They're Gone Page 4

  “Mike likes it.” She drank from her seven and seven, set it down, pulled out her phone, and glanced into it. “You okay, hon?”

  Cessy reached down, scratched her knee. “Did you guys know about Hector?”

  Stacy was using her phone to check herself out. She adjusted her shirt. “What about him?”

  “That he—that he had a temper.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  Silence between them, the pause pregnant.

  “I mean,” Stacy said uneasily, “all guys have tempers.”

  Michael walked back, took his whiskey. “Thanks again, Cess.”

  He and Stacy went back to their table. She didn’t talk to Cessy again.

  Cessy walked home after work, fall and twilight in the city. She’d worked the afternoon shift and it wasn’t quite dark yet, and the city held a pinkish-purple glow. It was nice, not enough to distract her, but nice. Cessy’s favorite time of the year was late afternoon summers, when she’d leave work and walk among people happy about ending the day, excited about their evenings. The way apartment windows stayed up without concern for weather, high enough not to be worried about rats or robberies. That was when she’d first come here from Arizona, when she lost herself in Fells Point’s cheerful embrace.

  Three years had passed since then.

  It felt like lifetimes.

  Cessy walked into her apartment, pulled a beer out of the fridge, collapsed on the couch. Turned on the television and stared dully at the violence on the evening news.

  She went to the bedroom, opened a drawer in the nightstand, pulled out the photos she’d printed.

  She stared at the pictures, the blurry shots of masked men standing around bodies.

  Cessy thought again about the money she owed, wondered what she’d have to do to get it.

  Wondered what would happen if she didn’t have it.

  And she felt Hector’s pull, like his hand was once again yanking her wrist, pulling her to pain, to fear.

  To someone she desperately didn’t want to be.

  CHAPTER

  7

  “WHY DON’T YOU take some more time?”

  Clark Carlson’s voice was kind.

  Deb held the phone tight, tried one last time.

  “Look, Clark, I know you don’t think I’m ready. But that’s not the case. Yeah, I’m not fully recovered, but I don’t know if I ever will be. I just know that I need to start working again. And I know you’re gearing up for your next health-care push.”

  “You know about that?”

  “There’s always a next health-care push.”

  Clark laughed abruptly. “You’re right.”

  Silence.

  Deb looked around her backyard, the unkempt grass and ragged bushes. It was too late in the year to do anything about it, but she still felt the urge to garden. She liked kneeling in the dirt, layering mulch, pulling plants from their pots, giving new life to soil.

  Grief had distracted her from so many things she used to enjoy.

  And when she remembered them, it was like they were activities someone else had done. Hobbies that entertained a different person, long ago.

  “The thing is,” Clark was telling her, “we really don’t have anything right now. You’re right, we’re working on a couple of big PR campaigns, but we staffed them weeks ago. And I would have called you, but I heard what happened and …”

  His voice trailed away.

  Deb stared at a small withered tree. She couldn’t remember what kind it was. Normally, she could name all the plants in the backyard, but this one escaped her. It was a young tree, planted less than a year ago, thin and winding, like a person hugging herself.

  “But if things change,” she said, “you’ll keep me in mind?”

  “Definitely.” Clark paused. “Is this … can I ask you, is this because you need money? Are you hurting? I mean, financially.”

  “I’m okay.”

  Another pause. “I wouldn’t ask if we weren’t friends. Oh, side note. Speaking of friends, you know Susan Myers? I’m meeting her for dinner tonight.”

  Deb hadn’t really considered Clark a friend; she always kept her clients—especially her male clients—on a different tier. But she wasn’t going to disabuse him of that notion. “Tell Sue I said hi. And really, I’m fine. I just want to get back to work. Give myself something to do.”

  “Are you sure?” he pressed. “With what happened with Grant, it must be a lot to deal with.”

  Deb wasn’t sure where Clark was going with this. “It is. But like I said, I just want to work. And I really liked working with CPP in the past and would be happy to do so again.”

  “So how are you doing?” he persisted.

