Say the Word (17 page)

The ache in my chest began to spread through the entire cavity, as though someone had sucker-punched me in the stomach and knocked the breath from my lungs. I fought hard to keep the tears out of my eyes, looking up at the ceiling for nearly a minute to stem their flow. I had to be strong — Miri was practically a child, and she was somehow managing to maintain control.

“What—” My voice cracked, betraying my internal struggle. “What happened?”

“The man,” Miri said. “The one who watches. It was him.”

“How do you know?”

There was a beat of silence, as our eyes
caught once again across the tabletop.

“Because,” Miri whispered. “He takes all the girls.”

Five words. Eighteen letters. They changed everything.

The air around me seemed to still, her words triggering within me a cataclysmic reaction that set my world atilt on its axis and blanketed my atmosphere in an overcast cloud cover that shaded everything a hue darker. When I once again found the ability to speak, my words were a study of restraint, each pushed out through my lips without emotion.

“Vera wasn’t the first to disappear.” It wasn’t a question; it was an affirmation.

Miri nodded.

“How many gi—?” My voice broke on the last word, and I quickly reined myself in. “How many others have been taken?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Miri whispered. “Three or four from our neighborhood, maybe more.”

Three or four. Maybe more.
I clasped my hands together in my lap beneath the table where Miri couldn’t see them, and felt blood well as my nails cut harshly into my palms.

“Do you know what happens to them, Miri?” I swallowed. “After they’re taken?”

Miri shook her head. “Nothing good,” she murmured sadly. “They never come back.”

“Why aren’t the police involved?” I asked, trying to reconcile what I was hearing with the world I thought I lived in. This was America - girls didn’t just disappear here, without anyone noticing. If this were true, where were the news crews? Where were the human rights activists, with their picket signs and protests? Surely, this must be a mistake. Some grand misunderstanding.

My paltry reassurances sounded trivial even in my own mind.

“We can’t trust the police,” Miri whispered. “Can’t trust anyone.”

“Why not, Miri?”

“Santos,” she told me. “The man who watches…”

I nodded, storing that name away in my mind.

“He
is
the police.”

“So she just left?”

“Yeah,” I told Fae, shaking my head back and forth. “She dropped the bomb about Santos and then said she had to go. She was gone within minutes.”

“You didn’t try to stop her?” Fae asked.

“What was I supposed to do, tackle her?”

She shrugged lightly before pouring us each a glass of wine and turning to face me on the couch. “So what’s next?”

“Well, Miri promised that she’d meet me again at the coffee shop on Tuesday night, after I get out of work. Hopefully she’ll be able to tell me more then.”

Fae was staring at me intently. “Aren’t you going to talk to someone? The authorities, or maybe just someone over the age of fifteen who knows what’s been going on?”

“You saw those women in Two Bridges — they didn’t exactly throw down the welcome mat or invite us in for supper. I doubt they’d be very helpful if I showed up again. And if Miri is right — if the police are involved in this — who knows how high up the corruption goes? I could end up causing more problems for these girls than I’d solve.”

Fae sighed. “Well, that doesn’t exactly give us many options.”

“Tell me about it,” I said, taking a sip of my Merlot. “All I know is, there’s a story here.”

“What if she’s making it all up?” Fae asked. “What if Vera ran away with her boyfriend and she’s jealous? Or what if she’s a compulsive liar? She’s young. Maybe she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“You didn’t see the look in her eyes, Fae. Something terrible is happening to those girls. I might not have proof yet, but I can sense it with every fiber of my being. And I’m going to find out what it is.”

“I don’t like this,” Fae told me.

“Neither do I.” I swirled the dark red liquid in my glass, watching as light from the setting sun through the window refracted off it.  “But for Vera… I have to do something.”

My cellphone buzzed on the coffee table, vibrating with an incoming text message. I scanned the screen quickly and, nosy as ever, Fae peered over my shoulder to read it too.

Desmond: Babe! Dinner tomorrow?

“Shit,” I muttered.

“Are you going to say yes?”

“I don’t know.” I stared at the screen, riddled with indecision.

“Because of Sebastian?” she asked, leaning forward to catch my eyes.

“Yes. No. Maybe.” I sighed. “I don’t know, okay? It just feels wrong to date someone who I feel
nothing more than friendship for.”

“Well, I think you should go. You’ve barely given him a chance,” Fae said.

“Said the girl who never dates.”

