The Vanishing Year (4 page)

I started partying at night with Mick. We ended up at some guy's apartment, whose name I never knew, and they passed me a pipe and I smoked it. It was the easiest four hours of my life. I felt free, like it was all going to be okay. I felt beautiful. I felt accomplished, like I could just go back and finish college, maybe even
that night
. Everything felt so goddamn
possible,
where all I had gotten used to seeing was depressing impossibilities.

I woke up on the floor of Mick's room the next morning, sticky and sour and sweating. He was gone, but in his place, in his bed, sat a young girl. Had to be sixteen. Fifteen. Too young. My bowels churned. Whether it was from the comedown or the girl, I didn't know.

“Who the fuck are you?” I was pissed. She was so goddamn
young.
She shrugged, but she looked terrified, pressed her back up against the headboard, staring at me with bulging black-rimmed eyes.

I went to the living room and called Mick, left a colorful message. When I turned around, there she stood, all gamine and doe-eyed.

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.” Her mouth twitched.

“Bullshit,” I hissed. She barely had breasts. I was struck with a stupid, irrational idea. “Come with me. Let's . . . go somewhere. Coffee. Whatever.”

She looked at me like I'd lost my mind. Too jaded for her age. “You're a crazy bitch if you think I'mma go with you.” But her shoulders rounded.

I could feel it: It wouldn't take much to convince her. How could I save someone when I couldn't even save myself?
Please,
I mouthed. She stepped away from me, her eyes wildly scanning the room.

“I need help,” I said. It wasn't a lie. “What's your name?”

“How the fuck am
I
gonna
help you?
You'll get me killed.”

“Let me help you, then. How old are you?”

“Fuck you,” she whispered, and then pulled down her lower lip. A black brand on the wet, pink skin. One word: JAREd. Inked by an amateur, the lowercase
d
crooked and dangling off the corner like it could fall right out of her mouth.

There was a knock at the door and her eyes went wide, terrified. I flung it open to a hulk of a man who reared back, not expecting me. His wide, flat nostrils flared, his eyes slit, thin as razor blades. On the left side of his face, from chin to forehead, was a long, fat scar, as red and furious and flashing as his eyes. He leaned in close, smelled like cigarettes and weed. He had on a light black jacket, the silver glint of a gun on the inside.

“Who are you?”

I backed away from the door. My teeth ached, my jaw felt clenched shut. I pressed my palm flat against the door and reached my arm out to her.

The man grabbed my hand away, twisted it behind my back until I yelped in pain. “Don't you fucking touch her.”

She scampered past me, shooting back one empty, haunted look. Dark eyes, still and deep as a quarry. She buttoned her shirt as she ran. The man followed her out and once they reached the dusty sedan, pushed her roughly into the backseat, where at least two other girls were waiting.

As the car sped away, I wrote down the license plate, sure it would get me nowhere. It was most likely stolen. I felt like I'd been doused with ice water. I looked around: a month's
worth of newspapers, ashtrays, and cigarette boxes. Clothes everywhere. Garbage on every flat surface, flies buzzing around the mouths of sticky, empty liquor bottles. The filth. It all became crystal clear in that moment. I was part of this. I was as much a lowlife as Mick. Only steps away from being abused, like Evelyn, like that young girl. I saw, for the first time, my own greasy complexion, the whiteheads that dotted my hairline from the drugs, my ragged bitten nails from nerves, the dirt on the knees of my jeans.

I grabbed my purse and flung it over my shoulder. When I opened the front door, Mick was standing there, his key poised above the lock.

“Where ya headed, Peach?” he drawled. God, that smirk.

“I'm outta here, Mick.”

“D'ja meet Rosie?”

The girl. “She's gotta be fifteen, Mick.” I had to get the hell out of there.

He shrugged. “J says eighteen. I go by what he says.”

“Bye, Mick.” I hauled ass home, where I stayed for a week. No pills. No booze. I shook, I paced. I lay in bed, steeped in my own sweat, my breath coming in gulps. The days blended together, my body feeling like I'd just run fifty miles. My knees and ankles ached and popped when I walked to the bathroom.

Mick pounded on Evelyn's door, his deep voice filling the apartment, first worried, then desperate, then angry. Furiously angry. He came back every day.

