Fair point. She stands, a bit breathless with the power of her intention. Her hair is wild and shiny, and I find her slightly mesmerizing—her sudden passion, her prettiness. It’s not that I never noticed before. It’s just that I had eyes only for Anisa.
“And say we go, say we find her,” she goes on. “And there she is, all gorgeous and minimalist and in love, living her best life. Then we know for sure—she bailed. She doesn’t want the life she had here. She doesn’t want my friendship anymore. And then, well—”
“We know the truth,” I finish. “And that’s that.”
It isn’t long before we’re in a cab heading to the garage where my parents keep their Land Rover. Then, for a while, we stand in the brightly lit drive, cars coming and going, waiting for ours to be retrieved from the mysterious depths of urban vehicle storage.
“Where are we going exactly?” I say when I’m behind the wheel. Their car is a nice one, late model, with beautiful leather seats and a dash alive with glowing lights, a colorful GPS map. I pull out into the schizophrenic flow of city traffic.
“Well, just up to the town where the ice cream place is,” Emily says.
“The shop will be closed,” I say. “The whole town shuts down at nine.”
Something crosses her face, doubt maybe.
“It’s okay,” she says brightly. “We’re in the flow. We’ll find our way.”
She sounds sure of herself, though to me it just sounds like one of Anisa’s regurgitated posts. Something illustrated and packaged for happy consumption. This idea that if we just ask the universe to fulfill our desires, it will? I’m not sure I buy it.
But maybe that’s why that attitude never seems to work for me. Because in my heart, I don’t believe. I know that no matter how much you love and want, no matter how much you ask and beg, sometimes things just get taken away from you. Like Claire. Like Anisa.
I share this black idea with Emily as we pull onto the highway. It’s still sitting heavy in the air as the city disappears behind us.
“Jesus, Will,” she says after a while. “That’s really depressing. Maybe—lighten up a little?”
We exchange a look in the dim interior of the car, and then we both start to laugh. Hard. Tears streaming, shoulders shaking. It feels good, like really good. It’s the first time I’ve had a belly laugh in a damn long time.
But then the laughter dies and we are in the dark, driving north—to find someone we’ve both loved and lost. Someone who may be in trouble—or not. Who may need a rescue, or who may see what we’re doing as deluded, a terrible violation of the space she’s claimed.
She doesn’t want you, I remind myself.
We ride in silence.
“I always wonder why she came that night,” I say after I don’t know how long. “After everything. Why she even answered my call.”
I say it out loud, even though I don’t mean to. Dr. Black thinks I shouldn’t attach too much meaning to it. It was the right thing, the human thing to do. And Anisa is a kind person. Of course she wouldn’t just ignore my calls and let me die.
“She didn’t,” Emily says. Her voice is soft but clear, and the words ring like a bell in my psyche.
“What do you mean?”
“It was—me,” she says.
We’ve pulled off the interstate and onto the smaller rural highway that leads to town, trees all around. We haven’t seen another car for a while now.
“It was me,” she says again.
“You?”
There’s a kind of tightening in my center.
“She never answered you that night. She felt awful about it later. Will—she did. But she sent your calls straight to voice mail, then deleted them. She didn’t know until later that you tried to kill yourself.”
I let this sink in. But no. It’s not true. I saw her standing there, an angel calling me back from the edge of my life. There was nothing else, no ray of light, no voice offering a choice. It was just Anisa.
“You called me when you didn’t reach her.” Her voice is just a whisper. “I raced to your place, convinced your landlord to open the door. The whole bathroom was flooded.”
My friend . . .
There’s so much blood . . .
“I called 911.”
I’ve clung to that memory. Really held on tight, thinking that Anisa came. That some part of her still cared about some part of me. Except she didn’t come. Even after she knew, she didn’t call or send a note. She just—left.
“I didn’t want to tell you.” Emily’s voice is small in the dark. “I didn’t want to hurt you any more than you’ve been hurt already. I could tell that it meant something to you.”
My hands grip the wheel too tightly, my eyes on the dark stretch of road glowing in the headlights.
“Will?”
Finally, I loosen my grip. I reach a hand out and put it over hers. She’s shaking.
“Thank you, Emily.”
I guess it’s long overdue. I’m myopic, unable to see past my own pain these days. “Thank you for saving my life.”
Her breathing is shallow now, wobbly. She laces her fingers through mine.
“Will.” Her face has gone earnest, and then she casts her eyes down. “I’m glad you’re still here.”
I think about it a moment, watching the road ahead.
“So am I.”
Of course it wasn’t Anisa. Why should she answer my calls that night? Why would she take my threats seriously—or care? The restraining order forbade me from calling her, and her lawyer friend had advised her not to “engage.” She used that word a lot. I’m not going to engage with you, Will. Boy, did that enrage me.
My addled brain saw what it wanted to see.
But Emily. Why is true friendship so often invisible? The person who is always there, the one who answers when we call, who comes when we need her. Why do we so often take that quiet presence for granted? I turn to look at her, but she’s staring straight ahead. I feel like I’m seeing her for the first time.
One of her poems rings back to me:
Show me your crooked teeth
The nose you were born with
The birthmark you had removed
Your childhood scars
I want to see all your beautiful ugly
Shed the mask you wear for everyone else and
Show me
When she turns to face me, she wears an odd smile. Something in me shivers. I am naked beneath that gaze. I tighten my fingers around hers. Her smile widens.
As we arrive in town, it’s clear that we’re not “in the flow.” Not at all. This is a fool’s errand. Every business is closed and shuttered for the night. We pull into the gravel lot of the Happy Cow and sit in my parents’ car. Suddenly it feels as if all the urgency has drained from our venture.
We climb out of the car and walk around—because what else? Our feet crunch on the ground; we wrap our arms around our middles against the cold. I walk over to the storefront window, cup my hands around my eyes, and peer inside. The counter, the stack of cups. A chalkboard lists the day’s fresh flavors in cheerful lettering and bright colors.
Like every place now, there are cameras mounted over the door, behind the counter. They’re just basic home cameras like most people install to watch their front door, their dog, their child. We have put ourselves under constant surveillance. Never a moment when we are not watching ourselves and each other. And yet here we are, chasing those images, searching for the real Anisa, who is as elusive as a ghost.