Figure Eight Read online

  Lately, I’ve been giving you a lot of thought. Scratch that. You’re all I think about. I’ve been trying to figure out where and when everything went wrong. There’s not one single moment, more like a collective group of them that piled on top of one other. Those moments gave you sadness and pain. Sometimes happiness. You could combine them all together and they still wouldn’t compare to your depression.

  Until you, I’d never really had much experience with her. She always seemed like a formidable opponent, but one that could easily be beaten.

  I was so wrong.

  Depression leaves claw marks on everyone she touches. Deep wounds that leave jagged scars. You couldn’t see her but I did. Yesterday as you stood there surrounded by books, she crept up on you very slowly. Her body touched yours the same time her elbows rested on your shoulders. She threaded her fingers through your hair and you visibly shivered. Her hands curled around your skull and when she had a solid grip her fingernails turned into talons and sank into your flesh. She filled your mind with dark venom. It coursed through your veins and I was certain that if I cut you open your blood would be black.

  You started to feel helpless to the worthlessness you were feeling. Depression started to smile. But she wasn’t done; your heart hadn’t been touched yet, and that’s what she really wanted. You started to shake. Tears started to pool in your eyes. Then I watched in fascination as your hands curled into fists. You took a step forward. Depression screamed as she lost her grip. She was so fucking close to stealing your soul. So close.

  But you won this round.

  Once again you made me proud.

  You walked out of that bookstore, even though you didn’t want to. You walked to your car even though you didn’t have any destination. You put the car in drive and headed in the direction of home even though you didn’t want to, because memories of your mother were waiting there.

  Well, if you think where you live is bad, you should see the space I occupy. I know no one here. It’s small and dark. The windows are so small, I can barely see outside, and when I do there’s nothing but darkness. The rooms are so empty that when I talk all that echoes back at me is my own voice. Where I live would drive any sane person crazy.

  Why do that to yourself? you ask.

  Good question.

  The answer is: I do it for you. Especially right now, when you’re so vulnerable. Jackson is gone just when you need him the most. And your mom is nowhere to be found. You are so, so lost you don’t know which way is up or down. You’re getting no sleep so there are bags under your eyes.

  There’s no fucking way I’m leaving now. You need me so much more than you know. You’re desperate, afraid. The worst part is that you’re so terrified of being alone that you’re clinging to anything that comes your way.

  Remember this: you’re a pretty fucking smart girl so don’t make a dumb choice by being oblivious. Please open your eyes so you can see the storm on the horizon. The clouds are rolling in. Bolts of lightning are starting to strike.

  You know what it is? Time. And it’s bearing down on you. It wants to devour you. You have to take cover.

  Shit. Now you’re starting to cry. Please don’t. Wipe away those tears; you’re starting to hurt me.

  If I give you another present, will you try to be happy again? I know I can’t be harsh with you, but I’m quickly running out of ideas.

  If you’re scared just imagine how I feel.

  But please, don’t be greedy with this gift; it’s all I’ve got. After this there is nothing left.

  “I STILL DON’T understand how I can possibly contribute to… all this.”

  “You knew Selah before she came back home,” I reply. “It’s imperative that you describe her last few days in Kansas City. It will show another side of her that no one else knew about.”

  Meghan squirms awkwardly in her seat as she soaks in my words. It’s evident she doesn’t want to be here but at the same time she agreed to the interview so she clearly has something to say.

  Meghan licks her lips. “I’m telling you up front: I don’t want to put Selah in a bad light.”

  The crew and I get it: she’s Team Selah. Meghan Bure is the principal of the last school that Selah taught at in Kansas City, Kansas. I contacted her through the school website, expecting to hear back from her but I never did. I finally gave up and called the school. I got her secretary and after calling her numerous times, Meghan called me back. Initially, she was cold but polite. You could hear in her tone there was no way in hell she’d agree to an interview in any capacity. It was only when I told her that the world needed to see the many facets of Selah’s life that she finally gave me the okay.

  Meghan had family in Springfield, IL so they would make a weekend trip out of the whole thing. When she stepped into the room I was initially shocked because her voice on the phone was strong and confident. In person, she’s mousy and lean. It looks like she belongs in a library, alphabetically putting books away. Her golden hair is pin straight and pulled halfway up. Save some chapstick, her face is completely bare of makeup. She’s wearing a blue sundress and a white cardigan, as though she knew that the hotel would be too cold for her delicate self. She reminds me of Miss Honey from Matilda—a movie that my daughter loves.

  “Can you promise me that you won’t edit me in a bad light?” Meghan asks. “I don’t want to upset Selah’s family.”

  “I promise,” I say for the billionth time. Both the crew and I are starting to get restless. We’ve been at this for an hour and every time we ask a question that’s even remotely incriminating for Selah, she stiffens up. “I respect your feelings about Selah, but at the same time we want to give the viewers an honest portrayal.”

  She mules over my reply for a moment before she finally nods.

  Before she can change her mind, we take twenty. The clapperboard snaps. The camera focuses on Meghan.

