At home, on my stick-it note wall, the evidence column is populating. The book signing “incident” goes up on a yellow sticky. Then I scribble other things of note and organize them:
“Car accident or target?”
“Note in mailbox.”
“Hilly’s behavior.”
“Rebecca Lang.”
“Carter.”
“Len’s email.”
Things like the ping on his phone and money withdrawals seem less significant now. They were all I had when I was searching for him, but now it feels like some punk found his discarded phone and wallet somewhere stole them and used his card. Those things weren’t found on him when he was discovered. Still, they’re also on squares of paper on the wall. Why he took out a sum of money shortly before he disappeared still keeps me up at night. If it were some sort of blackmail, surely they would ask for more than a few grand.
The number of people who would want to hurt me seem endless after scrolling through social media sites and seeing all the hateful comments for months. However, the book being defaced at my event, the letter in my mailbox, it feels more personal. I need to go to talk to Rebecca Lang, but there is something I need to do first.
At Bullseye shooting range, I stand holding my gun like it’s a dead fish. I don’t plan to use the thing, but it’s a better security system than a beeping noise with a one-minute delay before it notifies police, not to mention how long it would take for anyone to actually reach me. I need to know how to use it, even though it disgusts me to be touching it. It’s come to this. Liam would be ashamed of me, I think. We pride ourselves on our antigun position; we even went to a march against guns once after one of the latest mass shootings. There are so many, I don’t even remember which it was. But I have to. I don’t know what else to do.
The guy giving lessons is the sort of guy who doesn’t hide his narcissism. I hear him talking with a few other patrons at the range while I fill out the lengthy release paperwork before my instruction starts. I know the type of guy well. When someone is telling a story, all he can do is wait for them to finish so that he can tell his own story that’s not only better, but also more directly involves him. He picks tobacco from his teeth and calls me “sweetie” and “lady” while he goes through the basics. I suffer through so I can meet my goal: leaving with this terrible weapon, confident I won’t accidentally shoot myself before I arrive home.
I learn that a magazine is something other than People and Time. He shows me how to check the chamber. He goes on and on about the difference between a magazine and a clip. Even though that apparently doesn’t apply to my gun and he’s just showing off his vast knowledge on the wrong, unimpressed audience, he wastes another ten minutes of my life on how people use the terminology wrong. He goes through a long demonstration on safety, which is redundant as hell, but I guess I’m grateful for. Finally he lets me try it out.
I shoot a paper circle a couple dozen times. The giant earmuffs might be why, but it’s not as horrifying as I thought it would be. After a few shots, I start to hit close to the middle of the circle. A long way from a bull’s-eye, but good enough to feel like I can cower in a corner with this thing and aim it at someone if they broke into my home. Good enough to feel like I won’t shoot myself by mistake, although I’m still sickened by the idea of having it in the house.
They upsell me on a lockbox for the gun, but I spend another ten minutes refusing the guy’s attempts to try and get me to buy a cleaning kit and holster. He seems personally offended when I don’t drop another several hundred dollars on gun accessories, and I can’t wait to be out of there and not go back ever again. I had planned to take it with me when I showed up at Rebecca’s, but find out there is a waiting period before I can take it home. I don’t want to wait seventy-two hours before getting answers. Maybe I’ll just go anyway.
I sit in my car, a little defeated, but decide to try and see if I can get some information about Rebecca’s schedule before driving up there so I can be likely to catch her at home. If she has days off, maybe midday will be best. If, in fact, the boyfriend has a job. It’s my best bet anyway. I pull away from the shooting range, just happy to be free of it, and make the call.
I pretend to be a friend trying to get in touch with Rebecca. I’m happy to get a hostess on the line, a woman who makes every sentence sound like a question.
“Thanks for calling Bowen’s? This is Brittany?” I knew immediately that it wouldn’t be hard to get information from this girl.
“Yes,” I say. “Um, is Rebecca Lang working tonight, by any chance?”
“Becky? Yeah, but she’s busy now?” she says, and then I hear her welcome a guest. “I’ll be right with you?”
“You know, actually, I wanted to come in and surprise her. I’m an old friend, and I thought I’d just pop in. I’m not in town yet, though. Do you know when else she works this week?”
“Oh, how fun! Okay, hold on, let me look?” She puts down the phone and clicks at the keyboard as she checks. In the background I hear the din of dinner conversations telling piecemeal stories. At one table, a woman laughing too loud, a snorting honk that pierces through the other voices. A guy, probably waiting for a table near the hostess stand, complaining about waiting for his whole party to arrive before being seated. I hear another voice going off about his phone carrier. “I had to restart the goddamn thing three times. They tell me it’s water damage, and insurance won’t cover that. What did I get the goddamn coverage for?” His voice is drowned out by a couple approaching the hostess, commenting on the cold and asking her to look up their reservation.
Sonder, I think. It’s a word I never knew existed, and was delighted to learn about. It means: the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own. I envision all of the people having their very personal and different experiences there at dinner, while I listen in, scheming.
I remember the very table we sat in when we were there. I remember what I wore. It feels so incredibly surreal.
The hostess picks up again. “She has Thursday and Sunday off, so any other day you come in, she should be here,” she says, more distracted than before.
“Thank you,” I say. I hang up and feel a surge of anxiety rush through me. I’ll wait the few days and pick up the gun, then show up at her front door.
Ellie’s name pops up on the phone, and I answer on Bluetooth as I drive home.
“Hey,” she says, something recognizable in her voice. Disappointment? “I take it you’re not coming?” she asks. I don’t recall what I’ve forgotten.
“Um...” I say, but she doesn’t let me dig myself a deeper hole.
“Dinner. Joe is at a work thing. You said you’d come over if I promised to have the kids in bed by eight.” She’s annoyed.
