Don't You Cry Page 5

  Ran out. Be home soon.

  It’s lonely, I realize again then. The apartment is lonely without Esther home.

  I pick up my phone to call Ben, a coworker and also a friend. Ben is, more or less, the only person I talk to at work unless of course I’m being paid to talk to them. The lawyers who beckon me to fetch files and make photocopies—I only speak to them because I have to speak to them. It’s required. Part of the job description essentially.

  But Ben I speak to because I want to. Because I like him. Because he’s nice.

  He’s also handsome as all get-out, a twenty-three-year-old PA like me, though one with legitimate plans of law school ahead. But he’s got a girlfriend. A college coed, another law school hopeful like him. As soon as she finishes up a prelaw degree at UIC, they’ll both apply for law school together in Washington, DC. So romantic. His girlfriend’s name is Priya, a name that even sounds beautiful.

  I’ve never met her in person, Priya, but I’ve seen the assemblage of photographs Ben stores in his smallish office cube: photos of Priya alone, photos of Ben and Priya, photos of Priya and Ben’s dog, a one-eyed Chihuahua named Chance (and if that doesn’t say something about the size of Ben’s heart, I don’t know what does).

  I find Ben’s number in my call history and click on his name, and then proceed to listen to the phone ring five shrill times before it sends me to voice mail. I listen to Ben’s message, the simple and robotic and yet entirely charming sound of his voice as he says, This is Ben. Leave a message. I could listen to that message on repeat all night. But I don’t. Instead, when the phone beeps, I take my cue and leave a vague message. “Hey,” I say. “It’s Quinn. I have to talk to you. Call me back, okay?” I don’t say a thing about Esther. That’s not the kind of message you leave on a voice mail; it’s tacky. Important things aren’t meant for voice mail. I’ve been dumped that way before, and so I should know. I’ll fill Ben in when he calls back, but then I picture Ben and Priya together and wonder when he’ll call back, or if any of this will matter any more when he does. Esther will surely be home soon, I think, although now I’m not so sure.

  I sit on the sofa all alone and watch as the apartment is besieged by blackness. Nighttime. The only light derives from a streetlamp or two outside our apartment window—and even those are few and far between—our little residential Chicago neighborhood too far from the Loop to be illuminated by the likes of the Willis Tower or Donald Trump’s posh hotel. As darkness takes over, I start to fill with a sense of unease. Where is Esther? Esther has done strange things before, don’t get me wrong, but never before has she left me for a whole day without saying where she was going or when she’d be home. Never before has she climbed out that fire escape window and disappeared into the darkness of night. I stare at the clock on the wall and realize it’s been twelve long hours since Esther’s alarm clock first woke me from sleep, and still she’s not here.

  I start to worry. What if something has happened to Esther, something bad?

  And so I contemplate a second phone call. Not to Ben this time, of course, but to the police. Should I call the police? My mind vacillates back and forth between Call the police and Don’t call the police like a game of eeny, meeny, miny, moe, before landing on Call the police. And so I do. I dial 311, the city’s nonemergency phone number, as opposed to 911. This isn’t an emergency, or at least I don’t think it is. I pray it’s not an emergency. A woman answers the phone, and I picture her, some telephone operator, sitting at a computer desk with a headset on her head, flattening her hair.

  At the operator’s request, I state the nature of my nonemergency. “My roommate,” I tell her, “is missing.” And then I fill her in on the details of Esther’s quick departure—the window, the screen, the fire escape.

  She listens attentively, but when I’m through, her words are wary. “Have you checked the local hospitals?” she asks.

  “No,” I admit, feeling suddenly like a fool, “I haven’t.”

  It didn’t occur to me for one split second that Esther might be hurt.

