Leaving Time: A Novel (17 page)

How do you say good-bye?

That night, there were meteor showers. It seemed to me that even the sky was weeping
.

Two pages later in the journal, my mother had composed herself enough to write about what had happened with the objectivity of a scientist:

That’s what my mom scrawled at the bottom of the page.

What she didn’t write was that this was the day she narrowed her study on trauma and elephants to the effects of grief instead.

Unlike my mother, I don’t think what happened to Kenosi was tragic. When I read it, actually, it makes me feel like I’m filled with sparks from those meteor showers she talks about.

After all, the last thing Kenosi saw, before he closed his eyes forever, was his mother coming back to him.

The next morning, I wonder if it’s time to tell my grandmother about Virgil.

“What do you think?” I ask Gertie. Certainly it would be easier to get a lift to his office, instead of having to bike all the way across town. So far all I have to show for my search are calf muscles that rival a ballerina’s.

My dog thumps her tail against the wooden floor. “Once for yes, twice for no,” I say, and Gertie cocks her head. I hear my grandmother call for me—it’s the second time—and I clatter down the stairs to find her standing at the counter, shaking cereal into a bowl for my breakfast.

“I overslept. No time for anything hot today. Although why you can’t feed yourself at the age of thirteen, I have no idea,” she huffs. “I’ve seen goldfish with better survival skills than you.” She hands me a milk carton and unplugs her cell phone from its charger. “Take the recycling out before you leave for your sitting job. And for God’s sake
brush your hair before you go. It looks like there’s a woodland creature nesting inside.”

This is not the same woman who came into my room last night with all her defenses down. This is not the same woman who admitted to me that she, too, is still consumed by thoughts of my mother.

She digs in her purse. “Where are the car keys? I swear I have the first three signs of Alzheimer’s …”

“Grandma … what you said last night …” I clear my throat. “About me being brave enough to search for my mom?”

She shakes her head, so slightly that if I weren’t staring so hard at her, I might have missed it. “Dinner’s at six,” she announces, in a voice that lets me know this conversation is over, before I really ever had a chance to get it started.

To my surprise, Virgil looks as comfortable in the police station as a vegetarian at a barbecue festival. He doesn’t want to use the front door; we have to sneak in the back after an officer has buzzed himself in. He doesn’t want to chat up the desk sergeant or the dispatchers. There’s no grand tour:
This is where my locker was; this is where we kept the donuts
. I’d been under the impression that Virgil left this job because he wanted to, but I’m beginning to wonder if maybe he did something to get fired. This much I know: There’s something he’s not telling me.

“See that guy?” Virgil says, pulling me around the bend of a hallway so that I can peek at the man sitting at the desk of the evidence room. “That’s Ralph.”

“Um, Ralph looks like he’s a thousand years old.”

“He looked like he was a thousand years old back when I was still working here,” Virgil says. “We used to say he’d become just as fossilized as the stuff he watches over.”

He takes a deep breath and walks down the corridor. The evidence room has a half door, with the top open. “Hey, Ralph! Long time no see.”

Ralph moves as if he’s underwater. His waist pivots, then his
shoulders, and finally his head. Up close, he has as many wrinkles as the elephants in the photos clipped to my mother’s journal entries. His eyes are as pale as apple jelly, and look to be about the same consistency. “Well,” Ralph says, so slowly that it sounds like
whaaaaale
. “Rumor has it that you walked into the cold case evidence room one day and never came out.”

“What is it Mark Twain said? Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

“Guess if I ask you where you’ve been, you’re not gonna tell me, anyway,” Ralph replies.

“Nope. And I’d be awfully grateful if you didn’t mention me being here, either. I get itchy when people ask too many questions.” Virgil takes a slightly mashed Twinkie from his pocket and sets this on the counter between us and Ralph.

“How old is that?” I murmur.

“These things have enough preservatives in them to keep them on the shelves until 2050,” Virgil whispers. “And besides, Ralph can’t read the tiny print of the expiration date.”

