Missing You Page 4

  And I would probably never, ever know what it was he’d done that had got him put on probation in the first place.

  “So a week ago, I picked her up from her mom’s place in Indianapolis,” Rob went on. “And Hannah came to stay with me. And everything was great. I mean, it was like we’d grown up together and never been apart, you know? We both like the same stuff—cars and bikes and The Simpsons and Spider-Man and Italian food and fireworks and…I mean, it was great. It was really great.”

  For the first time since we’d sat down, Rob’s hands stilled. They lay flat on the table as he looked at me and said, “Then day before yesterday, I woke up, and she was gone. Just…gone. Her bed hadn’t been slept in. All of her stuff is still in her room. Her mom hasn’t heard from her. The cops can’t find a trace of her. She’s just. Gone.”

  “And you thought of me,” I said.

  “And I thought of you,” Rob said.

  “But I don’t do that anymore,” I said. “Find people, I mean.”

  “I know,” Rob said. “At least, I know that’s what you tell the press. But, Jess. I mean…you used to tell the press that before. To get them off your back. When they wouldn’t let you alone, and it was upsetting Doug. And then again, later, when the government was after you to come work for them. You pretended then, too—”

  “Yeah,” I interrupted him. Maybe a little too loudly, since the couple who’d just walked in looked over at us, kind of funny, like What’s up with them? I lowered my voice. “But this time it’s not pretend. I really don’t do that anymore. I can’t.”

  Rob regarded me unblinkingly from across the table.

  “That’s not what Doug said,” he informed me.

  “Douglas?” I couldn’t believe this. “What does Douglas think he knows about it? You think my brother Douglas knows more than the thirty thousand shrinks the army sent me to, to try to get it back? You think Douglas is some kind of posttraumatic stress expert? Douglas works in a comic-book store, Rob. I love him, but he doesn’t know anything about this.”

  “He might know more,” Rob said, looking completely unaffected by my rather impassioned speech, “about you than the shrinks the army sent you to.”

  “Yeah,” I snapped. “Well, you’re wrong. I’m done, okay? And this time, it’s for real. It’s not just a put-on to get me out of the war. I’m out. I’m sorry about your sister. I wish there was something I could do. And I’m sorry if Douglas misled you. You shouldn’t have come all this way. If you’d called instead, I could have just told you over the phone.”

  And spared myself having to see you again, just when I’d thought I’d finally gotten over you.

  “But if I’d called instead I wouldn’t have been able to give you this,” Rob said, and reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. I wasn’t exactly surprised when he pulled out a photo—one of those school portraits taken on picture day—of a young girl who looked a lot like him. Except that she had braces and multicolored hair. I mean it. She’d dyed her hair, like, four different colors, blue, hot pink, purple, and a sort of Bart Simpson yellow.

  “That’s Hannah,” Rob said as I took the picture from him. “She just turned fifteen.”

  I looked down at Hannah, the girl who was responsible for bringing Rob back to me.

  But not, of course, because that’s where he wanted to be. I knew the score. He was only back because of her.

  And because, according to him, he and I are still friends.

  “Rob,” I said. I think at that moment I kind of hated him. “I told you. There’s nothing I can do for her. For you. I’m sorry.”

  “Right.” Rob nodded. “You said that. Look, Jess. I don’t know what you went through during the—” He caught himself before he could say the W word and changed it to “—year before last. When you were…overseas. I can’t even pretend to be able to imagine what it was like for you over there. From what Doug says, when you got back—”

  I glanced up at him sharply. I was going to kill Douglas. I really was. What had gone on in our house after I’d gotten back—night terrors, the doctors had called them—was my business. No one else’s. Douglas had no right to go around talking about them. Do I discuss Douglas’s mental state with his exes? Well, no, because he has no exes. He’s still going steady with a neighbor girl, Tasha Thompkins, whom he’s been seeing for almost three years now, while she’s taking classes at Indiana University and traveling back and forth every weekend to see him.