  “That’s a great place to start.” And I gather from her comment that calling the police isn’t a great place to start. “You’ve checked in with your roommate’s family? Other friends?” she asks, at which I shake my head in silent admission. I did not. Well, I called Ben, that’s one step in the right direction, but I didn’t even think of calling Esther’s family, not that I know a phone number, anyway, or have the slightest clue how to find it. I don’t even know her mother’s or father’s names, nothing other than Mr. or Mrs. Vaughan, or so I assume. And I’m guessing there are tens of thousands of people in the world with the last name Vaughan. Besides, I rationalize in my head, Esther and her family aren’t close. Esther doesn’t like to talk about them, but I gather that her father’s out of the picture; her mother and she are estranged. How do I know this? Because while my own mother sends care packages galore and shows up without warning at our door, Esther’s mom doesn’t even call to say hello. I asked Esther about her family once; she said she didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t ask again. One time a card arrived, but Esther let it sit on the kitchen table for four days, unopened, before throwing it in the trash.

  “Any reason to believe there was foul play?” the operator asks, and I say no. “Does the missing person have a medical condition that would make the issue life-threatening?” she asks, and again I say no. Her voice is detached and unfriendly, as if she doesn’t care. She probably doesn’t, but you’d think an emergency or nonemergency operator would have at least a scant amount of sympathy. I almost want to make something up, to tell this woman that Esther is diabetic and that she’s left all her insulin at home, or that she has asthma and is without an inhaler. Then maybe this woman would show concern. Maybe I should tell her the window screen was gashed, the glass broken in. That there was blood, a pool of it, enough for Esther to have completely bled out. Then maybe I’d be redirected to 911 and suddenly Esther’s disappearance would be deemed an emergency.

  Or maybe the operator is trying to clue me in to something: this isn’t an emergency; Esther is fine. She says to me then, “Nearly seventy percent of missing people leave of their own free will and return within forty-eight to seventy-two hours, voluntarily. You’re more than welcome to come to the station and file a missing-persons report, though there’s only so much the police can do in the case of missing adults. Without evidence of foul play, we can’t immediately think something criminal has happened. People are allowed to up and disappear if they want to. But if you file a report, your roommate will be placed in a missing-persons database and our investigators will look into it.

  “Does your roommate drink, do drugs?” she asks then, and I quickly shake my head and say no. Well, Esther does drink, a margarita here, a daiquiri there, but she isn’t an alcoholic or anything.

  It’s then that the operator asks about Esther’s mental state—does she suffer from depression?—and I picture Esther’s magnanimous smile and think to myself that she can’t be. She just can’t be.

  “No,” I say without delay, “of course not.”

  “Did you two get into an argument recently?” she asks, and I realize she’s trying to insinuate that I did something to hurt Esther. Did Esther and I get into an argument? Of course not. But was Esther upset that I went out last night without her, though she’d told me to go? I don’t know. I reiterate to myself that she told me to go. I’d be a killjoy, Quinn. Go without me. You’ll have more fun. That’s exactly what she said. So how could she be mad?

  “We didn’t get into an argument,” I say, and the operator leaves me with two options: I can come in and file a missing-persons report, or I can wait it out.

  I feel silly for calling the operator, and so I decide to wait it out. The last thing I need to do is stare an officer in the eye and feel like a fool in person. I have plenty of experience with this. I’ll call the hospitals;
I’ll try and track Esther’s family down. I’ll wait for Ben to call, and with any luck, Esther will come home of her own free will, just like the operator said, within forty-eight to seventy-two hours. Two to three days. Two to three days, I think. I don’t know if I can wait that long for Esther to come home.

  I hang up with the operator and will Ben to call. Please, Ben, please, I silently beg. Please call. But Ben doesn’t call. I search online for the numbers of the closest area hospitals, starting with Methodist, and then I call, asking the receptionists one by one if Esther is there. I state her name and then I describe her—the shaded hair, the heterochromatic eyes, the ungrudging smile—knowing that Esther has that kind of face that once you’ve seen it, you never forget. But Esther isn’t at Methodist Hospital or Weiss or any of the local urgent care facilities. I lose hope with each apathetic reply. No Esther Vaughan here.

  I’m feeling lost and alone when I hear the sound of a telephone ringing. Not my phone, but a phone. Esther’s phone, which I know from the ringtone, some 1980s Billboard hit that nobody listens to anymore.

