Somebody I Used to Know (12 page)

Did anyone currently on campus even know Marissa’s story?

I felt certain a few old-timers did. Administrators who were still around. Some professors who never retired. But after twenty years, as Nate said, life goes on.

I hadn’t been down that street since the year Marissa died. And I didn’t intend to go that day.

I’d never seen the new house, the new students coming and going through its doors, free as birds, unaware perhaps of what had happened on that very ground. I went back to the rubble-filled lot almost every day for a month after the fire, and then I had to tell myself no more.
No more.
Time to move on. Time to let the wound heal instead of picking at it.

Wasn’t it time I took that advice again? Was that all I was doing with my visits to retired cops and sneaky administrators—trying to keep something alive that had died twenty years ago?

“Let’s go, Riley,” I said, giving his leash a gentle tug.

He was more than ready to leave.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T
he evening paper carried details about Emily’s funeral, and while I ate my reheated Chinese food, I studied them like there was going to be an exam. The viewing would be held the next night at a funeral home in Richmond, Kentucky, where Emily grew up. Then a Catholic mass the following morning, with the burial in the family plot.

I checked my phone, trying not to dribble soy sauce on the screen. Richmond was about three hours away. I could easily go down for the viewing, stay overnight for the mass and burial, and be back the next day.

Marissa’s funeral had passed in a blur. A group of us traveled to Hanfort to attend. I remembered seeing Marissa’s mother, Joan, at the back of the church. She gave me a long hug and invited me to sit near the family at the front, so I did.

The coffin was closed, of course. It will sound morbid, but even back then I wondered what they had managed to find of her. Of any of them. Some charred bones. Some scraps of clothing. Did they bother to put them in a coffin and go through the charade that something meaningful was inside?

The priest eulogized Marissa. He talked of knowing her since she was a child, her kindness, her energy, her passion for travel and photography. I agreed with all of it, even though it didn’t seem that personal. I wanted to stand up and say something, but I wasn’t invited to do so. And I knew even then I wouldn’t have been able to hold things together. I tried to speak at my father’s funeral when I was thirty-five and couldn’t get a coherent word out. No way I could have done that for Marissa when I was twenty.

Marissa’s father, Brent, a man I never knew well despite the fact that I dated his daughter for two years, stared straight ahead during the service, his face stoic. Jade looked a lot like her dad, not just physically but in her demeanor as well. Her hair was darker, like her dad’s, not the bright red color that Marissa and Joan shared. She was shorter than Marissa, more solidly and athletically built, although they were clearly sisters. Jade always seemed quieter and more reserved, and at the funeral she barely shed a tear. But Joan turned around to me during the post-Communion meditation and placed her hand on my arm.

“She really loved you, Nick.”

“I know,” I said. “I loved her too.”

“I wish this had all been different,” Joan said. “I really do.”

She seemed to want to say more, but chose not to.

Did anything more need to be said?

Couldn’t those words sum up so much of our lives?

I wish this had all been different.

*   *   *

Laurel finally called and told me she was on her way to my apartment. When she arrived, she looked a little tired, and I asked if she needed to be at home with her family.

“They’re fine,” she said. “I’ll get there soon enough. And I’m sorry I didn’t call you back earlier. I was on the road all day.”

“I get it,” I said.

“But you said in your message you had something to tell me?”

We sat on the couch with Riley at Laurel’s feet. He acted like I never paid attention to him, reveling in her ear scratching and head rubbing.

While I told her all about my meeting with Dale Somners, she continued to stroke Riley’s back. She listened to the information about Marissa’s withdrawal from school, the claim of financial hardship, and then Jade’s turning down the full ride before her sister died. Her face remained as hard to read as an ancient rune.

“That’s the weird part for me,” I said. “I’d get it if she didn’t want to come to school here, if the memories were too intense after Marissa died. I’d get that completely. Hell, I thought about transferring when Marissa died. I walked past Blakemoor Street today when I was on campus. Do you know I haven’t been back there in years?”

“Really?”

