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“Okay.”
“We’ll keep you posted on his status.”
“Thank you,” I said, because it was all I could think to say. Then, “Can he talk? Who— Who do I call for news?”
“He’s unable to talk at the moment,” she said. “We’ll be in touch as soon as we can. Good-bye, ma’am, and God bless you.” The line went dead.
My heart was beating so hard, my eyesight flashed red and black. He had told me in an e-mail that he might be on a mission. And it had almost killed him. Good lord, what about Frankie? Was Frankie okay? I should have asked. I should have asked more about both of them.
The sunlit hotel room came back to me. Luke had handed me the piece of paper, the number scrawled with a motel pen. Your husband, she had said. My husband.
Toby returned from the bathroom whistling, hands in pockets. When he saw my face, he stopped.
“I have to go home,” I told him.
He drove me, though I was unable to answer his chorus of Cassie, you can tell me. I’ll help you. Just tell me if everything’s okay. Cassie?
Where was the paper? Where was the goddamn, stupid fucking piece of paper? I had put it in the junk drawer in the kitchen. Last month’s Internet bill. Last month’s electricity bill. A smaller, lighter paper. Was this it? No. A fucking take-out receipt. Why the hell had I saved a take-out receipt?
I emptied the drawer onto the kitchen floor.
Key from a bike lock I’d never used. Pennies. Bottle caps from when Nora’s niece needed them for her school fund-raiser. More pennies. Nickels. A tiny gift bag from when one of Mom’s clients had given their staff “Merry Christmas chocolates.” No more pieces of paper.
I moved to my room, searching the drawer in my bedside table.
A leather journal to which I had contributed two lines. A pack of condoms. A guitar pick Nora and I suspected belonged to Jack White after The White Stripes had played The Moody Theater.
For three hours I searched, tearing apart my apartment, finding nothing. I sat on my couch around two a.m. The quiet was quieter than normal. I eyed the keyboard, thinking about playing something to ease my anxiety, but found I couldn’t even touch the keys.
I heard a small tap on the door, footsteps on the stairs. I looked through the keyhole. It was Rita, holding Dante, who appeared to be half asleep. I opened the door.
“You moving out up here?” she asked, her pink bathrobe open to an oversized T-shirt reading JUST TELL ME WHERE THE CHOCOLATE IS AND NO ONE GETS HURT.
“No.” I sighed. “I was looking for a piece of paper with someone’s information. That I need really badly, like, right away.”
“Someone’s information?”
“Yeah, like their phone number. Anyway. Sorry to disturb you.”
“Wanna smoke?”
“I don’t have any.” I’d stopped buying when I got diagnosed. Every penny I earned went to bills, medical supplies, or music now.
“I didn’t ask if you did,” she said, and pulled a joint from behind her ear.
“Thank God,” I muttered.
We sat in our usual spots, not having to talk, passing the joint back and forth, letting the marijuana bathe the destroyed room in a haze. I put on Donovan.
After a while, Rita repeated, “Someone’s information. Hm.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Did you try Google? For this person’s number?” Rita asked, coughing a bit as she exhaled.
The sharpness came back. Google. Fucking duh. Panic had scrambled my brain. Of course I should do a Google search. “Rita, you’re a genius.”
“Tell that to my job,” Rita said. “They just fired me.”
“Damn, Rita,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged, stretching as she stood. “Everyone’s losing their jobs these days.”
I grabbed my laptop from the floor. Morrow, Morrow, Morrow. Now, what was his first name? The e-mails. Luke’s e-mails with the questions I was supposed to ask during our Skype calls—Luke had written the name there. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“Just keep payin’ your rent on time,” she called as she opened the door. “I’ll see ya later. Come, Dante.” Dante clicked across the floor.
As the door shut, I typed. There it was. Morrow Garage, Buda, TX. If I called now, no one would answer. If I left within the hour, I’d be there at sunrise.
