Leaving Unknown
Authors: Kerry Reichs
Kerry Reichs
For Dana Ruggiero (1995–2005)
and
For all the survivors.
You represent the fighters out there and you inspire me.
And to the remarkable people who participate in the
Leukemia and Lymphoma Society Team in Training Program.
You make a difference.
National Capital Chapter El Tour de Tucson Century 2001
National Capital Chapter Palm Beach Sun Century 2002
National Capital Chapter America’s Most Beautiful Bike Ride
(Tahoe Century) 2004
Greater Los Angeles Chapter Cool Breeze Century 2006
Greater Los Angeles Chapter Honolulu Century 2006
National Capital Chapter El Tour de Tucson Century 2008
Thank you.
I can honestly say I didn’t intend to be bad.
Getting Fired from My Job; Getting Fired from My Family
Fired Up
Road Trip, Don’t Forget the Bird
Unknown and Surprise
Ruby in the Rough
The Girl Who Could
A-Muse-ing
What the Doctor Ordered
Getting Incorporated
Snapping
Expense
Crossing a Border
Notícia Má (Portuguese: “Bad News”)
The L Word
Monster in the Closet
The Girl Who Could, Part II
Bell Pepper
Flight
Practice
Relationships Are Hard
The Curse of the Alien Hand
Clapp Your Hands and Say Yeah
How We Danced
What You Take to a Desert Island
Tie Half Full or Half Empty?
Welcome to Your Water Stain
At the Watercooler
Hilton Lows to Loews High
Being Wrong
Welcome to the Z-List
Venice Beach Sees It All
Red wine?”
I
can honestly say I didn’t
intend
to be bad. It’s just that I have rotten luck. I was nine and on a camping trip. It was very “Afterschool Special”: four suburban families with expensive tents that didn’t get out of the garage much, and Coleman stoves that the fathers couldn’t really figure out but which required hours of happy tinkering while the women gossiped and made burger patties. A dozen kids charged about in Osh-Kosh B’Gosh brand overalls.
We were marshaling forces for the day’s excursion. My father had slathered my bug bites with calamine lotion and I was instructed to stay put while the adults debated Grandfather Mountain versus Blowing Rock. A nearby trailhead tantalized. I begged to explore. My father considered the likelihood of speedy consensus among the adults, and the eleven hurtling short people in need of calamine, and gave me permission to go for ten minutes, not a minute more.
But the lure of each new bend of the trail was too much for me. I
had
to see what was around the corner. And the next. And
the next. When my father caught up to me an hour later, I got a bare-bottom spanking right there on the trail. My punishment was to sit in the tent and “think about things” while the other kids were having fun at Tweetsie Railroad. To be honest I think my dad was secretly glad to prop his feet on a log listening to the Bears game on the radio while he did a crossword puzzle. What I thought about was how great that trail had been and how I wished I’d gotten to the end. Back then, I was different. Back then, I was fearless. It was much later that the death of my best friend made me dread things I couldn’t see coming.
I’ve always been restless. I can’t seem to settle on anything. That’s probably why it took me seven and a half years to finish college. I’d finally graduated at the ripe old age of twenty-five with a major in anthropology and a minor in film studies. I had no idea what I wanted to do and a lot of time on my hands. That was the situation four weeks ago. That’s when the trouble began. That’s when I discovered facebook.com.
Getting Fired from My Job; Getting Fired from My Family
T
he day had started with no indication that I was headed for life in a cardboard refrigerator box under an I–85 overpass. I’d savored the arrival of spring during my three-mile run, and returned to my apartment looking for diversion. Not the kind that would take actual effort, though, like the pile of laundry that needed folding on my bed, or the blank thank-you notes that would theoretically write themselves before winging to relatives who’d given me graduation gifts.
“Are you thinner?” squawked my cockatiel Oliver, as he did at least once a day. One of my more successful projects. I grinned as I settled down to start screwing around on Facebook.