  But if Douglas had had an ex, I wouldn’t have discussed his private anguish with her. No way.

  Rob must have noticed the angry flush I’m sure was suffusing my face, since he said in a gentle voice, covering my hand that held his sister’s picture, “Hey. Don’t blame Doug. I asked, okay? When you came back, you were so…you were—” He nodded at the small cactus sitting on the windowsill, amid more chili-pepper lights. “You were like that plant. Covered in prickles. You wouldn’t let anybody get anywhere near you—”

  “How would you know?” I demanded, angrily snatching my hand away and letting the picture drop to the middle of the table. “You were so busy with Miss-Thanks-for-Fixing-My-Carburetor, I’m surprised you even noticed.”

  “Hey,” he said, looking wounded. “Take it easy. I told you—”

  “Let’s cut to the chase here, Rob,” I said, my voice shaking. Because I was so angry, I told myself. That was the only reason. “You want me to find your sister. Fine. I can’t find her. I can’t find anyone. Now you know. It’s not a lie. It’s not a stunt to get people off my back. It’s real. I’m not Lightning Girl anymore. But don’t try to snow me with fake sympathy. It’s not necessary, and it won’t work.”

  Clearly stung, Rob blinked at me from across the table. “My sympathy,” Rob said, “isn’t fake, Jess. I don’t know how you could say that to me, after everything we’ve been through toge—”

  “Don’t even start,” I said, holding up a single hand, palm out, in the universal sign for Stop. Or Tell It to the Hand. “You only seem to remember everything we’ve been through when you want something from me. The rest of the time, you seem to forget it all conveniently enough.”

  Rob opened his mouth to say something—probably to deny it—but he didn’t get the chance, since Ann came up to the table and asked, sounding concerned, “Everything all right here, guys?”

  I noticed the only other couple in the place was glancing at us surreptitiously from behind their menus. I guess our conversation HAD gotten pretty heated.

  “Everything’s great,” I said miserably. “Can we just get the check?”

  “Sure,” Ann said. “Be right back.”

  The minute she was gone, Rob leaned forward and, elbows on the table—his knees brushing mine beneath it and his fingers just inches from where mine lay by the picture of his sister—said in a low voice, “Jess, I understand that you went through hell the year before last. I understand that you were under unbelievable pressure and that you saw things no one your age—or any age—should have seen. I think it’s incredible that you were able to come back and lead a life that bears any semblance to normalcy. I admire that you didn’t crack up completely.”

  Here his voice dropped even lower.

  “But there is one undeniable fact that you seem to be overlooking about yourself, Jess, that apparently everyone but you can see: You came back from wherever you were broken.”

  I sucked in my breath, but he went right on talking, right over me.

  “You heard me,” he said. “And I’m not talking about the fact that you can’t find people anymore. I’m talking about YOU. Whatever it is you saw out there—it broke you. Those people—the government—used you until they had everything they wanted from you—until you had nothing else to give—and then they cut you loose, with a thank-you and smile. And you came back. But let’s not kid ourselves here: You came back broken. And you won’t let anyone near enough to try to help you. I’m not talking about shrinks, either. I’m talking about the people who love yo
u.”

  Again I tried to interrupt. Again, he stopped me.

  “And you know what?” he said. “That’s fine. You’ve rescued so many people, you think you’re above letting anyone try to rescue you? That’s fine, too. Rescue yourself, then…if you can. But let’s get one thing straight: You may have been able to find missing people at one time. But you were never a mind reader. So don’t presume to tell me what I’m thinking and feeling, when you really have no earthly idea what’s going on inside my head.”

  He leaned back as Ann approached with the check.

  I stared down at the photo sitting between us on the tabletop, not really seeing it, I was so blinded by anger. That’s what I told myself, anyway. That I was angry. How dare he? I mean, seriously, where did he get off? Broken? Me? I wasn’t broken.

  Messed up. Sure. I was messed up. Who wouldn’t be after a year of basically no sleep, because every time I shut my eyes, I heard and saw things I really never wanted to hear or see again.

