Pray for the Girl Read online

  “Look, lady, we’re an old-fashioned diner. We don’t make all that fancy food you’re probably used to eating.”

  “I’m used to eating?” I laugh. “Don’t give me that bullshit. I know for a fact that your beloved papou didn’t crack any real eggs to make this.”

  She glares at me for a few seconds. “My mother and I have told him a million times to use fresh eggs, but he’s always trying to cut costs.”

  I drop a twenty on the counter and turn to leave.

  “Where you going?”

  “Home, to make a real omelette.”

  “Ha! You don’t strike me as someone who knows how to cook, never mind turn on a microwave.”

  I laugh as she clears my plate and pockets the twenty. “Then you obviously don’t know me.”

  “You staying in town long?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Just trying to make polite conversation.”

  “Now that’s a first in this place.”

  “I dare you to come back tomorrow morning and try the omelette I’ll make you.”

  “You mean a smart-ass kid like you knows how to cook?”

  “You may think you’re funny, lady, but you’re really not.”

  “At least I know how to make an omelette.” I open the door. “Tell your mother Moo Moo was here.”

  “Moo Moo?” The girl looks perplexed. “My mother knows you?”

  “Just tell her I was here.”

  I grab my purse and head out the front door. Moo Moo was the pet name her mother used to secretly call me back in junior high. Supposedly, it was a Greek term that translated to lover. As I saunter to the truck, two burly lumberjacks turn their heads at me and whistle. I smile at them, toss my hair back, and then flip them the bird. Being whistled at flatters me, but it also feels good to express myself in such a forceful manner. Attention like this rarely happens to me back in the city, and for once it feels good to bathe in the admiration of complete strangers.

  4

  IT’S JUST PAST FIVE A.M., AND I CAN ALREADY FEEL MYSELF REENTERING that wobbly state of mental fragility. In roughly thirty minutes the sun will come up over the horizon. I hope I’ll be in my room by then, buried under an avalanche of covers. Despite the hunger pains rolling through my gut, my appetite has gone to shit. There’s little time left for me to get reacquainted with my hometown, and I fear what might happen when the light of day strikes.

  I cruise through Fawn Grove’s deserted business district. It’s gotten seedier in the years since I’ve been away. The ghostly silhouettes of the brick buildings rise up in shadowy forms. Hidden behind the darkness looms an abandoned shoe mill from the last century, pregnant with forgotten memories of its glory days. I pass an Asian nail shop, a drab dollar store, Fawn Grove House of Pizza, and a convenience store with a sign in the window that says WE ACCEPT EBT CARDS. Toward the end of the street I notice a block of stores with foreign lettering: butchers, a halal market, a kebab take-out joint, and a tandoori bakery. Is this representative of a town’s happy equilibrium? Of diversity and tolerance? Or simply an act of white-knuckled coexistence?

  I’d spent many days in my youth hanging out in this downtown area, searching for comic books and CDs, or buying donuts at Ida Mae’s while skipping Sunday Mass. Ida Mae’s no longer exists; another casualty of the mill’s downturn. It’s been taken over by a used clothing store called Hadassah’s. I remember hot donuts fresh out of the fryer slathered in sugary icing and chocolate frosting.

  The sight of all this depresses me, and so I hit the gas. There’s a rest stop on the outskirts of town that offers a nice view of the downtown area. It’s where Nadia and I would sneak away, listening to rock music as we cuddled in the front seat. It’s not far from where the Convair famously crashed, and where they found Angus Gibbons’s burnt and smoldering corpse. However, his signature red Stratocaster was discovered not thirty feet from his body with not a scratch on it. It hangs prominently in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

  I stop and look down upon the town’s twinkling lights. Nadia was the love of my life back then, or what I believed passed for love. For obvious reasons we were forced to keep our relationship secret. Small-town life doomed us, and since I left Fawn Grove after my eighteenth birthday, I’d been trying to put that part of my life behind me. Although I haven’t spoken to her since leaving, I’ve never stopped thinking about her.

