Woman Last Seen in Her Thirties Read online

  I had been accustomed to keeping to myself as a child, and I saw a glimpse of that girl in Jade. “Sure, love. But you’re also welcome to come in here with us if the hallway gets boring.”

  Jade glanced at her mother, and Crystal nodded at her.

  “You’re trying to pull your life together for her,” I said once Jade was settled in the hall. “I admire that.”

  “I’m out of work, and I’m doing a crap job,” she said miserably. “Jade’s jammed into a tiny room with me and my brother’s girls. They don’t like having us there, and we all know it.” She lowered her voice. “Things were better for Jade when I was locked up. At least then she had a whole bed to herself.”

  “That can’t possibly be how she really feels,” I said. “You love her, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Yes, it’s obvious to me. And it’s obvious to Jade, too.”

  Crystal gnawed at a cuticle. When she realized what she was doing, she wedged her hands underneath her thin thighs. “Love won’t undo the last two years. She’s constantly worrying that I’m going to disappear. She cries when I put her to bed at night, and I don’t even like taking her to school, because she makes a scene when I have to leave her at her locker. I can’t blame her for feeling like I’ll go missing, either. That’s exactly what happened when I got put away.”

  I was almost afraid to open my mouth again for fear I would unintentionally silence her. “Maybe getting a steady job would show her that you’re going to stick around.”

  “I never kept a job longer than a few months.”

  “I’m sure it sounds overwhelming, but let’s find the right job for you and then make a goal. Maybe you can aim to stay for six months?”

  “That sounds like a long time.”

  “Yes and no,” I said, thinking of how my six months in Ann Arbor would soon be up.

  Crystal looked toward the hallway, where Jade was playing, before turning back to me. “Okay. So you want to tell me what’s available?”

  “You know I do,” I said, turning my computer monitor toward her so we could look together.

  “You’re good,” said Felicia, appearing in the doorway shortly after Crystal left.

  I had been working my way through a pile of paperwork. I lifted my head and smiled. “You eavesdropping?”

  “Just a little.” Felicia motioned to the chair in front of me. “Mind if I sit for a minute?”

  “Please do.”

  She crossed her legs and leaned back in the plastic bucket chair. “You’ve been putting in at least twelve hours a week.”

  “I know,” I said, looking at Crystal’s file on the table in front of me. “Sorry. It’s hard to get what needs to be done accomplished in ten. But I can cut back.”

  “Cut back?” She hooted. “Girl, please. I’m not asking you to do less if you want to do more. I love having you here.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m really enjoying it.”

  “I can tell. You put any thought into going back into social work? Officially, I mean.” Felicia and I went to lunch often enough that she now knew how up in the air my life was at the moment.

  I bit my lip, considering this. “I mean, I’d have to pick someplace to live, then go through the certification process and land a position where they’d be willing to supervise me until I had the hours I needed in order to be licensed . . .” Then I stopped myself. When I helped Elizabeth get a job at a mission run by nuns and she cried, I was so happy you would think I had just found the answer to world peace. I awoke in the middle of the night, thinking about my clients and their problems—but unlike the insomnia I had suffered after Adam’s departure, this kind wasn’t a nuisance. Working at Second Chance lit me from within. “Other than the finding someplace to live part, that actually doesn’t sound so awful.”

  Felicia smacked a hand on her thigh. “That’s the spirit. You let me know when you start looking for jobs, because I’ll have a big fat recommendation letter waiting for you. A lot of people out there could use your help, Maggie.”

  Could they? Good. Because I was ready for them.

  Felicia and I said goodnight, and I headed outside. Second Chance’s driveway was reserved for clients, so as usual I had parked on a side street. The street I had chosen earlier that day was a dark, tree-canopied dead end; I had left my car next to an abandoned lot and across from a house that I had yet to see a single person enter or exit. It was not the kind of place where I would normally park, but the area was now familiar to me.