  This was how the men reacted. An odd mix of wanting to be helpful and, underneath that surface, naked curiosity. Like violence was a fire to which they were drawn.

  “I’m getting there.”

  “How’s Kim? She’s at Maryland, right?”

  “Washington College, over in the Eastern Shore.”

  “Right, right,” Clark said. “But she’s doing okay?”

  “She dropped her classes this semester. But she’ll be okay.”

  “Have the police found any leads?”

  “No.”

  “Are they still investigating? Have you thought about hiring a private investigator?”

  “I’m not sure one could turn up anything the police couldn’t.”

  “You never know. Might be something to consider.”

  “It might,” Deb said wearily. Deciduous tree? Was that the term?

  “And money’s okay?”

  Well, Deb thought, you asked.

  “No. It’s not. And I’m not sure what we’re going to do.”

  Hesitancy returned to Clark’s voice. “Yeah?”

  “Our finance guy came by yesterday, and he went over Grant’s accounts. We don’t have as much as I thought we did.”

  “Well, that sounds …”

  “Grant used his four-oh-one,” Deb went on. “I never knew that. I mean, I wasn’t one of those women who doesn’t know anything about our finances … but I feel, like, maybe I was? And it just makes me feel so irresponsible. Like, how could I not know that he’d borrowed against his four-oh-one?”

  “Didn’t you have to sign for that?”

  “He forged my signature. He forged it.” Deb touched her eyes, let the tears come. “I found all this out yesterday.”

  “Do you know what he used the money for?”

  “No, I never knew about any of this. I just feel so stupid.”

  “You shouldn’t feel that way.”

  “But our lives are … I mean, Kim’s college.”

  “Oh, right,” Clark said uneasily. The tenor of his voice had changed. Deb could tell he wanted to get off the phone. This was more than he’d bargained for.

  But Clark had pressed and pressed and, dammit, now he was going to deal with her.

  “We can get loans, but they don’t cover everything. There’s a chance Kim may have to move schools. Go in-state so we can afford the tuition. And I don’t know how to tell her that. She loves Washington College.”

  “Well, I think she’ll understand …”

  Deb was crying now. “She has some boyfriend there. I don’t know. If I can find a way to keep her there, I will. It’s just, I feel so stupid. I’ve been so out of touch with all this, and I wasn’t that kind of wife. We didn’t have that kind of marriage. I just stopped paying attention after a while. I mean, Grant worked in finance. Everything was covered. Money wasn’t even something I thought about.”

  “One second,” she heard Clark tell someone.

  “We weren’t rich,” Deb told him. “And we didn’t have much when we first got married. We lived in this tiny, one-bedroom apartment in Arlington until Kim was four. It was so small we could barely fit a couch inside. But things got better, and we got comfortable, and it was nice not to pay attention to anything like that. I should ha
ve.”

  “Deb, I hate to do this, but I really need to get going.”

  “I just don’t know what he used the money for.”

  Silence.

  “So …” Clark said. “I really have to go.”

  Deb wiped her eyes. “You’ll let me know if anything comes up?”

  “I will,” Clark said. “I definitely will.”

  Deb hung up the phone, tapped it against her chin.

  “Wow,” Nicole said, sitting on a small stone bench across from her. “Talk about unloading.”

  “He thinks I’m a mess,” Deb told her friend. “And he’ll tell everyone he talks to about this conversation. Clark’s a gossip.”

  Nicole recrossed her legs, briskly rubbed the cold from her thighs. “So why’d you go both barrels on him?”

  Deb dabbed her eyes. “He said he’s seeing Susan Myers tonight. He’s going to tell her I was a wreck. She and I are supposed to talk tomorrow about a job, and she’ll be sympathetic. She lost her husband a few years ago to cancer.”

  Nicole stared at her. “You devious little bitch. I like you a little more now.”

  “All that was waiting to come out. I just let it.” Deb paused. “He kept pressing me.”

  “Do you really need money? I don’t have any, but I’ll help you rob a bank or something.”

  “I might.”

