🍃 🍃 🍃"The Last Thing She Saw" by Nina Laurin

But just as she’s debating whether to stuff the chip bag under her jacket, the door dings. Hurried steps follow, and a long shadow falls over her. At the end of the aisle, Diane, the store’s owner, is standing with her hands on her hips.

“Hi, Diane,” Laura says loudly.

The woman is built like a linebacker. She inherited the store from her mother, who, in turn, inherited it from her own parents. It’s not good to antagonize Diane.

“Scram,” Diane says. Usually, she treats Laura like an annoying but ultimately harmless insect. But right now, her eyes glint meanly in her doughy face, her lips tight in a tense, angry line. Or is it just a trick of the light?

“I was only here for some soda from the machine,” Laura mutters, setting the chips and candy down onto the nearest shelf—the wrong shelf.

“Out. Get your soda somewhere else.”

As Laura slinks to the front of the store, suspicions creep in.

“Is business so good that you turn down paying customers now, Diane?” she calls out.

“Oh please. You steal more than you buy. Get out before I call the police on you.”

Laura scoffs. She has nothing to fear from anyone, especially the police, and oh, how she wants to tell off Diane.

“I don’t want you here,” Diane grumbles.

Something in Laura’s mind clicks at last. Oh hell, did it happen again?

But I had nothing to do with it, she thinks furiously. Not before and not now. They can’t seriously think it was me.

“Do you think I don’t know what you’ve been up to, O’Malley?” Diane says. Her voice is low and brimming with anger. It would be better if she’d just screamed her head off like she does when she catches teenagers stealing beers. This tells Laura that Diane means business. “I know exactly what you’ve been up to. I’m not blind. You leave here every time with so much junk food under your shirt you’d think you’re pregnant. But I’ve been turning a blind eye, haven’t I? That’s ’cause I feel sorry for you. I know those parents of yours are useless, and I have a heart, too, or enough of it not to let a child go hungry. But I won’t tolerate this shit. Get out. Don’t show your face here again.”

Laura is this close to asking what happened this time. The question brews on her tongue, but she bites it back, as the look on Diane’s face doesn’t presage anything too good. Resolved to abandon the snacks, Laura makes for the door.

It’s the third time in as many weeks, she thinks. And people seriously think she’s responsible somehow? That’s ridiculous. She’s just a kid. A kid who listens to rock music, sure, but just a kid nonetheless. She’s not a Satanist or anything.

She goes back outside. She’d really like to blame the hangover for the cold sweat that keeps welling up under her shirt. She better find out what happened this time, and quick.

SIX

2017

“I told you. They’re brazen. I’ll deal with it, Stephanie. Don’t worry. I know everyone, remember? Plus, there’s nowhere they could have gone.”

I take Frank’s reassurances with a grain of salt. I know enough about teenagers to realize that my laptop is probably in Montreal’s seediest pawnshop by now, and I’m not going to see it again. At least I’d stashed my credit card and my phone in my pockets, so I guess I should count my blessings to still have those.

Outside the station, I assess my options, and each sounds less promising than the last. I don’t want to slink back to Laura’s in defeat—she’ll laugh her ass off once she finds out that Fancy City Girl Stephanie had her pretentious Mac laptop stolen on her first day back home. She’ll find out anyway, of course, through the gossip grapevine of people just like her with nothing better to do than sit on their porches smoking cheap cigs and drinking weak beer and talking trash about others. She’ll probably know the whole story by this evening. But I won’t give her the satisfaction just yet.

I get into the car and start the engine, wondering where to go from here. I’m no closer to finding out anything new about Michelle. I could always try the SQ but I’m not holding my breath.

Something Frank said floats to the top of my mind. Madame Fortier, at the same long-term care facility as Pierre. I’ve glimpsed the place from a distance—there’s only one in the vicinity unless you want to go all the way to Quebec City. In this province, we like to keep our elderly far enough to be out of sight and out of mind, but not two-hours’-drive far. So that leaves Horizons Des Champs. In the photos on Google Maps, it looks almost beautiful, a long, three-story building with arched windows and abundant flower beds brimming with marigolds, with a drive-up entrance like a resort hotel. The drive would take just under thirty minutes each way. I check the gas gauge on the car, see that the arrow leans heavily to the left, and sigh. It’s a wonder I made it all the way here. If Laura is telling the truth and she really did intend to pick me up at the bus stop, she sure didn’t think to fill up her tank beforehand.