  But not letting anyone try to help me? No. No, I had let people help me. The people who really cared about me, anyway. Wasn’t that what I was doing, working with Ruth on her inner-city arts program? Wasn’t that what letting Mike live with us was all about? Those things were helping me. I was beginning to sleep again. Most nights, all the way through.

  No. No, I’m not broken. The part of me that used to be able to find people, maybe. But not ME.

  Because if that were true—what he was saying—then the past twelve months of coldness between us—Rob and me, I mean—were…what? MY fault?

  No. No, that wasn’t possible.

  Rob was fishing through his wallet for a couple of bills to pay the check. He wasn’t looking at me. Instead, he stared out the window at a guy in a Sherlock Holmes outfit who was walking his pug. We see this guy a lot on our street. We call him the Sherlock Holmes Guy. Hey, it’s New York City. It takes all kinds.

  If Rob noticed the tweed hat with the ear-warmers and the curved wooden pipe, he didn’t mention it. His strong jaw was set, as if to guard against saying anything more. He’d taken his jean jacket off, because the air-conditioning at Blue Moon wasn’t the best. I couldn’t help noticing the way the round curves of his biceps disappeared into the sleeves of his black tee.

  No one at Juilliard has biceps like that. Not even the tuba players.

  “I gotta go,” I said in a strangled voice, and stood up so fast, I knocked my chair over.

  Rob looked surprised. “You’re going?” he asked. And his gaze fell to the picture in my hand.

  Yeah. I’d picked it up. Don’t ask me why.

  “I’ve got stuff to do,” I said, starting for the door. “I have to practice. If I want to be first chair in the fall, I mean.”

  Rob knit his brows. “But—” Then he glanced at my face. And stood up as well. “All right, Jess. Whatever you say. Just…look. I don’t want there to be any hard feelings between us, okay? What I said—I didn’t say it to hurt you.”

  I nodded. “No hard feelings,” I said. “And…I’m sorry I can’t help you. About your sister, I mean. I’m sorry I can’t…” Can’t what? Be his girlfriend anymore? See, that’s just it. He hadn’t ASKED me to be his girlfriend.

  He never had.

  “I’m just sorry,” I said.

  Then I left the restaurant just as fast as I could.

  Five

  “Are you kidding me?” was what Ruth demanded, after I’d told her—in the privacy of our bedroom, since I didn’t want Mike and Skip to overhear—what Rob had come to New York for. “Find his long-lost sister? He has some nerve, after the way he treated you.”

  “How did he treat me?” I asked. Because at this point, I was so confused, I didn’t know what to think anymore.

  “How did he treat you?” Ruth looked shocked. “Jess, he was making out with some other woman the last time you saw him.”

  “Not the last time I saw him,” I said. “The last time I saw him, I was spying on him from the back of your car.”

  “I meant the time before that,” Ruth said.

  “The time before that, I told him we needed to take a break.”

  “And,” Ruth said meaningfully.

  “And,” I echoed. “And what?”

  “And he let you.” She was perched on the end of her mattress, her blond curls framed by the purple sari she’d draped over the head of her bed, to give the room more “elegance.” Though how you could hope to lend elegance to a room that was literally like, six feet by twelve feet, with a single window over which we’d had a metal gate installed so burglars couldn’t get in, and more than its fair share of cockroach sightings, I don’t know.

  “He only did what I asked,” I pointed out. “Look, he’s not such a bad guy. I mean, I was head over heels in love with him in high school. He could have taken advantage of that. But he never did.”

  “Because he didn’t want to go to jail,” Ruth said.

  I grimaced. “Thanks for that.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Jess,” she said. “What do you want me to say? He was a great guy? A perfect catch? He wasn’t. And I don’t care if he owns his own business now. He’s still the guy who let you walk away when you needed him most.”

  “He says he tried,” I said. “He says I was like a cactus when I got back, covered in prickles, and wouldn’t let anyone near me. Plus, you know…there was Mom.”

