But then I overheard my parents talking about a letter that showed up in our mailbox: Adam Newell, Dani’s father, in love with an underage girl. They didn’t know it was you, but I could put two and two together.
After that, I didn’t see you again until that last night, but I did see him once. He stayed at the motel. He checked in late; it was evening, but he was wearing sunglasses. He had a shadow of beard on his face. His car was piled with crap. He nodded his thanks, took the key, and let himself into his room. The whole time, I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell him I understood. I wanted to say, Sometimes that’s how love goes. As if I knew. But of course I didn’t say anything. I heard his car pull out late and then return around midnight. When I got up at six to set up the office, he was gone.
The night you disappeared was the weekend before Christmas. The motel usually was busy with tourists from Phoenix on their way to see the lights at Tlaquepaque, but because of the storms, everyone had canceled. On that Sunday, after I checked out the last couple and closed the office and left the after-hours sign in the window, I went to my parents’ house, driving carefully through the waterlogged streets, keeping to the center lines to avoid the deepest parts. Inside, I reheated some tuna casserole.
“Where’s Rose?” I asked.
“Staying the night at Angie’s,” my mom said. “School’s out tomorrow.”
“Right,” I said. Meaning Rose probably would be at the motel with Angie and Beto, damn her.
My dad clicked the TV volume up. “Snowing in Flagstaff. Expecting eight inches or more.”
My mom said, “I heard the river’s up almost up to the bridge.”
I stood at the counter and watched the backs of their heads in the TV’s glow.
I said, “I changed my name.” They didn’t respond. The TV showed a graphic with rain sheeting out of gray clouds. I raised my voice. “I said, I changed my name.”
My mom swiveled her recliner to look at me.
I gripped the edge of the counter. “It’s Prentiss now. I go by Prentiss.”
She glanced at my dad, who also swung his recliner until their feet were almost touching. He ran a hand over his face.
“Isn’t that a bit strange?” she said. “To go by your last name?”
“No. It’s not strange at all.”
“What’s wrong with the name we gave you?” he asked.
“Nothing.” I touched my cheek. “I wanted a change. Also, I’ve met someone,” I said. “His name is Tom Donahue. He’s a pharmacist.”
“Tom Donahue,” she said. “At the HealthCo?”
“Yes.”
“You’re dating?”
“Not yet.”
They exchanged another look. “I see.”
“Stop doing that.” I threw the casserole spoon into the sink. “I’m standing right here. I can see you.”
“Little girl,” my dad said as he let down the recliner’s leg rest, “hush now.”
“No, you hush. You hush.” I slapped the counter. “I stayed here. I stayed here for you.”
My mom said, “We appreciate your help, Stevie. But we want you to have your own life.”
“My own life.” I laughed. “I still could go. I could.”
My dad said, “Go where?”
“To art school, for one thing. I won a motherfucking scholarship.”
“You watch your language, girl.” He looked at my mom. “What in the world has gotten into her?”
She shrugged. “Beats me. Tired, probably.”
“I’m right here!” I said. “Can you even see me?” I pulled my hair back, exposing my cheek. “How about now?” I traced it, moving my finger furiously across the rough skin. “Your gift to me. Marked from birth.”
My mom frowned. “Stevie, honey. Calm down. Why don’t you stay here tonight?”
I turned off the oven and grabbed my purse. “It’s Prentiss. It’s probably French.” I slammed the door.
I drove up and down Main, stopping at the two traffic lights, water lapping the sidewalks. Because of the storm, the parking lots were barren. No cars parked in haphazard rows, no young men and women leaning on the fenders, strolling and laughing, their whole lives wound silken around their shoulders.
I drove to the river and parked on the bridge. The rain fell more gently now, but the swollen river churned, cresting a foot from the bottom of the bridge. I left the headlights on and looked out at furious water, at branches stuck on the banks. The rain fell and fell and fell. I rubbed my sore knee, my bruised palms. I thought about the times I had spent drawing down by the river, my toes buried in the dirt. I studied my hands resting on the steering wheel. They were dry and cracked from cleaning solution, the nails short and ragged. In the deepening lines, I saw my father’s titanium-white dust and pity, my mother’s disappearing body. In my freckles, I saw my sister, sweet Baby Rose, who I once hugged too hard, who I smothered with my love. In my knuckles were my big-city college dreams, sun-yellow and fading fast. Embedded in my palms were the names, the whispers, the black corners of my life. My love line forked at my wrist, trailing off into the veins, and it was red all right, primary red, deep-rooted, primal.
I drove to the motel and parked in front of my room. No cars were in the lot, but a light was on in Room 7. Baby Rose. Dang her. I grabbed the extra key and walked to the room under the tin awning. The rain was a sleety mist now. I knocked on the door, calling out Rose’s name. I could hear the TV blaring. She didn’t answer. I tried the door, but it was locked.
At the window, there was a crack in the curtains. I stepped close to the glass and peered in. They were on the bed, on top of the sheets, the covers kicked down and rumpled on the carpet. Rose and Angie Juarez. Not Beto, as I’d suspected, but Angie, the quiet one with the streak in her hair. Naked and exposed, the blankets tossed away. I stood still at the window, holding my breath, but they didn’t look my way. They didn’t look at anything but each other. I turned away.
Across the street, I saw someone at the gas station pay phone, caught in a beam of headlights. The person turned, and I recognized you then. The new girl, the girl I’d talked to at the pharmacy, the girl I’d seen out walking at night, the girl at the dark house. I hurried to my room and waited for Angie and Rose to come out.
That was the last time I saw you, across the street. About six thirty or so, I thought, yes. No, I didn’t see which way you went. No, I didn’t see anyone pick you up. That was what I told the police.
It wasn’t the last time, but I never told them the rest of it. I never told.
But you already know.