Today it was the Cities I’ve Visited application. It involved sticking virtual pins into a world map of all the exotic loca
tions you’d visited. Unless Frying Pan Landing, North Carolina, counted as exotic, it was going to be a short diversion for all of us. I hadn’t ventured far from my hometown of Charlotte. Now, if there were a map for colleges I’d attended, that would take more time. I could proudly claim at least four. And don’t get me started on majors. There wouldn’t be enough virtual pins.
I’d been distracted by an email from Laura Mills. Laura had lived across the street and been my best friend when I was eight. We’d been inseparable, with matching skinned knees and sunburned noses, but then her family had moved to Texas when I was eleven and I never saw her again. After I’d joined Facebook, I’d received a friend request from eleven-year-old Laura looking out from behind the glamorous makeup of a woman living in Los Angeles. I’d accepted, and she’d been sending me delicious details of her life in Los Angeles ever since. I wished I had the money to take her up on her repeated invitations.
The fantasy was delicious: me in adorable Capri pants and ballet flats, laughing with Katherine Heigl as I drove our golf cart, casually waving to pals Matt Damon and Will Smith. It was whimsy, of course, but if I did something as radical as go to California, no telling what I could accomplish. Look at Laura, living at the beach and working as something called a First AD, which meant she worked on the Fox Studios lot, met all kinds of famous people, and got to see movies before they were released.
Reality was the picture on Facebook of an old boyfriend, arm slung around the shoulders of a petite redhead, matching happy smiles. We’d broken up after I’d dropped out of the University of North Carolina at Charlotte freshman year. Bad luck that he’d wanted a college girl. His change of status to “engaged” was a Facebook bomb.
I frowned, then immediately stopped and rubbed my forehead. A wrinkle between your eyes is so unattractive and our family was prone to the Connelly divot. I glanced at my watch, knowing the cure for a foul mood. I had plenty of time.
“Road trip. Don’t forget the bird,” chirped Oliver as I put him in his cage.
“Next time pal,” I promised.
My car, Elsie, grudgingly started after gentle coaxing. She was an ancient 1970 Plymouth Road Runner, sunshine yellow with a black stripe across her hood, and prone to breakdowns. Unlike “collector quality” Plymouth Road Runners, Elsie had over 150,000 miles and was limping through her golden years. I loved her.
“I know, baby,” I said, as I double-checked the rope knot securing the passenger door. “I’ll give you a bath soon.” Her rust-spotted frame was distinctly dingy.
Twenty minutes later I was browsing Nordstrom. I should’ve gone to Target, but Nordstrom’s shoe section was the best, and I had a gift card.
From forty feet away I felt the jolt you get when you first lay eyes on the boots you know shortly will be yours. I sprang toward them like a lioness on an antelope, canvassing the room for a salesperson as I moved.
“Size eight, please.” I waved the red suede boot at a clerk who looked like a fish.
As he glided off, I glanced at the sale price. Ouch. I wrestled with myself briefly. Maybe I shouldn’t. But would I regret their absence for years, haunted by the lost opportunity of a truly perfect pair of boots? After all, you weren’t allowed to spend gift cards on toilet paper.
“This is your lucky day,” said the shoe salesman when he returned. He really did look like a halibut. “They’re an additional twenty percent off the sale price.”
“Fantastic.” I grinned as I reached for the box. God did love me.
Fifteen minutes later I doubted God’s love as I fumed at the register. It bore my glares stoically. No human was there to receive them. I looked at my watch: 3:50
P.M
. I was on duty at 4:30
P.M
. and still half an hour away from work. Just when you think your perpetual bad luck is turning by giving you the perfect pair of boots on sale, it runs away laughing, leaving you sweating at an untended register. When the salesman finally swam back, I wanted to make a pert comment about customer service as I tossed him my card, but I had to split my purchase over two cards, even with my gift card, so I held my tongue.
Back in Elsie, I was again at a standstill. I gripped the steering wheel as if my uber-control of the car would make traffic move. My uber-control lacked authority. The taillights in front of me didn’t waver. The car clock refused to stop advancing. 4:23. Shit. What the hell was going on? It shouldn’t be this slow.
