I never dreamed that it would be impossible to locate one girl. We don’t seem to have any trouble finding anyone else. Sometimes I have nightmares that she’s dead. Those are worse than the ones I have about my brothers who died while we were in the desert. I can face those dreams because I KNOW what happened there. As horrible as that time in my life was, it was real.
And through it all, I had Faye. Her letters, her snarky observations, the rare photographs she sent—that connection with her made me strong. Carried me through the darkest of days.
These nightmares about Faye, frightened, hurting, dying…they break me open. Every time I wake up remembering her face the day I left for boot camp, the day I promised her I would be back for her, I fall deeper into this cloud that surrounds me. The loss of her has bled all of the color out of my life. I stopped praying years ago, but when I think of her suffering I always find myself pleading with God to not have let her die while she counted on me to save her. The dreams are coming more and more often as I lose hope that I will ever find her. It’s hard to remember the happy FaceTime chats we had when she was a teenager anymore, the gloom surrounding me making even the good memories seem faded.
I’m going to the cabin. I hope going there will make me feel her presence. I haven’t been back since the day I found her toy, and I regret that. I should have never missed a weekend, just in case. I don’t think I missed any clues the last time I was there, but I’m going to go look around again. Maybe stay for a couple of days. I might clear the road so it’s passable again, clean the cabin, and just try to get some sleep. Try to exorcise some of the guilt I feel.
Fresh air and exercise should be good for me, right? At least it can’t hurt.
The road is impassable, choked with vegetation. I leave my truck as far up the dirt road as I was able to get and hike in, carrying my rucksack and my sleeping bag. Not much has changed other than the overgrowth of the trail. The small log building still looks sturdy. Grandpa built it well. The years of neglect show in the mucky windows and the moss-covered roof but the walls look sturdy and the porch is solid.
The front door opens easily, much to my surprise. The scent of dust and bitter mildew burns my eyes and nose so I prop open the door to air it out. I drag the musty linens outside, tossing them in the burn pit behind the house. The hand pump at the sink doesn’t work, so I find a bucket and haul water in from the creek so I can clean everything. The busy-work is good, and coupled with the music blasting from my cell phone it’s an effective distraction from my thoughts.
For the moment, I’m content to be doing something that feels productive. I was right. I just needed to give myself a break from work, and from worry. I promised myself I wouldn’t check my emails until morning, so I plan to keep myself moving until I’m tired enough to sleep.
Who knew housework could be this therapeutic. So far I haven’t found anything that would help me find Faye…
Shit. Now I’m thinking about her again. I swear I can feel her here. Maybe I’m going crazy. Would I realize it if I was? I don’t really think I would, so I must not be.
Frustrated and angry with myself and the whole damn situation, I drop the old mop to sit out on the stoop and concentrate on breathing through my feelings of being responsible for Faye being missing for so long.
I have to stop this obsession I have about finding her. I have to accept that I’m not going to find her. If I was going to, I would have by now.
Faye is lost to me. I failed her. She trusted me and I fucked up.
Defeat settles over me. I sit there until the sun starts to go down before going back inside, and I pull an unopened bottle of whiskey out of my bag. I don’t know why I brought it, I really shouldn’t sit out here and drink myself into oblivion. I stare at it for a long time before moving inside to sit on the
cot before cracking the seal. My first pull on the bottle settles in my belly, and I take another, letting the comforting heat flow through my tired body and slow down my whirling brain. Maybe getting a little drunk will help me let her go. Just this one time.
Chapter Four
Faye
The majority of my shift has been uneventful, which is the best kind of shift. There is a big man sitting in the section of tables that I just took over who makes me uncomfortable. He has been here WAY too long, and he looks dangerous. Not a rape-someone-in-a-back-alley sort of way though; this guy radiates a different kind of danger and power.
I missed him coming in, but it’s obvious that he is tall, and the width of his shoulders would be impressive if he didn’t keep glancing at me in a way that makes me nervous. I can tell he has a gun under his leather jacket. Enough patrons of this diner come in packing, so I can spot a concealed carry from across the room most of the time. But really, it’s not the gun or his size that concerns me, it’s the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
News flash, buddy. I’m always paying attention.
He has been here for so long that he finished his meal over an hour ago. Sue, the waitress who had his section during my first shift, has topped off his coffee several times since then. I even took a break before starting my second shift, but he is still there staring at his phone, then looking at me with a furrowed brow and intense eyes.
There is nothing at all interesting about me. I make sure that I blend in. I do nothing to draw attention to myself, so I just don’t get why he seems fascinated by observing me. I need to get rid of him. I don’t want him sitting in my section at all.
I approach his table, plastering a huge smile on my face. “How are you doing here, sir? Would you like anything else, or can I bring your check?”
His eyes go from my face to the nametag I have pinned to the bodice of my cheap polyester uniform. His eyes narrow calculatingly and his voice is gravelly when he quietly answers, “Pie, Francesca?”
I get the feeling he is questioning my name and not the availability of pie. The glass case at the counter full of pies is evidence that we serve pie.
An icy finger of fear traces its way down my spine.
“Yes sir, we do have pie. What kind would you like?”
One of us has got to get out of here. I can feel panic settling in my gut. Tightening my lungs. It’s hot and roiling and I’m overwhelmed with the urge to run. To just head out the door to my truck and go anywhere to get his gaze off of me.
There is something glittering in his eyes that I can read. He knows who I really am.
Suddenly he looks away from me and focuses his attention back on his phone. “Apple. To go, please,” he says politely, making me doubt what I was so certain I knew just seconds before.