  I had just approached my car and pulled my keys from my bag when a voice came vaulting toward me. “Lady!”

  I spun around and saw a young man standing a few feet away at the edge of the abandoned lot.

  “Can I borrow your phone?” asked the man. He had greasy hair and gray teeth, and he wore a strange expression, which I initially interpreted as distress. “I locked mine in my car, and I’m stuck out here in the cold.”

  On a ninety-degree day in July, I barely remembered what cold was, and the car the man referred to was nowhere to be seen. Yet my instinct was to give him the benefit of the doubt and say yes.

  Then I looked at him again and saw that something in his eyes broadcast that I was in danger.

  My heart was racing so fast I wondered if I, too, would have a heart attack. If I ran, could I make it the several hundred feet back to Second Chance before the man caught me? If I did, would Felicia still be there? Should I run to the house that seemed to be unoccupied, or try to find another?

  “Smile,” the man said as his eyes twitched. “I’m just asking for a favor.”

  And telling me what to do with my lips, I thought with disgust. I started for the street, but the man, anticipating my move, grabbed me by the wrist.

  My galloping heart was threatening to breach my chest as his nails sank into my flesh. Did he want all the money I didn’t actually have on me—or was he planning to take me to an underground bunker and rape and torture me? Oh God, I thought. Though it had been more than half a lifetime ago, I could still vividly recall the knife my client had held to my neck; I could almost feel Jack shifting in my womb and the simultaneous trickle of blood on my throat and urine down the side of my leg as I waited to find out if my child and I would live.

  “If I was you, I wouldn’t do anything stupid,” said the man in a low voice.

  If he were I, he would know that I did all kinds of stupid things, I thought suddenly. And some of them—not most, but some—worked out for me. I stared into his bloodshot eyes and, summoning what must have been the strength of every single one of my ancestors, screamed at the top of my lungs.

  Whatever the man had been expecting, it wasn’t my bloodcurdling screech, and he immediately loosened his grip. That was my cue: I ran toward the street and blessedly spotted two men walking a large German shepherd right in front of Second Chance.

  “You ugly old bitch!” the man hollered, disappearing through the alley behind the house. “You’re not worth my time!”

  One of the two men walking the dog let me use his phone to call the police while the other stood guard with the dog. The man who had assaulted me was long gone when the police arrived, and I offered a shaky recollection of the event before they escorted me home.

  When we arrived at Jean’s, I could barely steady my hand to unlock the door, and even though the police searched the house quickly to calm me, I continued to tremble long after they left.

  I had worked with many decent but desperate people early in my career—people who made bad choices because they were under the impression there were no others. The man who had assaulted me was hurting, for reasons that would never be known to me. Tomorrow I would try to wish him well. But on this evening, I wished I had stuck my keys right into his jugular.

  Smile. I got into bed, pulled the duvet to my chin, and cried as the assault came flashing back to me. You ugly old bitch.

  For a few minutes, I considered that maybe I would not return to Second Chance; I even
entertained the idea that this attack, like the last one, was a sign indicating I should take a different direction.

  Then I thought about what Jean had said about how bad things were simply bad things. I would continue showing up at Second Chance, though I would park somewhere else. And when I moved to wherever it was I was headed, I would pursue a career in social work. Because I would be damned if I let another person’s bad choice dictate my decisions.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I was in the kitchen, making chicken shawarma from a recipe I had come across online, when Gita called. The timer on the stove began to chime as I picked up the phone, and I dashed across the room. “Okay, I’m here,” I told Gita after I had turned the timer off. “What’s the latest?”

  “Nothing new here. But what about you? How are you feeling?” She was referring to the attack.

  “Pretty good, actually. I’m still nervous, of course, but I’ve been parking right in front of the building when I volunteer, and I have someone walk me outside if I’m there after five.”

  “I’m happy to hear that. Any decisions about your move?”