I spotted red and blue lights flashing at the intersection of Fairview and Park, and groaned. An accident was narrowing traffic to one lane. I should’ve worn my favorite Speed Racer kneesocks. The right socks can improve your luck.
“I had plenty of time when I got to the mall.” I defended to the clock, which replied by jumping the minute hand three minutes in a single movement to 4:27. Chastened by the inanimate object, I banged the steering wheel. Elsie responded with an ominous rattle.
“I’m sorry, Elsie.” I patted the console. “Please don’t die.” I glanced at the gas gauge, which, remarkably, was a third full. Though with Elsie, that didn’t necessarily mean much. She liked to play fun games where needles plummet from half full to below empty in the course of one mile. The “empty” light
had long since burned out, so it was no help. The last thing I needed was to run out of gas.
I ran out of gas. The needle dropped like a stone just after I turned onto Park, all resistance leaving the gas pedal. I leaned forward, as if shifting my five-foot-nine 130-pound frame would give the 4,000-pound car momentum, and willed Elsie to coast. Still pissed about the steering-wheel thing, she rolled to a stop a mile from the Texaco.
“How much bad luck can one person have?” I moaned, reaching for my cell phone. My boss, Joe, was going to be furious. At least I had a bona fide excuse, I thought virtuously. Not like the
America’s Next Top Model
marathon last time.
My phone had No Service. I looked at it blankly. How come I had no service in the middle of town? I had a text message, so I opened it curiously as I stepped out of Elsie. Maybe I’d get a signal when I walked toward the gas station. I froze as I read my text message.
Your Sprint mobile phone service has been suspended for non-payment. To reactivate your service, contact a Sprint Representative at *2 or 1–888–211–4727. Payment of your outstanding balance in full is required to reactivate phone service.
I couldn’t believe it. Was Ashton Kutcher going to pop out and tell me I’d been Punk’d, sharing a good chuckle as he handed me the keys to my shiny new Mercedes convertible? Nothing greeted me but a couple of empty forties of malt liquor and a condom wrapper in the ditch.
“Big night out,” I muttered, shaking my phone, as if that might reactivate service. I was
sure
I’d paid the bill. I recalled the stack of bills on my counter next to the unwritten thank-you notes. Hadn’t I? I frowned, then smoothed the groove between
my eyes. No way was I going to end up looking like Great Aunt Ida. I blew out my bangs. Nothing for it but to trudge to the gas station.
It was close to six when I walked into the Gin Mill. The place was packed. I mean,
really
packed. People in suits were six deep at the bar, trying to get served. I could see Jules’s long, dark ponytail flying as she whirled to grab bottles of beer. Next to her, Joe was sloshing something pink into shot glasses. People clamored to get their attention, waving bills in the air. My heart plummeted. Today was our inaugural Young Professionals happy hour.
I dashed to the bar, dropping my purse by the cooler, and jumped to work. The look Joe gave me would have made a frailer woman faint, his forehead divot big enough to hide a body, but there wasn’t time to explain. I started taking orders and slinging beer.
By eight, most of the crowd had moved on and we could draw a breath. Joe was back in his office. The bar was a chaos of bottle caps and spilled booze. I sagged against it, rewarded with a line of beer soaking my T-shirt.
“That was crazy, daisy!” I said. “Who knew so many baby suits would turn up!”
“You should have seen it earlier.” Jules leaned her tall frame against the back counter, staying dry. I rubbed a rag at the beer on my T-shirt, managing only to transfer a stain. I sighed. “It was even worse. Wall-to-wall Wall Streets.”
I cringed, giving up on the shirt. “Jules, I’m so sorry. I ran out of gas.” When she laughed, I protested. “No, really, I did! On Park Road. There was a condom wrapper in the ditch.” I said this as though details would make me more credible.
Jules shook her head. “You don’t have to convince me, girl.” We’d been friends since junior high. She was used to forgiving me. She winked. “I was the only gal at the bar, and I got phone
numbers. Complainers can suck it.” She became serious. “Joe was pissed, though.”
