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I simply couldn’t abide the thought of pretending—riding the train downtown, greeting coworkers and boss, going through the motions of a humdrum job that meant less and less as time and experience wore on. That world was for others, at least at the moment. Still, I hoped I wouldn’t lose my job over this, but the idea of trying to act normal for eight hours or more was more than I could bear. All the pretense had been drained out of me.
I selected Becky Osbourne from among the contacts on my phone, pressed it, and waited to be connected. My prayer that I’d get voice mail was answered. I quickly explained that this time, it was not me but Vito who was ill. I said I’d managed to get an appointment for him at the vet’s in the early afternoon. “I’m sure I’ll be back tomorrow,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure at all.
Just as I was about to put the phone back down so I could get dressed and take care of the feeding and walking of Vito, the phone rang.
“Oh god no,” I whimpered, thinking Becky was calling back, suspicious. She would say something like how much she regretted doing it, but she’d have to write me up. One more time and I’d give her no choice but to dismiss me. Or maybe it was wishful thinking believing she’d give me one more chance.
But it wasn’t Becky.
My mother’s name and face had appeared on my screen.Odd. She never calls at this time of day on a weekday.I answered, “Mom?”
“Sammy? Glad I caught you, hon. You’re not at work, are you?”
“No. I called in sick today.”
“I don’t blame you, sweetheart. You must be out of your mind.” She made a tsk sound. “So horrible.”
I cocked my head. A chill coursed through me, making me shiver for a second. “Why?” I stood and slid in to pair of athletic shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops. Holding the phone away from my mouth, I patted my leg and whispered to Vito, “C’mon, boy.” The dog hopped down from the bed.
“Oh, you haven’t heard the news?”
“What news?” Dread arose, mainly in my gut. A wave of nausea weakened me.What now? Don’t I have enough to worry about?
“Go check out the news. It’s on TV, in the papers, online—even back here.”
“Mom, just tell me.” It seemed like my whole life had become a series of connections where I begged to be led out of the darkness.
“Okay,” she said, voice strained and barely above a whisper. “I don’t know anything for sure and neither does anybody else apparently, but a man’s body was found in the wee hours of the morning at a place—let me look—in Chicago called Kathy Osterman Beach. Are you familiar with it? It looks like it’s not too far from you.”
I plopped back down on the bed and closed my eyes to shut out the irrationally bright sunlight. For several seconds, I couldn’t speak. Words evaded me. The room swayed, making me wonder if an earthquake was happening.
Trudy cut in. “Look, Chicago’s a big town. Lots of crime. It probably isn’t Marc, but the description seemed to fit—the age, the general stats. I just thought you should know, so you could get in touch with the cops.” She breathed hard, almost gasping, then added, “You know, just so they can rule Marc out.”
The saliva in my mouth dried up. I struggled to get words out. “He wrote to me a while back, Mom. He’s taking a break from us. It’s sad, but it is what it is. I’m sure it isn’t him.”
“I know you’re right, hon. But just check, okay? And then let me know.”
“Did they say how this man was killed?”Say he drowned, Mom. I can at least think it was an accident.
“He was stabbed, left near the entrance to the men’s room.” Her voice broke a little, and I wondered why she was so certain this was Marc.
“Why do you think it’s Marc?” I snapped. She was right about what she’d said about crime and the size of our metropolis. She paused and I used the time to put her on speaker and search forbody foundKathy Osterman Beach. Two articles came up immediately from theTribuneandThe Sun Times.Both described a body discovered by a runner near the beach in the early hours of themorning. The victim was a white male, approximately forty-five to fifty-five years old, five feet, ten inches tall and weighing one-hundred-and-eighty-five pounds.
It all fit.
I told myself that the description fit thousands of men, but my intuition begged to differ and caused the rat gnawing at my gut to bite harder.
“Oh, you’ll think I’m crazy.” Mom brought me back to the present.
“Mom, that ship has sailed.”
She laughed, but it was uneasy, mirthless. “I had a dream last night. Woke up screaming.”
I didn’t want to hear about the dream. I didn’t want to hear any more of this at all. I longed to start the day over, go to work as I was supposed to. Maybe that way, this phone call—and all it involved—wouldn’t happen, wouldn’t be true.
She told me about the dream, anyway. “Honey, I dreamed Marc was dead. I didn’t see the killing in the dream, but he was lying on the grass, eyes wide open and not moving. It’s so weird. I was eating a red Popsicle as I stared at him.”
A chill passed through me. Vito whined. “I got to go, Mom. I’ll look into this more and see if there’s anything we need to worry about.”
