I’ve often thought of calling you to tell you how sorry I am about the way things turned out.”
“I’m sorry too.”
“Can you believe it’s been twelve years?” she asks.
“Feels like eleven.”
She laughs. It’s a little forced. Whatever is wrong, I want her to get to it on her own. I wonder if she’s been drinking. I hope so. I hope this is a melancholy call and nothing more. Legolas jumps up on the couch next to me and stretches out.
“I’m . . . I’m married,” she says.
My chest tightens. “I’m happy for you.”
“I have children too. A boy and a girl. Seven and five. My husband . . . his name is Stephen. You’d like him.”
“I’m sure I would,” I say, sure that I wouldn’t. Why would I?
“You?” she asks. “Are you with anybody? Do you have a family?”
“No,” I tell her, and I don’t elaborate because there’s nothing to elaborate on. I could tell her about my apartment, the nice view, the three-legged cat I adopted from a shelter when I moved in here since the place already came with a cat door. I could tell her that I just put a dent in somebody’s skull so I could get my phone back to hear the message she left me. I could tell her that the man I became twelve years ago didn’t stick around — that it took a man trying to kill me in my bar to bring him back.
“Are you happy?”
“Yeah, I am,” I tell her, because I am. I’ve had a few relationships that have ended amicably. Every couple of years I try to visit another small corner of the world. I like my bar, my apartment, my cat. I like my life. “Really happy.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry about the way everything went down. I’m sorry I didn’t do more for you back then. I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry I didn’t go with you.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s all in the past.”
“I thought . . . I thought you were going to come back, you know? After a few weeks or so, or maybe a month. I thought everybody would cool off and things would go back to normal, even though I knew they couldn’t.”
She’d made it clear before I left that she never wanted to see me again. I had no reason to come back. “Maggie, why are you calling me? It’s great to hear from you, it really is, but there’s a reason you’re calling me now, and as much as I love the idea of catching up, something must have happened.”
“It’s Alyssa,” she says. “Alyssa Stone.”
I’m back in the basement, walking down the stairs with my flashlight. I can smell the room and feel how warm the house is and I can see Alyssa huddled in the corner. I can see her swollen ankle, her black eye. My ex-wife isn’t ringing me to give me good news. She’s not ringing to tell me Alyssa graduated college or wrote a novel or won the lottery. I tighten my grip on the phone, take my feet off the coffee table and sit up straight. Legolas, who was dozing, can sense the change in atmosphere. He looks at me, concerned.
“She’s missing,” she says. “She’s been missing since Thursday, and I . . . I guess . . . I guess I thought you’d want to know. I . . . I guess . . . I don’t know,” she says, only she does know, and I know too. I was the one who found Alyssa all those years ago because I was willing to do whatever it took. Maggie is reaching out to ask me if I’m willing to do it all over.
Eight
I book a flight online for 6am and ring Scott, my buddy I bought the bar with, and tell him I’m going to need a few days off. I call my next-door neighbor to ask if she can look after Legolas and water my plants. She’s done it before when I’ve been away. She loves Legolas as much as I do. I try to get a few hours’ sleep, but can’t, my mind racing with thoughts of Alyssa and thoughts of the past.
I get a taxi to the airport earlier than I need to. The airport is geared toward self-service to make things feel futuristic, but the staff in the security line are still surly, so I guess some things will never change. I finish a quick breakfast just as the boarding call for my flight is announced. The gate ends up being so far away they ought to have people handing out cups of water along the way. I have a window seat, which isn’t so bad, but I’m next to a guy who doesn’t feel the need to wear shoes or socks, which isn’t so good. He smells like cigarette smoke and he’s carrying a notepad on which he’s scrawling a random selection of numbers. He’ll stop every now and then, look up at the roof of the cabin for thirty seconds or more, then go back to his scrawling. I wonder if he’s a mad scientist or just mad. I text Maggie and tell her what time I’m flying in and then switch off my phone.
The flight is two hours. I stare out the window the entire time. When we land there’s a text from Maggie to tell me she’s in the pick-up zone out front. I have only carry-on luggage, so walk off the plane and head for the door. It’s hot outside, and glary, the sun bouncing off the cars in the long line of pickups and drop-offs. I turn right and there she is, a few spaces down, leaning against a dark blue sedan.
She’s smiling at me. I’m smiling. She pushes off from the car and we meet halfway. There’s a moment of hesitation when we try to figure out whether we’re going to shake hands or kiss each other on the cheek or hug, and we go with the latter, and the awkwardness that was there a moment ago melts away. It doesn’t feel like it’s been twelve years. I want to tell her I’ve missed her, but I don’t. I want to tell her that part of me still loves her, but I don’t. I want to tell her so many things and say none of them. She smells like shampoo and body wash and perfume, none of them the same scents that I remember.
“It’s really good to see you,” she says, once she’s pulled back to look at me. Her hands are warm on my arms. I like feeling them on me.
“You look the same,” I tell her. She’s wearing her hair shorter than she used to, and she looks too thin, like something has worried the weight away. I know what that worry is.
“And you never were a good liar,” she says. “But you look good too,” she says, and I laugh. “What?”
“You’re the one who’s the bad liar,” I tell her. This conversation is played out a million times by a million people at airports every year. Maggie is lying, though. I didn’t hit the gym or go running as much as I should have in my thirties. Now I’m a year into my forties, and no matter what I do the following morning I hurt from it. Creaky joints, stiff knees, skin that was tight that isn’t tight anymore — none of that was on the horizon when I was with Maggie.
I put my bag in the trunk and climb into the passenger seat. There’s a child’s seat in the back and toys scattered across the floor.
“The kids are in school,” she says. “You’ll meet them later.”
“And Steve?”
“Stephen. He hates being called Steve. He’s at work, but you’ll meet him tonight.”
“He doesn’t mind me being here?”
She indicates and looks over her shoulder, spins the wheel and applies a little gas and pulls out from the curb. She adjusts the mirror, as if between driving out here and now she’s gotten taller or shorter and the angles have changed.
“Maggie?”
“Well . . . I haven’t told him yet.”
“He doesn’t know I’m here?”
“I think he’d struggle with it. He can get . . . a little jealous. Otherwise I’d offer for you to stay with us.”
Cars coming out from the parking lot exits are merging like a closing zip fastener. Windows are open and arms are dangling out and people are looking hot and frustrated and tired.
“There are some really good motels,” she says. “Acacia has gotten bigger since you’ve been gone.” She