The Return

by Rachel Harrison

But missing, as in milk cartons and posters and hounds in fields—no way. I told Molly as much. “What year do you think this is? Milk cartons?” “That’s my point. People don’t go missing anymore.” “What? What world are you living in?” I’d been asking myself that question for a long time. I didn’t have an answer for her.

I figured it was better to commit before I saw how much it would cost me. If I saw the number first, I would back out. Or cave and take the help. It was best to get the bill and deal with it once it was already set. Mae was going to do what she wanted, Julie and Molly would go along with it, and if I was the only one with a problem, I would be the only one to blame. Solidify my status as the least favorite, the most problematic. Killjoy extraordinaire.

Later, Mae sent me the link to the hotel and a number that made me clutch my chest like I’d been delivered bad news in an old movie. I cried myself to sleep over that number and the realization that the gap between my friends and me had grown so wide that soon I wouldn’t be able to jump the distance. It hurt. It was bad enough to be poor and unsuccessful, to make half of what they did, but to know they knew it and weren’t sensitive to it? That made it all so much worse. Resentment began to take shape. This trip would be the last time I would tolerate it. In the years I’d been in Buffalo, no one had come to see me. Not once. They had the means. They found other excuses. I understood that where I’d ended up was far less glamorous than where they had, but it shouldn’t have mattered. The fact that it did told me something about them I didn’t want to hear.

Excuses

“Girls,” Mae says, in her best mom voice. It doesn’t really matter if we’re loud; we’re the only ones here. But Mae has her rules, and Julie is very particular about her movie-viewing experience. A minute passes, title card, title card, sweeping music. Julie leans over and whispers, “Who would you rather: Laurence Olivier or Cary Grant?” “Olivier. You?” “Probably Olivier, but Grant is charming.” “Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart?” “Oh, God.” “Shh!” Mae says. “I can hear you whispering.”

We stayed up until five a.m., talking about what a good movie it was and whether or not we’d ever date a widower. We theorized about the true weight of baggage in relationships we weren’t mature enough to have or experienced enough to understand. As I watch the movie again with her now, there’s a phantom taste of mint in my mouth.

His suit didn’t fit him right. Julie wouldn’t have liked that. Julie liked someone well dressed, someone well put together. Refined. Laurence Olivier. She liked ambitious men. Men who wanted to live in New York or LA, who had lofty career goals, who were money hungry. She saw herself as the charming half of a power couple who hosted the best parties with fun themes and lots of liquor. All of this came straight from her mouth during one of our late-night conversations. This isn’t me projecting or exaggerating or making excuses.

He was a good guy. Uncomplicated. Pure, honest, direct. Not Julie’s type at all. It just didn’t make any sense to me.

“This is why I don’t go to therapy. You leave psychoanalyzing everyone like you’re a fucking expert. I made a mistake in my early twenties. It wasn’t Freudian. It was me being human. Why am I not allowed? Why can you be too afraid to date, and Mae serial date models, and why can Julie get married on a whim, but I can’t have my thing?” “Because your thing hurts other people,” she says. “It was wrong, and what gets me, to this day, is I don’t think you know that.” Molly is a black-and-white thinker. There’s no room for nuance. I could try explaining to her the complexities of life and morality and relationships, but it’d be like shouting into a plastic bag. Or maybe she’s right, and I’m a terrible person.

I wonder why she’s allowed her flaws. Because her problems stem from the trauma of childhood illness? I should be more understanding. I guess after almost ten years of excusing certain behaviors, I don’t have as much sympathy as I used to. It’s not good.

When I look back at Molly, it bubbles up. “It hurts me,” I tell her, “that you think so low of me because of my past relationship.” She’s surprised I’m bringing this up now. I don’t blame her. We’ve danced around it for years. She chooses her words carefully. Speaks them slowly. “You think I look down on you because of it. I don’t. I just wish you wanted better for yourself.” “Okay.” “It frustrates me. I don’t know what to do with that frustration. It breaks my heart.”

“What do you mean, ‘not really’? Do you have feelings for him?” “Yes,” I say. “But I can’t tell if I want him or if I just want someone.” And there it is. Sometimes I surprise myself with the truth. I guess it’s been there this whole time, living inside me, rent-free. “Why didn’t you tell us?” Molly asks. I have to give her credit; she’s being very gentle with me. “Because . . . it’s not a good look. And with my past, I just . . . I knew you’d be mad.” “I’m not mad,” she says. “This is a different situation. Is it fucked-up? Yeah, a little bit. All I want is for you to be honest with me and honest with yourself. Okay? You need to face reality here, Lise.” “I have.” “Yeah? You know that nothing can ever happen between you two, right? You get that? You’ve accepted that?” “Yes, I know I will never be with Tristan,” I say, and I mean it. “I know, Molly. There’s nothing there. It’s over. It’s done.” “Okay. Good. Look, I’m not mad. Swear it. I am legit exhausted, though,” she says. “We’ll revisit this unsavory subject tomorrow. Preferably with alcohol.”

“You just do things, don’t you? Then you feel guilty about them but don’t think about why. Why you did what you did or why you feel guilty. You’re so perceptive, and yet you’re the least self-aware person I know. I don’t get it.” It’s a mean thing to say because it’s true. And of course, I, not self-aware, didn’t know this about myself until now. Something changes. I feel like I’ve been betrayed somehow. Like she withheld information from me about myself on purpose just to watch me screw up. Like she’s not really on my side. She doesn’t want what’s best for me. I tried to be honest with her, and she’s laughing at me. She’s not offering me some wonderful new existence. She’s trying to drag me down with her.

This will be the last time I ever see Julie. This creature in front of me who once shared my bed and fed me Gummy vitamins, who borrowed my toothbrush and I didn’t even care. I can’t comprehend it. The world we built. The jokes that only we understand. The weird nicknames. The memories. We’re each other’s witnesses, sole witnesses to so much that will now be lost. Gone forever.

I will never stop mourning the future we were supposed to have. I will never get over losing my best friend.

She’s with me. In my fear, my loss. Wherever I go, I know. She will follow.