Page 26 of The Last Flight

Claire

Wednesday, February 23

I leave Eva’s office strewn with paper and move across the hall, determined to know for certain what I’m beginning to suspect—that nothing Eva told me about herself, or what she was running from, was true. I throw open the door to her closet, pawing through the hangers, looking for evidence of the husband she adored. At the very least, there should be big, empty spaces where his clothes used to be. But all I find are a few nice tops, a couple dresses, boots, and flats. All of it Eva’s. I yank open dresser drawers, finding shirts, jeans, underwear, and socks, flashes of my unfamiliar new profile startling me in the mirror, so similar to Eva’s I can almost believe for a moment she’s returned. That she’s here and I’m the one who died.Freaky fucking Friday.

I sink down on Eva’s bed. Everything I believed—about Eva, about her life, about why she didn’t want to be here, lay in pieces at my feet. If there was no husband, there will be no investigation of his death. And if there’s no investigation, there has to be another reason why Eva was so willing to trade places and disappear.

I begin to laugh—the hysterical spiral of an exhausted woman teetering on the edge of sanity—and think of all the lies she told, straight-faced and sincere. And then I hear her voice in my head, and imagine her telling me to calm down and get the fuck out of her house, and I smirk at how sharp it is, how perfectly I can still recall it.

Neither of us could have guessed this was what would happen. We were only trading tickets. I wasn’t supposed to drive to her house, unlock her door, and step into her life. Whatever I’ve walked into, I’m here because I chose to be.

* * *

Back in Eva’s office, with the Doc open on the screen in front of me, I take a closer look at one of Eva’s bank statements, scanning her monthly expenses. Food, gas, coffee shops. Automatic payments every month for everything, including cable and trash service, with a balance of two thousand dollars. There are two direct deposits from a place called DuPree’s Steakhouse, each for nine hundred dollars. Not nearly enough income to warrant an all-cash purchase of her home.

And as I expected, no medical bills, no copays. No pharmacies. I feel a sliver of admiration at the outrageous fabrication rendered with the finesse of a con artist. The smooth way she set her boarding pass on the bar between us, a quiet temptation I was too preoccupied to notice at the time, the way she described how easy it was to blend in to Berkeley. The subtle way she reflected my own desires and fears back at me, allowing me to fall into step alongside her.

According to her car registration, she drives an old Honda, which is most likely hidden in the attached garage. A woman smart enough to orchestrate something like this isn’t going to leave her car parked at an airport or train station, identifying that as her starting point. I don’t want anything to do with it, though. If someone’s looking for her, they’ll surely begin with her car. But it’s nice to know it’s there, if I need it.

I make quick work of the rest of Eva’s desk. More dried-out pens and paper clips in a tangle, empty envelopes, a few charging bricks with no cords. But none of the other things you’d expect to find. No saved birthday cards or appointment reminders. No photographs, notes, or sentimental keepsakes. Not only was her husband a fabrication, I’m beginning to wonder if Eva was too.

I look to the left of the desk, where an empty trash can sits, and my gaze catches on a small piece of paper, partially concealed behind the desk, as if someone meant to throw it away and missed. I pick it up and smooth it. It’s a small card, the handwriting a neat cursive, the slanted, loopy kind you don’t see beyond elementary school.Everything you ever wanted is on the other side of fear.

I try to imagine the circumstances upon which Eva wrote this and then later discarded it. If perhaps she didn’t need it anymore, or whether it stopped being something she believed to be true.

I carry it across the hall to Eva’s bedroom, tuck the card into the edge of the mirror over her dresser, and begin to tidy the mess I’d made. As I refold her shirts, the smell of her—flowers with that chemical undernote—stirs in the air around me. I come across a Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt, and I hold it against my chest. Oversized and well worn, it’s from theirCalifornicationtour. The Chili Peppers were one of Violet’s favorite bands, and I had promised her that when she turned sixteen, I’d take her to a concert. One of the many things she never got to do. I drape the shirt over my shoulder and close the drawer. This, I want.

I finish tidying the dresser, confirming no hidden money or jewelry. No diary or love letters stashed away from prying eyes. Fictional husband aside, no one—except perhaps me, living in Rory’s house—lives a life this empty.

Across the room, I sit on the edge of her bed and open the top drawer of her nightstand. Another tube of expensive hand lotion that smells like roses when I rub it into my arm. A bottle of Tylenol. But tucked along the inside edge of the drawer is a photo, the only one I’ve seen in the house so far. It’s a novelty shot of Eva posing with an older woman outside a stadium in San Francisco. Enormous Giants Baseball banners hang behind life-sized cutouts of players, and the women pose, their heads tilted together, Eva laughing, her arm draped over the woman’s shoulders. She looks light and happy, as if whatever shadows were chasing her hadn’t shown up yet. I wonder if this was a friend, or someone else Eva had tricked. Whether everything Eva did had been calculated for her own benefit.

I imagine Eva, spinning her lies. Making this woman believe Eva was someone who needed help. I study the woman’s face, wondering where she is now, whether she might come looking for Eva, and what she’d say to find me, with the exact same haircut and color as Eva’s, living in Eva’s house, wearing her clothes. Who’s the con artist now?

At the back of the drawer, underneath a pair of scissors and some tape, I find an envelope. Inside it is a handwritten note dated thirteen years ago, clipped to some pages behind it. I remove the clip and flip through them, paperwork from a place in San Francisco called St. Joseph’s. A convent? A church? The handwriting is spidery and faded, and I tilt it toward the window so I can read it better.

Dear Eva,

I hope this letter finds you well, studying hard and learning a lot! I’m writing to let you know that after over eighty years, the St. Joseph’s group home is finally being absorbed into the county foster system. It’s probably for the best, as we are all getting older here—even Sister Catherine.

I remember you used to frequently ask about your birth family, and while we were prohibited from answering your questions at the time, now that you’re over eighteen, I want to give you all the information we have. I’m enclosing copies of our notes on your intake and the general records from your years here. If there are any specifics you want to know, you’ll have to petition the county for your official records. I think the social worker who worked on your case was Craig Henderson.

You should know that I tracked down your mother’s family after your last foster placement failed, hoping they might have had a change of heart. But they hadn’t. Your mother struggled with addiction, and her family was overwhelmed with the burden of monitoring and caring for her. That was a large part of why they surrendered you in the first place.

But despite that beginning, you’ve grown into an incredible person. Please know that we talk of you still—and are so proud of your many accomplishments. Sister Catherine scours the newspapers for your name in association with a magnificent scientific discovery, although I have to remind her you’re still in school and that’s probably a few years off yet. We would welcome a visit or a call to learn what kind of wonderful life you’ve built for yourself at Berkeley. You are destined to do great things.

Much love in Christ,

Sister Bernadette

I set it aside, looking at the rest of the papers that were attached with the clip. They’re photocopies of handwritten notes, dating back over thirty years ago. They describe the arrival and adjustment of a two-year-old girl at a Catholic group home.

Child, Eva, arrived at 7:00 p.m.; mother, Rachel Ann James, declined interview, signed documents for termination of parental rights. St. Joseph’s submitted paperwork to county, awaiting response.

Another page, dated twenty-four years ago, was less clinical.

Eva returned to us last night. This was her third placement, and I fear her last. We will keep her as long as the Lord guides us to, and give her a spot here at St. Joe’s. CH is the social worker assigned to her case this time, which means we won’t be seeing much of him.

A student at Berkeley explains the science textbooks downstairs. Perhaps she never finished—either because she couldn’t afford to, or her grades weren’t good enough to graduate, leading her to become a server at a steakhouse. And a con artist, spinning lies in a New York airport.

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