The Gates of Evangeline (3 page)

Zoey!
I exclaim.
Zoey!

My ankle,
she whimpers from beneath the black.
My ankle.

I awake to Rae shaking me. “Charlie? It's time to go. You still wanna come?”

Head throbbing, I try to remember where I am. “Where's Zoey? Is she okay?”

“Mason drove her over early.”

The sun has shifted, leaving the room to the afternoon's advancing shadows. “What about her ankle? Is it broken?”

“Zoey? She's fine, hon. There's nothing wrong with her ankle.” Rae leans against the arm of the couch, trying not to stare at her watch. “Are
you
okay? You look like you could use some more sleep.”

“Was I sleeping?”

“I think you were dreaming.”

“Oh.” I sit up and rub my face, though I'm more uneasy than tired. “Let's go, then.”

•   •   •

T
HE RECI
TAL IS BEING HELD
at the local elementary school, in a musty auditorium with a drooping flag. When I look at the program, I realize Zoey's class is just one of eight performing. As the youngest group, they go first, and then appear again in the finale.

Mason sees my look of consternation and tries to reassure me. “It goes fast,” he promises.

I like Rae's husband, but I know bullshit when I hear it.

The first number goes as expected. The curtain opens, and Zoey and her compatriots scuttle out in red sequined leotards. Dazed by the floodlights, the children form two haphazard lines and perform a dance so jerky and out of sync they look like marionettes.

Once Zoey leaves the stage, my mind wanders. I watch restless audience members move in and out of their seats, count the number of glowing cell phones set to record. I pick at the chipped varnish on my wooden seat, trying to tune out the rustling jackets and programs. The performances drag on until finally we reach the last number, some wretched pop song about a girl resisting her boyfriend's attempts to dump her.
Boy, you got to believe that / I ain't ready for you to leave yet,
she croons.

The routine begins with older girls while the little ones line up in the wings. Rae touches my shoulder and points to Zoey, who peeks out from behind the curtain, oblivious to the fact that everyone can see her.

“Uh-oh,” Rae whispers. “She's going to miss her cue!”

And it does look that way. Lips moving like she's singing, Zoey twirls and grabs a handful of curtain. She leaps up, trying to sail through the air like she's Tarzan on a vine, and—

Collapse.

A mess of black fabric crashes down, engulfing her.

Over the tinny speakers, the music reaches a dreadful crescendo.
I'm not ready,
the singer moans,
I'm not ready for the end.

I see Rae leap to her feet. I see a woman hurry out from backstage. I see Mason push his way past unyielding laps and knees and footwear, trying to get to the stage.

The music continues, its chorus familiar and horrible, as confused dancers wonder whether or not to carry on with the show:
I'm not ready, I'm not ready for the end.
Someone has pulled Zoey from the curtain, a competent-looking man. She's crying. He talks to her patiently, touches her leg, locating the source of her pain. She points, and I feel a dark thrill of recognition at this final, inexorable detail.

Because, of course, it's her ankle.

T
hat night, I try to drown out the noise in my head with more noise. I turn up the radio, run the garbage disposal, vacuum. None of this does anything to shake my sense of foreboding, but I prefer a pounding anxiety to quiet dread. At some point after eleven, Rae appears in my living room. I switch off the vacuum, startled to see her at this hour.

“I knocked,” she says. “I don't think you could hear me.” She looks around the newly tidy house, eyebrows raised. “Wow. This place looks good.”

“How's Zoey?”

Rae rolls her eyes. “We just got back from our whole emergency room odyssey. She'll be fine.” She slumps down onto the couch, her thigh landing on Keegan's Popsicle stain from last June. “I saw your light was on, so I figured I'd stop by. Glad you made it home.”

“I took a taxi. It wasn't a big deal. So . . . did Zoey get crutches?”

She nods. “She loves them. We practically had to wrestle her into bed.” She leans back against the couch, peering at me sideways. “It
was
broken, by the way. Her ankle.”

“I guess that's lucky. It could've been a lot worse.” I don't say how much worse, and Rae isn't thinking of the son I lost, not now.

“It's weird, isn't it? How you dreamed it?” She watches me closely.

I've been a queasy bundle of nerves the last few hours, turning it over in my mind, but I don't want her to know that. Rae is completely superstitious. She believes in
everything
. Ghosts and past lives and tarot cards—all that crap. I don't want her to believe in
this
.

“It was just a dream, Rae. I don't think it means anything.”

“You woke up from your nap asking if Zoey's ankle was broken,” Rae persists. “That totally means something!”

“You're right,” I say with an eye roll. “I'm basically one step short of Nostradamus. I'll give you a call when I start dreaming about lottery numbers, okay?”

“You get to work on that, I'm not even playing!” She stretches her legs, as if amused by my skepticism. “I better get to bed. Thanks for coming to Zoey's recital, even if it did turn out crazy.”

I follow her outside, watching from my driveway to see that she arrives safely at her house. It's a cold night, the kind of cold that feels clean when you inhale it. I cross my arms, shivering. Rae waves from the brick walkway of her yard as Mason opens the front door for her. She's made it. She's safe.

