At first, when we lost her, I didn’t think I could go on. I was sure somehow that my heart would simply stop beating or my lungs would stop filling up with air.
People aren’t as helpful as you’d think, either. Oh, they’ll roll out the comfort mat when you’ve lost a spouse or a child or a parent, but a best friend is different. You’re supposed to get over that.
“Tully?”
I look up from my laptop. How long have I been working? “Yeah?” I say distractedly, reading over what I’ve done.
“I’m leaving for work now,” Marah says. She is dressed in all black and her makeup is a little heavy. She calls it a uniform for her new job as a barista in Pioneer Square.
I glance at my watch. “It’s seven-thirty. ”
“I have the night shift. You know that. ”
Do I? Has she told me this before? She only got this job a week ago. Should I have some kind of chart somewhere? That sounds like something a mother would do. She has been gone a lot lately, hanging out with her old high school friends.
“Take a cab home. You need money?”
She smiles. “I’m fine, thanks. How’s the book going?”
“Great. Thanks. ”
She comes over and gives me a kiss. As soon as she leaves, I go back to work.
Sixteen
For the rest of the summer, I work seriously on my book. Unlike most memoirs, mine ignores my childhood and begins with my career. I start in the early days at KCPO, with Johnny and Kate, and then drift toward New York and the network. Recording the story of my ambition fuels me, reminds me that I can do anything I set my mind to. When I am not working, Marah and I act like best friends: going to movies and walking downtown and buying school supplies for the UW. She is doing so well that I have stopped worrying obsessively about her.
Until a sunny day in late August of 2008 changes everything.
On that afternoon, I am in the new King County Library, putting together a collection of the many magazine and newspaper articles written about me over the years.
I have planned on being here all day, but when I look up and see the sun shining through the expansive glass windows, I make a snap decision. Enough work for the day. I pack up my pages of notes and my laptop and I walk down the busy Seattle sidewalk toward Pioneer Square.
The Wicked Brew is a small, trendy place that seems loath to spend money on lighting. The interior smells like coffee mixed with incense and clove cigarettes. Kids sit huddled together at rickety tables, sipping coffee and talking quietly. The shop seems unconcerned with modern Seattle’s no-smoking laws. The walls are layered with concert flyers for bands I have never heard of. I am pretty sure I’m the only one not dressed in black.
The kid at the cash register is wearing skinny black jeans and a vintage velvet jacket over a black T-shirt. His earlobes are the size of quarters and hold black hoops within. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Marah. ”
“Huh?”
“Marah Ryan. She’s working today. ”
“Dude, no one by that name works here. ”
“What?”
“What?” he parrots back at me.
I speak slowly. “I’m looking for Marah Ryan. Tall girl, dark hair. Beautiful. ”
“Definitely no one beautiful works here. ”
“Are you new?”
“I’ve been here forever, dude, like, half a year. No one named Marah works here. You want a latte?”
Marah has been lying to me all summer.