“I was kidding about that part,” I say lightly.
“Were you?” she snaps, but then immediately changes the weight in her voice and tries to be light. I know she feels like she can’t burden me with anything because of what I’m going through, so even when she needs something, feels something, she shuts it off and selflessly turns and makes it about me. She has every right to be upset. I screwed up, but she doesn’t know what I’m dealing with, and I’m not keeping her informed about all of the developments. She’s done enough, been through enough.
“It’s okay. I know you’re...” I’m not sure what she’s going to say. She’s not going to end that sentence with “busy.” As far as she knows, I haven’t left the couch in days, and it sure is where I wish I were right now. “Not feeling well,” she lands on.
“I’m sorry, Ell,” I say.
“It’s okay.”
“No, I forgot. That’s not an excuse. There’s no excuse.” I say, genuinely sorry. As much as I try to mask my uncomfortableness around kids, she knows that’s why we aren’t as close. I mean it though; it’s not an excuse. I need to make an effort. She’s all I have, and I’m an asshole lately.
“It was just reheated chicken nuggets, it’s fine.” I cringe at the thought of microwaved nuggets. We live very different lives. “I just wanted an excuse to drink wine and put the kids to bed early,” she says, with a little laugh to blow it off. Just the fact that she needs “an excuse” to drink wine is evidence of how opposite we really are. I could use a few excuses not to, however.
“I’m a jerk. I’m sorry. How about next week, and my treat? I’ll bring takeout,” I say. I should say that I can still come even though it’s later than we planned, but all I want is my bed and a glass of wine and silence.
“Yes. That sounds perfect. I DVR’d Housewives. We can make a night of it,” she says, and I don’t let my voice give away the slightest bit of dread at the thought of watching Housewives.
“It’s a plan. Love you,” I say.
“You too,” she says, hanging up. I feel like an asshole, so I drive over to her place anyway. It might be nice to listen to stories about spit-up and diapers for a few minutes to distract me. I’ll just bring her a bottle of wine and some real food—a curry from Mai Thai.
When I arrive at her door with curry and wine as penance, she drops her shoulders in a “you didn’t have to” gesture, but hugs me and takes it. We sit at a sticky dining table and slide away a pile of crayons to open the wine. She eats and tells some story about how Joe might be up for detective and about the long hours he’s working—that she could use a nanny. She laughs and pours herself more wine, clearly only half-joking.
Before I leave she wants to show me the latest reason they can’t “have nice things.” In their bedroom, the once white wall is covered in Magic Marker drawings. I gasp and chuckle.
“It comes out though, right?” I say lightly, and then I see something. In the mess of their open closet sits a pair of jeans, thrown over the back of a folding chair. There are piles of both clean and dirty clothes in their walk-in, so it might go unnoticed by them, who are used to their mess, but they leap out at me. Those are Liam’s. One of his favorite pairs. What the fuck? I silently walk to them, my mouth agape.
“Why do you have these?” I can’t mask the horror on my face.
“What do you mean? Jeans?”
“These are Liam’s.” I study her for a look. Her face changes. Sympathy or guilt?
“Are you sure?” she asks. I don’t want to point out how short and overweight Joe is compared to tall, fit Liam. If you take one second to look at them, you’d laugh at the idea that they could be Joe’s. She looks them over.
“I don’t know. Maybe he left them here?” She seems unconcerned and tells me to take them with if I want, as she is beckoned by Ned, wailing, and rushes into the other room. I take a few moments to compose myself before I leave so it’s not in haste and she can’t sense the terrible thoughts I’m having.
When I’m back in my car, I hate myself. I actually let it cross my mind that my sister was having an affair with him. I’m losing my mind. I just can’t think of any time he would have changed clothes there or stayed there. They have a messy, tiny place crammed with kids’ stuff. They always came to our place for any parties or overnight visits. God, I’m totally paranoid. I’m sure there is a perfectly benign reason for this. I take a few breaths and tell myself to pull it together.
When I near home, I see my usual lot is full, so I find a spot on the street a block away. I admire a storefront window displaying a family of happy snow-people gathered around a Christmas tree that stretches ten feet tall. Tinsel and glass icicles wink in the glow of Christmas lights, strung up the trees, in prisms of flickering colors. I see a horse and carriage standing in front of a busy restaurant. I watch the puffs of white breath stream from the wet nose of the horse’s nostrils, and I feel sorry for it, the metal bits in his mouth and leather harness, standing in the sleet. I close my eyes and turn away.
Inside the lobby of my building, the homeowners’ association has strung white lights around the banister of the stairs and through the branches of the potted trees. I take the elevator, and when I reach my door, I see a note taped to the outside of it.
I look around at other doors to see if it’s a takeout menu that a delivery guy stuck there, but in that case, it would be fastened with a rubber band on the knob. But then I remember that every three months they send notice for pest control. The HOA was here today working in the lobby, so I breathe a sigh of relief. That’s probably what it is. I’m becoming so paranoid. I need to remind myself to breathe, to be logical. When I pull the taped note from the door, I read it. I don’t believe what I’m seeing, again. It’s another torn quote from my book. It’s from the same resource list as the last one.
Stay off social networking websites:
You don’t want information about who you’re friends with and what you’re doing to be public.
There’s nothing I can do to stop it: I’m dizzy, panting. I can’t catch my breath. The panic attack is sweeping in, and I hate myself for not being able to control it. My hands are trembling so hard I can’t hold my bag. I drop the letter and sit on the floor, holding back sobs.
Fuck, pull it together, I tell myself. But, I can’t. One, two, three, four. It doesn’t work. I’m having a panic attack. I don’t know how bad it will be. My chest tightens. I put my head on my knees and lean against the wall, trying to breathe. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Get a grip. Control it. Please. But it rises up like bile in my throat.