Desire Lines (31 page)

Kathryn puts down the folder and thinks for a minute. Then, impulsively, she picks up the phone.

“Do you know what time it is?” Rachel asks in a groggy voice.

“Yes, it’s late. I’m sorry, Rachel. I just need one moment.”

“Well—all right,” she says after a pause.

Kathryn takes a deep breath. “Listen, I need to talk to you about our conversation the other day. Abby Elson mentioned something—”

“Abby?” There’s a sharpness in her voice. “What did she say?”

“Not much,” Kathryn admits. “But I have a feeling it’s connected to what you were saying. Or weren’t saying.”

“Was there anything … specific?”

“No.”

“Well …” Rachel’s voice trails off. “Look, I told you. I’m just not sure what good it does to dredge this up.”

“What good does it do to keep it secret?”

She doesn’t answer.

“How do you know whoever it is wasn’t involved in what happened?” Kathryn persists.

“I—for one thing, he didn’t go anywhere. And for another, he told me he didn’t know anything.”

“Oh,” Kathryn says with surprise. “So you talked to him about it.”

Rachel sighs. “I should never have said anything to you about this.”

Kathryn feels anger flash through her. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell anyone in the first place.”

“Listen, Kath, if you’re going to talk to me that way—”

“Rachel—”

“No, I’m sorry,” she says, “I have to go. I’ll see you at the reunion, okay?” There’s a click, and the phone goes dead.

Chapter 23

E
arly the next morning, sitting in the Bagel Shop with a cup of coffee and a sesame bagel with blueberry cream cheese, Kathryn pulls out a notebook and pen. She remembers what her editor at the
News-Sentinel
told her once, when she was stuck on a story: “Just jump in anywhere. Don’t think. Write. Get those words on the page, and sooner or later the story will come.”

For
years,
she writes, I
have had a recurring dream. Standing on the deck of a cruise ship, I see someone fall overboard and I turn the other way, until the cries for help are swallowed by the sound of the waves and the ship’s engine. When I turn back to look, I see only the placid ocean, stretching as far as the eye can see in every direction.

What is violated when someone disappears? A parent’s trust, the safe borders of a small town—a town where people walk their dogs down dark streets at midnight, sleep in unlocked houses, pay for coffee on the honor system at the Gulf Station. Sleep is violated, the ease and elasticity of everyday interactions. Casual conversations with strangers. A neighbor’s goodwill.

The town lost Jennifer. Not finding her was the same as losing her. The police, with their high-tech equipment, failed her. Her brother, her mother, the search party. The town.

Two men in yarmulkes are sitting at the next table, deep in animated discussion. Kathryn’s been watching them for a while, slicing through the air with rigid hands, pounding on the table, before she realizes they’re speaking a language she doesn’t understand.

I’ve been feeling this way a lot lately, either not understanding what people are saying, even when it seems I should, or thinking that it makes perfect sense when it’s unintelligible.

When I think back over those years and try to make sense of them to myself, whole areas are blotted out, like sunspots in my memory.

We used to play Truth or Dare in Jennifer’s attic. “Dare,” she always said. “I’d rather take a dare than tell the truth.”

I
didn’t know her.
I
don’t know anyone who did.

And then, finally, she finds a beginning:

I’m going to tell you the story of a girl who disappeared, in the hopes that you might make better sense of it than I can.

Chapter 24

“K
athryn!” Her mother’s voice swims in her head, winnows up toward the surface. “Are you awake?”

Kathryn opens her eyes, blinks a few times, squints at the clock: 7:15
A.M.
“No,” she mumbles, shutting her eyes and falling back on her pillow. She hears her mother pattering up the stairs, and then she feels a soft thwack on the bed. She looks up. Her mother is standing there wearing an old University of Virginia T-shirt and shorts, with an artificially bright smile on her face. “Page one,” she says, gesturing toward the paper. “Pretty darn good. There’s a picture and everything. Your grandma called, said she told you you’d find a way in. Whatever that means.”

Kathryn struggles up onto one elbow, reaches for the paper. There’s her story, just above the fold on the right-hand side.
TEN YEARS LATER, A QUESTION STILL HAUNTS THE CLASS OF
‘86:
WHAT HAPPENED TO JENNIFER PELLETIER
? Under the headline is an old snapshot of Jennifer,
which, with its eighties eye makeup and dangling earrings, now appears as dated as a photo from the fifties. The caption reads: “Missing since June 13, 1986.”

Sitting on the bed, Kathryn’s mother pats her legs under the thin cotton blanket. “I’m very proud of you, sweetheart,” she says. “I have to admit, I wasn’t sure you were going to pull this off.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“But you did!” She squeezes her knee. “And it’s very thought-provoking. The only thing I wonder is—did Linda or Will see this before you handed it in?”

“No, of course not.”

“Hmm.” Her mother nods, looking slightly troubled.

Ignoring her, Kathryn scans the first paragraph to see if anything has been cut.

“I’m sure they’ll be fine about it,” her mother continues. “It’s just that—you know, some of this is quite personal.”

Kathryn looks up. “That’s the point.”

“I know, dear.” Kathryn goes back to reading the piece. “But there’s personal and there’s invasive,” her mother says, “and I just think it’s a very fine line. People’s feelings are involved. Which is not to say that I don’t think you’ve done an excellent job here, because I do. But I just wonder if you needed to be quite so … provocative about some things.”

“I never said she was having an affair.”

“And you never said Pete committed suicide, but the implication is there. I just wish you’d thought about the whole picture, is what I’m saying. Linda may have moved, but we still have some mutual friends, you know, and this could be a little awkward.” She laughs nervously.