“I date!” Fae protested.

I snorted into my wine glass.

“I do!” she snapped. “I’m the
Luster
relationship expert for god’s sake! Women from all over the country write in every month for advice after reading my column.”

“No, love, you really don’t,” I said, patting her thigh gently. “And in the rare case that you
do
, it’s with emotionally unavailable men who you know won’t get attached. You might be the
Luster
relationship expert, but you haven’t been in an actual relationship in all the time I’ve known you.”

“That’s so false.” Fae pouted, jutting out her bottom lip like a little girl. “There was… Paul!”

“Paul was your very openly gay yoga partner,” I said, shaking my head. 

“Ben,” Fae suggested.

“Wasn’t he engaged to a girl from Jersey?”

“Well, what about Tom?” she asked, cheeks flushing.

“The security guy at your building?” I elbowed her in the arm. “Pretty sure he doesn’t count either.”

“Fine, so I don’t date,” she muttered, planting her chin in her palm. “I don’t see why it’s such a big deal.” 

“Besides the fact that you’re the
Luster
relationship expert, that is?” I laughed.

“Shut up.”

“Fine, maybe because you insist on setting
me
up with every available penis in the tri-state area, but never even attempt to find someone for yourself?”

Fae giggled, but didn’t counter my words. She knew I was right.

“Or, maybe because you’re gorgeous and could have anyone you wanted in this city?” I proposed gently. This wasn’t the first time we’d discussed her lack of male companionship, but usually she just laughed me off or evaded the subject entirely. This time, though, she seemed to take my words to heart — maybe now that she knew a bit about my past, she finally felt free to talk about her own.

Fae was silent for a long time, her laughter subsiding and a sad, reflective expression overtaking her face. “There was a guy, a long time ago. He was…” she drifted off, her eyes distant with memories. “Well
, we were too young, and it was too serious.”

“First love?” I asked, treading carefully. I didn’t want to scare her off, not when she was finally opening up to me. Fae was many things — warm, fashionable, funny, beautiful — but forthcoming wasn’t one of them.

“I guess you could call him that,” she said. “People say you never forget your first love, that you carry them with you in your heart for the rest of your days. And they’re right. I just wish someone had warned me about that when I was eighteen.” 

“Tell me about it,” I murmured, Sebastian’s face appearing in my mind.

Fae laid her head down on my shoulder and, for a moment, we found comfort in the fact that though we may have lost our first loves, we’d found each other. I didn’t press her for more details; when she was ready, she’d tell me.

“Are you nervous about tomorrow?” Fae whispered. “About seeing him?”

I nodded.

“I’ll miss you at work. It won’t be the same without you.”

“It’s temporary,” I told her. “Sebastian will be gone again as soon as these shoots are done, and I’ll be back on 57
th
in my cubicle with the rest of the Harding slaves before you know it.”

I wished my heart didn’t ache so much at the thought of him walking back out of my life, with nothing resolved between us. I wished the past didn’t have to stay in the past. And, most of all, I wished I could live the way those two naive teenagers had aspired to all those years ago, and find a way back to him regardless of the odds stacked against us. Unfortunately, without a magic genie or a fairy godmother at my disposal, I was pretty certain my wishes would go unanswered.

When Fae left for the night, I corked the bottle of Merlot and made myself a quick dinner — otherwise known as pouring some Cool Ranch Doritos into a bowl — and texted Desmond back.

Dinner tomorrow sounds great. Call you after work.

I figured when I saw him in person again, I’d know what to do. For now, my mind was too preoccupied by thoughts of a very different man to even consider what was happening with Desmond. Between my boy issues, Miri’s revelations earlier that afternoon, and the fact that I’d just reached the bottom of my final stash of Doritos and would have to restock at
Swagat
tomorrow, it was safe to say that my mind was spinning and I’d been through the emotional wringer. There was only one thing — besides copious amounts of Merlot — that might help at this point.

The Jamie Box.

I pulled it down from its spot on the top shelf of my closet, running my fingers reverently across the carved wood. Flopping down in the center of my bed, I laid the box gently on the comforter in front of me and slowly lifted it open. My eyes immediately caught on the framed photo of Jamie and me embedded on the inside of the lid, then moved down to take in the neatly ordered row of colorful envelopes that sat within the box itself.

