“This was stupid,” Emily says.
She wears a peasant skirt and lace-up boots, a kind of fuzzy, wrappy coat. She’s let her hair go wild around her shoulders. There’s a look—they all share it. Claire. Anisa. Emily. A kind of manifest disbelief that the world falls so short of the fairy tale they were sold.
“It was worth a try,” I say, my voice sounding false and tight. Dr. Black suggests optimism. He says it’s a choice. I’m trying, Dr. Black. I really am.
“I watch too many crime shows,” she says. Her laugh disappears into the night. “I thought we’d found a clue. That we could solve the case of our missing friend.”
More words of Emily’s whisper back:
The case is cold
Your secrets hold
We’ll all grow old
Just wondering
I move closer to her. I don’t dare touch her. But I’m surprised at how badly I want to. Am I wrong? The way she’s standing, body leaning toward me, eyes on mine—does she feel it too?
“There’s only one place still open,” I say. “Pop’s, the twenty-four-hour diner.”
My voice breaks the spell.
“I’m starving,” she says, looking suddenly spent, depleted.
“Me too.” I am. I don’t remember the last time I ate. I’m thinner than I ever have been in adulthood. Gaunt, my mother says. I’ve always been one of those too-skinny guys, not that interested in food. I gained with Anisa. We were constantly eating.
The diner is a bit out of town, closer to the house. I haven’t been there in a while, but we used to go all the time before Claire died, and a few times since. Big juicy burgers on floppy white buns, crispy fries, pillowy, creamy shakes. And a peanut butter pie that is my mother’s all-time favorite. I always grab her a slice when I’m up here checking on the house. She eats it with equal parts joy, sadness, and guilt.
This meal
Tastes like regret
Salty and stale.
I eat it anyway
Grateful for any nourishment at all.
Pop is there, as I knew he would be. He must be ninety years old. His son and daughter run the place now, but he’s always there, greeting customers. He sits in the same booth by the door, a newspaper always open in front of him. Late at night, it’s just him, a single waitress, and whatever shift worker they have in the kitchen.
“Will,” he says brightly. “Long time no see.”
He always says that, no matter how long it’s been since I saw him last. I really cannot believe he remembers my name. Or maybe he just calls everyone Will.
“How you doing, Pop?”
“Never better, son,” he answers. Every time. “How’s that lovely family of yours?”
“All good,” I say.
“Don’t forget to bring a piece of pie to your mom for me.”
He’s wrinkled and nearly bald, except for some neat white wisps. His thick hands shake. He’s dressed neatly in a buttoned-up plaid shirt, pressed khakis, and old-man brown shoes.
This is the same conversation I have with him every single time. He is as senile as they get, on some kind of loop that will not reset. I don’t feel bad for him. I envy him. There are so many things I’d like to forget.
We order. Emily shows the waitress a picture of Anisa. But the girl just gives her a blank stare, a dismissive shrug. She doesn’t ask a single question about who Anisa is or why we might be looking for her. She just sticks our order ticket through the window to the kitchen, then immediately goes back to whatever she was doing on her smartphone.
We get the same meal I used to get with Claire when we were kids—cheeseburgers, fries, chocolate milkshake to share. In spite of our dark errand, our failure, the food is good. We talk and talk—not about Anisa but about Emily’s poetry, how she applied for a writers’ retreat and might go if she gets in, leaving her job. We talk about my novel and where I’m stuck. She agrees to read it. It’s easy. Our friendship, even after everything, and with Anisa gone, is still intact. I take Dr. Black’s advice and choose to be happy about that, at least.
I pick up the tab on the credit card my mother gave me that my father doesn’t know I have. She pays the bill from an account that my father doesn’t track. He’ll rail at year-end when he balances the books, but he won’t stop her. Softening blows. Coming in for the rescue.
On the way out, I use the restroom. When I emerge, Emily is sitting with Pop.
“Have you seen this girl?” I hear her say as I come up beside him. I didn’t even think to ask him. It would be like asking an old transistor radio.
But Pop just stares blankly at the phone, then up at Emily.
“Is that the girl who died so long ago?”
Emily shakes her head. “No,” she says quickly. “Her name is Anisa.”
His eyes are filling, though.
“Such a tragedy,” he says.
She looks stricken, horrified that she’s upset the old man. “I’m so sorry,” she says.
The waitress comes over and hands me my take-out pie.
“I’ve got my peanut butter pie, Pop,” I say brightly, hoping to cheer him up. He turns to look at me, and Emily slips quickly from the booth, glad for the escape.
He seems to forget Emily and the picture.
“Don’t tell your mother that I’ve always had a crush on her.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Good night,” Emily says.
We move away, the bell ringing as we exit. Emily is far ahead of me, out in the night. She doesn’t hear him say before the door closes: “They say the brother did it. There was always something off about that boy.”
I pretend I didn’t hear it, don’t let it upset me the way it used to. There were endless rumors then—a beautiful young girl dies by accident, and no one wants to accept that. No one wants to accept the randomness of it all. Believe me, I get it.
In the car, we sit. There’s an energy between us, a tingle.
“We don’t need to drive all the way back,” I say.
The long trip is not an enticing prospect with a belly full of cheeseburger and milkshake. “We can stay at the house. I promised my parents I’d stop by and check on it anyway.”
I figure she’ll say no. Even though it’s Friday night and she doesn’t have to work tomorrow and probably her only plans are to write all weekend. She’s very still, staring at the picture of Anisa glowing on the screen. She clicks the side of the phone, and it goes dark. She leans closer, blinks. I wait for her to come back with a list of excuses.
“Okay,” she says. “That sounds good.”
It’s a bit of a drive, the road hypnotic and winding. No streetlamps. The exact opposite of city living. The layers fall away—light, noise, clutter—leaving a hush, a peaceful silence. I turn at the tilted red mailbox and stop to retrieve the pile of junk that inevitably collects in it.
“I forgot how isolated this place is,” she says. “Total middle of nowhere.”
I don’t say anything. Is she nervous, questioning her decision to come out here with someone who has proven himself to be unstable?
“You should come out here more,” she goes on. “You could really focus on your writing up here.”