This Story Might Save Your Life(56)

Scanning the parking lot, I see the painter with the half-dollar stretched earlobes, and the man who walks his Australian shepherd off leash. The midwife from the yellow craftsman. And Ted. Paparazzo Ted, with a camera dangling from his neck. I’m about to point him out to Sarah when I spot Judge Carlotta and Emil a few feet to the left. Carlotta’s donning another silk wrap, deep blue, hair bound tight in a matching scarf. We exchange a solemn wave.

“How well do you know them?” Luna asks me.

“Not very. We chat every once in a while, but it’s usually about vegetables.”

“Emil seems intense.”

“He’s like a walking ad for whey protein.”

She nods. “Did you know he’s stunt doubled for Daniel Craig?”

“Bond? James Bond?” I deliver the words humorlessly, but Luna lets out a soft chuckle just the same.

“So he says.”

I give Emil another look through the crowd. He’s maybe ten years older than Mr. Craig, but I can see it. Thin lips, wide face, slightly bulbous nose. “When did he tell you that?”

“Last night, at the fence.” She shrugs.

How was that only last night? My body sags with a fresh wave of exhaustion as I remember us all standing there, grimly trading information in the dark.

“Come closer. Closer,” a woman who introduced herself earlier as Teresa calls into a bullhorn. “Come on in, no one’s gonna bite.”

Mallory and Quinn sidle up beside us as Teresa explains what to expect. Groups. Leaders. Maps. Tape. This is a gathering for my missing best friend, orchestrated by strangers who love her. It’s an odd thing, being loved by strangers, and even odder in this context. I recognize more faces: the elderly man who sits on a lawn chair in his driveway hoping for a chat with passersby; the couple down the street with the impressive collection of wind chimes; the yoga instructor who teaches classes in the neighborhood rec center.

“Benny?” Teresa says.

I can see she’s expecting something from me. Suddenly uneasy, I attempt to sort through the liminal part of my brain that might have heard what she said before passing over the metaphorical mic, but draw a blank. It feels like a live show, all the energy pulsing in my direction, only everything’s gone haywire. Half the entertainment is missing. “I’m sorry?”

“Do you have anything to add?”

I’m not prepared for this, but I know I have no choice. “Yes. Yes, I do.” I take a deep breath and thank everyone for coming, for volunteering their time and energy. I mean the words, and I do my best to make this clear, but it’s an improv act I never wanted or expected to perform.

I finish just as the school bell rings for recess, and we break off into groups of ten. Sarah and I end up with Mallory and Quinn, while Luna joins Emil and Carlotta.

Teresa approaches with a map. “You’ll take this section,” she says, pointing. The map is separated into grids, and we’ve been given the steep slope on the south side of Mount Washington. She hands me a roll of brightly colored tape and a whistle.

“There’s water over there if you want to grab a bottle before you go.” She touches my arm. I’m expecting her to offer her sympathies when she says, “And I’m sure I don’t have to remind you to watch out for snakes.”

I look around and see that everyone else had the foresight to wear pants.



* * *



SHIELDING OUR EYES from the sun, the ten of us go around the circle somberly introducing ourselves. I immediately forget everyone’s names and am grateful when Mallory assumes the lead, guiding us out of the parking lot. The other groups splinter off into different directions, and I fall back to the caboose with Quinn and Sarah, who’ve never met before today and are quickly growing acquainted.

“Benny tells me you own a fifties-themed cupcakery?” my sister asks. Kindly using small talk to distract us from our grisly task. “What inspired that idea?”

“Cupcakes are happiness in a wrapper, for one. And I was already rocking the rockabilly, so…” Quinn makes an up and down gesture at herself—the lipstick, the headscarf, the bright red pedal pushers. Like me, she didn’t cover her ankles, and I imagine she’ll regret the saddle shoes in a matter of minutes. “Figured why not lean into it from the safety of the twenty-first century. Best of both worlds. I get to enjoy the fashion, and Mallory and I don’t have to pretend we’re two old maids sharing a house for financial reasons.”

“How’d you two meet?”

I know this story, about a chance encounter while riding BART four years ago. A stalled train, a prolonged conversation, an exchange of phone numbers. Sarah nods along with interest.

“And how is Mallory doing?” my sister asks Quinn. “How is she handling all of this?”

Quinn glances ahead to where Mallory is veering east off the main avenue. “Not well.”

Sarah widens her eyes at me, once, and suddenly I understand. She’s not distracting us with small talk; she’s building rapport. Left to my clumsy devices, Mallory and Quinn have kept mostly to themselves. In Sarah’s capable hands, however, we might be able to draw out some real answers.

“Has she spoken with her parents yet?” I ask. Last I checked, she hadn’t been able to reach them.

“Her dad, yes. Her mom, no. She’s MIA at the moment. Could be on an African safari for all we know.”