I remember those crazy blue eyes and her small nose that seemed almost too perfect, even for her symmetrical face. She also had these imperfect clusters of freckles running alongside her cheeks and up between her eyes, which she tried to cover with makeup. That, and her hair looked like it was made from a combination of chocolate and caramel. She was so unique with her contrasting features, yet perfect at the same time. That version of Isabelle is incredibly different than the one I believe I’m standing behind.
I caught a glimpse of her while turning down one of the aisles in this small mart. The familiarity struck me like an electric shock, but I’ve been wrong before. I grabbed a pack of gum and stepped into the checkout line where she was waiting. She turned and looked over her shoulder, appearing nervous as if someone were after her. It gave me the chance to notice the marbled blues in her eyes and that overly perfect nose. Her freckles, though, they’re prominent—not covered by makeup at all, and her hair is jet black without the hints of auburn. The woman I remember never wore her hair up once in the three months I sat beside her in class. So, I’m having trouble understanding how she, if it is, in fact, her, looks so much like Isabelle Hammel, yet she could pass as a completely different woman.
Isabelle was not only clean cut and perfect, but she also had more intelligence than anyone I had met before. I must be wrong again—people can look alike. Though, after searching for Isabelle for almost a year, I can't cross this chick off my list until I'm sure whether she is or isn't the woman I need to find.
With impatience setting in, I continue to wait in the slow-moving line, holding onto the pack of gum I don’t need. The Isabelle-lookalike places a box of cereal onto the counter along with a can of generic iced-tea. Her hands are covered in oversized sleeves with holes for her thumbs torn through the cuffs, and her jeans are so faded, it’s a wonder there aren’t tears along the areas where the fabric pulls the tightest. "That'll be two dollars and sixty-five cents," the store clerk tells her after ringing up the two items.
The woman digs into her pocket, reaching around before trying her other three pockets. She drops a dollar and a quarter into the man's hand, then leans forward, lowering her head in defeat. "I won't get the drink," she says. Her voice has a familiarity to it as well. Six months of looking for her, hoping to find her somewhere—anywhere—but I sure as hell wasn't planning to spot her in this random, rundown store of all places. However, I suppose there’s a reason people say you always find what you're looking for when you aren't looking.
Watching her as intently as I am, I can’t help but recall living through similar days of scraping pennies to survive. Therefore, I’m obviously not thinking clearly when I raise my hand up to the store clerk, silently calling for his attention. As he glances over at me, I point to myself and mouth the words, "I'll take care of it." The woman doesn’t notice my gesture, which was my intent, when I didn’t announce make my offer out loud.
The clerk presses his lips together and nods his head with understanding as he drops the woman’s change back onto the counter before completing the transaction. "You're all set, ma'am," the clerk says to the woman.
"But I can't afford—" she argues.
The store clerk glances over at me again, and I gave him a quick wink to urge him along. "It's all set," he repeats.
The woman quickly looks over her shoulder, but not far enough back that she sees me. It’s mortifying being that person who needs help. At least, that’s how I felt. She scoops up her box of cereal and drink and brings it up to her chest, holding it there as if it were a life raft. "Thank you very much," she says while heading for the door.
The woman jets outside, racing away faster than I’d expect, again as if she were on the run or hiding. She left the store silent except for a jingle from the bells clattering against the glass door.
"That was very nice of you," the clerk says as he rings up my pack of gum. I hand him a twenty and follow the woman out the door, heading to the right where I saw her go. I slow my speed as I spot the woman huddled in a brick crevice between two storefronts, watching as she tears open the cereal box. An unfamiliar sensation in my heart gnaws at me for a moment. Then, my moment of weakness opens my mind to torturous memories of a past I'm still trying to erase from the hidden cracks of my mind. In any case, until I find Isabelle, those memories will continue to haunt me. I won’t have any sort of closure to my past until I complete this task.
I watch the woman for just a couple of minutes before she begins walking again. I’m careful to keep my distance as I follow in her footsteps at least six blocks down Commonwealth Avenue. With a quick glance in both directions, she bolts up a set of cement stairs to the entrance of an apartment building, then reaches into her sweatshirt pocket and retrieves a key just as the main doors swing open.
I duck into a small nook a few feet away, waiting for her to disappear inside so I can check out the names on the mailboxes. If this is where Isabelle Hammel lives, it will be my best bet at finding out for sure.
Before the woman can step inside, a man takes up the doorway and steps out in front of her and moves in real close. "Harley," he shouts at her. She looks up at him as if she were a beaten dog and takes a few steps backward, almost falling down the steps she had just climbed. "Your rent is due, and it was due three weeks ago, and four weeks before that too. I can't let this keep going on, kid. When are you going to have the money?"
"Soon," she mutters. "I promise."
Harley. Not Isabelle.
"I don't believe you," the man says. He must be the landlord. The woman—Harley—stares at the guy for a long minute, appearing to plead with only a pathetic look. During the quiet exchange, my discomfort grows and I feel like I should be doing something to help her, but I realize now that I don’t actually know her. Maybe that shouldn’t matter. The man finally looks like he’s about to break his silence when he leans toward her. In a hoarse whisper I can hardly hear, he says: "I can't keep lying for ya. You're gonna pull me down into the trouble you're in, and I can't have that. I got bills to pay too, so I'm gonna need you to handle this situation, you hear?"
"You don’t know anything about my life," she responds with a hiss. "Nor am I in any kind of trouble aside from being jobless." Harley shakes her head and ducks out of his sight, running through the door that another tenant has reopened at just the right moment.
The conversation between the landlord and Harley restores an ounce of hope that she could still be Isabelle Hammel. Still, I like to be certain before acting on a hunch, so following her around for the next few days will have to offer me enough insight on whether I need to approach her.
3
Harley
Current Day
A bad instinct dragged my ass to Hotel Long Wharf where that freak told me to go. I’m at such a low point in my life that I have little care for my well-being in comparison to the necessities I need. Even though I didn’t agree to meet this Axel person at the hotel, I’m going to scope out the situation and see what he looks like. Plus, after freezing to death for the last hour, the idea of being inside a hotel carelessly carries me through the revolving glass doors where I find an empty bar and an inviting place to sit for a while.
This hotel is nice, upscale, and looks like it was built with hands made of gold, which means I stick out like a puddle of mud on a shiny clean floor.
"Can I help you, Miss?" a man, decked out in a bellhop uniform, asks me. "Are you lost, maybe?"