  Esther’s ringtone. Esther’s phone.

  Esther’s not here, so why is her phone?

  I rise to my feet to find it.

  Alex

  I wonder if she has any idea she’s being watched.

  I watch the girl twitch her hands, scratch her head. I watch her cross her legs this way—and then that way—on the park swing, trying to get comfortable. Then she uncrosses her legs and kicks at the sand. She looks left, right, and then peers upward and opens her mouth to catch droplets of rainwater falling from the sky.

  I have no idea how long I stare. Long enough that my hands go numb from the cold and the rain.

  It’s after some time that the girl rises to her feet and stands. Her feet, in the chestnut-colored Uggs, sink into the sand as she moves through it and toward the beach. Closer and closer to the water. It’s hard for her to move through the sand thanks to the density of it, for one, and the wind. It pushes her modest body this way and that, her arms out at her sides like the arms of a tightrope walker. One foot in front of the other. One step at a time.

  And then three feet before the tide line, she stops.

  And I stare.

  And this is what happens. It starts with the boots first, which she draws from her feet with great balance, one foot, and then the other. She sets them side by side in the sand. The socks are next, and I think to myself, Is she crazy? Thinking she will dip her feet into the frigid waters of a November Lake Michigan. It can’t be more than forty degrees. Ice cold. The kind of water that gives rise to hypothermia.

  The socks get tucked into the shaft of the boot so they don’t blow away. I watch and wait for the girl to totter to the lake’s side and walk right on in, but she doesn’t. There’s a moment that passes—or many moments, maybe, I don’t know, I’ve lost all sense of time—before she reaches for the buttons of the coat and starts to unbutton from top to bottom. And then the coat comes off. Set in the sand beside the boots and the socks. It’s as she starts to remove the jeans from her legs that I think, This can’t be happening. I peer around for another onlooker, someone, anyone, to tell me this is real and not only a figment of my imagination. Is this really happening? This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.

  I’ve stood now and moved closer, two, maybe three feet, hidden behind the wooden columns that frame the picnic shelter. I wrap my hands around the columns and squint my eyes so that I can see the way Pearl unbuttons and unzips the jeans, the way she sets herself down in the wet sand and drags the denim from her legs, setting that, too, by the coat and the shoes. The rain has picked up its pace now and barrels down harder, blowing sideways in the wind. It sweeps through the orifices in the enclosed shelter space and soaks me through and through. The girl stands then, hands in the pockets of her blue hoodie, with nothing else on. Just the hoodie and a pair of underpants. And the hat and scarf.

  But then the hoodie goes, too.

  And it’s then that she enters the water. In nothing more than her undergarments, her scarf and a hat. She walks right in, insouciant to the cold like an emperor penguin, diving right into arctic waters. She doesn’t stop when she gets her feet wet. Or her ankles. Or her knees. She keeps going. I think she might walk right on to Chicago if she could, hands dragging along the surface of the water as the waves run up and splash her, soaking her head to toe with the lake’s callous spray.

  Without realizing it, I’ve moved from the picnic shelter and stand, myself, in the sand. How did I get here? I don’t know. All common sense tells me that I should call someone for help. The police? Dr. Giles? How long does she have before the cold water leads to hypothermia? Fifteen minutes? Thirty minutes? I don’t know. But I can’t call someone because I’m completely dumbstruck and speechless, feet frozen to the sand, unable to lug my phone from the pocket of my pants. Because I can’t get my eyes off Pearl, there in the water, swimming the sidestroke, long enough to call for help. Watching the way her unhurried arms rise up out of the water one at a time, and then drop back in. The gentle, rhythmic kicking of feet in water, proffering no splash at all. The way she goes and goes without turning her head for a breath, like a fish with gills and fins.

  If I had something better to do with my time, I probably wouldn’t be standing here watching her swim. But I don’t and so I stand here and watch her swim.

