My daily moment of peace was about to begin. I settled into my second hand recliner and raised the shades. The sun streamed into the bedroom window, lighting up my allotted corners. My feet kicked out as I released the lever, and I let my head sink back into the cushion.
The setting sun colored the sky shades of orange and purple. I drank the view in, willing myself to focus on its beauty. Just for a few minutes.
The view from my window wasn’t calendar worthy by any stretch of the imagination. But when you’ve been fourteen years without getting to watch the sun streak across the sky in its majestic blaze of glory, well, any old view will do.
Our building was on the outskirts of the Berkshire complex—something Carl never stopped complaining about. He said it was “too far from the action.” I disagreed. The sunset was all the action I needed. My other roommate, Fray, was neutral on the matter.
Watching the sunset made me think of home. Gracie and I had watched them together hundreds of times. Well, I guess we hadn’t “watched” per se. The canopy of the woods had blocked our view, but we would feel the sun’s warmth melting away. In the chillier months, the setting sun would drive us to huddle together in the hammock. In the summer, we would splash into the water after dark, our screams and laughter blending with nature’s night song. Only the moon and stars knew we were there, and we had loved it that way.
The memory was like a stab to the gut. I wished I didn’t have to think about her. But somehow, forcing the memories away hurt even more. The moments we shared played in my head like a movie. Each memory had held me steady through the most tumultuous years of my life.
I closed my eyes, shutting out the sunset and letting Gracie in.
Swaying in the hammock was my favorite memory of all. Gracie would curl into the crook of my arm, the warm breeze disturbing her curls. I would drink her in—her smell, her warmth, her fingers against mine. Time was unknown to us there. We had always been so happy.
A salty taste at the corner of my mouth surprised me. Tears.
Where was Gracie? I’d been avoiding the question for a couple weeks. My heart drove me to ask, but every time I attempted a simple Google search, the trembling started and my chest would hurt so bad, I’d have to lay on the floor, practicing those deep breaths again. My body didn’t want to know.
I grabbed my Riverbend duffel from out of the closet and dug out the letters. There weren’t many and every single one had a different address on the return to sender. Nashville, Denver, and Atlanta addresses. I had received these tiny declarations of love over eleven years ago. When they stopped coming, it had almost killed me. The fear of what happened to her kept me up every night, and the silence had broken the last of my hope.
But the what-ifs still pestered me. I had to know eventually. My indecision the past few weeks had wasted precious time. What if she needed me? The thought propelled me to reach for my phone.
Fray had taught me how to use Safari on my iphone. It was a challenge navigating all the new technology, but I was catching on pretty quick. I typed “Gracie Scott” into the search bar. Facebook and LinkedIn were the first websites to pop up and those links, photos, and descriptions kept me busy a long time. Many of the profiles didn’t even have pictures. How would I know which ones to rule out? Maybe she had gone to school, become a nurse, gotten married, or any number of things. She obviously moved a lot too, so location wouldn’t be helpful.
I sucked in as my chest tightened. I clicked my phone screen off and stared through the window. The sun was long gone now. Panic churned in me and my lungs expanded against my tight ribcage. There was no way I could find her. I didn’t know how.
I opened my wallet and looked at Jeff’s pills. Every night they beckoned me. Called me to take one, or heck, take a few and forget all this mess for a while. My breastbone burned with conflict. I growled and zipped the pocket closed, choosing to remember her one more night.
My t-shirt suddenly felt tight and damp against my chest, and I pulled it off. A cold shower would help.
* * *
My alarm went off at 7:30 a.m. My usual wake time. And as usual, I rolled out of bed barely functioning, having battled sleep half the night. I didn’t work on the weekends, but today was a workday of a different kind. Since Google was no help, I decided to physically check the addresses on Gracie’s letters—starting with the closest first: Falcon Circle, Nashville.I doubted she still lived there. That letter was written twelve years ago. But maybe the people who currently resided there would at least know of her.
The house was in a bad area. Homeless people wandered the streets. The trashed yards and houses looked like they hadn’t been updated in decades. I eased the Tacoma into the drive of a dilapidated bungalow home. A shutter hung sideways off a window, and one of the wooden porch steps had caved in.
My exiting the truck elicited a few looks from some porch sitters across the way, so I lifted my hand to wave, hoping they’d see I was friendly. They didn’t wave back. I palmed the back of my neck and worked to still my breathing. Everything in me told me Gracie wasn’t here, but the potential raised my blood pressure anyway.
I decided not to test the remaining two rickety steps and leapt over them instead. The front door was a faded yellow color. My knock seemed to reverberate through the neighborhood. Footsteps bounded, and someone yelled “shut up” at the barking dog.
The door swung wide open, and a toddler stood there. Her green eyes were tired and curious. A woman—her mom I assumed—was hot on her heels. She scooped her child up and jerked the door back to a cracked position. I got the feeling she didn’t get many visitors. Not the kind people desire, anyway.
She spoke through the tiny gap. “What do you want?”
“Hey, I’m sorry to surprise you like this.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “But I’m looking for someone who used to live here. Thought maybe whoever lives here might know her.”
She shook her head, eager to end the conversation. “Sorry, no, I’ve lived here since I was a kid.” She moved to close the door the rest of the way.
“Wait!” Desperation clawed at my vocal chords. “Then you know her! She lived here or maybe stayed here at some point. I have a picture.” I fished her yearbook photo out of my jeans. “Her name is Gracie Scott.”
The woman relaxed when she realized I was truly just retrieving a photo. The door opened a few more inches, and she cautiously peered at Gracie’s face. She frowned. “You know what? I do recognize her. That hair is, uh, hard to forget.” She tsked. “But the name Gracie doesn’t ring a bell. Any chance she could’ve changed it?”
The possibility hadn’t occurred to me. “Maybe. She was not on good terms with her family.”
She bent to set the toddler down, and her tiny footsteps receded into the house.
“Can I take a picture of this photo? My sister is a few years younger than me. Maybe Gracie was one of her friends or something.”