The photo had been taken five years ago, when I was a sophomore in college. At the time, Jamie had lived with me in a small apartment near the UGA campus, and I’d planned my course schedule around driving him to treatments and appointments in Atlanta so he didn’t have to be alone. We’d moved away from Jackson two short days after I’d broken Bash’s heart, and we’d never looked back. I hadn’t returned for a single spring break or summer vacation because I couldn’t bear to see the love of my life look at me with hatred in his eyes.

Except for the memories that would always haunt us, Jamie and I were free of our past. Our parents called occasionally under the pretense of checking on us, though truthfully I think they were relieved to be rid of us and the responsibilities Jamie’s illness had piled on them.

And while I’d still been heartbroken two years after leaving Sebastian, you wouldn’t know it by looking at this picture. Jamie and I had been happy — staring at each other rather than the camera lens, with matching grins crossing our faces as we laughed at some ridiculous joke Jamie had cracked. A nurse had snapped the picture just after we’d received the news that his scans had come back clean. He’d been headed toward remission. 

As the camera flashed and captured the frame, we didn’t know just how short-lived our relief would be. We didn’t know we’d have only a few blissful months of thinking he’d defy the odds, before the cancer would return with a vengeance. We didn’t know the struggle that lay ahead of us. And we didn’t know that two short years later, that same struggle would claim his life and take him away from me permanently.

My fingers traced the glass covering our happy faces. I missed my twin, with his endless positivity and his refusal to quit living even when he learned that his life had an expiration date a lot
sooner than he’d been expecting. I missed the way he’d call me the “light of his life” when, in truth, he was really the brightest part of mine. I even missed his endless teasing, and the mischievous smile on his face whenever he’d done something to embarrass me beyond redemption.

But at least I had the box. It had been delivered to me by one of Jamie’s favorite nurses about a month after he’d died. Inside were exactly one hundred letters, each sealed with a specific directive about when or where I should open it.

For the day you receive this box.

For your first day at a new job.

For a day you’re feeling sad.

For a Valentine’s Day when you’re single.

For your first night in a new apartment.

For the first birthday you celebrate without me.

For a rainy afternoon.

For the day you get married.

For the day my first niece or nephew enters this world.

The letters’ contents were always a surprise. Most were lighthearted, meant to bolster my spirits or make me laugh. Some were full of hope, encouraging me to try new adventures or broaden my horizons. But a select few, the ones I treasured most, were both poignant and heartrending — interwoven with memories and the poetic injustice of a resilient young man forced to leave this earth too soon.

I’d opened about a third of them in the three years since I’d lost him, and read them so many times I’d nearly memorized their words. The others remained unopened, as crisply sealed as they’d been the day they were composed, waiting for their prescribed time. Occasionally, when I was really sad, I’d get the urge to tear them open all at once and devour Jamie’s words on a binge, as if doing so might somehow repair the cracks in my soul and mend the missing pieces he’d taken with him.

I never did, though. Jamie would’ve been pissed at me for ruining his carefully thought-out plans.

Today, I reached for a familiar blue envelope that sat near the front of the stack. I ignored the tear-stained, finger-smudged paper as I read the words scribed across the front.

For a day you wish my handsome mug
were there to make you smile.

I pulled the thin sheet from the envelope and felt my lips twist up as Jamie’s sloping hand came into view.

Hey Sis,

Obviously, since you’ve selected this particular envelope, I’m going to assume you’ve either had a rough day or Doritos has finally decided to stop producing the Cool Ranch variety. In either case, try not to panic.

If it’s the former — rough days pass. The sun will set, the earth will rotate, and a month from now you probably won’t even care that your best friend was a bitch or you had a bad day at work.

If it’s the latter — I’m sorry, because I know how much you love your Doritos, but honestly sis, at some point that metabolism of yours is going to slow down and you’ll be the size of a house. Don’t shoot the messenger! (You can’t, I’m already dead.)

Sorry. I can’t seem to stop weaving death jokes into these letters. I’m really beating a dead horse, aren’t I? (See what I did there?) Anyway, not to play the cancer card or anything, but at the very least you can be glad that your rough day probably didn’t involve a nurse walking you to the bathroom and watching you poop because you’re not quite steady on your prosthetic leg yet. Do you know how hard it is to perform with a captive audience right outside the door? Sheesh.

I love you, sis. I know none of this has been easy on you, and I know you aren’t happy right now. But you share my DNA and, since I’m no longer around, you’re pretty much obligated to share that Kincaid awesomeness with the world in my place.