  The first rays of the sun begin to sneak up over the horizon. My father’s house sits just up the road a ways, but I haven’t yet worked up the nerve to see him. It’s been ages since we’ve talked or laid eyes on one another. Maybe one of these days I’ll sit down and ask him why he abandoned us. But I have more important things to do right now.

  Because of my past, I’ve developed this powerful urge to learn more about this dead girl. Like why did she have to die and who killed her? It’s this restless nature of mine that compels me to seek answers. I regret my inaction in Afghanistan and letting that poor girl from the fruit market die. It’s the reason I still hear voices at night, no matter how hard I try to shut them out.

  * * *

  The Victorian sits back from the street and is fronted by toothpicks of maples and elms. I park up the driveway so I can access the back door. Wendy is waiting for me in the kitchen as soon as I enter, her hydraulic wheelchair elevated so that she can see the laptop sitting on the counter. She turns and stares at me, a cigarette smoldering in her long, nicotine-stained fingers.

  “Look what the cat brought in,” she says, moving around strips of bacon in a grease-filled frying pan. “Thought you’d never come out of that room.”

  “Thanks for putting up with me these last few weeks, sis.”

  She puffs on her cigarette. “Feeling any better?”

  “A bit.” I fan the smoke out of my face, both bacon and cigarette.

  “You’ve barely left that room since you’ve been here.”

  “I know. This healing process really sucks.”

  “You’re not the only person around here trying to get better.” She blows smoke up into the exhaust fan and regards me with something other than sisterly love. “I’m sorry, Lucy. That was a shitty thing to say.”

  “Forget it.”

  “No, I was being petty. You’ve been through quite a lot in your life,” she says. “Sit down and have some breakfast. You’re all skin and bones.”

  “Mind if I take a rain check?”

  “At least take a plate up to your room in case you get hungry,” she says, stubbing her cigarette out in an emerald-colored ashtray. She grabs a plate and loads it with bacon, scrambled eggs, and a buttered slice of toast. “So, where’d you go this morning?”

  “I wanted to see Fawn Grove when it’s nice and quiet.”

  “You mean when no one could see you?”

  I laugh. “That too.”

  “They wouldn’t recognize you, anyway.”

  “Probably not. It’s been a long time since I’ve been back.”

  “Fourteen years?”

  “Give or take.”

  “Been a lot of changes in this town.” She holds the plate out to me and I take it, although I know I’m not going to eat a bite of it. “I suppose the more Fawn Grove changes, the more it stays the same.”

  “In what way?”

  “If you haven’t noticed, we have all these new immigrants in town.”

  “Is that why this dead girl is creating such a stir?”

  “Where did you hear about that?”

  “I was standing at the railing one day when I overheard you and Russ talking about it.”

  “It’s insane what people in this town are saying. I suppose I should have expected as much from these small-town minds.”

  “They say it might have been an honor killing.”

  “Those jackals will say anything to sell papers.” She waves her hand in the air as if to dismiss the notion. “When I was healthier than I am now, a few years ago, I used to volunteer my time helping those Afghanis, and I can
tell you from experience that most of them are wonderful people.”

  “So you don’t believe it was an honor killing?” The powerful stench of smoked pork is beginning to make me nauseated.

  “No, I don’t. There’s always a few bad apples in every barrel, but I worry more about the bigots in this town than I do these refugees.”

  I thank Wendy for breakfast and stagger up to my room. As I pass, I see Brynn sitting at the dining room table with Wendy’s husband, Big Russ. He lowers the newspaper and eyes me suspiciously. Russ is a burly, taciturn guy with a thick mustache and an intimidating glare. He’s been on permanent disability ever since injuring his back while working at the mill. Brynn is a freshman at Fawn Grove High. We met last week for the first time but have yet to get fully acquainted because of my condition. I wonder how well she knew the dead girl. She stares at me with those moon-shaped eyes that will one day drive the boys crazy, if they don’t already.

  “Hello, everybody,” I say.

