Last Girl Ghosted(25)

It’s almost as if because I shared my past, spoken words out loud, that I’ve given my father permission to invade my thoughts. This is why I’ve buried it all so deep. To speak of it is a conjuring, thoughts and phrases, unwanted memories coming back as alive and vivid, so near. I should never have told you. I had constructed my life so that I never had to. I could have taken it to my grave, so to speak. Too late for regrets, though. What’s done is done.

There’s a narrow old man standing by the entrance to the facility, hands in the pocket of his peacoat, a plaid cap, chunky shoes. He’s not quite as tall as I am, rubs at his jaw as I approach. His face is a landscape of lines and shadows.

“Joe?”

He nods, sticks out his hand and I take it in mine. It’s papery and warm. He holds me with his gaze, taking measure it feels like. Whatever he sees, he offers me a slight smile.

“I’m Wren.”

“You’re younger than I thought you’d be.”

“I’m older than I look.” Not quite thirty, I look younger. I still get carded. I crave gravitas, the respectability that comes with age. But it seems elusive.

He nods again and then turns to head inside the gate. I follow him through a labyrinth of concrete hallways, punctuated by metal door after metal door. When we get to number 39, he comes to a stop. He bends to unlock a padlock, and hauls the door open with a clanging that echoes off the long passage.

I’m tense, my shoulders aching, wondering what pieces of yourself you might have left behind. A powerful waft of moldy damp air makes my sinuses tingle.

Joe flips on a light. The space is orderly, rows of boxes carefully marked: tax documents, bedding, Marty’s artwork, Millie’s clothes, photographs, letters. There’s an old wingback chair, a dresser, a steamer truck, a standing lamp. I feel the urge to start rifling through. The detritus of living life, how it collects, how we hold on to it, how it defines us. It tells a story, and I love the stories people have to tell. I feel a craving to understand Joe, know about the life he’s lived. But there in the center of the room, there’s a single unmarked box.

He bends down for it and hoists it up. It looks light; there can’t be much in there. But I am greedy for it, for any piece of you.

I take the money from my pocket in a thick white envelope.

“You said five thousand?” I say.

He frowns, takes a step back. “Are you sure you want to do that? Cover your boyfriend’s debt. You were my daughter? I wouldn’t let you bail out some deadbeat.”

I look down at the cash in my hand. He has a point.

“I’m not doing it for him,” I say. “I’m doing it for you.”

He smiles, eyes crinkling. I can see he’s amused, trying to figure me out. “You don’t even know me.”

He’s right on some level. But I think how we treat any one person is how we treat the world, how we treat ourselves. If I can right a wrong, it’s far more valuable than the sum of five thousand dollars. Maybe it restores Joe’s faith or maybe someday he pays it forward. This is why, I think, people bring me their problems and ask me to solve them. I’m always going to try to fix and help.

“Please,” I say when he doesn’t take it. “I’m happy to do it.”

Finally, he reaches for it. I notice a tremor in his hand. “Thank you, young lady.”

He hands me the box.

“Do you mind?” I say.

“Go ahead.” Joe takes a seat in the wingback chair.

I sit on the floor with the box and start to look through it. Your watch—large white face with Roman numerals, black leather band. I admired it once for its simplicity. You said it was your grandfather’s, given to him by your father, that it meant something to you. Why would you leave it behind? Probably just another lie.

Your favorite hoodie is light and soft in my hands—a lovely navy blue cashmere garment that cost a mint. You are one of those stealth wealth people, dressing down in items that don’t look like much but are unaffordable to most. I put the garment to my nose and take in the scent of you, feel my body tingle. For a second I’m back with you, in my bed, that last time we were together. Your skin. Your arms. The silk of your hair between my fingers. I look over at Joe, embarrassed, but he seems lost in thought himself, stares off into nowhere.

A slim black Moleskine falls open in my palms. All the pages are blank. I flip through once, twice, hoping for any scribble on any page. Nothing.

The Mont Blanc pen is shiny and new, another simple, elegant instrument with its white star top and gleaming back shaft. It is sturdy in in my hand. I’m a writer so I can’t resist taking off the cap and putting the nib to paper. Who are you, Adam Harper? I write in careful script.

Finally, there’s a shave kit—straight razor and badger brush, neatly packed in a leather pouch. I remember this from your bathroom, noticing how everything you owned was an object, something chosen for its design, curated. None of these items tells me a single thing I didn’t already know.

Disappointment and frustration do battle in my chest.

I’m certain the box is empty, but I peer inside one last time.

And that’s when I see the thing that makes my heart stutter and the ground beneath me spin. It’s a newspaper article, more than a decade old, folded and creased. Not a copy. Not a printout. The actual newsprint article from the paper. A familiar face stares at me from the grainy images; ink transfers to my fingers.