When We Believed in Mermaids(22)

At the very last minute, she answers, breathless. “Kit! I’m here!”

“You’re there? At my house?”

A slight beat of quiet. She knows I don’t trust her. “I’m here, Kit. I was just out in the backyard watering your plants and forgot I left my phone inside.”

“Did Hobo come outside with you?”

“Oh, no. He hasn’t even come out from under the bed.”

My stomach squeezes. I can see his black face so clearly, his tufted toes. “You slept there?”

“Yes. I swear. He is eating and using the litter box when I leave. I think he peed on your tennis shoes, though. You left them by the door.”

“He’s probably claiming me. Keep your stuff in the closet.”

“I am. We’re fine, Kitten.” The nickname is rare, and sweet enough. “Promise. I’ve had a cat or two in my life.”

“Okay.”

“It’s only been a couple of days. He’ll be fine.”

“Just make absolutely sure he doesn’t get out. I don’t want him to come looking for me.”

“I promise,” she says in a very reasonable voice, and I realize I’m freaking out a little over a situation I can’t control.

Shocking.

I take a breath and let it go. “Okay. I believe you.”

“Thanks. Now tell me about everything. What’s it like? Is it beautiful?”

I walk back to the sliding door and pull it open, letting in a waft of muggy air, and step out to the concrete balcony eighteen stories above the street. “It’s amazing. The water and the hills and these strange trees—it’s gorgeous. I’ll send you some pictures later today.”

“I’d love that.” Instead of rushing in with questions or comments, she waits for me to keep talking, a listening trick she learned at AA that would have made my childhood ten thousand times better.

“I visited the nightclub site,” I say. “It’s hard to imagine what she would have been doing there, honestly. It seems like a club that was frequented by very young Asians, not middle-aged white ladies.”

“Oh, she’d hardly be considered middle-aged.”

I raise my eyebrows. “If she’s really still alive, she’s almost forty-three. Once you cross the line of forty, I think you have to admit to middle-aged.”

She makes a dismissive noise, and I hear her light a cigarette. The cigarettes she thinks I don’t know she smokes. “Well, what’s the next step?”

“I honestly have no idea.”

“Maybe you could take a picture around to the businesses in the area. Ask if anybody knows her.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“Crime TV has its uses.”

I laugh. “Well, if you come up with more tips, feel free to text. This is not exactly my forte.”

“If anyone can find her, you can,” she says.

“What if I don’t?”

“Then you don’t,” she says firmly. “All you can do is try.”

Across the immense miles, I hear a blue jay cawing in my backyard in California. It reminds me acutely that I am a very, very long way from home with no one but myself to keep me company. The loneliness of being unmoored from my little patch of geography, without the cat and—okay, I admit it—the mother I am used to seeing every day is stinging. “I will do my best,” I say. “Please keep trying with Hobo. He needs love.”

“I will. I bought him some tuna last night, and he did stick his nose out to get some.”

I laugh. “Good idea. Thanks, Mom. I’ll call you soon.”



I settle cross-legged on the bed with a cup of tea on a tray. The cups in the apartment are tiny, and I will need to buy a mug somewhere today. I saw a Starbucks on my travels, but it seems kind of pathetic to visit a brand I know perfectly well when I’m seven thousand miles from home.

Opening my laptop, I bring up a map of the area around the nightclub and scan the names of the shops in the buildings nearby. I’d already seen that it was an area of high tourist volume, with cafés and restaurants of all kinds and shops full of postcards and T-shirts. But off to one side is a shopping area that looks more upscale, the Britomart, and it seems to have a higher grade of restaurants, coffee shops, boutiques, and such things. Would that be Josie’s kind of place?

It’s hard to even imagine who she’d be now. As emotion—anger and fear and a weird sense of hope—starts to gurgle low in my gut, I don my scientific hat. How do you age a person who actually faked her own death and started fresh in a faraway land? Why did she do it? What has she done with the new life? How might she have spent the past decade and a half?

Sipping my tea, I watch a cleaning crew vacuum a floor full of offices in a building across the way. Ponder the possibilities.

One of the last times I saw Josie, she’d come to visit me in San Francisco. I was in med school, studying day and night, and she blew into town the way she always did, calling me on a pay phone from somewhere near the beach. “Can we get together?”

I close my eyes. It had been at least six or eight months since she’d been in town, but I didn’t have time. She would want to party all night and eat everything in my meager kitchen and then go out to get more takeout and she’d expect me to pay, even though I had zero money and mostly ate baked potatoes with whatever crappy leftover veggies I could find on special at the supermarket, or else ramen noodles by the truckload. “I’m on rotations, Josie.”