So I go to the nearest gas station. At least those are and always have been in abundance in Marly. This one made the best of things and rebranded its run-down appearance as historic cachet. When I go inside to pay, there are framed photos on the walls depicting the station in its glory days. A sun-bleached black-and-white photo from the 1950s, a vintage tractor next to the pumps, a smattering of photos from the 1970s in that washed-out sepia-toned color, showing off various muscle cars. In the corner sits an old soda machine that’s still operational. I pay for my gas and grab a candy bar while I’m there. Then I linger as I eat it and inspect the photos more closely. There’s Pierre’s famous Impala. Pierre is standing next to it proudly, all mustache and aviator shades, as he pumps gas. Inside the car are two young boys, his sons, I’m assuming. I wonder what exact year this was taken, but there’s no date anywhere near the photo. Anyway, it can’t be too long after the sad events. Those poor kids.

“Oh my goodness, it’s Stephanie! You’re back!”

The voice is high-pitched and too loud, and the suddenness of it almost makes me choke on my candy bar.

I turn around and hastily swallow the chocolate-caramel-peanut mulch I’ve been chewing. “Hi, Jeannette,” I say as brightly as I can, hoping I don’t have too much chocolate on my teeth.

I’d spoken to Jeannette last time I was in town. For my podcast. Jeannette was the same age as Michelle when she went missing, and they were in the same class at the elementary school. That’s about it for the personal connection, but Jeannette was one of the few who showed any interest in talking to me. Not that she had anything to reveal. It became painfully clear two minutes into our interview that she was mainly in it for the gossip, both to suss out what I might have found out and to quiz me about my life so she had some conversational fodder for the next after-church brunch.

“Look at you! You look even better than the last time I saw you.” True to form, she gives me the kind of pointed once-over that women her age reserve for younger women. Her gaze lingers, and I can hear her ticking off boxes in her mind: shoes, clothes, waistline, makeup, haircut. I can practically hear her voice in my head as she leans closer to her brunch-mates: Our Stephanie has really let herself go.

“As do you,” I retort with a shit-eating grin.

“Oh, stop. I’m an old bag. I swear, every morning I look at myself and my face sags a half inch lower. You, you’ve got those looks from your mother. You should thank her! She’s still a firecracker at her age, and after all her… health issues.” She lowers her voice at the end of the sentence, as if the whole town didn’t know all about Laura and her health issues. And I, the shitty daughter, left her right in the middle of it, blah blah blah.

“Yes, Jeannette. I’ll thank her.”

“Anyway, it’s terrible, what’s happening,” Jeannette says, still in that conspiratorial tone.

“With the flood and all,” I say, nodding. I don’t want to raise the subject of Michelle with her again. She wasted enough of my mental energy last time.

“Awful. At least the church was spared.” Jeannette conspicuously crosses herself. I notice that I didn’t see her pay for gas or buy anything, and I start to suspect that she only came in here because she spotted me from outside. “Really makes you think! Doesn’t it, Stephanie? It’s almost as if…” She trails off meaningfully.

It’s almost as if the church is on a hill, because that’s where they usually built them in the old days.

“Say what you want,” Jeannette proclaims with an air of authority. I haven’t had time to say anything yet. “You unbelievers will have all kinds of rational arguments”—she makes an inflection on the word like it’s some sort of putdown—“but it doesn’t matter. God had a hand in this. No one can change my mind.”

“You think this is some sort of divine punishment?” I ask. Truth be told, I’m eager to get rid of her and be on my way. The gas refill pushed me $40 closer to my credit card limit and thus bankruptcy, and I really have no time to waste.

“Maybe punishment,” she says with a shrug. Her eyes glimmer—this is clearly the most fun she’s had in months. “But I personally think that God has a subtler hand than this.”