Right Where You Left Me Page 3

  How can we find out if he’s safe? If he’s alive? If he’ll come home?

  I want to grab my camera and a notepad and my passport and drive to the airport now. I may be kind of shy and introverted, but I’m as stubborn and determined as both Dad and Uncle Miguel. And I speak Russian.

  Nothing—NOTHING—is worse than feeling helpless. That’s exactly how I felt as soon as Uncle Miguel’s words reached my ears. It’s like all of the gravity on Earth vanished along with Dad, and I’m floating through space without anything holding me down. Like something weightless. Like I’m nothing.

  I take stock of my normally neat room. Things have their place, and usually it’s comforting to put clothes in drawers and books on shelves. None of that matters now. I pick up a pair of jeans, but drop them on the floor again. I don’t have the energy to care.

  Emma’s closet bulges with clothes and shoes while mine is full of photo albums and boxes of pictures, each labeled with names, locations, and dates. I’m an archivist as well as a photographer. I pull down a recent box, family pictures from Christmas and our last big vacation in Italy. The back of my bedroom door is empty, the only blank surface in my room. I begin to cover it with images of Dad wearing a Santa hat, Dad hiking in the redwoods, Dad standing at the rail on our boat ride to Capri, the wind blowing back his hair. Squinting into the sun. He looks happy and free. That’s how I want to imagine him now.

  Maybe Uncle Miguel’s right: Dad is probably sitting in some camp waiting for cell phone service to be restored. Maybe he’s teaching the locals how to play five-card draw. He believes poker is the universal card game. Plus, people drink and smoke when they play cards, which means they speak more freely. They share stories. Even secrets. An effective way to get answers.

  I allow myself to imagine him there, really picture where he could be. It must be a fallen building or blocked road keeping him from us. Dad can handle people. He can talk his way out of almost anything. He must be trapped somewhere, because his quasi-giant stature means he can climb and jump from atypical heights. He’s in decent shape, and he even ran that 5K with me last year. I bet he could still run a mile without stopping.

  Most importantly: Dad is fearless. If he’s trapped somewhere, he will find a way out. I have to believe that. I know deep inside that he’ll do whatever he can to come home. He knows we love him. We’re waiting for him. Mom and I can’t live without him.

  I try to remind myself of Dad’s strength and quick reflexes and street smarts, but it’s not enough to ease the tension in my muscles or knots in my belly. No matter how much I list the many reasons he’s probably safe, my anxiety builds. Something’s wrong. I know it.

  After I was born, Mom was too sick to hold me for longer than a few minutes at a time. Dad was the one who cradled me for hours, letting me nap on his chest. Ever since I was little, I’ve felt that invisible bond, that connection. I pick up a snapshot and stare at his face, well aware that he’s never felt farther away than he does right now.

  Five

  Zero period: the hour before school officially starts, the hour devoted to extracurriculars and extra credit and extra help for those who need it. For us, it means the first of two periods of working on the newspaper. One hundred minutes of freedom. Just us and Megan and the news.

  When we returned from summer vacation, we found Megan in the classroom, smiling like someone who arrived early to see a movie and scored the best seat in the theater. We knew Mr. McGuire was retiring, and we’d spent break guessing who would take over the newspaper. We’d braced ourselves for one of the English teachers, none as good as our ancient Mr. McGuire. We never expected someone new and so young.

  Megan brought in a secondhand coffeemaker and brews extra-strong French roast. She talks about how a free media is an essential component of democracy. How everyone should have equal access to quality news. How journalists are as necessary as doctors. She’d heard of Dad and was full of praise.

  I like her because she’s worldly—second generation like me. Emma likes her because she’s passionate. Isaac likes her because of the short (short) dress she wore that first day of school. I suspect Josh likes her because she doesn’t force him to interact with us like Mr. McGuire did.

  She greets us every morning with coffee and newspapers to scan from beginning to end. She wants us to feel the newsprint between our fingers. She spares us the classifieds.

  I come early. The room doesn’t welcome me with the usual smell of coffee, but Megan looks up with a smile. I pretend I am her favorite. I’ve thought about copying her bobbed jet-black hair, but my curls would never cooperate. Silver hoops line her ears from tip to lobe. Despite the March rain, she’s wearing a vintage sundress that reveals her sleeve of botanical tattoos.