When the worst of it passed, I checked my phone. Missed calls from the coroner's office and three voicemails. I eyed the half-full manila envelope on my dresser as I listened to weeks-old messages. Knowing I'd missed the deadline was more manageable without confirmation. His voice rattled in my ear. They had to make decisions without me. I knew what that meant. A state-funded cremation and a common burial.
Funny how they make it sound so nice. All it meant was Evelyn's ashes would be buried with any other “unclaimed body.” Other lowlifes who couldn't afford funerals: druggies and drunks. I didn't even call him back.

I didn't know how much a person could hate herself until that moment. I couldn't get the image of Evelyn, lying in a mass grave, surrounded by other decaying corpses, out of my mind. Even though she was cremated. Even though the coroner had explained it wasn't like that, that it was more humane than that.

I had voicemails from friends at school, mostly Molly, wondering where I was, if I was okay.
Would I please call someone back?

I couldn't get Rosie out of my mind. The fear on her face, the hopelessness in her eyes. That backseat full of Rosies, their long, skinny legs layered like pretzel sticks.

Days later, I found myself at the Richmond police department, filling out an incident report. I couldn't fit all my observations in the lines provided.

“I just want to talk to someone. Please.” My nose wouldn't stop running and the receptionist just stared at me in disgust. Hadn't she ever seen a sick person? She worked in a police station for God's sake.

They led me to an interview room and a young, twentysomething officer set a cup of water on the table. He sat across from me with a legal pad and a digital recorder.

I told him everything. I gave him Mick's name, Jared's name, I told him what I did, the pills I sold and where, what I saw, about Rosie and the car full of girls. How young they looked. I didn't care if I went to prison, I had nothing to lose anyway. I gave them the license plate number and a description of the man at the door, tall, broad, greasy dark hair, thick beard.

I asked if I would go to jail.

The officer clicked the stop button on the recorder. “You sold drugs at a playground.”

“Not to kids.” I stuck my chin out, defiant, like this made it better.

“You're going to be under arrest.” He was trying to be kind.

“I have bail money.” Evelyn's funeral money. The proverbial nail in the coffin lid.

I wasn't allowed to leave. I was processed, strip-searched, and placed in a holding cell for two days, charged with sale of an illegal substance. But in the end, the playground moms wouldn't admit to buying anything from me. All they had was my “confession” of selling them. No evidence. I was led to a conference room, and the same young cop met me. I'd swear he had a crush.

“We've got bigger things to worry about,” he said gravely. His hair stood straight up and he looked like he hadn't slept in two days. “Those names you gave me? That car? Those girls? You got mixed up in sex trafficking. There's a San Francisco PD task force for this, all the Bay Area PDs work with them. They've been tracking this guy for a long time. Your testimony, combined with the evidence they have, could bring it down. You told us something we didn't know. The brand.”

“I can't testify.” Mick was a dangerous dude, but the guy who picked up Rosie? Downright terrifying.

“You don't exactly have a choice.” He reached out and touched my hand. His clean, square-cut fingernails against my dirty ragged ones. He smelled nice, like soap and aftershave. He wore a wedding ring. I wondered if his wife was as young as him. Perhaps pregnant with their first child, round and glowing, her days filled with baby “sprinkles” and pedicures. He probably rubbed her tired feet at night, massaged cocoa butter into her belly. She surely had many pairs of jeans
that fit her and that she washed in a machine, swirling fresh with Tide and fabric softener. She'd surely never done heroin. Or sold drugs in the presence of children.

I pulled my hand away. I'd taken the right steps not to be scum. I had to finish the job.

When it all fell out, I told my story to a grand jury. I told the world, or at least my corner of it, what I did. The story never hit national media; the splash it made seemed large only to me and perhaps the eleven girls I helped to free, who may or may not ever thank me. Some of them seemed angry at their newfound freedom, but then again, at least under someone's thumb they were fed and clothed and kept appropriately high.

I found out through the court proceedings, and the kind Richmond cop, that Mick was involved, which surprised me. Jared was the ringleader but Mick worked for him. Jared sold drugs and girls and Mick did his bidding. I couldn't help but wonder if Evelyn knew the extent of his criminal activities. Doubtful. I felt dirty, like scum, like I'd helped. Like I'd let Evelyn down, somehow, yet again.

