Charlie, Presumed Dead

It takes me less than a minute to flag a taxi. I slide into the back seat and ask if the driver knows English. He makes a “so-so” gesture with his hands, so I hold up my finger and say, “Just a minute.” The clock on his dash reads three minutes past midnight. It’s the day when Lena is supposed to die. I find myself squirming in the back seat as I wait.

 

Three more minutes go by and I tell myself to calm down. Lena’s probably adjusting her mascara or something—knowing her, she’s had a spare tube in her back pocket this whole time. I smile to myself as I picture her making her way through our misadventures in Kerala and Bangkok, mascara intact. But as much as I tell myself that things are okay, I can’t stop feeling antsy. It doesn’t help that the driver is sighing and glancing in the rearview mirror every few seconds. At ten past midnight, I ask him to wait while I step out.

 

“I’ll pay you a good tip,” I tell him, wondering how in the heck I’m going to find extra tip money. I can’t shake my increasing sense of foreboding. I push back into the bar, which has become more crowded in the last ten minutes. I make my way to the single-cell bathroom; there’s a line leading up to it. People are shifting restlessly, and one person, annoyed, knocks on the door. I shove in front of all of them. At least one person yells something in Thai, but I ignore it. I pound on the door, hard. I’m nervous, truly nervous. My heart beats wildly, and my whole body is poised to react to whatever I might find in there. I wonder if I’ve been stupid—if Lena took something other than alcohol. If she’s overdosed.

 

I pound more and jiggle the doorknob. The people behind me are less angry and more curious now. I’m about to try kicking down the door. I look all around for someone who might have a key and rack my brain about how I’m going to convey to them why I need to break into the bathroom—and then the doorknob moves and the door creaks open.

 

An angry-looking tourist steps out.

 

“Dude, learn to wait your turn,” he snaps. “If you weren’t a chick, I’d punch you in the face right now.” I push past him anyway, cutting the line in order to do a thorough check of the room. It’s empty. There’s no Lena. I dash back out of the room, and my heart is pounding as I scour the bar. There are so many people in here now, but there’s no sign of Lena. I find a barstool and climb on top of it, holding on to a stranger’s shoulder for support.

 

The guy I’m holding on to thinks I’m going to start dancing or something; he cups his hands around his mouth and whistles. A few others group around and start to wave their fists in the air like I’m some sort of sideshow act. I feel my panic rise higher. I ignore them and scan the rest of the crowd. She’s nowhere. She’s nowhere even though technically it would be easy to disappear in here. Not for her, though: with her white-blond hair, she couldn’t disappear if she tried.

 

Ten more minutes have passed, and one look out the window tells me my driver has already taken off. “Have you seen my friend?” I shout at the bartender, hoping he speaks English.

 

“Blond girl?” he says back, and I nod eagerly, my heart lifting. “Nope.” He shakes his head. “Haven’t seen her.”

 

It’s clear by now that Lena isn’t in the bar. It occurs to me that maybe I’ve missed her, maybe she’s on the sidewalk waiting for me; so I run back out into the night. The temperature has dropped and people mill around, bartering with beer vendors, waving glow sticks. No Lena. I sit on the sidewalk and rest my head on my knees, trying not to lose it.

 

I breathe. I think.

 

I decide to wait a while longer. I wait and wait and feel myself giving in to my terror and the stress of first searching for Charlie, then running from him. It’s hard not to feel helpless without Lena next to me; I’m so used to her knowing what to do next.

 

A man approaches me, and at first I recoil; but then he squats down until our eyes are level. I can’t tell how much time has passed. His face is lined with concern. “Miss? Are you okay?” I nod slowly. “Do you have anywhere to go?”

 

His question triggers something, the part of me that still remembers how to act in an emergency. I do have somewhere to go. The airport. I rummage through my bag and gulp a mouthful of air when my hand closes around my passport. Folded inside is my plane ticket. Lena’s got hers, wherever she is. “What time is it?” I ask the guy.

 

“One fifteen.”

 

“I’m fine.” I thank him, rising to my feet. I’m overcome by a surge of purpose. Lena may have gone straight to the airport when she didn’t see me waiting. She’s probably been there, looking for me, all this time.