  “Getting a head start?” she asks.

  I spent all night awake in bed hoping for a text from Dad. I wanted to come to school at four a.m. At five. I settled for six thirty, a half hour before the first bell rings.

  “My dad,” I say. “They can’t find him. He’s officially missing.”

  “Sit,” she says, and points to a chair. “You haven’t heard from him at all?”

  I shake my head. “He’s gone, gone. Everyone’s worried. My mom. His editor. He was in the middle of the quake, but I think there’s more going on.” I tell her about the French reporter and the mysterious photographer. I wonder if she notices that my hands are shaking. I hide them in my lap. “He sent in pictures, but he won’t say anything about my dad. That makes no sense at all. He must’ve said something if he’s working for them, right?”

  Megan frowns and picks up a copy of Dad’s paper, one of several fanned on the table. There it is, on the front page of the Tribune, a photo by Ivan Barno of helmeted men climbing a mountain of rubble. The caption says something about rescue workers searching for survivors.

  “There could be an explanation,” she says. “Maybe he was shooting pictures while your dad and the other reporter interviewed people. Then the earthquake happened and they got separated.” She taps the paper. “Think of the chaos, Charlotte. Look at this.”

  “So my dad could be trapped inside a building? Then why wouldn’t the photographer say that?” I’m tired and panicked and I want someone to tell me where the hell Dad is. I know Megan doesn’t have this information, but she knows more about journalism and the world than I do.

  She stands and gives me an arm hug. “We don’t know what he said.”

  As soon as I feel her arm around me, I can’t help the tears. I’m trying to be tough and composed. Dad would expect that of me. Mom needs me to be the stoic one, but I’m not strong enough. I’m scared, and all I want is to see a reassuring text from Dad.

  “Listen,” Megan says, “I understand why you’re worried, but this sort of thing happens all the time. When I was in the Peace Corps, sometimes we couldn’t get reception for days because that’s how it goes in underdeveloped places. Ukraine’s more advanced, but the earthquake did so much damage. I know you don’t want to hear this, Charlotte, but you’re going to have to be patient and try to stay positive. In this case, no news is good news, okay?”

  I wipe my nose with my sleeve, then, embarrassed, roll it up to hide the smudge of snot. “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll try.”

  She hugs me tight before releasing me. I’m filled with helium again, untethered.

  “Isaac will riot if he comes and the coffee’s not ready,” she says as she fills the pot with water.

  Isaac is very serious about his caffeine. He drinks his coffee black because he thinks that’s how all hardened newsmen take it. He’s unbearable without it. We all cater to his addiction.

  Ivan the Photographer’s picture taunts me. It may be the last place where Dad was safe: that decimated building, those heavy, loose bricks. I can’t bear the idea of him standing near it—or inside—before the earth rippled beneath his feet and the walls crashed down. He could have gotten out in time. But then Ivan the Photographer would have seen him.

  That’
s when it hits me, really hits me. Dad could be trapped or worse. He may never come home.

  Stay positive.

  “Charlotte?” Hearing Megan’s voice snaps me out of it. I try to be discreet as I wipe my nose again.

  “I have an idea,” she says. “We’re going to do some investigative journalism. Sit tight until the others get here.”

  I fiddle with my phone, taking a break from the news to read my email and flip through recent pictures of Dad. The door opens and I turn around hoping to see Emma, but it’s Josh.

  He must see how absolutely messed up I am because he freezes midstep and just looks at me, his smile disappearing and his brow furrowing. He’s still wearing his bike helmet, and when he takes it off, I want to smooth his hair. We embark on a staring contest. He pulls out his earbuds and holds them in his hand and steps closer. I’ve memorized him, every inch of visible skin, but I haven’t met his eyes for this long since camp. I’d forgotten how dark they are. Undoubtedly the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. Huge, chocolate brown, and heavily lashed. Tatya Nadine tells me to avoid boys with “bedroom eyes.” “Gorestnoe sobytie.” Heartbreakers, she warns. I never understood what she meant until Josh.

