by Andrea Bartz
That’s my lingering impression of our year as a gang: such potent, intoxicating fun, a billowing glee I hadn’t experienced before and certainly haven’t since. A montage of drunken nights spent wandering from floor to floor searching for the source of a pounding bassline, or setting off fireworks from the roof, or drifting around phoneless, unable to find one another in separate sets of staircases. We weren’t yet glued to our devices: There was no Instagram to document in flattering light that you’d been included, no location tagging to show you were there. For me, it was like a college do-over, reparations for those four years of agonizing over my GPA and pottering around in a medication-induced fog. Calhoun felt self-contained, its own little microcosm, with secrets and a kind of kiddie society and the feel of a grand immersive theater production. We were so young but thought we were the wisest bastards on the planet. We didn’t run the world, and in fact outside the sky was falling, but we did run that building, eight floors high and a block long on an otherwise undeveloped street in Bushwick.
My pointer hovered over a photo of Edie dancing, and I smiled at the screen. She really did come alive on the dance floor—spinning and popping and shaking and convulsing in a way that somehow looked so fucking cool, so confident and brazenly joyful that others always turned to watch. There was a monthly dance-off, I remembered suddenly, in a sweat-smelling venue by the river, and three times Edie had taken home first prize.
And that smile on her face. I checked the date: June 3, a few months before she died. No one had seen her smile like this in the weeks leading up to her death. Not Alex, whom she would dump just a few weeks later, even as they vowed to be friends. Not Sarah, as the two picked little fights, half antagonizing, half avoiding each other—impossible, of course, in that strange Alice in Wonderland–style setting. Certainly not me, in the aftermath of the blowup of the century that left me looking around at the bomb site and wondering how I’d called her my best friend.
I finished fact-checking the cocktail feature and turned my attention to an absurd sex piece about what everyone can learn from polyamorous relationships. An idea unfurled as the day wore on: the state’s Freedom of Information Law. A FOIL request, a polite and unignorable demand that the police department pony up whatever I please; I completed them all the time for work, digging up files that writers were too lazy to uncover firsthand. I knew the intricacies of the application form and could certainly make a quiet request under the guise of my research job. If there had been an investigation around Edie’s death, as Sarah had mentioned, then there must be a case file. I filled out an online form and got a pop-up indicating the requested files would be sent to me in one to five business days—a bullshit timeframe when the retrieval was almost certainly happening on a scale of nanoseconds, if-then algorithms instantaneously humming in a digital brain.
Near the end of the day, I checked my work email, and midway through responding to an editor, something clicked: I had to get into my old email. I’d blathered tons of juicy stuff in messages to and from Edie back in the day; we’d written constantly about weekend plans, her relationship dramas, the previous night’s party recaps. Maybe inspecting them now, with my fact-checker’s eye, would reveal something I’d missed, a cry for help or a pall of depression I’d been too young to grasp. Or perhaps I’d written something about the concert that night—maybe there was proof, documentation of my whereabouts. I’d abandoned the account years ago, and the service no longer existed, so there was no simple reset password button. But there must be some way to crack it back open, wriggle inside.
And I knew who could help. I texted my friend Tessa late in the afternoon; she was always surprising me with the digital lockpicking skills she’d picked up in her library sciences program. She invited me over later that week—Damien, too, if he was free.
I couldn’t resist checking Facebook one last time before shutting down my computer. I scrolled a bit further and my heart jumped: Deep in one of Sarah’s photo albums was a little thumbnail that looked familiar. Full-size, it was four men scuzzing around onstage, keyboards and guitars and synth. They all had black and red stripes painted across their faces. It was a perfect match with the concert I’d been picturing for August 21—a wild show that rattled a random Calhoun apartment. I looked at the date and my stomach sank. This night, the one pictured at least, had been a full month before Edie died.
Chapter 2
The wine shop on Tessa’s block was closed, but the bodega wasn’t, so I picked up a six-pack and carried it awkwardly, the bottles clinking inside their cardboard carrier within the bodega’s plastic bag—a pointless beer turducken—past Tessa’s doorman and up the ancient elevator and to her door. Marlon, her cute terrier mutt, bounded up to my ankles and crouched, wagging his tail hysterically.
“Lindsay!” Tessa gave me a cursory hug and grabbed the beer. “My favorite kind, thank you!”
“Didn’t want to show up empty-handed. It smells amazing in here.” Something garlicky and rich.
“I made risotto. Here, come help me make a salad.”
I followed her into the kitchen and tapped a magnet on the fridge in the shape of a mug of Guinness.
“Your trip! I forgot to say thanks for the postcard.” I don’t know if she sends them to everyone or just to me because she knows how much I love her handwriting: the hip, squared-off lettering of an architect or artist, angular and typographic.
She smiled and swung the fridge door open, pulling the vegetable drawer out noisily. She always has fresh vegetables, not limp and forgotten and sometimes rotting white and green like mine. “Of course! You know, there’s exactly one post office left in all of Dublin, and the nineteen-year-old behind the counter acted like she’d never seen a postcard before.” She dropped a clatter of veggies in front of me and produced a cutting board.
“Well, you are the last person on earth still sending them.”