I step inside and lock the door behind me. I don't usually keep things from Rae, don't want to add to the distance between us now, but I can't tell her everything. Because it wasn't just the ankle. It was the red sequins, the black curtain. That awful song. I don't know what this means, not yet, and so I stuff it somewhere deep with all the other things I'm trying not to think about and I vacuum. I dust. Wash the kitchen floor and make beds.

Some time after four a.m., I survey my house and discover that for the first time in the five years I've owned it, my home is clean. Nothing-left-to-do clean. Bianca was right. It's time to return to work.

•   •   •

I
WORK WIT
H A LOT OF WOMEN
.
There's a handful of gay men, and presumably a straight guy buried somewhere in the ranks, but for the most part,
Sophisticate
runs on a very specific type of estrogen: bitchy, hypereducated New Yorker.

In my twenties, I loved it. That was who I aspired to be. By thirty, I had perfected the wry smile, the raised eyebrow, the long and jaded sigh. I could argue about which bagel joint on the Upper West Side was best, pay eight dollars for half an avocado without batting an eye. I jogged through Central Park and thought I was communing with nature. The city wore on me, though. One day in a restaurant I saw my reflection and thought,
I never smile. I smirk.

I was only too ready to escape when I met Eric, my knight in shining argyle, my ticket out. We dated just five months before marrying. Three months later, I was pregnant. Stamford, Connecticut, isn't as ritzy as Greenwich or Darien, but we found a cozy three-bedroom just a few miles from my grandmother's assisted-living facility. Even after Eric left, I loved my home. I'd watch Keegan digging in the sandbox or splashing in his kiddie pool and my heart would rise up in my chest with happiness—until the morning's long commute back into Manhattan.

On this dreary Monday, I walk the dozen blocks from Grand Central, feeling too claustrophobic for the tightly packed bodies of the subway. Between hulking skyscrapers, I catch fragments of sky and swirling clouds. Hair whipping around my face, I fight my way through wind tunnels, kick away blowing trash. None of the other pedestrians look at me, and I wonder how many people I've passed, how many faces I've ignored over the years.

I'm doing the best impression that I can of Charlie Before, but the whole sideswept–bangs–to–hide–the–grow-out thing isn't working this morning and my trousers are a bit wrinkled from the month they spent dangling from a shower rod. Truth be told, I have my doubts about
Sophisticate
. After all that I've been through, can I really muster up any enthusiasm for a magazine that is, if I'm being honest, an upmarket, slightly less sex-obsessed version of
Cosmo
? We actually ran a “How Oral Sex Can Save Your Marriage” article in September's issue.

At work, only a few people mill about. It's eight forty-five. I'm early, and deadline for the printer was last week, which tends to quell the chaos for a few days. Having spent most of my waking hours in this office the last decade, I've always appreciated the chic and modern décor, but this morning the white, windowless walls and glaring chrome remind me of a hospital. I head into the break room in search of a coffee jolt and discover Lauren, my editorial assistant, pouring yesterday's sludge down the sink.

“Charlie!” Her eyes are two wide circles of black eyeliner. “Didn't know you were coming in today.”

“I should be in the office full-time now.” I riffle through the cabinet for a clean filter. “You look cute. I like the haircut.”

“Thanks . . .” Lauren sports a new choppy bob and a pair of Miu Miu heels that, given her salary, I can't figure out how she affords. Once, we would have dished at length about the hair and shoes, but I seem to have lost my taste for superficial chitchat.

“Did the photos ever come in for that piece on Tahitian weddings?” I ask.

“Yeah, it's done. Tina dealt with everything, don't worry.” She watches as I measure out coffee grounds. “I guess you heard Longview Media is buying the mag.”

“I'm sure it'll be fine. So nothing pressing I need to handle?” I'm both relieved and disappointed.

“Nah.” She pauses for a minute, thinking it over. “You did get a phone call on Friday, Isaac Somebody from Meyers Rowe. He said you know him.”

“Meyers Rowe, the publishing house? Must be Isaac Cohen.” I'm not often in touch with my old editor from
Cold Crimes
magazine, but perhaps the true-crime division of Meyers Rowe has a book they want us to review. Isaac would never hesitate to call in a favor. “Well, thanks, Lauren. Sounds like you've got everything under control.” I flip on the coffeemaker, figuring our conversation is done, but Lauren hasn't moved.

She clears her throat. “It's good to see you around. We've all been thinking about you.” She takes a step closer to me, and I'm afraid for a moment that she might hug me. “If you need anything . . .”

“I'll ask.”

Deciding that I'm best left alone, Lauren makes a clumsy exit, but her sympathy hangs in the air like too much perfume. I feel my throat constricting, my eyes watering. I grope around for a cup. Coffee is the answer, I tell myself. Burning, acrid office coffee will get me through this day.