  He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Emma flies through the door. She takes one look at me and senses bad news. In a flash, she’s standing between me and Josh, who slips the buds back into his ears and walks away. He knows Emma and Isaac barely tolerate him.

  “What did you hear?” she asks.

  It’s easier to say it the second time, and I repeat what I told Megan. My heart beats so strong that I can feel my pulse in my wrists and neck, like my body is reminding me that I need to keep moving, keep breathing.

  We’re supposed to spread out, one student per table as we review the papers. Instead of sitting in her usual spot, Emma plops into the chair next to mine. Isaac barely beats the bell. Megan gives him enough time to fill his mug, and then she directs everyone to huddle around me.

  “You too, Josh.”

  He sits in the next room, a closet really, that houses two Macs equipped with the software to design the paper and maintain the website. A gift from some alum who got rich in Silicon Valley. Josh is accustomed to ignoring us; he doesn’t even turn around. Megan crosses the room and gently pulls out an earbud. “Come,” she says. “Today, you’re editorial.”

  Josh’s floppy hair covers his face. When he brushes it back, he looks confused and disgruntled, but when his eyes meet mine again, he loses his annoyed expression and smiles. He takes a seat at the adjoining table, right behind me. He gently nudges my foot with his.

  Megan speaks on my behalf, passing around the papers and explaining Ivan the Photographer and my officially missing father. Ukraine dominates the front pages of each newspaper. A photo of a barn on fire. A cow, dead, lying next to the flames. People clustered a safe distance away from the burning building. Ukraine, Ukraine, Ukraine—the word popping off the page.

  “This is your assignment. Read the earthquake stories. Isaac, I want you to research the photographer and put together his publication history. Emma, do an image search and let’s see if we can get an idea of what this area looks like. Map it if you can. Charlotte, take a look at CNN world news and the BBC. Maybe try Ukrainian news sites and see what they’re reporting locally.”

  “I speak Russian, not Ukrainian. They’re close, but not the same language—you know, like Mandarin and Cantonese. I don’t know the Cyrillic alphabet.”

  Emma elbows me. “Then check out TV and radio sites. You won’t have to read that way.”

  “Good call,” Megan says. “Josh, you’re with me. We’ll look at the Red Cross and Doctors Without Borders to get a sense of the damage.”

  I’m grateful that she doesn’t use the word “casualties.”

  We retreat to our usual seats. I’m not sure if this is a real assignment or Megan’s act of kindness, a distraction, something to keep me busy, something to make me feel not so helpless.

  It almost works.

  Six

  We search and compare notes:

  Cell towers down.

  Power out.

  Emergency services overwhelmed.

  Roads blocked and damaged.

  Aid groups compiling lists of the missing.

  Families beginning to be reunited.

  Ivan the Photographer is accomplished and respected.

  Not a thing about Dad or the French dude, Pascal. I spend the morning with my friends, searching so silently that I can hear their breathing and Emma’s growling stomach. Dad is missing, but I’m not alone.

  Every five minutes, Emma asks me how I’m doing. Isaac refills my coffee cup like a diner waitress. Megan and Josh offer sympathetic smiles.

  My eyes are on him as much as the computer screen.

  As we pack up at the end of class, Josh takes the seat next to me. “I don’t have your number,” he says.

  “I don’t have yours, either.”

  He produces a Sharpie and writes his number on the back of my hand. I’m counting the galaxy of freckles covering his arm, searching for Orion and the Big and Little Dippers. Those freckles.

  I sleepwalk through the rest of the day. It’s like I borrowed Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak and no one can see me in the sea of the other three thousand kids who go to my school. Teachers don’t greet me. No one calls on me. I’ve never been so grateful to be ignored, so ready for the weekend.

  My only comfort is tracing Josh’s number on my skin, the thick black ink.

  When the final bell rings, we cluster at our lockers. Emma convinces Isaac that his priority is helping her with chem. “Come with us,” she says.

  Isaac follows us to the Blue Danube Café, which has decent after-school snacks and plenty of open tables. We claim the back corner.

  “Watch out,” Em says. “There’s a bee.”

