my eyes. He was about the same age as the man Chloe had gone with but shorter and thin. Curly brown hair topped an elf-like face. Frank looked at me, and his eyes widened.
“Hey, it’s OK, Myrna. She could be OK. They don’t know anything yet,” he said. “They haven’t found a body.”
“Lots of times, they never find a body,” I said in a shaky voice. “Anyway, I have a terrible feeling about this. I feel like she’s gone. Gone for good.”
I felt a little embarrassed to be getting so emotional in front of Frank. But he was a recovered addict too, and I knew he’d seen a lot.
Frank stared at me.
“Let me get you a tissue,” he said.
He went into his room and came back with the box. I took one and blew my nose loud.
“She’s gone. I know she’s gone,” I said, even though I knew it sounded crazy.
I was so upset that I forgot my usual rule about not telling people that I ‘knew’ things. But at least I didn’t tell Frank that I’d seen that man in the subway. I knew for sure he’d think I’d gone crazy if I told him that.
“Do you think that guy took her for human trafficking, like to sell her in another country?” Frank asked.
“No. I think she’s just gone,” I said, knowing that didn’t make sense.
Loud, long sobs shook through me. Frank reached over and patted my shoulder.
“You don’t know that,” he argued. “I think you’re just worked up about it because she was your client. It’s OK. It’s going to be OK.”
I knew he was trying to comfort me, but I also knew that neither of us believed that.
Chapter 7
The next morning, I’d stopped crying, but my eyes and face were red when I walked into the clinic. I pulled off my coat in the warm office and wrapped it over an arm.
Danno sat behind the bar-enclosed counter in his area. As usual, he wore a plaid flannel shirt and jeans. Colorful knit cap. A comfortable, comforting sight, but today, I felt only misery.
“Hi Danno,” I greeted him without trying to fake any cheerfulness.
Danno looked at me with knowing brown eyes. He didn’t say anything about my red eyes and puffy skin.
“Sandra wants to talk you this morning. You can go to her office,” he relayed the message.
“OK. Thanks,” I said.
Danno buzzed the door to the inner offices open, and I went through. Sandra’s office was just a few steps away down the narrow hallway. I tapped lightly on her door.
“Come in,” I heard Sandra say.
I opened the door and walked in. Then I closed the door behind me and sat down on one of two chairs placed in front of Sandra’s small desk. Her cramped office was only slightly larger than the offices of the counselors. The curtains of a tiny window behind her chair were parted. The view showed the curtained window of another building close by.
“Good morning, Myrna,” said Sandra.
I greeted her too.
Sandra slid her laptop computer over to one side of her small desk. There was nothing else on it except her cell phone and the usual box of tissues. She placed her slender brown hands down on the desk in front of her and looked at me.
We stared at each other in silence for a moment. I knew what she wanted to talk about, but I wasn’t able to start this conversation myself.
“I wanted to speak to you before you start work today. I can see by your face that you probably watched the news last night. Is that true?” Sandra asked.
“Yes, I did. I saw that Chloe’s missing. Last seen with a strange man,” I forced the words out.
“I’m sorry. I know this is hard, Myrna,” said Sandra. “But it seems like you made the right decision about reporting her. At least they’re looking for her now.”
“That’s true,” I said. “But I don’t think they’re going to find her.”
Tears started to leak from my eyes again. I reached for a tissue from the box on Sandra’s desk.
“Why do you say that?” Sandra asked. “Sometimes they find these kids. Especially if her picture’s been on TV. That increases the chances. Someone might recognize her, even in another state.”
“I don’t think so because it’s just a feeling I have,” I said. “I know you’ll think I’m crazy, but inside me, I feel like she’s gone. Where no one can ever find her!”
I heard my voice rising and breaking, and I realized I’d just broke my rule again: ‘Don’t tell people I know things. Don’t ever tell anyone anything.’
I covered my mouth with my hand, wishing I could take my words back. Sandra looked at me in silence. Her dark brow winkled, and she leaned toward me.
“No. I don’t think you’re crazy, Myrna. But I know you’re concerned about Chloe. And worried. You’re deeply affected by this. That’s not a bad thing. It’s a good thing when you’re a counselor, but it’s probably making this hard for you to deal with. Especially because you’re so young,” said Sandra.
“It is hard,” I agreed with a sob.
“Do you want to take the rest of today off, or even a few days?” Sandra asked. “I can cover for you. It’s no problem at all.”
I lifted the tissue to my nose and blew it.
“No. I don’t want to,” I said. “I want to be here with my clients. Is that OK? I know I must look awful.”
I ran a hand through my mussed up hair, trying to make myself look more presentable.
“If you’re sure you can handle it, that’s fine,” said Sandra. “I don’t care what you look like. But you’ll probably want to explain to your clients why you’ve been crying.”
“Am I allowed to do that?” I asked. “I know we’re not supposed to talk about one client to another.”
“Yes, in this case, you can break that rule,” said Sandra. “Chloe’s been on the news after all. And they mentioned that she’d been to this clinic. But a lot of our clients might not watch the news, so they might not know that Chloe disappear
ed. I think it’s good for them to know about. Don’t you?”
“Yes. You’re right,” I agreed.
Sandra’s computer beeped. She looked over at the screen and then typed for a moment on her keyboard.
“Why don’t you take a few minutes to calm down. Then I’ll have Danno send your next client in. She’s out there, but she can wait a little. And Myrna, there’s one more thing I want to say. Thank you. Thank you for doing what I couldn’t do in my personal weakness.”
The older woman leaned back against her chair, and a tear leaked from one eye, but she didn’t wipe it.
I wasn’t sure how to answer, but I knew I had to say something.
“You’re welcome,” I said finally and awkwardly. “I’ll go to my office now.”
“Yes. We’ll talk again later,” said Sandra.
I stood up and left.
Chapter 8
A few days later, I sat on the small, hard chair in my office waiting for Laz—my next appointment. I felt drained from worrying about Chloe, both mentally and physically. But I was where I needed to be.
I’d been able to talk with my last client and focus on what she was saying, but Chloe and my weird experience in the subway had been on my mind through the entire appointment.
If anything, the situation had made me even more focused on my client. I’d told her about Chloe and that it was dangerous to go home with people she met in the Tenderloin Club. Hopefully, the young girl had listened and not resented the advice.
Now Laz was more than a half an hour late, but for some reason, I didn’t feel worried about him. I was too tired to wonder about that. My mental focus was fuzzy. As if my grounding in reality had somehow left me along with the contents of my stomach on the night I’d thrown up.
My tired, numb mind obsessed over the man I’d seen in the subway.
That man must be the kidnapper, but what should I do about it? What can I do? The questions circled through my mind, but my mind wasn’t giving me any answers.
As I stared at the door of my office in a trance-like state, someone knocked on it.
“May I come in?” Sandra asked through the door.
“Yes, Sandra,” I answered her.