•   •   •

I
SPEND THE MORNING
sifting through e-mail, avoiding encounters with my coworkers. Though I leave the door to my office shut, a few people stop by to say hi. I keep things professional, remind them semipolitely of the work I have to catch up on. I immerse myself in query letters, correspondence with our various freelance writers, questions and complaints from our production editor. Somewhere in all the mess I see an e-mail from Isaac Cohen.

Hi Charlotte,

How are you faring amongst all the lipstick and designer handbags? Hope all is well. Just heard through the grapevine that Longview Media purchased your mag. Those assholes are brutal. They'll cut the best and brightest if it saves them a dime, so watch your back. If things get ugly and you need an escape hatch, give me a call. I have a job you might be interested in.

Take care,

Isaac Cohen

Senior Editor

Meyers Rowe, True Crime Division

A job offer. Unexpected, but well-timed. I feel a surge of gratitude toward Isaac for thinking of me. I haven't seen him in years, but I remember him well from our days at
Cold Crimes
. He's a few years older than I am. Lanky, hairy, incredibly strange, but an excellent editor. He didn't seem like the type to assign stories about crimes; he looked like he'd be out there committing them. I wrote several pieces for him about individual cold cases. Although I found the work engaging, the magazine was small-scale, the pay low, with no hope of advancement. I'm not surprised that Isaac has continued working in the crime genre all this time—though Meyers Rowe is a major publishing house and a marked improvement from
Cold Crimes
—but I'm not sure I have the appropriate experience for a job in that division.

Oh, what the hell,
I tell myself.
It's an opportunity, even if it's a long shot. A chance to get out of here.

I find a phone number on the bottom of his e-mail signature and grab a pen to jot it down. Somehow in the process, I knock over my cup of pens and pencils. As I'm crawling around under the desk to retrieve them, I hear people in the doorway of my office.

“It doesn't look like she's at her desk.”

“Oh, well. I'll just ask Tina.”

I try to place the voices. One of them sounds like Lauren. I can't identify the other. A normal person would stand up and address her visitors, but I don't. I remain on my hands and knees, not moving.

“I think Tina will be our go-to girl indefinitely.” Lauren's voice, I'm sure now. She lowers it as she prepares to gossip. “When new management steps in, Charlie's gone, you watch. Did you see her this morning?”

“No, how'd she seem?”

“Out of it. Poor thing.” The voices move closer and one of them drops something on my desk. “It's weird,” Lauren continues, oblivious to the fact that I am just a few feet away. “You know how she is, all business, all the time. I thought she'd be pissed about Tina taking over, but I don't think she's even noticed.”

“I don't blame her. If something happened to my kid . . . what did Bianca say it was, a brain aneurysm?”

“Yeah. Her son was at preschool, got a headache, and was gone before she even made it to the hospital.”

“That's crazy.” Their voices are moving farther away now. “My uncle had a brain aneurysm, but he's, like, sixty. And it didn't kill him. I didn't think kids got those.”

“They don't. It's like a one-in-a-million thing.”

My head begins to swim. I stay under the desk for a long time, face pressed to my knees. I can't work here anymore. Clinging to the familiar only highlights how much everything has changed. How much
I
have changed.

When I've calmed myself down, I call Isaac Cohen and schedule a meeting for Wednesday morning. Whatever job he has, I'll take.

•   •   •

T
HAT NIGHT
,
IN BED
, I try to numb my mind with television. This proves surprisingly difficult, since all the local stations are running an alert for a missing child.
Nine-year-old Hannah Ramirez has been missing since three o'clock, when she left Bonner Elementary School. Distraught family members say that Hannah often made the ten-minute walk home alone and had been instructed never to talk to strangers. Authorities ask anyone with information about Hannah to call this toll-free number.

I switch through three channels before I finally rid myself of Hannah's smiling fourth-grade photo. Something bad has happened to her, and I don't want to think about the treacherous world I live in. A world where a little girl vanishes one afternoon, and one must presume the worst. A world where blood spills into the brain of a little boy, and without warning, he dies.

Your son suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage . . . incredibly rare in children . . . probably present from birth . . . not your fault, just very, very bad luck.

I settle for game show reruns, hours of artificial smiles and encouraging applause, until I feel myself slipping away. Sleep, or something like it. I fight my fatigue at first, but really, it's a pleasant sensation, better than the heaviness of pills. A nice, warm, floating feeling.

Then it's like waking, everything becoming sharper.

Night. I'm standing by an old inground swimming pool. No one's actually been swimming here in a while, from the look of it; the surface is covered in rotting leaves. Two diving boards, one short and one tall, extend over the fetid water. Across from the diving boards, a sagging house awaits repair. I hear a dripping sound from the shadows behind me, and my breath catches. I'm not alone.

There's a girl curled up in a broken lawn chair, watching me.

Hi,
she says.

I don't know this girl, but I've seen her face before, the long dark hair, crooked bangs, and liquid black eyes.

Hannah?

She nods. The dripping sound continues in steady rhythm.

Everyone's looking for you. They all think you're missing.