He shifted his feet, seemingly out of things to say now.
I turned away and resumed looking at the pole, a nonverbal Screw off. After a few more seconds, he took the hint—okay, more of a directive—and slunk away, mission still accomplished, I guess, since I heard muted hoots and high fives from the peanut gallery.
When I glanced back at him, after finishing my face time with my own face—what was left of it—I saw him still staring at me, but this time without the put-on smirk. Something else. For a moment, I thought I knew what it was. A look of recognition, only the kind where you’re not sure what it is you’re recognizing.
No. Not possible.
I walked on, faster than I’d intended, even if it was still kind of aimlessly, although I had a vague aim in mind. It didn’t feel as if I were floating anymore. I was good and grounded. I felt a sudden gut-gripping panic as people flowed past me on either side—it was a Saturday, right? Lots of people out and about, enjoying the surprisingly balmy weather.
I was being swallowed up by them—this surging crowd that seemed in a hurry to get somewhere and to take me with them, and I’d been there, done that, thank you very much, uh-uh. I was losing control of the situation. I was not the boss of me.
Stop.
Deep breaths. In, out. Deep breaths . . .
I found myself leaning against a gray car in the middle of the sidewalk. Finding yourself doing something you didn’t know you were doing was a weird feeling, as if I’d been sleepwalking and someone had just turned on the lights.
I saw a woman staring at me—someone with a stroller and a kid in it with a blue pacifier stuck in its mouth. Blue is for boy. She was hovering there, seeing what was up with me, I guess.
“Are you . . . uh, okay?” She was suddenly next to me—had left the stroller a few feet away to attend to this girl in a tan zippered jacket and dirty jeans. I wanted to say to her, Don’t, don’t leave that stroller. You don’t know what can happen. You think you’re this close to it, sure, but you’re this close to the unimaginable. The unforgivable. Go back.
That’s what I wanted to say.
But what I said was this:
“I need a policeman. Please. I’m Jenny Kristal and I need a policeman.”
TWO
The detective questioning me was a woman, which must be standard operating procedure. They’d passed me from a cop who kept eyeing me in his rearview mirror, the entire ride to the station, to the desk person, who was about fifty pounds overweight—on a good day—to this woman detective who said her name was Mary.
She was pretty courteous, asking me if I was hungry—Yeah, starved; if I needed to use the bathroom—Yeah, I’ve been holding it in for hours; if I needed a doctor—No, I’m fine.
Then she asked me my name again—for the record.
“Jenny Kristal.” This was the third person I’d told my name to in the last half hour—fourth, if you include the woman wheeling the baby stroller, who’d called 911 for me, but only after telling me my name sounded kind of familiar.
She’d told the same thing to the cop who showed up five minutes later, after he’d placed me in the back seat of his cruiser for safekeeping.
There was a little girl that vanished when I was in high school, the woman whispered. It was kind of a big deal around here. I think her name was Jenny Kristal . . . It can’t be her, can it . . . ?
The cop said he didn’t know. But when he got into the front seat, he asked me.
He’d already asked me if I was on some kind of narcotics—the woman thought I might be high on something since she’d found me hugging a parked car. She just kind of collapsed, she’d told the cop, whose name was Farley.
I told him I wasn’t on drugs and he could test me if he didn’t believe me, that I just needed to talk to someone at the station.
Well, what’s wrong with you? She said you keeled over—you on percs or something?
I haven’t eaten in a while. Please, can you take me to the station?
I’m going to call an ambulance, Miss . . .
I don’t need an ambulance. I need a Big Mac.
So you’re refusing an ambulance . . . ?
Can you just take me to the station . . . ?
I need you to say that you’re refusing an ambulance. That’s the protocol. You’re allowed to refuse it if you want to, but you have to say so. Are you over eighteen?
Yes.
And you’re refusing an ambulance.
Yes.
That’s when he put me in the back seat.
But before starting the car, he turned around and stared at me through the mesh partition—pretty much at tits level—and asked me if I had ever been a kidnap victim.
Your Good Samaritan said someone with your name—she thinks it’s the same name—was kidnapped from here about twelve years ago. Is that you . . . ?
My Good Samaritan thought she was reporting a drug addict who needed to be yanked off the streets. I wanted to talk to someone at the station instead of Officer Farley, because when he’d asked me if I was over eighteen, he’d asked it like he wanted to be sure he wasn’t committing statutory.
I stopped talking.
I counted corners instead, trying to ignore the various people— an old lady using a walker, a black UPS guy balancing six packages in his arms, two kids on bikes—peeking into the back seat to see who was being carted off to jail today. One, two, three, four, five . . . Counting gave me something to do other than talk to Farley or think about what they were going to look like now and what they were going to say and what it would feel like to hold them again. One corner pretty much like another, leaf strewn and empty, though I spotted chalked hopscotch lines on the corner of Elm, trying to remember what it was like to play hopscotch—throwing a pebble into a chalked square and then hopping over to grab it without falling down, that was the tricky part.
Eleven was a corner with a deep weblike crack stretching from one end to the other, and just like that, it caught me and wouldn’t let me go.
What’s the matter? Farley asked from the front seat.
Had I shouted something? Had I banged on the window and pleaded to be let out?
Maple Street . . . Is this where you used to live . . . ?
Detective Mary had her hair pulled back in a severe bun—in fact, her whole face was pretty severe. I guess that’s how you look when your job is dealing with lowlifes every day.
“Okay, Jenny,” Detective Mary said, “Officer Farley said you told him you used to live on Maple Street. That’s where a girl named Jenny Kristal lived before she disappeared. Are you saying you’re her?”