“Mom, you knew I was writing this,” Kathryn says, sitting up and tossing the paper to the foot of the bed. “You talked me into it.”

“Well, I know,” her mother concedes. “I guess I had a different idea of what it would be.”

In the next room the telephone rings, and then downstairs, in a faint echo. As long as Kathryn can remember, the phones have never been in sync. They look at each other while it rings again. “Are you going to answer that?” Kathryn asks.

“Let’s let the machine get it.” Her mother bites her lip, waiting for the click.

“Hello, is anybody there? It’s a little early on a Saturday to be out, isn’t it? Or late to be sleeping!” Kathryn’s father chuckles, then clears his throat. “Well, Sally, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, I’m calling about Katy’s article in the paper today. Front page, very impressive. I assume they pay well for that. Hope they know the value of talent when they see it.”

Kathryn’s mother is shaking her head with her lips pursed and her eyes closed, as if she’s in pain. She can’t stand it when he talks about money. Flinging back the covers, Kathryn bounds off the bed and runs into the next room. “Hello?” she says breathlessly into the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Dad, it’s me.”

“What were you, asleep?”

“Talking to Mom.”

“Well, I won’t interrupt. I just wanted to congratulate you on a job well done.”

“Thanks.”

“I didn’t realize that girl was so unstable,” he says. “If I’d known, I never would have allowed you to spend so much time with her.” He says it like he’s kidding, but Kathryn can tell he means it. “So what do you think?” he demands. “Did she run off to join a cult?”

“Maybe,” Kathryn says, not wanting to engage him. “What do you think?”

“I think it has something to do with the mystery boyfriend. Or possibly the brother. But you like him, right?”

“Yeah. Why would you think he’s involved?”

“Oh, it could be some kind of gay thing. That’s Margaret’s theory.”

“Really.” Kathryn looks up; her mother is standing in the doorway. She rolls her eyes. “That’s interesting. Well, I’ve got to go, Dad.”

“Sure, okay,” he says. “But just tell me one thing: Is this going to be a regular gig?”

“I think Jack wants a couple more pieces.”

“What about after that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think you can parlay this into some kind of job?”

“I don’t know,” she says again, resisting the pressure in his voice, trying to keep it light. “I don’t know if I want to.”

“Might be nice to have a steady paycheck.”

“Yeah. Well, listen, Dad, thanks for calling.”

“Sure. Oh, hey, Margaret says hi, too.”

“Great.”

“We’re expecting you to solve this thing, Katy!” he says. “Don’t leave us hanging!”

“Okay, Dad. Talk to you soon.”

When she hangs up the phone, her mother says, “What a jerk.”

“You didn’t even hear anything,” Kathryn says. “I heard enough.”

Kathryn doesn’t answer. Her mother is still so bitter, it makes her resent them both—her father for acting like a jerk, and her mother for pointing it out.

Her mother looks at her watch. “I’ve got a showing later this morning, so I think I might do some errands while I’ve got an hour. I need mulch for the garden. Anything I can get for you?”

“Hmm.” Kathryn pretends to think. “I could use a husband and a high-powered job, if you happen to run across any while you’re out.”

“Oh, that’s right—your reunion is tonight, isn’t it?”

“Ay-uh,” she says in her best Maine accent.

“A little nervous?”

“Nah. I’m going there on assignment, like a reporter in Bosnia. It’s not my war.”

Her mother grins. “Keep telling yourself that. What are you wearing?”

“I was thinking flak jacket, combat boots. Maybe a bulletproof vest.”

“You might want to bring a helmet,” her mother suggests. “Just in case they aim for your head.”

HER HEAD FEELS
slick and oily, like a seal’s. The conditioner smells of eucalyptus. “It’s all natural,” Lena, the Norwegian hairdresser, is saying. “Exactly what you need to repair this damage. We sell it up front for eleven ninety-five.” Kathryn looks up to see Lena descending on her with a towel. “Let’s see what we can do with you,” Lena says, vigorously scrubbing her head.

Both of them scrutinize Kathryn’s reflection in the mirror. Her face is pasty and her hair hangs down in wet red clumps, a thin skunk stripe of brown at the top. Next to Lena, who is tan and blond, she looks distinctly unwell. She wishes she’d at least worn makeup—lipstick, anything.

“You did this to yourself?” Lena asks, frowning at Kathryn’s part.

“Yeah. You can tell, huh?”

“It’s brassy.” She peers closer. “And see this breakage here? And here?” she says, holding up the frayed ends.

Kathryn nods. “Can you fix it? My mother says you’re a wizard at this.”

Drying her hands on a towel, Lena shakes her head. “I can’t turn a pigeon into a swan!” She laughs. “I saw that once on David Copperfield. He’s amazing. And so good-looking.” She purses her lips at Kathryn’s reflection. “But maybe we can do something. What do you want?”

Kathryn looks at Lena, with her tanning-booth glow and shining white-blond hair, and suddenly she knows. “I want to look like you,” she says.

AN HOUR AND
a half later, when Kathryn gets to her car, there’s a manila envelope with “KATHRYN CAMPBELL” written on it in capital letters propped on the front seat. She opens the envelope and pulls out a black Maxell cassette. She turns it over; it’s unlabeled. She upends the envelope and a color photograph falls onto her lap. Picking it up, she looks at it closely. The picture is wrinkled and out of focus, and at first it’s hard to tell what it is. In the foreground is a blurry hand, as if someone is trying to hide from the photographer. Behind the hand Kathryn can see a swing of blond hair, part of a cream-colored sweater, a sliver of faded jeans. The girl in the photo appears to be in some sort of clearing, surrounded by pine trees and some distant birches. No sky is visible.