  That’s the nice thing about having a best friend. You don’t have to elaborate. Ruth knew exactly what I meant.

  “If he really cared about you,” she said, “he wouldn’t have minded the prickles. Or your mom.”

  I thought about that. The thing is, I wasn’t sure. Both, I imagined, would have seemed plenty formidable—especially to a guy like Rob, who for so much of his life, didn’t have much of anything…except his pride.

  Which I’m pretty sure both my stubborn independence and my mom’s disdain for him had injured…maybe even beyond repair.

  Although…

  “He says I’m the one who’s broken,” I murmured. “He says no one can fix me but myself, because I won’t let anyone rescue me.”

  “Oh, so now he’s a psychiatrist? What’s he been doing for the past year?” Ruth asked with a sneer. “Watching Oprah?”

  I sighed, then flopped back against my own mattress, which was covered with a nondescript brown bedspread from Third Street Bazaar. I had done nothing to lend more elegance to the room. The part of the wall above my bed was blank. I stared at the cracked, peeling ceiling.

  “I just thought,” I said to the cracks in the ceiling more than to Ruth, “that coming here would make me happy.”

  “Aren’t you happy?” Ruth asked. “You seemed happy today, when you were showing that kid how to breathe from his diaphragm.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That part makes me happy. But school…” I let my voice trail off.

  “No one likes school,” Ruth said.

  “You do.”

  “Yeah, but I’m a freak. Ask Mike. Well, okay, he’s a freak, too.” I restrained myself from pointing out that Ruth and Mike seemed to have a lot in common these days. I mean, they had both been übergeeks in high school who had “found” themselves—their true selves—in college.

  And I would have to have been blind to miss the surreptitious looks I sometimes saw Mike shooting Ruth when she was in a cami and cutoffs, trying to beat the New York heat. Not to mention the looks she sometimes shot him when he came out of the bathroom with just a towel on, or whatever.

  It was kind of revolting, actually. I mean, my brother and my best friend. Yuck.

  But hey, if it made them happy…

  “Skip,” Ruth said brightly. “He hates school.”

  “Because school is just something he has to get through,” I said, “until he can start pulling in that hundred grand a year.”

  “True,” Ruth said with a sigh. “But I’m just saying. Most people don’t like school, Jess. It’s a necessary evil you have to live through, to get you w
here you want to be in life.”

  “But that’s just it,” I said. “I don’t know where I want to be. And what little clue I do have…well, it doesn’t involve playing in an orchestra, let’s just say.”

  “But you like to teach,” she said. “I know you do, Jess. And having a degree from Juilliard will look a lot better for that than having no degree at all.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  I knew she was right. And the fact was, I was living many a musician’s dream. I was in New York City, attending one of the finest music colleges in the world. I had instructors who were internationally famous for their skills. I spent all day immersed in the music I loved, doing what I loved doing best—playing my flute.

  I should have been happy. I had seized the opportunity when it came along, because I knew it was the kind of opportunity that should have made me happy.

  So why wasn’t I?

  There was a tap on the door, and Ruth said, “Come in.”

  Mike poked his head in.

  “Is this a private party,” he asked, “or can anybody join?”

  Ruth glanced at me. I said, “Come in, stay out, whatever. I don’t care.”

  Mike came in. I saw him avert his gaze from Ruth’s jewel-tone bra, which lay draped across the radiator. I saw her notice him notice it, and blush.

  Oh, for God’s sake, I wanted to groan. Would you two just Do It already, and spare the rest of us?

  “So Skip and I were just talking,” Mike said, and I noticed that Skip had crept in behind him.

  “Yeah,” Skip said. “And if you want us to, Jess, we’ll beat him up for you.”

  I regarded the two of them from where I was sprawled across my bed.

  “You two are volunteering to beat up Rob Wilkins?”

  “Yeah,” Skip said.

  “Well, not beat him up, exactly,” Mike said, darting a look at Skip. “But have a word with him. Tell him to leave you alone. If you want.”