  “Would you say that you had a good relationship with Selah?” I ask.

  “Outside of school? I suppose. There were a few times we’d have coffee together. But we weren’t incredibly close.”

  “How was she as a teacher?”

  Meghan faintly smiles and looks down at the floor. “With the kids? She was wonderful. She was only there for three years but she made a lasting impact on the kids. Students from previous years would always drop by her room and say hi. I think she was definitely more comfortable with the students than with the adults. Around me and fellow teachers she would turn shy and keep to herself. It took her a long time to come out of her shell.”

  “She sounds like an amazing teacher.”

  “She was,” Meghan agrees. “And I would’ve loved to keep her as a teacher at Notre Dame de Sion, but things started to become strange.”

  “How so?”

  Meghan takes a deep breath. “Selah was sometimes incredibly depressed. It started getting worse around November. She’d eat lunch in her room. Hardly spoke to the teachers, became very distant. This went on for months. She lost a lot of weight and when I asked her about it, she just laughed. Said that she’d hardly lost anything. She was lying. I knew it.”

  Meghan leans forward in her seat. “In fact, the teachers and I were thinking about staging an intervention, but—”

  “So what else did she do that you found alarming?” I cut in quickly; Meghan’s getting off track.

  “She would flip like a coin. One moment she’d be energetic and have all these amazing ideas and field trips that she wanted to take her class on. And she’d talk real fast. So fast you could barely make sense of what she was saying. And then, on several occasions I would find her crying at her desk during free time. Last December I decided it was time we had a talk.”

  “What did that talk entail?”

  “I never got the chance. During Christmas break she said she was moving back to her hometown. Something about going home to clear her head.”

  “So that’s it? She just up and quit?”

  “Yep.”

  “I
n your personal opinion, what was wrong with Selah?”

  Meghan hesitates. “I’m not entirely sure. It’s obvious she was depressed, though to what degree it’s hard to say. I tried to keep in contact with her but her phone was turned off. It was through another teacher that I found out she’d officially moved back home. When I heard the devastating news… my heart broke. It had me thinking that I could’ve done something to help her. Maybe I could’ve encouraged her to see a doctor and then she would’ve stayed in Kansas City. And…” her voice slowly fades away.

  I give her a sympathetic smile. “I don’t think there was a thing that anyone could’ve done to stop what was about to happen.”

  “Really?” Meghan asks, her voice a bit desperate. “Because I think about it all the time.”

  I motion for cut and Meghan sags in her chair as if she’s just finished a marathon. “Was I okay?”

  “You did good. We might ask you some more questions but—”

  Meghan sits up straight. “What kind of questions?”

  “Don’t worry. They’re standard questions: your name, age, things like that.”

  She nods with relief but I notice that the she’s looking a little pale.

  “Do you want some water before we start filming again?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  She doesn’t look fine. Her hands are curled tightly around the armrests and her left leg is bobbing up and down.

  “Hey. Are you okay?” I ask.

  Meghan’s mouth opens and closes before she finally says, “I could’ve helped her. I know it. And I know we weren’t incredibly close but she would’ve listened. She was crying out for help, and I didn’t do a thing.” Meghan looks at me, her eyes a bit wild. “She haunts me. I know it sound impossible but it’s true. All of this could’ve been stopped.”

  “IT’S GONNA BE another rainy one out there, Liz.”

  “I know! I wasn’t sure if I should travel to work by car or boat,” teases the female radio personality.

  “Oh, shut up,” I say to the radio and quickly change the station.

  I flick my windshield wipers to the highest level possible. My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. For me, there’s nothing better than a good rainstorm, but even this idiosyncratic bout of thunderstorms is starting to become tiresome to me.

  According to the forecast, there will be a small lull. Long enough for some of the roads to clear up and the sun to timidly peak out of the sky. But then it’s supposed to start back up again, and so will the long blue streak that runs across the TV, listing the counties with flash flood warnings. Which is almost every one from here to Springfield.

  There’s still time for me to stock up on what I need in case it gets really bad. But first I have something more pressing to do.

  I drive toward the police department intent on talking to someone about the video surveillance equipment I found in Mom’s closet. I’ve tried numerous times to call the detective who came out to the house a week ago but he wasn’t picking up. It’s now March 19th and I think that I deserve some sort of update. I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown if I don’t get answers about Mom and Jackson.

  I’m going to make sure someone sees that man in the video. More than anything I need validation; up until now, everyone, including Noah, thinks that Mom left on her own accord. There was obviously foul play involved and surely that video proves it. My gut twists at the thought. All I can think about are the what if’s. It’s driving me insane.

  I park my car outside the police department, double-check my purse to make sure that I have the disc with the video surveillance on it and open my car door. I put my purse over my head and run toward the front door.

  My knowledge of police stations stems from Law and Order. I expect to see people bustling in and out the door, the phone ringing off the hook. But it’s not like that. It’s quieter than I pictured. A few officers work behind desks and the phone does ring but for the most part it looks like an office—if everyone in an office carried guns.

