I imagined Emmy, or Melissa, or whoever she was, doing the same. No license, no credit cards, no name. Leaving again—So here I go again, she’d said that night when she found me again. But first she had come for me.
I had assumed what I now held in the trunk was what she had come back for. This box. Something inside that she needed eight years later. Something she had left behind after all.
I arrived in the late afternoon—hitting the beginning of rush hour in reverse. I hated driving in the city. Hated it then, hated it now. Hated it even worse when the streets were so congested that the people walked faster than you drove. So I parked in a lot near Fenway, paid the attendant cash, and made my way to the nearest T stop.
The fall air was crisp and the sky a deceptive clear blue. It was cold, but winter hadn’t turned yet, and people walked the streets in sleek coats, no gloves or hats or scarves necessary. I stepped into the mass of people, and I wished suddenly for winter.
In Boston, they don’t really do a good job of warning you about the winter. The postcards look snow-covered and beautiful, the streets still filled with people, the wisps of cold air and the wool coats and waterproof boots all part of the charm, the allure. They don’t tell you that most of the time, it’s pure misery. Waiting for the bus, walking to the T stop, the persistent dry cough that permeates through the office. The bathrooms and office lobbies covered in melted snow. And us, slowly thawing out inside. The chapped lips, the red noses, the dry skin around our knuckles, and the way the sweaters itch across our collarbones. How you want nothing more than to stay in. The things you do to stay warm.
And then there’s the gray. How the sky cover goes dark in the late fall and seems to stay that way for weeks on end, always ready for snow or rain. How the cold seems to hover in a fog, like a mirage, just off the ground. And everyone bundles up in layer after layer because you all have to walk everywhere, the puffs of white escaping like smoke as you elbow past one another.
And nobody seems to notice you. You could be anyone under the down jacket and scarf wrapped over your mouth, your hat pulled down over your ears and your hair. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. A sheep in wolf’s. And this is why, no matter how many people are out on a street, this does not make for more witnesses but somehow fewer. It could be anyone. Anyone standing on their toes, peering in the window.
Can we get a description? the police ask.
Jacket. A hood. No sense of width or breadth or height underneath.
I craved the anonymity, had the distinct feeling that I wasn’t supposed to be here, that the city itself had banished me and would no longer accommodate my presence. That I might run into Noah, or that the cop on the corner might be Kassidy or someone I’d once met at a crime scene. That they would see me and call after me or call someone else—my name floating through the city like I was something they’d been looking for.
I found myself in our old neighborhood from eight summers ago, standing in front of our old apartment, which seemed even more shabby and decrepit than when I’d seen it last.
I had the key from the box in my pocket, with the green-and-purple woven key chain. There were no apparent noises coming from within. I stepped down, the sides of the stairwell narrowing as I descended, and then I slid the key into the lock of the worn black door. It stuck halfway in, and I pulled too hard as it disengaged.
It could’ve been changed, I thought. New locks, maybe. But the key appeared to be made for a different type of lock altogether. I backtracked to the sidewalk, where puffs of smoke were rising from somewhere underground. Tried to picture the girl who would stomp down these steps, whom I would always hear coming.
The liquor store was no longer next door. It had been replaced by a sandwich shop. Nobody here to remember her—the girl I could not imagine sliding under the radar.
I followed up on the clues left behind in the box. Everything she felt was worthy of remembering, sealing it all up with silver duct tape. The green lighter, with the I the Beach decal, was the type found at any souvenir shop up and down the East Coast. But the ashtray, the magnet, these types of stolen items all had specific identifying details, and I let them lead the way. I stood in darkened, musky bars, saw storefronts replaced by newer, brighter places. I followed the address on the magnet from her old place of work. A bar in the South End, a place I’d never visited.
The bar was dark, it seemed on purpose. And it still had the name from the magnet. The hostess was wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt with the pub name. “Can I speak with your manager?” I asked.
“Malcolm!” she called without turning around.
The man wiping down the bar walked around, tucked a rag into the back of his dark jeans. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“I hope so,” I said. “I’m looking for a woman who worked here eight years ago.”
The man looked to be mid-thirties at most. His eyes went wide. “Don’t think I’ll be much help. I started about four years ago.”
“I just need a name. The names of the bartenders from that time.”
“You the police?” he asked. Though he knew I wasn’t. “Didn’t think so. I’d have to look through the old employment records even if you were.”
A man at the bar asked for the television channel to be changed, and Malcolm left me standing there.
“He wouldn’t give it to you?” the hostess asked. “He’s got some superiority complex, like he’s so much better than the rest of us with his college degree.” She didn’t look at me when she said it. “Anyway, back then about half the girls were paid under the table. What’s the name, sweetheart.”
“Emmy Grey,” I said. “Emmy, any last name.”
She thought for a moment, shook her head. “I’ve been here ten years, never heard the name. When was this again?”
“Summer, eight years ago. She was my height, had dark hair. Was probably early twenties.”
She grinned. “Sounds like most of us here.”
“Amelia Kent?” I asked, and again, she shook her head. “Ammi?”
“Sorry I can’t be of help. You sure you know her name?” She put her hand on her hip, suspicious of my motives, and I didn’t blame her. I couldn’t even give her a name.
I thought once more of a woman living off the grid. Becoming Amelia Kent for the moment. Casting her aside, becoming someone new. I lowered my voice. Said, “Leah Stevens?”
Her eyes lit up. “Leah. Sounds familiar. Yes, Leah. Just for a summer, right?”
I knew my eyes were wide, my face frozen.
“I remember her. I remember because the boss just loved her. Had some spunk, he said. Can’t say I knew her well, though. What do you need with Leah? She okay?”
I shook my head, unable to get a clear breath. “That’s all I needed.” The room was buzzing, a high-pitched warning that only I could hear.