  Big Russ and Brynn grumble something under their breaths. I can’t say I blame them for their ambivalence toward me. I’m a stranger in their midst. Although we’re related by blood, we barely know each other. I hope to sit down with them at some point and get better acquainted. But now’s not the time. Not until I can work myself into the right frame of mind.

  I climb the stairs, burst into my old room, and collapse onto the bed in exhaustion. Driving through Fawn Grove took everything out of me, and it’ll take at least a day for me to recover. I look at the pile of food on my plate and debate whether I should dump it out the window. My olfactory sense can’t handle such an awful stench. My appetite has completely abandoned me after that trip down memory lane. I set the plate down on the nightstand, close my eyes, and pray that the voices in my head will allow me at least a few hours of sleep. That’s all I need right now. Just a little rest.

  * * *

  The voices start to grumble, which stirs me awake. It’s rather comforting to know that my trusty set of knives sits nearby on the dresser. They’ve become an important part of me and an extension of who I am. But what would I use them for now that I’m no longer working as a chef? They’re more a crutch than anything else. A reminder of who I am and what I’ve accomplished in life despite all that has happened.

  The voices today are not the usual ones I hear. In fact, they’re not even voices, but more like sounds from my past. It’s the sounds I heard while working in that cramped East Village kitchen. Orders being shouted out at the top of one’s lungs. Pissed-off waitresses cussing out line staff. Steaks and chops sizzling on flaming grills. Heavy metal music blaring over speakers. Exhaust fans whirring nonstop. Pans smashing against one another in symphonic disharmony. The skin of a Chilean sea bass ripping away from its filet.

  Why am I remembering all this? And why now? Do I miss being a sous-chef? I don’t miss the long hours on my feet or the oppressive heat bearing down on me on a humid summer day. I don’t miss falling behind on dinner orders and working madly to keep up. Nor do I miss the relatively shitty pay and the accumulation of scrapes, burns, and bruises I’d collect during a frantic dinner service. Individually, I don’t miss any one of these things. But as a whole, I very much miss working in that busy kitchen.

  More than anything, I miss the anonymity of the city. New York allows you to be whomever you want to be. There’s no judgment or shame living there. This observation has never been more apparent as when I returned home. In the city, my past didn’t matter like it does here. In the city, there’s a thousand things to do at all times. In the city, I could work at being the person I always aspired to be. I miss the camaraderie with other chefs, getting off shift and drinking cocktails in Soho till sunrise. I miss passing out from exhaustion once back in my overpriced broom closet. At least once a day, staff and cooks would join together for our nightly dinners. It was the closest thing I had to a family meal. We laughed and joked before the storm. Then the doors opened and the mad rush of diners turned us into raving, homicidal lunatics wielding sharp knives and pointing them at anyone who looked at us the wrong way. Or failed to keep up with the pace.

  There’s no use trying to sleep. I look over at the clock and see that it’s nearly two A.M. It’s hard for me to believe that I’ve been lounging in this bed for over twenty hours. It’s too early to go to The Galaxy and sample the omelette that girl threatened to cook for me. At least I feel better than a few weeks ago—less depressed and without the crippling anxiety that caused me to scamper back to my old haunts. I’m under no illusion that my life has returned to anything resembling normalcy. Being able to face the world is a reward unto itself.

  I move to the bureau and take in the vast collection of unguents, elixirs, pill bottles, and liquid prescriptions. They await me like toy soldiers at parade rest. I grab a random handful, swallow them, and then retreat to the bed with bottle and syringe. It suddenly occurs to me that I’ve not bathed or showered since arriving here. I draw the liquid into the tube, flick the needle point with my finger, lift my sundress up to my blistered thigh, and plunge the tip into my awaiting flesh. Injecting myself has become like second nature to me, as easy as boning out a chicken or breaking down a young pig.

  I run a hot bath and undress before sitting down on the toilet. My skin feels dry and prickly as I gently remove the first prosthetic from below my left knee. I remove the other and place it next to the first one. The flesh at the bottom of my stumps appears red and swollen, but they’ve looked worse. Nothing a little ointment rubbed into the folds can’t fix.