  A man behind the front desk lifts his head the second I walk through the door.

  “Can I help you?” he asks dully, like the last thing he wants to hear is what I have to say.

  I rush forward. “I need to speak with…” It takes me a second to remember the older detective’s name. “Tim.”

  “Tim who?” he replies.

  Shit. I can’t remember what his last name was. My mouth opens and closes. Then, out of the corner of my eye I see just the man I’m looking for.

  “Hey! You!” I shout. “Tim!”

  He turns around frowning. When he sees it’s me his face slightly relaxes. “Ms. Kerrington. Why am I not surprised to see you here?”

  I hurry toward him. “Maybe it’s because you haven’t answered any of my calls.”

  He hurries his pace down the hall. Little does this motherfucker know, I plan on stalking him until he looks at the video. He gestures to the load of paperwork in his hands.

  “As you can see we’re very busy here.” He walks around a desk and dramatically lets the stack of paperwork heavily fall onto the desk before he sits down.

  “Well, I’ve been busy too.” I drop the disc onto his desk.

  He frowns and leans forward in his chair. “What’s this?”

  “Footage from a home surveillance camera that my mom had set up in her closet.” I quickly sit down on one of the chairs across from his desk. “It shows a man walking up to the front door. When no one answers he walks around the back and approaches the back door.” I gesture to the disc. “Go ahead. Look at it.”

  Tim stares at me for a long moment before he drags a hand over his face and sighs. “Sure, Ms. Kerrington. Let’s have a look. Shall we?”

  He pops the disc in and I smirk; I know he’s humoring me but in a few seconds I’ll have the last laugh. The image of the man appears. I’ve stared over and over at and it still gives me chills.

  My eyes volley between the computer screen and the detective’s face. He stares intently at the screen and watches the man with the scrutiny that I was longing for. Hope starts to blossom in my chest. Perhaps he’s going to realize that I was telling the truth after all and start taking me seriously. Perhaps he’ll launch a full investigation and search for Mom.

  The video cuts out and I sit up straight in my chair. The detective hands the disc over. He’s quiet for a few seconds before he looks me in the eye.

  “Do you know what I see?” I arch a brow and wait for him to continue. “I see a suspicious man trying break in and then the footage cutting out.”

  “So you suspect foul play with my mother?” I ask anxiously.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  And just like that my hope disappears. I stare at him, my disappointment surely written all over my face.

  “He’s not caught breaking in.”

  “But… but he’s trespassing!” I say, but even I know my argument sounds weak.

  The officer leans back in his chair and links his fingers behind his head. His pot belly spills over his pants. The buttons on his shirt strain to remain intact. “True, but do you know how many people trespass onto property that’s not theirs on a daily basis?”

  “No,” I say quietly.

  “Too many to count.” He sits forward in his chair and looks me in the eye. His face softens. “Ms. Kerrington, I think it’s in your best interest to let this go.”

  “How can you say that? My mom’s missing!”

  “You don’t know that and some video of a guy trespassing doesn’t prove that.”

  “So that’s it?”

  I’m so angry I can’t think straight. I want to jump across the desk and choke the life out of him.

  “For now I’m afraid so. Now if you don’t mind I need to get back to more pressing issues.”

  I can’t believe it. He’s really giving up on Mom before her investigation ever had a chance to begin. If it were one of his own family members missing I bet he would feel differently.

 
; I slowly stand up, my gaze rooted to the disc. I place it back on the desk. “You should keep this; I’ve made more copies. I know you don’t believe that something happened to my mom, but you’re wrong.” I tap the disc with my index finger. “This video is proof. If I have to search for her all by myself I will. I’m not giving up.”

  My eyes remain locked on his. I wait for him to reply but he stays quiet.

  Fuck him and fuck his silence.

  I turn around and walk back to my car.

  I’M STILL SEETHING when I park my car outside of a Wal-Mart. I pull up my hood before I get out of the car. The rain feels like cold, heavy needles hitting against my skin. I squint and run like everyone else toward the store.

  There are two Wal-Marts around Decatur. I go to the one near Mt. Zion. Today it’s a madhouse because when there’s a flash warning for anything in the Midwest people flip out and stock their shelves with everything you can think of. As for me I’m a woman on a mission, bypassing the rows and rows of food and crowds of irritable people.

  While I drove here I started to formulate a solid plan for how to search for Mom. I’ll put out fliers, asking random strangers if they’ve seen her. I’ll staple the ‘Missing’ fliers onto poles. I’ll search in the woods around Wildwood. I’ll swallow my pride and knock on every door in Wildwood and ask if they’ve seen Mom.

  And I won’t quit until I get more answers—I know they’re out there. I found the video footage out of nowhere. Imagine what else is waiting for me. I tell myself that it’s going to be okay because at least I have Jackson. It takes me a few seconds to remember that I don’t.

  Two days ago I took Noah’s advice and logged onto JustWrite and sent Jackson a message. I haven’t gotten a reply. I might get a terse ‘Fuck off,’ in reply but at least then I’ll know he’s alive. Any reply is better than silence.