Sure enough, Ralph’s entire face lights up. His mouth creases in a smile, and it has ripple effects that remind me of a YouTube video I once saw of a building implosion. “You remember my weakness, Virgil,” he says, and he glances at me. “Who’s your sidekick?”

“My tennis partner.” Virgil leans through the opening in the door. “Look, Ralphie. I need to check out one of my old cases.”

“You’re not on payroll anymore—”

“I was barely on payroll when I was on payroll. Come on, bud. It’s not like I’m asking to mess with any active investigation. I’m just freeing up a little space for you.”

Ralph shrugs. “I guess it can’t hurt, as long as the case is closed …”

Virgil unlatches the door and pushes past him. “No need to get up. I know the way.”

I follow him down a long, narrow hallway. Metal shelving lines both walls from floor to ceiling, and there are cardboard boxes neatly jammed into every available space. Virgil’s lips move as he reads the
labels of the banker’s boxes, arranged by case number and date. “Next aisle,” he mutters. “This one only goes back to 2006.”

After a few more minutes he stops, and starts to monkey-climb the shelving. He pulls one of the boxes free and tosses it into my arms. It’s lighter than I was expecting. I set it on the floor so that he can pass down three more boxes.

“That’s it?” I say. “I thought you told me there was a ton of evidence taken from the sanctuary.”

“There was. But the case was solved. We only kept the items that were connected to people—things like soil and trampled plants and debris that turned out to not be consequential were destroyed.”

“If someone’s already gone through it all, why are we going back to it?”

“Because you can look at a mess twelve times and see nothing. And then you look the thirteenth time, and whatever you were searching for is staring out at you, clear as day.” He opens the lid of the top box. Inside are paper storage bags, sealed with tape. On the tape, and on the bags, it says NO.

“No?” I read. “What’s in that bag?”

Virgil shakes his head. “That stands for Nigel O’Neill. He was a cop who was searching for evidence that night. Protocol means that the officer has to put his initials and the date collected on the bag and the tape, to make the chain of evidence hold up in court.” He points to the other markings on the bag: a property number, with a list of items:
SHOELACE
,
RECEIPT
. Another:
VICTIM
’
S CLOTHING
—
SHIRT
,
SHORTS
.

“Open that one,” I direct.

“Why?”

“You know how sometimes a specific item can jog a memory? I want to see if that’s true.”

“The victim here wasn’t your mother,” Virgil reminds me.

As far as I’m concerned, that remains to be seen. But he opens the paper bag, snaps on a pair of gloves from a box on the shelf, and pulls out a pair of khaki shorts and a shredded, stiff polo shirt with the New England Elephant Sanctuary logo embroidered on the left breast.

“Well?” he prompts.

“Is that
blood
?” I ask.

“No, it’s dried Kool-Aid. If you want to be a detective, be a detective,” he says.

Still, it kind of freaks me out. “It looks like the same uniform
everyone
wore.”

Virgil keeps rummaging. “Here we go,” he says, pulling out a bag that is so flat there can’t possibly be anything in it. The evidence tag says
#859
,
LOOSE HAIR INSIDE BODY BAG
. He takes the bag and slips it into his pocket. Then he picks up two of the boxes and carries them toward the entrance, glancing over his shoulder. “Make yourself useful.”

I follow him, the other boxes stacked in my arms. I’m pretty sure he took the lighter ones on purpose. These feel like they’re full of rocks. At the entrance, Ralph glances up from the nap he’s been taking. “Good to catch up, Virgil.”

Virgil points his finger. “You never saw me.”

“Saw what?” Ralph says.

We duck out the same back entrance of the police station and carry the boxes to Virgil’s truck. He manages to stuff them into the backseat, which is already jammed with food wrappers and old CD cases and paper towels and sweatshirts and empty bottles. I climb into the passenger seat. “Now what?”

“Now we have to go sweet-talk a lab into doing a mitochondrial DNA test.”

