Promise Me
Page 2
The brakes were squeaking to a halt. The subway doors slid open. Edna’s heart beat wildly in her chest. She looked left and right, searching for the red hair.
Nothing.
Where was that girl?
“Edna?” It was Stanley. He had caught up to her.
Edna said nothing. She stood on the platform, but there was no sign of Katie Rochester. And even if there was, what then? What should Edna do here? Does she hop on the train and follow them? To where? And then what? Find the apartment or house and then call the police. . . .
Someone tapped her shoulder.
Edna turned. It was the missing girl.
For a long time after this, Edna would wonder what she saw in the girl’s expression. Was there a pleading look? A desperation? A calmness? Joy, even? Resolution? All of them.
They just stood and stared at each other for a moment. The bustling crowd, the indecipherable static on the speaker, the swoosh of the train—it all disappeared, leaving just the two of them.
“Please,” the missing girl said, her voice a whisper. “You can’t tell anybody you saw me.”
The girl stepped onto the train then. Edna felt a chill. The doors slid closed. Edna wanted to do something, do anything, but she couldn’t move. Her gaze remained locked on the girl’s.
“Please,” the girl mouthed through the glass.
And then the train disappeared into the dark.
CHAPTER 2
There were two teenage girls in Myron’s basement.
That was how it began. Later, when Myron looked back on all the loss and heartbreak, this first series of what-ifs would rise up and haunt him anew. What if he hadn’t needed ice. What if he’d opened his basement door a minute earlier or a minute later. What if the two teenage girls—what were they doing alone in his basement in the first place?—had spoken in whispers so that he hadn’t overheard them.
What if he had just minded his own business.
From the top of the stairs, Myron heard the girls giggling. He stopped. For a moment he considered closing the door and leaving them alone. His small soiree was low on ice, not out of it. He could come back.
But before he could turn away, one of the girls’ voices wafted smoke-like up the stairwell. “So you went with Randy?”
The other: “Oh my God, we were like so wasted.”
“From beer?”
“Beer and shots, yeah.”
“How did you get home?”
“Randy drove.”
At the top of the stairs, Myron stiffened.
“But you said—”
“Shh.” Then: “Hello? Is someone there?”
Caught.
Myron took the stairs in a trot, whistling as he went. Mr. Casual. The two girls were sitting in what used to be Myron’s bedroom. The basement had been “finished” in 1975 and looked it. Myron’s father, who was currently lollygagging with Mom in some condo near Boca Raton, had been big on two-sided tape. The adhesive wood paneling, a look that aged about as well as the Betamax, had started to give. In some spots the concrete walls were now visible and noticeably flaking. The floor tiles, fastened down with something akin to Elmer’s Glue, were buckling. They crunched beetle-like when you stepped on them.
The two girls—one Myron had known her whole life, the other he had just met today—looked up at him with wide eyes. For a moment no one spoke. He gave them a little wave.
“Hey, girls.”
Myron Bolitar prided himself on big opening lines.
The girls were both high school seniors, both pretty in that coltish way. The one sitting on the corner of his old bed—the one he had met for the first time an hour ago—was named Erin. Myron had started dating Erin’s mother, a widow and freelance magazine writer named Ali Wilder, two months ago. This party, here at the house Myron had grown up in and now owned, was something of a “coming out” party for Myron and Ali as a couple.
The other girl, Aimee Biel, mimicked his wave and tone. “Hey, Myron.”
More silence.
He first saw Aimee Biel the day after she was born at St. Barnabas Hospital. Aimee and her parents, Claire and Erik, lived two blocks away. Myron had known Claire since their years together at Heritage Middle School, less than half a mile from where they now gathered. Myron turned toward Aimee. For a moment he fell back more than twenty-five years. Aimee looked so much like her mother, had the same crooked, devil-may-care grin, it was like looking through a time portal.
“I was just getting some ice,” Myron said. He pointed toward the freezer with his thumb to illustrate the point.
“Cool,” Aimee said.
“Very cool,” Myron said. “Ice cold, in fact.”
Myron chuckled. Alone.
With the stupid grin still on his face, Myron looked over at Erin. She turned away. That had been her basic reaction today. Polite and aloof.
“Can I ask you something?” Aimee said.
“Shoot.”
She spread her hands. “Was this really your room growing up?”
“Indeed it was.”
The two girls exchanged a glance. Aimee giggled. Erin did likewise.
“What?” Myron said.
“This room . . . I mean, could it possibly be lamer?”
Erin finally spoke. “It’s like too retro to be retro.”
“What do you call this thing?” Aimee asked, pointing below her.
“A beanbag chair,” Myron said.
The two girls giggled some more.
“And how come this lamp has a black lightbulb?”
“It makes the posters glow.”
More laughs.
“Hey, I was in high school,” Myron said, as if that explained everything.
“Did you ever bring a girl down here?” Aimee asked.
Myron put his hand to his heart. “A true gentleman never kisses and tells.” Then: “Yes.”
“How many?”
“How many what?”
“How many girls did you bring down here?”
“Oh. Approximately”—Myron looked up, drew in the air with his index finger—“carry the three . . . I’d say somewhere between eight and nine hundred thousand.”
That caused rip-roaring laughter.
“Actually,” Aimee said, “Mom says you used to be real cute.”
Myron arched an eyebrow. “Used to be?”
Both girls high-fived and fell about the place. Myron shook his head and grumbled something about respecting their elders. When they quieted down, Aimee said, “Can I ask you something else?”
