“So he was upset, then,” I suggest, and she nods, though Jake is a master at keeping his emotions at bay, of not letting on to what he’s thinking or feeling inside.
After I leave, I drive to the hospital where Jake also works and where he operates on patients. The hospital, like most, has a parking garage and it worries me because parking garages have notoriously lousy security. Generally, they might have a camera at the entrance and exit, but within the garage itself, there are too many blind spots, too many obstructions to install cameras everywhere.
As I circle the multistory garage, climbing the endlessly round ramps, not finding Jake’s car, I think of everything terrible that could have happened to Jake.
My imagination is my worst enemy in this moment.
Friday afternoon, after work, I decide to call the florist to see who sent me flowers. They sat on my desk staring at me half the day. I tried not to think about them, but they were there, within my line of sight. No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about them or wondering where they came from. I didn’t want to get rid of them—because what if they were from Jake?—but after lunch I moved them to a shelf on the other side of a tall cabinet, so that my view of them was obstructed.
The name of the florist is on the card. Cell phone service inside much of the school building isn’t great—it has something to do with the thick brick walls and the insulation; my classroom is practically a dead zone. I take my phone just outside, waiting until the student parking lot has emptied so that I don’t have to contend with the noise of cars and kids when I call the florist.
I dial the number and a woman answers. “Hello?” she says.
“Hi. I was hoping you could help me,” I say. “I received a flower delivery yesterday afternoon, but the card didn’t include the sender’s name. I’m wondering if you can tell me who purchased the flowers? I’d like to be able to say thanks.”
The woman is at first quiet. “There was no name on the card?” she asks, and I tell her no.
“There was a greeting with the card,” I explain, “but either the sender’s name was inadvertently left off the card or the flowers were sent anonymously. Would you be able to tell me who purchased the flowers?”
“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” she says, “but I can’t give that information to you.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, pulling a face, finding it odd that she wouldn’t be able to tell me the sender’s name. She must have it there on the order form or, if nothing else, a credit card receipt.
“If there is no name on the card,” she says, “then the sender chose to remain anonymous. The information you’re asking for is personal. We have a strict privacy policy when it comes to giving out our customers’ personal information. We can only give out as much information as is written on the card.”
“But surely you must have his name on the order form or the credit card receipt.”
“Even if we did, that information is private, ma’am,” she says again. “I can’t disclose the customer’s name without his or her permission.”
“There must be some way to get that information,” I say.
“I’m sorry, but no.”
“I’d like to speak to your manager, then, please.”
“Ma’am, I am the manager. I own this shop.”
“This is ridiculous. I’d just like to say thanks to whoever gave them to me. It’s not like I’m trying to steal someone’s identity. How do you expect me to do that if I don’t know who the flowers are from?”
“Well,” she says, “you could ask around and see if anyone you know will admit to the flowers, but the only way I’m able to give you that information is with an order from the police.”
I actually laugh out loud. “You can’t be serious,” I say. “You want me to go to the police to find out who sent me flowers?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I am serious. The information you’re asking for is private.”
I hang up with the florist. I let myself back into the building, feeling agitated as I walk down the hall for my classroom. I turn a corner and there is Lily. Her back is to me and she’s moving quickly away from my closed classroom door. “Lily,” I call out for her.
She turns to face me. “Hey,” she says. “There you are. I thought you’d left.”
“I was outside, making a call. Did you need something?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “I had something to tell you.”
“What?” I ask.
Lily racks her brain, but already she’s forgotten what it is.
CHRISTIAN
Lily has no luck finding the key. She’s visibly upset when I get home from work. She’s pacing barefoot when I come into the house, having to use my key to unlock the garage door because Lily locked it again. “It wasn’t there,” she says, bringing her pacing to an abrupt stop as she turns to face me. “I looked on her key chain and in the pockets of her purse, like you said, but it wasn’t there. I’m so sorry, Christian.” Lily’s face is red and she’s on the verge of tears.
She thinks she’s let me down.
“It’s okay, babe,” I assure her, reaching for her. “It’s not your fault she didn’t have the key on her. We’ll figure something else out. What’s she saying about Jake?” I ask.
“He’s still not home,” she tells me. Of course he’s not home. I don’t say that aloud. But I think it. I also think that Lily still harbors some hope that Jake might actually come home, that he’s not dead, that she didn’t kill him. I know she wants to believe that.
“I thought of something as I was driving home,” Lily says.
“What?”
“I know their garage code. I watched their cat when they went away for a few days last summer, remember? Unless they changed it, I can get into the house. Maybe the key is there. I can get it when she’s not home.”
It’s brilliant. I take Lily’s face in my hands and kiss her. “You’re a genius, Lily,” I say. Except Lily shouldn’t be the one to do it. Lily should be a decoy. She should be the one to make sure Nina doesn’t come home while I go inside to search for the key. I tell Lily this. “Text her,” I say, “and see if she wants to meet for breakfast in the morning. Tell her you’re worried about her and thought it would be good for her to get out for a while and talk about Jake.”
It serves two purposes: getting Nina out of the house, but also making Lily look like the good friend that she is.
Nina had already been working at the high school when Lily got her job. Nina and Jake are older than Lily and me by a few years. Nina was assigned as Lily’s mentor that first year. The school always assigns mentors for first-year teachers, for guidance and support. It was how Lily and Nina became such good friends. That was years ago. Now Lily has been teaching long enough that she has tenure and, last year, got the educator of the year award for her district.
The year that they met, they spent the last few days of summer together at a new teacher orientation, Nina running it, Lily attending. I remember how, when Lily would come home at night, all she could talk about was Nina. How nice she was, how funny and easy to talk to. Lily’s first year of teaching was rough. She went into it with the best intentions. By the end of the first day, she’d discovered that learning to be a teacher and being a teacher were two very different things. It was harder than she expected. Burnout was very real that first year. Lily would cry when she came home and more than once, said she wanted to quit. Teenagers are jerks. They’re little assholes. No matter how many times I told her that, it didn’t make a difference. I didn’t have to deal with them every day. They didn’t listen to her. The girls, especially, were mean. She would overhear them, whispering about her and making fun of catty things like her clothes. Somehow Lily persevered. She and Nina commiserated with each other about how hard it was and the asshole kids they had in common. It helped. Nina got her through it. Lily grew stronger, more tenacious. She made the kids respect her somehow. By her second year of teaching, Lily was a pro.