“I can’t do it,” I said. “I went there every day when it was just smoldering rubble. I guess everybody on campus did at some point.”

“People were curious.”

“Ghoulishly so,” I said, trying not to sound like a complete prude. “And it makes sense when something like that happens. But I haven’t been back since that first year. I haven’t seen the new house they put up. I thought I could do it today, but I just couldn’t bring myself to go down there.”

“You don’t have to,” she said.

“Isn’t that avoidance or something? Don’t I need closure?” I held my hands up and made air quotes when I said the word “closure.”

“Overrated,” Laurel said. “And unnecessary. It suggests there’s some magic way to get over something, like you get to a certain point and your feelings are wrapped up in a pretty box with a pretty bow. Life isn’t like that. If you don’t want to walk down that street, don’t do it. You’re a free man.”

“Thanks.”

“But you’re right about something,” she said. “It is weird that she would withdraw before Marissa died. If you were going to college, and you had that sweet offer, wouldn’t you hold on to it for a while? Wouldn’t you wait and see if anyone else offered you something and then play the other schools off each other?” She rubbed her hands together. “That’s what I’d do.”

“Maybe they forced her to make a decision,” I said. “Maybe they said, ‘Let us know by the end of October or the offer goes away.’”

“Maybe,” Laurel said, but she sounded unconvinced. “But they
wanted
her. She was a legacy or whatever this Dale guy called it.” Laurel lifted her hand from Riley and scooted forward on the couch. She pulled out her phone. “Which brings me to my next question. What do you remember about Marissa’s parents? Anything?”

“I knew them kind of well,” I said, trying not to overstate things. “We dated for a two years, and I went to their house half a dozen times. Some of the visits in the summer and over Christmas break were pretty long. They were nice people. Her dad was pretty reserved, almost uptight. Her mom was straight out of central casting, a real June Cleaver type. Warm, inviting, efficient. She always greeted me with a hug and sent me away with one. I liked her a lot.”

“Do you know where they are now?” Laurel asked.

“They moved after Marissa died. Colorado, I heard. But really I have no idea where they are.”

“That’s interesting,” Laurel said. “Because nobody else knows where they are either.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I
sat there for a few silent moments, trying to contemplate what Laurel was telling me.

“What do you mean nobody knows where they are?” I asked.

“I was away for most of the day, like I said. But before I left, I gave a little task to my assistant. I gave her the names of Marissa’s parents. We’ve been looking into all of this stuff, but wouldn’t it be easy just to go right to the source? If we talked to them, we’d be able to find out if this kid, Emily Russell, is related to them. We don’t want to bother Emily’s parents, of course. They’re devastated. But maybe Marissa’s parents could shed some light.”

“Makes sense.”

“It’s easy to track people down these days,” Laurel said. “We just run a background check. We have software for it. Everybody leaves an electronic trail.” She ticked items off on her fingers. “E-mail addresses. Bills. Utilities. Schools, jobs, the whole deal. My point is, if you’ve lived at all in the last twenty years, you should have some kind of trail we can pick up. The system will find it.”

“And what are you saying about Marissa’s parents?” I asked.

“It’s as though they haven’t lived since 1993,” Laurel said. “They fell off the radar back then and there’s no trace of them.”

I started to absorb what she was saying. “Maybe they’re dead,” I said. “They wouldn’t be that old, probably around seventy. But they might have died. My parents were a little older than they were, and they’re both dead.”

“They might be dead, of course, but even if they were both dead, their trails would still show up.” She pointed to me. “Even though your father’s deceased, if we looked him up we’d see his records. Addresses, real estate purchases, criminal activity if there was any. All of it. But there’s
nothing
during the last twenty years. Do you remember what they did after Marissa’s funeral?”

“They moved to Colorado,” I said. “I heard through friends they wanted a new start. Her dad had some business interests out west, a new job opportunity. It was too painful for them to stay in the town where Marissa grew up. Every time they drove by the school she attended or the doctor’s office where she had her checkups or saw a playground where she climbed on the jungle gym, they’d be reminded of her. And it would hurt. I understand that. Look at me—I can’t even walk down the street where she died.”