  “Alas.” Jean returned in less than three weeks, and I had stopped looking for rentals. “The house is about to go on the market, though,” I said. My lawyer had told Adam’s lawyer I was ready to sell, and since the terms of the sale had been hammered out during the divorce proceedings, all we had to do was wait for an offer and agree to take it.

  “Aww. I’ll miss your place. Remember, our invitation stands.” Gita and Reddy had told me I could stay in the apartment above their garage while I was figuring out where to head next.

  “Thank you. At this rate, I may just have to take you up on that.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if you did. So . . . I know you’re leaving town, but how would you feel about going on a date before you go?”

  “A date?” I said, staring at the pan of chicken that I had just pulled out of the oven. Even though I had halved the recipe, it was still far too much shawarma. “Have you been sniffing hair dye? I’m relationship kryptonite.”

  “I’m not talking about serious dating. Reddy has an old friend in Ann Arbor, and he just found out that he—Jeff is his friend’s name—has been single for a while now. His wife died.”

  “And I get to follow his dead wife’s act. Great plan.”

  “Oh come on, Toady. Reddy says he’s a really good guy, and he’s just getting ready to mingle again. He needs a solid first date—someone who will be gentle on him. Maybe you’ll end up as friends.”

  I pulled a fork from the drawer and speared one of the chicken strips, which was still steaming. I took a bite; even piping hot, it was delicious. It wouldn’t freeze well, though, and I probably wouldn’t be able to eat it all before it went bad. But maybe I would bring some to Felicia tomorrow. “I don’t know, G. I’m just settling into my role as Howard Hughes over here.”

  Gita laughed. “Stop it. Anyway, maybe this would help you figure out what you’re feeling about Adam.” She added slyly, “Or Charlie.”

  I bristled. “There’s no point in feeling anything about him, now is there? It’s over.” Sure, every time I passed a tall, dark-skinned man I whipped around to see if it was Charlie. But I had not heard from him, nor had I reached out. For all I knew, he had already sold his house and left town.

  “Mag-gie,” sang Gita in her songbird lilt. “Our kids are finally out of the house, but we’re still young, healthy, and hot.”

  I laughed in spite of my irritation.

  “Let’s face it: this might possibly be as good as it gets,” she said. “Do you really want to spend the rest of what could be the best decade of your life alone?”

  “Maybe I do.”

  “Are you trying to pretend I don’t know you at all?”

  She was right, at least somewhat. Try as I might, I would probably never thrive as a lone wolf like Jean. But I was beginning to think I was more like the coyote, which mated for life. I couldn’t just switch partners on a whim.

  “Please?” said Gita. “Do this one favor for me.”

  I sighed. Maybe going on a date could prove to me that I could spend time with a man without diving headfirst into a shallow relationship. Or maybe it would offer clarity on Adam, who was still sending his one-line emails and waiting for my response to his proposal.

  I sighed. “If you really think it’s a smart idea, I’ll see if this Jeff person wants to go for coffee or something.”

  “You’re the best, Mags. You won’t regret it.”

  I told her I might, in fact, regret it—and if that was the case, she would, too. We laughed, and I hung up feeling grateful that my friendship with Gita had endured the changes in my life. Then I put away the extra chicken, fetched the book I had been reading from my bedside table, and went into the living room to be alone.

  I met Jeff for dessert at a restaurant downtown later that week. He was early, and with his sandy hair and muscular build, more attractive than the picture Gita sent had suggested. His eyes lit up when he saw me, suggesting that he, too, was pleasantly surprised. “It’s so nice to meet you,” he said, shaking my hand.

  “And you,” I said. Over decaf and chocolate cake, Jeff told me he was an immunologist within the university’s health system. He had lived in Chicago before moving to Ann Arbor a few decades earlier, and still visited often, so we talked about how the city had changed for better and worse. Jeff was a good listener, and curious; he asked me all sorts of things about Second Chance, and about my children and my move from Chicago to Ann Arbor. In turn, I asked him about how he had gotten into medicine, and about his daughter, who was studying anthropology at Yale.