  And there, as I stand, gawking, the girl rises up to her feet and begins a retreat from the water. While any normal human being would sprint shivering from the water and into something warm and dry, she doesn’t. Her steps are slow, calculated. She isn’t in a hurry. She takes her time, emerging from the water soaking-wet, the little she wears now completely sheer. The sand clings to her feet, her ankles, grainy sand changing colors before my eyes. Turning darker.

  I would avert my eyes. I should avert my eyes.

  But I can’t.

  I can’t be blamed for this. What eighteen-year-old would turn his head away, refuse to look? Not me, that’s for sure. Not anyone I know.

  Seems to me, anyway, that she wants to be seen.

  And there she stands in the wet sand, the water likely freezing to her bare skin in the cold, autumn air. She makes no attempt to dry herself off or to get dressed. Her back is to the lake now and she takes in what’s on the other side: the playground and carousel, the beach grass and a line of vacuous trees.

  And me.

  And that’s when she turns to me and waves.

  And I prove to the world that I really am a chickenshit when I turn and walk away, pretending I don’t see.

  Quinn

  I rise to my feet and follow the ringing of the phone to the kitchen, fully expecting to see Esther’s cell stashed there on the countertop beside canisters of flour, sugar and cookies. But no such luck. I’m not one to answer her phone or even notice its ring, but now I’m worried. Perhaps Esther is in trouble; perhaps she needs my help. Perhaps it’s Esther on the other end of the line calling me for help on her phone. She’s lost, doesn’t have enough cash for a cab. Something along those lines.

  But she could just call me on my phone, then. Of course she could. That would make more sense. But still. Maybe...

  I flip on the stove light and continue to search, tracking the subdued ringtone as Hansel and Gretel tracked bread crumbs through the deep, dark woods. It sounds far away and hard to hear, as if there’s cotton in my ears. I open and close the stove, the refrigerator, the cabinets, though it seems utterly absurd to do so. To look for a phone inside a refrigerator. But I do, anyway.

  I continue on my search. The phone rings once, twice, three times. I’m nearly certain the call will go to voice mail and this will all be for naught, when I find it tucked away inside the pocket of a red zip-up hoodie that hangs from a hanger in our teeny-weeny coat closet.

  I snatch up the
phone, ousting the hoodie from its hanger as I do, watching it fall to the floor as I answer the call, the caller ID reading Unknown.

  “Hello?” I ask, pressing the phone to my ear.

  “Is this Esther Vaughan?” probes a voice on the other end of the line.

  And then I utter the three words that in about thirteen seconds I’ll regret having said. “No, it’s not,” I say, wishing instantly that I would have said, This is she. But then again, why would I when my interest has yet to be piqued? It takes much more than a blocked phone number to get my attention. I get blocked calls all the time, mainly debt collectors calling to collect unpaid bills. Old credit cards with cringe-worthy balances I haven’t made payments to in years. Student loans.

  “Is she there?” asks the voice. It’s a gruff voice, a male voice, that isn’t going to fool around with any pleasantries or wisecracks or banter.

  “No,” I say, and then, “Can I take a message?” I ask as my hand fumbles through the near-darkness for the dry-erase board and a marker. I drift across the room to the board that hangs aslant from a wall, fully prepared to jot down a name and phone number below the arcane message: Ran out. Be home soon, a phrase that suddenly takes on an abundance of meaning.

  Ran out. Be home soon.

  Esther wrote that. I know she did. It’s not my handwriting; it’s hers. The fusion of cursive and print, upper-and lowercase words. Both feminine and masculine all at the same time.

  But when did she leave the message, I wonder, and why?

  Was it last week when she ran back to the bookshop to find her forgotten faux glasses? Or just a couple days ago when she hurried to the Edgewater branch of the Chicago Public Library on Broadway to return a book before closing time, so that it wouldn’t be late? Esther is a stickler for returning books on time.

  Or, I wonder then while waiting for the guy on the other end of the cell phone to decide whether or not he’s going to leave a message, did she leave the annotation last night before she opened her bedroom window and climbed on out? That’s it, then, I tell myself. There’s no reason to be worried. Esther left me a note; she’ll be home soon. It says so right there on the board.