“And you never heard from them after that?” Laurel asked.

“No.” I laughed a little as something came back to me.

“What’s funny?” Laurel asked.

“It’s nothing, really,” I said, almost too embarrassed to share. But I trusted Laurel, so I went ahead. “I guess I had this silly fantasy that we’d stay in touch. I thought we’d exchange Christmas cards over the years or something. Maybe I’d even go and see them wherever they ended up. Colorado sounded nice. I thought I could go visit, and they’d welcome me with open arms, like I was their prodigal son. I’d fill the empty space for them, and they could do the same for me. Hell, I don’t even know if Marissa told them we broke up. Anyway, my fantasy faded away pretty quickly. I never even had their address once they moved.” I drummed my fingers on the arm of the couch. “I sent them a card that first Christmas after Marissa died. They’d already moved, but I hoped it would get to them. It came back saying there was no forwarding address. It was a nice little dose of reality.”

“How so?” Laurel asked.

“It killed that silly little fantasy I had that we’d all stay friends,” I said. “They had moved on. Literally. I figured they hadn’t moved on emotionally and probably never would. But that was it for me and them. I guess it seems strange they wouldn’t have their mail forwarded. Wouldn’t a lot of people be writing to them? Trying to be supportive, trying to stay in touch.”

“What did her dad do for a living?” she asked.

“He ran a consulting firm,” I said. “It was one of those vague things I didn’t understand. I don’t think Marissa understood it either.” I shrugged a little at my lack of knowledge concerning the business world. “Her mom didn’t work. She volunteered a little, that kind of thing. And her sister was in school. Pretty typical stuff.”

“Did they have other relatives?” Laurel asked. “Do you remember?”

“Her dad was an only child. Marissa had a grandmother on one side, her mother’s. Maybe there was an aunt and some cousins. They lived back east. Virginia, I think, but her grandmother would have to be dead. I don’t even remember the other relatives’ names. I only met them once, at some reunion.”

“The all-American family, right?”

“I guess so.”

“So then why did they fall off the map like this?” Laurel asked. “Do you know what happened to Jade?”

“She moved with her parents to Colorado. We know she didn’t go to school here. I imagine she’s gone on and lived her life. Married. Kids. But I don’t know where she is or what her married name might be.”

“I’ll see if I can find her, but you’re right. It might be tougher if she got married and took her husband’s name.” Laurel’s lips puckered with concentration. “None of this adds up.”

“It seems like you’re reading something sinister into it,” I said. “Is it hard to believe they would want to start over after their child died? You’re a parent. You can understand that.”

“Moving away I can understand,” Laurel said. “Disappearing off the face of the earth is another matter entirely.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

I
was lucky to find a seat at the back of the church. The odors of burning candles and incense hung heavy in the air, and people murmured respectfully as they filed in. The pews quickly became packed, and a number of mourners ended up standing in the aisles, which didn’t surprise me. People turned out when a young person died.

I had skipped the viewing the night before after driving all afternoon from Eastland—three hours down I-75—and checking into a hotel a mile from the funeral home. I’d packed a nice suit and a couple of ties and brought Riley along with me. He didn’t mind car trips. He liked to sit in the backseat, his head resting against the upholstery. I snuck him past the clerk in the hotel, avoiding the pet deposit. How would they know he was there when he never barked?

I knew why I wanted to attend Emily’s funeral. She and I were linked, even if I didn’t know all the details about why she’d died, and since she was apparently looking for me, I felt a measure of responsibility for her death. I didn’t know what she’d wanted from me, or if I could have even delivered what she’d wanted, but it felt like she’d needed or wanted something from me, so we shared that connection, real or imagined.

And I also felt sick about what had happened to her. I knew all about a young life being cut short, and I could only imagine Emily alone in that crappy motel room in Eastland. Her life ended in terror, someone’s hands clutching her throat and squeezing until the breath went out of her. She deserved better, as Marissa had, and at least we could give that to her in death. I wanted to be a part of celebrating her life and saying good-bye.