  Isaac yanks off his sneaker and squashes the bug right on the table.

  “Super hygienic,” I say. “But smooth.”

  Isaac is gentlemanly and old-fashioned. He’s coppery from head to toe, with dark curly hair, even curlier than mine, amber-colored eyes, and almost the same shade of skin. Until this year, he wore a tie to school. Every day. Even with T-shirts. He’s unusual in all the right ways.

  We move to a large table closer to the window. When Emma returns from the counter, she places a pot of tea between us. “You okay?” she asks.

  “Yeah. Just stressed,” I say. “Tea will help. Thanks.”

  I read and reread the same three pages of Beloved before putting the book down. I have nine chapters to go, and I have to finish it this weekend. Em and Isaac make progress on her chemistry assignment. She writes her notes so hard and fast that I can’t believe she doesn’t perforate the pages.

  I take out my camera and flip through shots from last Sunday, pictures of Mom and Dad at the farmers market. In one picture, Mom holds a bouquet of flowers, orange Chinese lanterns and starbursts of white and yellow dahlias. A blooming constellation that makes her look magical. Dad points to something in the bay, and Mom’s eyes follow his.

  She looks so much stronger when she’s with him, but as soon as he goes on a trip, she transforms, becoming almost fragile, a cracking glass figurine. I compare the photo to my memory of last night, when we sat with Uncle Miguel. Her raccoon eye makeup and silence.

  Dad’s her anchor. He keeps her feet on the ground. I swear she’ll float into the clouds if he doesn’t come home. I’ll lose them both. Orphaned.

  I turn off my camera and pick up my book and sip my cooling tea. Emma’s phone buzzes with a text. She puts her pencil down, and I catch it as it rolls off the table.

  “Party tomorrow night,” she says. “Remember that guy Nicholas who graduated a few years ago? He’s hosting in his new apartment. It’s mandatory. You MUST go. No matter what. Promise now. Blood oath. I insist.”

  Isaac mimes slashing open his palm and shakes Em’s hand. They turn to me, waiting, knowing I’m waffling,
knowing that parties kind of make me nervous. I flirt with social anxiety; I’m not a serious case, just enough to be intimidated by large groups of people, especially if there’s dancing. I was born a wallflower.

  “Maybe,” I say. “I’ll have to check with my mom. I need to work in the bakery in the morning.” And I have to go for a run. Anything to get out all of this nervous energy.

  “Unacceptable,” Emma says.

  Isaac nods. “Yep. And you have to leave that”—he points to my camera—“at home. You look like a stalker when you bring it to parties. Or paparazzi. Not good.”

  They are relentless and giddy and won’t take no for an answer. They are contagious.

  “Okay, but you know, with my dad—”

  Emma cuts me off. “We know, Charlotte. Of course. If anything happens, we’ll come to your house for a sleepover. But there’s no way in hell we’re leaving you alone all weekend. You’d need to get a restraining order.” She looks at her naked wrist, pretending to check a watch. “It’s after five. Too late to see a judge. You’re stuck with us.”

  This is what it must feel like to have siblings who boss you around and love you because you belong together. Bound by blood and home and so many other tangible and intangible things.

  I wasn’t supposed to be an only child, and I don’t know how, but I miss the sister I never met. A fundamental longing that’s always with me. Lena died when she was a baby, just a year before I was born. Sudden infant death syndrome. Mom put her down for a nap, and Lena never woke up. I’ve always looked at friends with brothers and sisters with such envy. I want to share a room and share parents, share clothes and vacations. I want someone else at home when Dad’s gone and Mom’s in the bakery. I’d welcome rivalry and arguments if it meant that I didn’t have to live in such a quiet house.

  Emma and I met the first day of sixth grade. She was reading manga, a book based on a show that I’d watched for the last month straight, staying up until two in the morning without my parents knowing. Emma and I were in love with the same character. I remember not wanting to share Emma with anyone else. If I could have sold an organ or all of my furniture to have her as family, I would have. Would still. Because I can’t imagine anyone being more of a sister to me than her. We’ve applied to the same colleges so we can be roommates. I wish we were conjoined twins.