  Slowly I lower myself from the toilet until my entire body is enveloped in hot, soapy water. I rest my head back until I’m floating lightly on the surface. Free of prosthetics, my body fits perfectly inside the tub. I tie my hair up into a bun and look down toward the faucet, where I see my two stubs emerging from the water.

  5

  I FEEL LIKE A NEW WOMAN AS I WALK INTO THE GALAXY, DRESSED IN A pair of crisp blue jeans, a pink button-down shirt, and quilted white sneakers. The doors have just opened, and I can see that I’m the only one here. My stomach is a vast pit of emptiness that often leads me astray in times of crisis. But as a chef I’ve learned to trust my gut. The self-induced fasting I’ve endured leaves me weak and fatigued, and my hungry heart howls like a wolf inside my chest. The message is clear: Eat something, Lucy.

  It feels warm and safe inside this brightly lit diner. Despite it being in disrepair, it still feels familiar to me. I breathe in the nostalgic ambience of the past, recalling all the ghosts who once sat on these stools. The confines seem to envelope me in a loving embrace, as if we’ve reconnected after a long split. Maybe that’s a vestige of all the stored-up memories I have. Or maybe it’s simply my preference for all things culinary, dating back to my childhood.

  “Look who it is: Miss Fancy-Pants,” Stef says, pulling up behind the counter dressed in chef’s whites.

  “I’m back for that amazing omelette you promised.”

  “You mean a glamorous woman like you hasn’t gotten sick of this town yet?” She leans on one elbow, her perfectly white teeth contrasting gloriously against her olive-toned skin.

  “How about going into the kitchen and making me that omelette?”

  “Get ready for a party in your mouth.”

  “Humble, aren’t we?”

  She disappears into the kitchen, leaving me sitting alone at the counter. I hop off the stool and make my way behind it. Grabbing a mug off the shelf, I help myself to some of their bland coffee. The door opens, and I turn to see the second customer of the day walk through the door. It’s Dalton. A look of surprise comes over his face upon seeing me. That’s followed by a knowing smile. He takes off his cap, places it on the counter, and grabs a stool two removed from mine.

  “Taking a part-time job here?” he says.

  I place a mug down in front of him. “Care for some coffee? It appears to be Help Yourself Day.”

  “Coffee’s the only reason I come here.”

  I
fill his cup. “Where’s the old Greek?”

  “Yanni comes in late a few days a week,” he says. “Usually Nadia comes in, but I guess she’s busy today.”

  “Catch any speeders as of late?”

  “Just one pretty lady with a chunk of lead in her foot. Lucky for her, I was feeling generous that day.”

  “Lucky lead foot, then.” I rest the pot back on the warmer and stand across from him. “Learn anything more about this murder?”

  “I thought you were going to take my breakfast order?”

  “Unfortunately, pouring coffee’s the extent of my generosity.”

  “Why so interested in this dead girl? You got a thing for Afghani refugees?” He sips his coffee.

  “Let’s just say that old lead foot here has taken an interest in the case since you told me about it.”

  “I shouldn’t have been talking to you about such things.”

  “Official business, huh?”

  “On a need-to-know basis.”

  “What could you know, anyway? You’re too busy chasing speeders and pulling cats out of trees.”

  “I stop only the pretty ones.”

  “Here’s a tip, Officer Dalton. Try not coming off so strong and you might do better with the ladies.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Miss Abbott,” he says. “And for your information, it’s Detective Dalton.”

  “How sweet that you remembered my name.”

  “Not every day I stop a speeder dressed to the nines at four in the morning.”

  “Detective Dalton. That’s got a nice ring to it.” I lower myself so that I’m eye to eye with this man from my past. “Is that detective, as in charge of this murder investigation?”

  “Actually, I’m the lead detective assisting the state police on the case.”

  “Your department isn’t able to handle the murder investigation on its own?”

  “The state police are the lead agency on most homicide investigations in Maine, but I’m their go-to guy in town.”