“Shoot.”
“I mean, seriously.”
Nothing.
Where was that girl?
“Edna?” It was Stanley. He had caught up to her.
Edna said nothing. She stood on the platform, but there was no sign of Katie Rochester. And even if there was, what then? What should Edna do here? Does she hop on the train and follow them? To where? And then what? Find the apartment or house and then call the police. . . .
Someone tapped her shoulder.
Edna turned. It was the missing girl.
For a long time after this, Edna would wonder what she saw in the girl’s expression. Was there a pleading look? A desperation? A calmness? Joy, even? Resolution? All of them.
They just stood and stared at each other for a moment. The bustling crowd, the indecipherable static on the speaker, the swoosh of the train—it all disappeared, leaving just the two of them.
“Please,” the missing girl said, her voice a whisper. “You can’t tell anybody you saw me.”
The girl stepped onto the train then. Edna felt a chill. The doors slid closed. Edna wanted to do something, do anything, but she couldn’t move. Her gaze remained locked on the girl’s.
“Please,” the girl mouthed through the glass.
And then the train disappeared into the dark.
CHAPTER 2
There were two teenage girls in Myron’s basement.
That was how it began. Later, when Myron looked back on all the loss and heartbreak, this first series of what-ifs would rise up and haunt him anew. What if he hadn’t needed ice. What if he’d opened his basement door a minute earlier or a minute later. What if the two teenage girls—what were they doing alone in his basement in the first place?—had spoken in whispers so that he hadn’t overheard them.
What if he had just minded his own business.
From the top of the stairs, Myron heard the girls giggling. He stopped. For a moment he considered closing the door and leaving them alone. His small soiree was low on ice, not out of it. He could come back.
But before he could turn away, one of the girls’ voices wafted smoke-like up the stairwell. “So you went with Randy?”
The other: “Oh my God, we were like so wasted.”
“From beer?”
“Beer and shots, yeah.”
“How did you get home?”
“Randy drove.”
At the top of the stairs, Myron stiffened.
“But you said—”
“Shh.” Then: “Hello? Is someone there?”
Caught.
Myron took the stairs in a trot, whistling as he went. Mr. Casual. The two girls were sitting in what used to be Myron’s bedroom. The basement had been “finished” in 1975 and looked it. Myron’s father, who was currently lollygagging with Mom in some condo near Boca Raton, had been big on two-sided tape. The adhesive wood paneling, a look that aged about as well as the Betamax, had started to give. In some spots the concrete walls were now visible and noticeably flaking. The floor tiles, fastened down with something akin to Elmer’s Glue, were buckling. They crunched beetle-like when you stepped on them.
The two girls—one Myron had known her whole life, the other he had just met today—looked up at him with wide eyes. For a moment no one spoke. He gave them a little wave.
“Hey, girls.”
Myron Bolitar prided himself on big opening lines.
The girls were both high school seniors, both pretty in that coltish way. The one sitting on the corner of his old bed—the one he had met for the first time an hour ago—was named Erin. Myron had started dating Erin’s mother, a widow and freelance magazine writer named Ali Wilder, two months ago. This party, here at the house Myron had grown up in and now owned, was something of a “coming out” party for Myron and Ali as a couple.
The other girl, Aimee Biel, mimicked his wave and tone. “Hey, Myron.”
More silence.
He first saw Aimee Biel the day after she was born at St. Barnabas Hospital. Aimee and her parents, Claire and Erik, lived two blocks away. Myron had known Claire since their years together at Heritage Middle School, less than half a mile from where they now gathered. Myron turned toward Aimee. For a moment he fell back more than twenty-five years. Aimee looked so much like her mother, had the same crooked, devil-may-care grin, it was like looking through a time portal.
“I was just getting some ice,” Myron said. He pointed toward the freezer with his thumb to illustrate the point.
“Cool,” Aimee said.
“Very cool,” Myron said. “Ice cold, in fact.”
Myron chuckled. Alone.
With the stupid grin still on his face, Myron looked over at Erin. She turned away. That had been her basic reaction today. Polite and aloof.
“Can I ask you something?” Aimee said.
“Shoot.”
She spread her hands. “Was this really your room growing up?”
“Indeed it was.”
The two girls exchanged a glance. Aimee giggled. Erin did likewise.
“What?” Myron said.
“This room . . . I mean, could it possibly be lamer?”
Erin finally spoke. “It’s like too retro to be retro.”
“What do you call this thing?” Aimee asked, pointing below her.
“A beanbag chair,” Myron said.
The two girls giggled some more.
“And how come this lamp has a black lightbulb?”
“It makes the posters glow.”
More laughs.
“Hey, I was in high school,” Myron said, as if that explained everything.
“Did you ever bring a girl down here?” Aimee asked.
Myron put his hand to his heart. “A true gentleman never kisses and tells.” Then: “Yes.”
“How many?”
“How many what?”
“How many girls did you bring down here?”
“Oh. Approximately”—Myron looked up, drew in the air with his index finger—“carry the three . . . I’d say somewhere between eight and nine hundred thousand.”
That caused rip-roaring laughter.
“Actually,” Aimee said, “Mom says you used to be real cute.”
Myron arched an eyebrow. “Used to be?”
Both girls high-fived and fell about the place. Myron shook his head and grumbled something about respecting their elders. When they quieted down, Aimee said, “Can I ask you something else?”
“Shoot.”
“I mean, seriously.”