I was allowed to go home. To Evelyn's crap apartment in San Pablo. I slept in her bed, with her nightgown and her blankets and her perfume and pillows. Drug and alcohol free. I had every intention of staying there. I even used my drug money to pay the rent. I wanted to find a job.

I thought about calling my friends. But college felt like a million years ago. I had grown into a whole other person, one capable of hurting people, hurting myself, rescuing people. For a week after the trial, I woke up every day at a normal hour and made coffee, got the newspaper, checked the classifieds. Like a real and decent human being.

Eight days later, they came back for me.

CHAPTER
4

APRIL 2014, NEW YORK CITY

When I wake up on Monday morning at eight, Henry is gone. His side of the bed is smooth and made, complete with cream brocade throw pillows. The tassels feather kiss my cheek. I stretch, a deep arch, and my fingertips brush a slip of paper. A note.
I will be home for dinner tonight, please ask Penny to prepare something. There are croissants in the kitchen.
I let the paper flutter back to the bed. I can prepare dinner and I have on occasion, but he always insists we ask Penny, which irritates me. I have all day in this echoing apartment, my own voice bouncing off the sterile, bare walls and marble floors. Sometimes I wonder if uselessness can kill a person.

I have a waiting text message from Cash Murray.
How's ten?
I text back,
See you there.

In the kitchen, I break off a piece of flaky pastry and let it roll around my tongue, melting smooth as butter. I have no idea where he got them. In my new life, I've grown quite accustomed to luxuries just appearing out of nowhere. This is what it is like to live with Henry. I once found a note and all it said was
Paris, tomorrow,
and when I woke the next
day, the car was humming outside, the trunk packed with suitcases I didn't know we owned and clothing that wasn't mine. A black-and-white striped silk dress with wide-brim hats, and Hermès scarves. My grown-out bob flowing behind me in the breezy fog tumbling off the Seine. Henry's dazzling smile across the chartered cruise boat.
Are you happy?
And my dodging reply,
Who wouldn't be happy?
Because at least that part was true.

Later, I asked him,
Why Paris?
And he gave a casual, coy shrug.
I've never been here. I wanted to see Paris. With you. It's a city for lovers, you know.
His fingertips twisted my curls, tugging gently, a silent approval of letting my pixie cut grow. Then, his hot mouth, his tongue on my neck, the gold-leafed ceiling dancing and flickering in the candlelight.

Then, after midnight, I pushed, as I always do. Under the cloak of blackness, my fingers finding his under the covers, half-asleep, I whispered the questions into the air, like a puff of smoke, and they hovered there, between us.
Tara.
His life before me.
He lay there, so still and so quiet for so long I assumed he'd fallen asleep. When he got up, the cold air whooshed under the blankets like an arctic blast. He crossed the room, clicked the latch on the bathroom door. I fell asleep before he came back.

It wasn't the first time I'd pushed him, my ideas of marriage formed by some hybrid of Lifetime Television and Disney movies. I longed for the intimate connection I felt sure was buried, beneath some surface hurt that only I could heal. I was the new wife consoling the widower, cajoling him into love again, almost against his will. There, in the most romantic city in the world, under the glittering lights of the Eiffel Tower, his rebuff didn't feel like rejection. It felt like a challenge. A rom-com conflict, scripted to a Peter Gabriel sound track.

My phone rings, jostling me out of the memory.

“G'morning, love.” Henry's voice rolls through the line like a rumbling locomotive, and I close my eyes.

“Hey, you. How's your day?” I press my fingers to the white-and-black marble countertop and lick off the sticking crumbs.

“Busy, but I wanted to hear your voice. What are you doing?”

“I was eating a croissant and remembering Paris, for some reason.”

“Oh God, I was just thinking about that the other day. That was an amazing trip, you were beautiful.” His voice catches and I know he is remembering our nights, the long lazy nights in the Jacuzzi, our naked legs entwined. I give a soft giggle.

“Remember the rooftop?” My heart pulses and I feel the quick beat between my legs. I flash on the image of my back against the brick hotel, my dress hastily pushed up to my waist and Henry pressed up against me, my hands skimming his warm back, damp with perspiration from the July air. The clenching of his muscles as he came.