“It’s true. I should know, I catalog this shit all day.”
I turned on the tap and began scrubbing the vegetables. “So tell me about Dublin!”
“It was fun! Rainy. I mostly just drank Guinness with Will.”
“Sounds amazing. Is he coming tonight?”
“Eventually. He’s at work.” She banged around, cleaning up. Her kitchen’s all gleaming white and chrome. “Do you know what time Damien’s coming?”
“Oh, he said to eat without him—it’ll be eightish. Apparently Trent teaches spin on Thursdays, and he obviously can’t miss that.”
She laughed. “How’s everything for you? Work?”
“Ohh, the same.” I sliced a head of cauliflower right through the center and peered down at it. How like a brain it looked, the woody white just like a brain stem. For just a second, I saw the ruffled pink organ in front of me, blood spurting from the bottom.
“Are you still working crazy hours?”
I blinked the image away. “Only during shipping weeks. When we’re sending everything to the printer. And I care less with every passing month, which makes me sort of untouchable. So it’s fine. Should I cut up both tomatoes?”
Tessa looked back at me and nodded. “Still not interested in looking around for another job?”
I rolled my eyes. “There aren’t that many print magazines around anymore, Tessa. And they know I’m good at what I do. We can’t all love every second of our amazingly perfect jobs like you.”
She let out an awkward laugh. “Sorry. So tell me again what you need me to break into your old email for?” She’d turned back to the stove and the hood swallowed her words.
“It’s sort of dumb,” I began. “I randomly had dinner the other night with this friend from when I first lived in New York. And remember how when I was twenty-three, my best friend committed suicide?”
Tessa nodded, still bent over the pot.
“We started talking about the night it happened, and Sarah—the friend I just saw—we, like, re
membered it really differently. It just got me thinking, that’s all. Set some nostalgia in motion.”
“You remembered it differently?”
“It made me realize how little I actually dealt with it at the time.” I didn’t mention Sarah’s odd claim about my whereabouts; I still felt sheepish about the discrepancy. “Instead of grieving and leaning on my other friends to get through it, I just cut them all off. I was so self-absorbed at twenty-three. Everyone is, I think.”
Tessa nodded and tested a bite of risotto.
“It’s almost weird that…that I haven’t thought about how odd my reaction was, if that makes sense. I never really tried to figure out why I reacted that way. And now I’m curious to go back through it with a little perspective.”
“And you really think your old emails will help?” Her tone was friendly, just curious, but I heard my voice growing defensive.
“I’ve just been thinking about it, is all. The ten-year anniversary is coming up next month—maybe that’s subconsciously why I contacted Sarah in the first place. Not to psychoanalyze myself or anything. But I’m the head of research at Sir; I fact-check things all day long. Maybe I’m finally equipped to go over this one more time and then be done with it.”
“What are you hoping to figure out?”
“Why she killed herself, I guess.”
“Was she depressed?”
“She was. She must’ve been. But she never told anyone, so it was pretty shocking. And it all happened around when she was fighting with everyone. I’d even been planning a dramatic friend breakup with her.”
The kitchen vent whirred. “Just be careful that you’re not circling back to find reasons to blame yourself or anything,” Tessa said. “Healthy people don’t kill themselves. That’s not something anyone else can drive you to do.” She turned around and I smiled at her. Sometimes Tessa can sense the anxiety I’m creeping toward before I even realize it. She wiped her hands on a towel. “Let’s eat.”
She asked about my folks in Wisconsin (fine; hadn’t talked to them since Easter) and Michael, the sort of dodgy guy I’d been seeing. I asked about her archivist job at Columbia (excellent) and her and Will’s upcoming anniversary trip to New Zealand (stressful but exciting). We were almost finished when I noticed she hadn’t grabbed a beer; she was sipping water, occasionally crossing to the fridge to refill her glass.
“I brought Two Hearted Ale for you!” I called, suspicious. She froze, wide-eyed, and I gasped. “You are not…are you? Is that—Tessa!” My voice rose to a screech as we both broke into laughter.
“We haven’t even told our parents yet,” she said as I released her from a hug. “Mine will be in town next weekend, so we figured we’d tell them in person.”
“Tessa,” I said again. Just above my grin, my eyes filled with tears. “I’m so happy for you! Holy shit.” I’d known that she and Will were vaguely trying to get pregnant—she’d begun seeing an acupuncturist to regulate her cycles and improve her chi or whatever—but she hadn’t mentioned it in months.
“I’m only eight weeks along, so don’t tell anybody,” she said. “I kind of feel like crap all the time, so I want to complain to everyone, but apparently I’m not supposed to talk about it yet.”
“I won’t say anything. Morning sickness?”
“Mostly just feeling exhausted and…off. It’s like being hungover all the time. And all I want to do is drink wine.”
I squeezed her hand. “I’ll make you amazing virgin ginger cocktails. And run errands and do whatever you need, obviously.” I clicked my tongue. “Tessa, you’re going to be a mom!”
I gave her another hug, my tears soaking into her shoulder. The idea of taking care of Tessa cheered me; typically she was the one with her shit together, mothering me.