I don’t know what that is, but it sounds like something that would be part of a thorough investigation. I’m impressed. I glance at Virgil, who, I should say, has cleaned up pretty nicely now that he’s not completely drunk. He’s showered and shaved, so he smells like a pine forest instead of stale gin. “Why did you leave?”

He glances at me. “Because we got what we came for.”

“I meant the police department. Didn’t you
want
to be a detective?”

“Apparently not as much as you do,” Virgil murmurs.

“I think I deserve to know what I’m getting for my money.”

He snorts. “A bargain.”

He backs up too fast, and one of the boxes tumbles over. The storage bags inside spill out, so I unbuckle my seat belt and twist around, trying to right the mess. “It’s hard to tell what’s evidence and what’s your trash,” I say. The tape has peeled off one of the brown paper bags, and the evidence inside has fallen into a nest of McDonald’s fish fillet wrappers. “This is gross. Who eats fifteen fish fillets?”

“It wasn’t all at once,” Virgil says.

But I’m barely listening, because my hand has closed around the evidence that was dislodged. I pivot forward, still holding the tiny pink Converse sneaker.

Then I look down at my feet.

I’ve had pink Converse high-tops for as long as I can remember. Longer. They’re my one indulgence, the only items of clothing I ever ask my grandmother for.

I’m wearing them in every photograph of me as an infant: propped up against a clan of teddy bears, sitting on a blanket with a pair of huge sunglasses balanced on my nose; brushing my teeth at the sink, naked except for those shoes. My mother had a pair, too—old, beaten ones that she had kept from her college days. We did not wear identical dresses or have the same haircut; we didn’t practice putting on makeup. But in this one small thing, we matched.

I still wear my sneakers, practically every day. They’re kind of like a good-luck charm, or maybe a superstition. If I haven’t taken mine off, then maybe … well. You get it.

The roof of my mouth feels like a desert. “This was mine.”

Virgil looks at me. “You’re sure?”

I nod.

“Did you ever run around barefoot when you were in the sanctuary with your mother?”

I shake my head. That was a rule; no one went inside without footwear. “It wasn’t like a golf course,” I said. “There were knobs of grass and thicket and bush. You could trip in the holes that the elephants dug.” I turn the tiny shoe over in my hand. “I was there, that night. And I
still
don’t know what happened.”

Had I gotten out of bed and wandered into the enclosures? Had my mom been looking for me?

Am I the reason she’s gone?

My mother’s research comes thundering into my head.
Negative moments get remembered. Traumatic ones get forgotten
.

Virgil’s face is unreadable. “Your father told us you were asleep,” he says.

“Well, I didn’t go to sleep wearing shoes. Someone must have put them on me and tied the laces.”

“Someone,” Virgil repeats.

Last night, I dreamed about my father. He was creeping through the tall grass near the pond in the sanctuary enclosure, calling my name.
Jenna! Come out, come out, wherever you are!

We were safe out here, because the two African elephants were inside the barn having their feet examined. I knew that home base in this game was the wide wall of the barn. I knew that my father always won, because he could run faster than me. But this time, I was not going to let him.

Bean
, he said, his name for me.
I can see you
.

I knew he was lying, because he started walking
away
from my hiding spot.

I had dug myself into the banks of the pond the way the elephants did when my mother and I watched them playing, spraying each other with the hoses of their trunks or rolling like wrestlers in the mud to cool their hot skin.

I waited for my father to pass the big tree where Nevvie and Gideon would set dinner for the animals—cubes of hay and Blue Hubbard squash and entire watermelons. Enough to feed a small family, or a single elephant. As soon as he was in its shadow, I scrambled up from the bank where I’d been wallowing and ran forward.

It wasn’t easy. My clothes were caked with dirt; my hair was knotted in a rope down my back. My pink sneakers had been sucked into
the muck of the pond. But I knew I was going to win, and a giggle slipped from my lips, like the squeal of helium from the neck of a balloon.

It was all that my father needed. Hearing me, he spun and raced toward me, hoping to cut me off before I could flatten my muddy handprints against the corrugated metal wall of that barn.