“I can't talk about this here.” His tone is teasing, a low, breathy huff of pent-up frustration that breaks on the last word. “Tonight, we can remember it properly.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Did you call Penny?” He speaks in a normal register, a return to business as usual.

“Not yet, I will. Or I'll cook. I do that sometimes.”

There is a pause. “Whatever you'd like.” I hear voices in the background. “Tonight. See you then.” He's gone, just like that.

I love making Henry weak. I love to see his stone face crack with a smile or his dark, clever eyes cloud with want. I love this idea of him: powerful and in control in his boardroom, with its rich mahogany and skyline views, all steel
peaks and clouds, and underneath his muscle and dominance, as he barks out orders that men scurry to fulfill, he is unfocused, thinking of me. He's said that before,
You drive me to distraction.
I tend to believe that's one of the nicest things he's ever said to anyone.

I dress quickly and I'm in a cab in less than a half hour. The diner is no fuller than it was two days ago, and Cash is seated in the same booth, two steaming cups of coffee in the center of the gray-and-blue-Formica-topped table. I slide into the booth across from him and he gives me a wide grin, folding his paper. He clicks open his laptop.

“These photos are amazing, I cannot
wait
to show you.” His face is animated, his eyes wide, and voice hitches as he navigates the trackpad. His background is of a towheaded child, freckled and gap-toothed. I wonder if she's his and check his hand.
No ring.

He clicks up a slideshow and turns the screen to face me. There are photos of Henry, breathtaking in his straight-cut suit and blond hair glinting under the ballroom lights. He is watching me, staring at me, smiling at me in almost every photo. The shots of me are less confident, my head turned, my expression unsure or nervous, candid shots where I am flicking back my hair or scanning the crowd, or laughing in a small group. He has captured me beautifully, though in fact, I can't even believe it's me. There are photos of photos, the large blown-up canvases of children tumbling together on a derelict playground, and shots of the decor, sparkling, dancing whitish-blue lights that look magical against the mirrored walls of the library.

“These are . . . magnificent. How did you make it look like this?” I'm practically speechless, and even as I reach the end of the slideshow and it starts over, I can't stop watching. He shrugs, a faint blush on his neck.

“Well, cameras don't invent beauty that's not there. They
just capture it at the right moment. This is what the night really looked like.” He spins the laptop around to face him and begins to click. “These are the ones I want to use.” He shows me.

There are six photos. Two of them are of me: one in profile, head to head with a female guest, giggling like girlfriends, my face in shadow and one with my arm linked through Henry's, my head resting on his shoulder. The rest are of Francesca, the event itself, the guests, the speaker. In the two photos of me, I can't see my features clearly; I'm in profile or turned, a vague angle, my face obscured. In one of the six photos, I can make out Molly and Gunther and my heart lurches, an acrid taste in my throat. I trace them with my index finger on the screen.

“Please, just . . . you can use the one of me and Henry. You can remove the one of me in profile.” I point to the screen, my tongue thick. He cocks his head to the side, just as my cell phone trills. The display reads
Lydia
but I press decline.

“So, you knew that couple? They seemed to know you.” His voice contains the forced nonchalance of someone fishing. He adds cream and sugar to his coffee and stirs it slowly, the spoon clattering against the white porcelain.

“Oh, I didn't know them. They claimed to know me from college or something, but . . .” I force a laugh. “College was a long time ago now, so who knows?” I lift one shoulder and purse my lips, waving my hand. All I can think is,
Please change the subject.

“Oh yeah? Where'd you go to school?”

“UCSF.” It pops out before I can think it through, because being close to thirty means college almost never comes up. I used to have the story down pat, but it's been awhile since I'd been asked, so the truth bubbled out like an uncorked spring. In an odd way, it's a relief to say it.

“Oh yeah? West coast girl!” He strokes his chin thoughtfully and gives me a sideways grin. His teeth are straight
and he has a kind, jovial smile. “So tell me, why are you so active in CARE? What made you choose that?” With slick movements, he clicks the recorder next to him and I eye it before speaking. “Ignore this. I have to, I have zero memory for this stuff. I want to write about you a bit, though, if you don't mind.”