“When are you due?”
“End of February.” She shrugged again, like she was sick of talking about it. “It helps to see you excited because I keep forgetting it’s exciting. I’m just focused on pretending everything’s normal.”
“You totally fooled me! Jeez. Thank you for making us dinner and, you know, being willing to help me with these emails.”
“Of course! Should we go into the office? I’ve been thinking about this challenge all day.”
I stopped in the bathroom first and froze as tears again filled my eyes, suddenly, like a bell clanging. I blinked into the mirror and steadied my breath. I was happy for Tessa, of course, excited to meet Baby Hoppert. But there was also—what? Jealousy, a wistfulness? I peered hard at the feeling until it crystallized: that awful tug of feeling left behind, overlooked by some unseen orchestrator. All of my Facebook stalking came into sharp focus: Sarah giggling about her in-laws in New Jersey. Alex and his apartment in the burbs. Even Kevin had a goddamn husband now. Where was I the day adulthoods were distributed?
I stretched my mouth into a smile and breathed hard until the tears cleared. Biological trickery; I’d researched it once—fooling the body into some semblance of ease. I cleared my throat and headed into the office, dropping into Will’s fancy desk chair. Before Tessa could begin typing, the doorbell chimed, sending Marlon into barking conniptions.
“Hello, darlings!” Damien called as soon as Tessa opened the door. He gave us both French-style cheek kisses.
“A huge thank-you for keeping your spinning shorts on,” I joked. He looked like a Greek god.
“I aim to please.”
“Do you need food?” Tessa broke in, already heading down the hall to make him a plate. Standing around her kitchen island, Tessa shared her big news again and Damien responded like the bro I sometimes forget he is: He smiled and said, “Hey, that’s fun!” and then, after a question or two, changed the subject. Once, at the office, I’d witnessed a copy editor proudly showing him her engagement ring, which he’d barely glanced at before chirping, “It’s cute!” Yet he’ll lose his mind over a puppy on the street.
When Damien had finished eating, Tessa herded us back into the office.
“So we’re playing detectives?” Damien asked as he dragged in an extra chair. “Because I’m a regular Sherlock Homo. Just call me Fancy Drew. I’m like a…Hardy Boy?”
“Too far,” I said, smiling.
“The real mystery is why Lindsay wants to look through her old inbox,” Tessa said.
I couldn’t quite articulate it myself. To figure out why Edie killed herself? To check how I’d overlooked Sarah’s hysterical breakdown afterward? To confirm, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I’d been up at that concert when the unthinkable happened?
“To remind myself how far I’ve come since I was twenty-three and a hot mess,” I said lightly.
Damien raised his beer. “Never change.”
Tessa began to type. “You’re sure you don’t remember your old password?”
“Absolutely not. I can barely remember my current one.” I pulled out my phone and sent my music to the speakers set high in the walls. Classical guitar filled the room—intricate flamenco music to score whatever calisthenics Tessa was doing online. I watched over her shoulder: codes being entered, archives unlocking.
Tessa and I had become friends six years ago when I approached her, tipsy on bad wine, at a bookstore following a reading that sounded interesting but wasn’t. Whoever was supposed to come with me hadn’t shown up, and I’d felt embarrassed about the seat I’d reserved with a scarf and then guarded jealously, turning people away until the event began and I became a rude person next to an empty chair. Afterward I’d swigged a big plastic cup of free wine and headed for the door, pausing just as the alcohol hit me to ask Tessa if I knew her from somewhere—her face, it was tickling my sense of déjà vu. She hadn’t seemed to remember me, but we played the maybe-from game for a while, spitting out our biographies in quick, successive questions, then gave up and started chatting and totally hit it off. Eventually I introduced her to Da
mien, and to my delight, they got along famously, too. I’d felt so pleased, the creator of a happy elective family after a long period of loneliness. Tessa’s a good yin to my yang. If only she’d been a man.
The front door slammed, and for a second time, Marlon yelped and sped off. Will drifted in, tall and waifish and drowning in a suit. He smiled and dropped his palms onto Tessa’s shoulders.
“Hey, hon,” she murmured without looking up.
“Hi, Will!” I called out, half standing to give him a hug. “Congratulations on fathering my new niece or nephew!”
“Mazel!” Damien added.
Will beamed. “Thanks, guys. We can hardly believe it.”
“How was your day?” Tessa asked, still typing.
“Not bad. They accepted the plea bargain on that case I was telling you about. What are you guys up to?”
“Tessa’s hacking me!” I announced.
“Is that so?” He grinned and leaned on the credenza. I like Will, who had been Tessa’s husband of only a few months when she and I became friends. The two of them had met on Match.com at a time when people still believed both that one could find a soul mate online and that that belief was worth paying for. (Tinder has since disabused me of both notions.) At first I wasn’t sure what to make of his soft-spoken manner, the way he’d just smile at Tessa’s jokes and grow calmer and muter the funnier she got, but now I know it’s their introvert-extrovert pas de deux. He’s a card-carrying good guy, the kind I myself haven’t encountered on dating apps in years.
“She’s helping me bust into my old email account. Because I’m an idiot and I can’t remember my old password.”