  “Were you serious about Grant’s accounts?”

  “It’s even worse. Everything’s gone. He drained his retirement. Cancelled his life insurance. We have what’s left in our checking account, and that’s it after a few months.”

  Deb walked over to her friend, sat down next to her, leaned against her shoulder.

  “Are you trying to go through my purse?” Nicole asked.

  “Shut up and hold me.” Deb felt Nicole’s arm over her.

  The two women sat silently for a few moments.

  “What are you going to do?” Nicole asked.

  “Sell the house. Kim doesn’t live here anymore, and I don’t need a place this big. I can get an apartment or a townhouse. Something smaller, with enough room for Kim when she comes back to visit. And this house is full of memories of Grant; it makes me sad. It’ll be good to leave.”

  “What about Kim’s college?”

  “This year is paid for. We’ll have to take out loans for the next two, but I’ll help her pay those back. I don’t want her to have to change her life any more than she already has.”

  “What do you think Grant did with the money?” Nicole asked hesitantly.

  “Honestly, I have no idea.”

  The two women watched a bird land on a branch, tiptoe awkwardly, then fly away.

  Nicole left just before dinner. Kim had plans with friends and wasn’t expected back until late. Deb didn’t feel like cooking, so she heated a Lean Cuisine, paired it with a glass of wine, ate on the couch in front of the television. The DVR was full of shows she and Grant used to watch, programs they enjoyed together but she would probably never watch on her own—courtroom dramas, cop shows titled after prominent American cities, one or two popular sitcoms.

  She turned on the news. Saw a teaser for a story about a murdered man, shot twice, the police confirming it was in similar fashion to other recent murders.

  Deb quickly changed channels until she landed on a competition show about woodworking, forced herself to get sucked in. The contestants had been placed in teams and were designing and crafting gazebos. The camera lingered over the process of wood being selected, measured, a circular saw sinking its teeth into a board.

  Deb woke on the couch, confused. Hours had passed. The television was off, a blanket pulled over her.

  “Mom, are you drunk?”

  Deb blinked, saw Kim holding her wine glass. She rubbed her eyes, sat up.

  “Just tired. What time is it?”

  “Almost two.”

  “You were out late.”

  The comment was a combination of observation and complaint, but Kim didn’t take offense to it. She sat on the chair adjacent to the couch, picked up Deb’s wine glass, swirled the drops of red wine pooled in the bottom.

  Deb could tell something was bothering her. “Do you need to talk?”

  Kim set the glass down, kept staring at it as she spoke. “I need to tell you something.”

  “Oh boy.” Deb sat up, tried to calm the nerves rustling her stomach.

  “It’s not the end of the world or anything.”

  “You don’t want to go back to school.”

  “What? No, I do.”

  “You’re pregnant.”

  “Mom, stop guessing.”

  Those nerves refused to settle. “It’s okay. You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

  Kim was rubbing her hands together. “It’s about someone I’m dating.”

  Deb couldn’t help guessing again, her words coming out fast. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No. And he’s not a he.”

  Kim watched her mother, let that sink in.

  Deb blinked.

  “Oh!” She paused. “Really?”

  “She lives down the hall from me. We’ve been together almost half a year.” Kim looked helplessly, hopelessly worried. “Are you mad?”

  As often happened when something momentous happened with Kim, Deb remembered when her daughter was just a little girl. When she was three or four and loved being held, and it seemed like Deb and Grant would never let her feet touch the ground. When she first learned to walk and ran unsteadily back and forth between them. When she first laughed.

  Kim embraced drama as she grew older. Deb vividly remembered the fights, the stomped feet, sharp intakes of breath. Slammed doors.

  And then, later, there was a time when everything was hell, when Kim seemed uncontrollable and inconsiderate, attracted to something dark that was foreign to Deb and Grant. They’d both grown up with their own share of wild times and regretted nights, and assumed they’d be prepared for anything a teenage daughter could throw at them. But they weren’t ready for the terrifying insouciance that came with the attitude, like Kim was standing at the entrance of a dark alley. But not just standing. She was beckoning. Smiling.

