I sat in the middle of a heap of clothes, faintly shaking, rifling through things that were not mine. Her possessions were minimal, as they had been years earlier. The clothes were not branded by any familiar label. Some labels had been torn off or were faded. I thought they were probably thrift store purchases. I tried to think if anything specific was missing. Tried to picture Emmy in her clothes, or shoes, or jewelry, and then look for them here. But Emmy was fading. Every time I thought I had her in focus, she’d slip away, back to the girl she was in her early twenties. I pictured black V-neck tops cut short, sleeves trimmed with black lace. I pictured dark jeans slung low, that black studded belt she always wore. Cuffed bracelets and chipped nail polish. I pictured us out at night together, the way she’d push her way up to the bar, lean on the counter, drawing attention.
She had adopted a new wardrobe since then. This dresser was full of casual button-downs, tunics, leggings. Thick socks and ribbed camisoles. It seemed that this Emmy favored practicality above all else.
Gone were the boots I’d come to associate with her—chunky heels, laces woven up past her ankles, worn with pants and skirts alike. Missing only when she’d let me wear them. Now there was only an old pair of sneakers with muddy laces in the corner of her closet. She must’ve been wearing whatever other footwear she owned.
I pushed aside the metal hangers in her closet, piecing through her nicer things. A sundress, too lightweight for the weather now; a cardigan I’d seen her shrug on at night when she was cold. I pushed some more hangers aside and was surprised to recognize a black fitted button-down shirt as my own. She had never asked to borrow anything, though I would have been happy to share. I tossed the shirt on the bed, sorting through the rest of the items, seeing what else she might’ve borrowed: three more tops that I’d attributed to being lost in the move. I wondered if she even realized they belonged to me and not her.
She’d come here with so little, essentially starting over. I was used to this Emmy, who did not take things with her when she left. The only things that were hers here, like her car, the furniture, once belonged to someone else.
I tried to picture her clearly by thinking of the morning with the owls. She had been barefoot. Her hand had reached for that necklace. What else had there been? Had I seen a bare shoulder? A colored top? These leggings stretching toward her ankles?
I closed my eyes and saw her in profile. Narrowed eyes, a twist of her neck, a smile.
Don’t do this, she’d said.
Do what?
Worry. It’s your default state.
But how could I not? I’d spent my adulthood with a front-row seat to the atrocities of life, so much so that it had become expected. The story doesn’t truly begin at first, not when the person disappears. It begins when they are found. Emmy had disappeared, and now I felt like I was waiting for something inevitable, a clock that I had no power to stop.
I searched through everything again. Looking for anything I’d missed the first time, the second time. Until I fell asleep in her bed once more, surrounded by all that was left of her.
* * *
SATURDAY MORNING AND THE birds were calling. It wasn’t even nine A.M., but the day was breaking open as if nothing had happened. That was the other thing you noticed when interviewing someone after a tragedy—they were surprised by the mundane. The plants would need to be watered like usual, and the paper would be delivered at dawn, and the kids would laugh at the corner bus stop. Whatever they were feeling, they would have to feel it alone.
And so: I would have to go to work on Monday. I’d have to turn in grades. I’d have to turn in my assignment for my certification classes. I’d have to teach.
I checked my phone, but nobody had called in the night. And if the cops had driven by, I hadn’t noticed.
I sent an email to my phone company, asking for the requested information, and then tried to distract myself with work.
The stack of student essays was in my large tote bag, and I pulled it out to read at the kitchen table while awaiting news. I was not good at the passive, at the waiting, and at least this felt like something.
The essays could be broken into two categories: pro and con Davis Cobb, some more subtle in their support or accusation than others. Some students probably weren’t even aware they were doing it, but I could tell their stance without fail. Whether they wasted their ink lamenting the lack of perceived safety or whether they used it in a defense. I ended up sorting the papers into piles.
The first essay, by Molly Laughlin, blamed everything on the influx of strangers to town. I decided to put that one pro-Cobb, since he was originally from here. He was not one of the new people—like me—who might be contributing to the sudden danger, in her eyes.
Most of the boys came to his defense in a more transparent way. Coach Cobb is an honest guy and a great coach. I’ve known him for years. There’s no proof he did anything at all. This is a witch hunt.
It was, after all, basketball season. And Coach Cobb hadn’t been permitted back on school grounds. The school had decided it was in everyone’s best interest to place him on leave, with pay, until the story tipped one way or the other. The calls from the parents and the media made that decision easy. And the fact that he was calling me, potentially stalking me, was probably already making the rounds. It would likely become public knowledge within the course of the week. I could do nothing to stop it.
Connor Evans surprised me by being one of the few boys in the con pile:
We sit in a room together and are told to trust each other. We are taught that good is the default and evil is rare. And then we learn that good was the mask. That we trusted too easily. Now people keep telling us to think for ourselves, look out for ourselves, keep an eye out for one another, and report what we see. But who should we report to? If we’re not sure who to trust? How do we know who wears the mask?
I flipped to the next paper.
Coach Cobb is innocent and this is total bullshit. I know why you were called into the office. I know.
There was no name on the page, but half of my students usually forgot to put their names (the simplest part of an assignment, and two months into the school year I still had to remind them). I had a pretty good sense of their handwriting by now, though. This, I was nearly certain, belonged to Theo Burton. I wrote his name in the upper corner, checked him off in my grade book, added the paper to the pro-Cobb pile.
I took a break to pull one of Emmy’s beers from the fridge, twisting the top off with the hem of my shirt. Then I tied my hair in a knot on top of my head, ran a cold hand over the back of my neck, and started again.
Izzy had written in purple pen, with her loopy print that brought to mind hearts dotting lowercase letters, gum chewing, hair twirling. It was hard to take anything she wrote seriously:
School is supposed to be the place we don’t have to worry about our safety. There are cameras in the halls and teachers in the classes. We sacrifice our privacy for safety. There are locker checks and teachers stationed outside bathrooms during breaks. We shouldn’t have to worry that THEY are the danger. We shouldn’t have to worry here at all.
A check in the grade book, a roll of my eyes, and a tilt of my neck. Another sip from the beer.