  And yet I had to consciously think about what I was going to say in order to propel the conversation forward. As I told Jeff about how I had met Jean, I realized that I had put so much emphasis on the physical chemistry that Charlie and I had shared that I had seriously discounted our emotional connection. Talking to him was effortless; we moved seamlessly from one tangent to the next, and I would come away from our chats feeling smarter, better—enriched.

  “Any interest in getting a quick drink before we call it a night?” Jeff asked as we stood to leave.

  I almost said yes, if only to be nice. I caught myself before the word escaped my mouth. It was not just about the alcohol; it was that I had no urge to disclose to Jeff that I wasn’t drinking, or tell him what had led me to that decision. My heart was saying no.

  I put my hand on his forearm. “I should probably get going, but this has been lovely.”

  There was a hint of melancholy beneath his smile. “It has been. But not lovely enough, I sense.”

  “I’m new to this, and taking it slow.”

  He nodded. “I understand. But if you ever feel like going to have a glass of wine, or maybe getting dinner, give me a call.”

  I told him I would, and we parted amicably, heading in opposite directions down the street. It was a clear, warm night, and the streets were congested. I had walked halfway down the block when I turned to see if I could spot Jeff.

  I was strangely relieved when I realized he had disappeared into the crowd. But then I realized that was because I wasn’t really looking for Jeff, but for someone else entirely.

  TWENTY-NINE

  One morning toward the end of July, I awoke with the understanding that it was time to make up my mind about Adam. Maybe I had dreamed something that led me to this conclusion, or perhaps I was enjoying one of the clearheaded thoughts that had become more frequent now that I was no longer drinking. It was a shame that I had not had another cogent thought informing me whether to take Adam back. All the same, before I left Ann Arbor, I needed to know if I was going home to my ex-husband.

  So after having a cup of coffee, I sat down at my computer and wrote Adam a quick email requesting Jillian Smith’s contact information.

  He responded immediately, and though I was worried he might laugh at my request or call me insane, he had put her email at the top of his message. C
an you tell me why? he had added.

  Because I need to know a few things, and I think this is the only way to find out, I wrote back.

  Then I emailed Jillian.

  Unlike Adam, she waited two days to respond. But I wasn’t worried she would tell me I was crazy, and I was not surprised that she agreed to get together with me. It made little sense for her to do so—but it was almost like I had known from the moment Adam told me her name that we were destined to meet one day.

  Adam said you are just trying to get information. I hope that’s true, she wrote.

  It was, I assured her. And so, just a week before Jean was set to return, I drove back to Chicago for an overnight trip.

  My first stop was Jack’s new apartment. He had been offered, and had taken, the mail room position at the ad agency and had already moved in with his friend Miller. They lived on the ground floor of a row house in Pilsen. A burned-out shell of a car sat across the street, and I momentarily considered shoving Jack into my car and depositing him in the sterile and (slightly) safer suburbs. But the apartment itself was spacious and clean, and Jack had set up a drafting table near the window in his bedroom. “It’s just for fun,” he said when I inquired, and I had tempered my enthusiasm, even though my brain and heart had already formed a conga line. Though art had once been Jack’s world, I had not seen him pick up a pencil or charcoal since college. Maybe he was finally starting to use the wings Adam was always talking about.

  In Oak Valley, I said a preliminary goodbye to the house. It still contained some of my old furniture but was mostly filled with the belongings of the couple that had been renting it, and maybe that was why I had not felt sad when I walked through it. The renters had liked the place and neighborhood (and presumably, spending time with their grandchild) so much that they were considering making an offer on it. Linnea felt the house would sell fast, and I was glad about that.

  I spent the evening with Gita, who touched up my hair and took me to dinner at our favorite Italian place. The next morning, I woke early to go walking with her, then showered, did my makeup, and put on my best blue dress.