  That was high school.

  In college, their daughter returned.

  Maybe it was loneliness or not living in the same house or Grant’s exhortations to treat Kim as an adult, but Deb noticed that much of her daughter’s difficulty had left. Kim would visit them on weekends; sit at the small, sunny breakfast table in the kitchen, huddled over a cup of coffee; ask them about their jobs and friends. Like any kid, Kim still liked talking more than listening, but the fact that she listened at all was a welcome change.

  “Mom?”

  “What did your friends say?”

  “They’re all cool with it. What’s wrong?”

  Deb stayed silent, trying to determine the best way to say what was on her mind.

  “Mom?”

  “I don’t care who you love,” Deb said. “I just want you to be safe. It’s a hard world for anyone who’s different.” That fear Deb had felt back when Kim started college returned, the worries about drinking, rape, bullying, peer pressure, drug use, death.

  “I’m not going to hide who I am,” Kim said impatiently. “I shouldn’t have to do that.”

  “No, I know …”

  “This is who I am. I’m attracted to men and women.”

  Kim was defiant, her thin arms crossed over her chest, narrowed eyes daring Deb to disagree.

  “This is who I am,” Kim repeated.

  “I’m just worried about you.”

  “Can’t you be happy for me?”

  “I’m always going to worry about you. Even when I’m happy for you.”

  Kim’s face darkened. “Rebecca said you wouldn’t be on board.”

  “Rebecca is …”

  “She’s my girlfriend.”

  That defiance in Kim, burning. She wanted to fight.

  “Was it scary?” Deb asked.

&nb
sp; Something in Kim faltered. “Was what scary?”

  “To discover this about yourself. Was it scary?”

  Kim and Deb looked at each other.

  “A little bit,” Kim finally said. “Like, I’d always thought other women were pretty, but I didn’t, like, feel anything for them. You know? Not attraction. And I didn’t want to tell anyone. I wanted to figure this out for myself.”

  “You didn’t want to tell me?”

  “I didn’t know how you and Dad would react.” Uncertainty clouded Kim’s face.

  You and Dad.

  Deb was relieved that Grant wasn’t with her.

  Deb had always found that men took this kind of news differently than women. Men needed to accept it, to first rationalize what it meant to them. Almost as if they worried that by accepting this change, their own sexuality would be threatened.

  “You’re not mad at me?” Kim asked.

  “For not telling me?”

  “For who I am.”

  “Of course not.”

  But Deb didn’t tell her daughter the worries racing through her mind.

  That identifying as bisexual or lesbian would push Kim even further to society’s margins, far beyond where her mixed race already had.

  There was more acceptance nowadays of cultures outside of straight and white, but those steps had been hard-fought and reluctantly granted, and could easily be walked back. The DMV (the intersection of DC, Maryland, and Virginia) was wonderfully diverse, but bigotry existed. Maybe it wasn’t overtly shown in marches or demonstrations, but Deb had felt it in subtler ways.

  Like the time Grant’s father had asked Deb if it bothered her that she was “basically white. Not like other Asians.”

  Deb had heard variations of this statement her entire life, as if there was some general Asian stereotype she didn’t fit. To some, her adoption by a white woman disqualified her. To others, she was too educated compared to other Asians, and still others complained that she wasn’t educated enough. She didn’t speak Vietnamese, and people felt that was ostracizing, and even her studied knowledge of the history and culture of Vietnam wasn’t enough to satisfy them.

  When you were a minority, Deb had learned, you had to fit into a certain definable context. A satisfying context.

  You simply couldn’t just be.

  And there was the time a man had muttered, as she walked past him, “Slope.” Deb, a college freshman at the time, had never heard the term and asked a friend what it meant. She remembered her instinct, upon learning the insult, was to wonder what she had done wrong, to replay her walk down that street over and over in her mind. It took Deb a while to realize she didn’t deserve his stupidity or hate. It took longer for her to disregard that instinct for self-examination.