I hesitated. “How pissed?”
“Well, remember that time Brooks spilled beer on the new speakers?” she named one of our regulars.
I remembered. Joe had kicked a hole in the office door and used words I didn’t know existed. I felt a little better. After all, I hadn’t ruined anything expensive.
“This was worse.” Jules shattered my illusion. “I thought he’d have a heart attack when some guy told him he was unfit to own a bar if he couldn’t serve his patrons.”
“What should I do?” I asked.
“Well…”
“Maeve!” Joe’s holler cut her off. “Get in here.”
“Good luck, little camper.” Jules patted my shoulder. I tapped the photo of me taped on the wall as I passed, for luck. It was a fetching shot, and you can’t see them in the picture, but I was wearing my favorite polka-dot kneesocks.
Joe’s look was black, arms folded across his stocky frame. “Shut the door,” he instructed. I did and sat in the uncomfortable chair that wobbled because one leg was missing a caster.
“Today was unacceptable,” Joe began.
“I’m sorry, Joe. I ran out of gas.” In the office, my defense seemed less legitimate. My sorrow was genuine, though. I didn’t want to lose another job. The pins in a virtual map of all the bars I’d worked would be blinding.
“Maeve, that’s a worse excuse than a dead grandmother.”
“But there was an accident, and then I ran out of gas and had to walk to the Texaco…” I hung my head, long blonde braids drooping penitently.
Joe sighed. “I’m sorry, Maeve. I like you, I really do. But I gotta let you go.”
“But…”
Joe held up his hand to cut off my protest, and I stared at the way the flesh bulged around his metal watchband. “It don’t matter whether it was your car or traffic or running out of gas. The bottom line is that you’re regularly late and other people aren’t. So, you’re off the schedule. You can come by next week to pick up your last check, or I can mail it to you. Your choice.”
I blinked rapidly at the welling tears. I would
not
cry, I vowed. This was humiliating enough. Didn’t he know he was talking to UNCC’s former president of the Young Entrepreneurs? I’d been a
star
. I used to turn
down
jobs.
Joe’s gaze softened. “Maeve, I know you’re sorting things out…”
I sprang from my seat. I didn’t want his pity. “Mail me the check,” I directed.
“Maeve…”
I strode out with a wave and a chipper, “Thanks, Joe. No worries.”
Behind the bar I hugged Jules, retrieved my purse from a puddle of beer, and practically skipped to my car to show how carefree I was. It was only when the door was shut that the weepies threatened to win.
I pulled myself together. I just needed spaghetti. If my mother was cooking spaghetti, my luck would change, I told myself. It was a constant game I played, betting against my luck. I could already taste the meatballs as I started the car. Good news was just around the corner.
Half an hour later, my father’s face lit with surprise when I walked into the kitchen. He was leafing through the mail, still in his suit, collar rumpled. “Maeve! Joining us for dinner?”
“Yep.” I received one of his excellent hugs. I was feeling better already.
“Hello dear.” My mother popped up from behind the counter,
casserole pan extracted from the precarious dish cupboard like a trophy. “You’re in luck. I’m trying something new tonight. A curry chicken.”
I wobbled, but rallied.
“Hey.” My attention returned to my father. “You’re looking at your mail.” My father only looked at mail on Sunday, when it was guaranteed no more would arrive while he was sorting. He tossed half into the garbage and gave me a rueful look. “Your mother has insisted on some
reforms
since she finished the Spirit Square project.” He shot me a grin as he headed upstairs to change.
“Ah.” My mother, a sculptor, alternated between periods of complete oblivion, when she was immersed in a project, and ruthless organization, when she emerged and tried to make up for lost time. That explained the new recipe.
When we were alone, my mother looked undecided for a minute, then said, “Speaking of mail, there’s a letter for you. It’s from Cameron’s parents.”
I got the fluttery, panicky feeling I got whenever I thought about Cameron.
She continued, voice gentle. “I believe they plan to do something to commemorate her birthday. A memorial.”
I met her eyes. “I don’t think I can,” I said.