His interest intrigues me. Henry is always interested in me, in my hair or my clothing, how I hold myself, or how I present myself. What I've done or said at parties that needs mild correction later. What I've done with my day, my time. He's less interested, it seems, in my capricious ideas: my thoughts that flit here and there, unfocused. Aside from my activities at CARE, he rarely asks my opinion on anything.

I admit I don't always mind being under his thumb. There's a certain freedom in that, to not have to think about
things
in life, like what to eat for breakfast or dinner, or where or what to shop, how to dress. He likes to teach me how to be in his world. He flicks away my concerns that I've never been fully accepted among the upper echelon. He shakes his head dismissively when I point out how the women pair off, heads tilted together almost systematically, at his functions until I'm left standing in the center of the room, awkwardly alone.

But this is different. Cash seems genuinely interested in me, as a person, and the thrill I feel at that is almost embarrassing. It's not a romantic jolt, but not since Lydia have I had a friend, an honest friend, and truthfully, Lydia has been more of an acquaintance since I married Henry.
He's not a friend, though. This is all for an article.
The thrill escapes,
pffffting
like air out of a balloon.

“I was adopted,” I say, slowly and flatly, twirling the spoon between my fingers. I dance around this, the truth addled somewhere in the middle, stuck in some emotional desert I can no longer access. “My adoptive father died in a car accident when I was a baby. I never knew him. My adoptive
mother died of ovarian cancer in 2009, my senior year of college. So, I sympathize with these kids. Some are orphans, some are foster kids whose parents are drug-addled. I haven't had parents in a while. So, I guess in a way, I get it. I had a birth mother who didn't want me either.” I've never said this to anyone, and it feels dangerous to admit this much of my old life, a life I am no longer entitled to call mine. Lately I find myself belligerently wanting it back and, in small ways, throwing a stake in the ground. Even with the narrow escape of Friday night, the overall pervading fear has waned and in its place is a dried-up seed of resentment. A peaceful five years means that I am reckless with my safety. More than that, admitting my past in parts feels safe, like the vent on a pressure tank.

“Did you ever try to find her?”

“Who?”

“Your birth mother.”

“Not seriously. I don't know why. I guess for many years Evelyn was all I ever needed. She was my best friend. We never had that silly high school hate thing going. Not that I tried to get away with much anyway, or that she'd let me. I just felt like looking for my birth mother would have been an insult to her. Or something.”

“What about now?”

“Now?”

“Yes, since she's passed, why haven't you tried?”

I shifted in my seat, tucking my left leg under me. There were a hundred reasons. Finding Carolyn involved admitting on some level who I was before, either online or with a private investigator. Somehow, I had to use the name Hilary Lawlor to get there. To move on, to continue to live, I had been forced to cleave my life with a giant chasm that held Hilary on one side and Zoe on the other. There was no bridge back, not in my mind. I held a little fear that Mick or Jared and his
group were still behind me, pursuing me or waiting for me to traverse that chasm again. It was as though once I crossed, once I became Zoe, Hilary ceased to exist. I didn't speak of her or think of her. I rarely recalled my past, instead choosing to pretend it hadn't existed, like I'd been born a full-grown adult named Zoe. Sometimes I fantasized that I'd fall ill and lose the memories altogether. Except for Evelyn. I still wanted her.

There were also the legal ramifications. I ran. I testified for a grand jury, but took off before Jared's trial. Jared was still convicted, partly because he'd branded all eleven of his girls. But I ran, despite subpoenas. I have no idea if anyone came after me, looked for me. In New York, among the shelters and the streets, I procured a driver's license and a phony birth certificate. They're surprisingly easy to come by if you ask the right questions. I looked like a drifter, unassuming and trustworthy. It cost me every cent I had at the time. But my identity wasn't mine, not legally, anyway. Still, I felt safer than if I'd let Detective Maslow do it for me.

“I guess I can't explain it. I technically could. I've been sort of lost lately.” Lost in my thoughts, the words fell out of my mouth unbidden, and until I said it, I hadn't known it was true. Sometimes, things don't seem real until you verbalize them. I
had
been thinking about my mother, dreaming about her. The idea of looking for her again had seemed daunting and vague.

“I did a feature series once. Adoptive reunions. In Texas, seven, eight years ago,” Cash said, leaning forward across the table. “I can help. Do you want me to help?”