Read Online The Year of Fog by Michelle Richmond - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michelle Richmond
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must be twenty or more, a long red snake, rattling as it goes. A car full of kids speeds through the lot and swerves just in time to avoid the carts. The woman shakes her head and curses, the driver shouts something obscene in response, and a snippet of music wafts from the car windows. It’s that Wilco song again.
12
S EVERAL YEARS ago, I visited New York City with a girlfriend to celebrate her thirtieth birthday. A guy I knew from college, someone I once loved intensely, was living there. We hadn’t spoken in many years, though I had thought about him often. I didn’t have his address, and his phone number was unlisted. That didn’t stop me from looking for him everywhere I went: Dean & Deluca, a ballet at Lincoln Center, the Shakespeare Garden, the C train traveling uptown.
Twice, from a distance, I believed I saw him, but when I got up close, it turned out to be someone else. I began to wonder if I would even recognize him these ten years later. What if he had gained weight, or cut his hair short, or developed a fondness for business attire? Was I fooling myself to think I would know him from his face alone, the arch of his eyebrows, a certain gesture? Was I looking for him, or for the person he was ten years before? I began to wonder whether I had already been near him unaware, whether I had sat next to him at a restaurant or brushed arms with him on the street.
Emma, now, is everywhere. Every time I round a bend, every time I open the front door of my apartment, every time I go to the bank. I haunt the parks and playgrounds, restaurants, cinemas. I visit the grimy motels of the Tenderloin, the four-star hotels at Union Square, the chaotic shops of Chinatown, the trendy cafés of North Beach. No female child of Emma’s approximate height is exempt from my curiosity and my hope. I wander up and down the hills of Noe Valley, peering into faces of children on their bikes. I go to health clinics the city over, searching the glum faces in the too-bright waiting rooms. I hike the hills of Oakland.
On the morning of the tenth day, I drive out to Point Reyes, climb to the top of the lighthouse, and scan the surrounding beach and ocean with binoculars. On the way down, I watch for a small foot or hand sticking out of a nook in the tower. On day eleven, I comb the Laundromats and burger joints of the Richmond, the crammed residential streets of the Sunset. That night, I spend ten hours straight riding Muni from one point to another, crisscrossing the city like a madwoman, quarters jingling in my purse. On the twelfth day, I do BART. On the thirteenth, Caltrain.
On day fourteen, I take the cable car out to Fisherman’s Wharf, push my way past tourists buying postcards and saltwater taffy. I order crab and sit at a sidewalk café, watching the crowd. The faces of strangers take on murderous features. I spot a man coming out of a souvenir shop. He’s in his fifties, pale, wearing jeans and a tasteful sweater. Under one arm, he holds a package wrapped in delicate white paper. Even as I follow him, I know this doesn’t make sense. I know the chances of this man being the kidnapper are about twenty billion to one. I know I’m behaving irrationally, and yet I can’t stop myself. I walk close behind, but not close enough to attract his attention. I follow him to Ghirardelli Square, into a café where he orders a cup of coffee and a piece of lemon cake. Then down to Pier 39, where he settles on a bench to read the
Chronicle.
Finally a Larkspur ferry arrives and the passengers disembark. An attractive Italian woman in an unusual red hat pushes toward him through the crowd. After they hug, he hands her the gift. I walk away, feeling lost and utterly foolish.
On day fifteen, I wander the Embarcadero, up Stockton, left on Montgomery, and climb the narrow stairway past quaint apartments with slanted doors, up to the top of Telegraph Hill, where Coit Tower stands in the center of Pioneer Park. Inside the tower, I circle the
12
S EVERAL YEARS ago, I visited New York City with a girlfriend to celebrate her thirtieth birthday. A guy I knew from college, someone I once loved intensely, was living there. We hadn’t spoken in many years, though I had thought about him often. I didn’t have his address, and his phone number was unlisted. That didn’t stop me from looking for him everywhere I went: Dean & Deluca, a ballet at Lincoln Center, the Shakespeare Garden, the C train traveling uptown.
Twice, from a distance, I believed I saw him, but when I got up close, it turned out to be someone else. I began to wonder if I would even recognize him these ten years later. What if he had gained weight, or cut his hair short, or developed a fondness for business attire? Was I fooling myself to think I would know him from his face alone, the arch of his eyebrows, a certain gesture? Was I looking for him, or for the person he was ten years before? I began to wonder whether I had already been near him unaware, whether I had sat next to him at a restaurant or brushed arms with him on the street.
Emma, now, is everywhere. Every time I round a bend, every time I open the front door of my apartment, every time I go to the bank. I haunt the parks and playgrounds, restaurants, cinemas. I visit the grimy motels of the Tenderloin, the four-star hotels at Union Square, the chaotic shops of Chinatown, the trendy cafés of North Beach. No female child of Emma’s approximate height is exempt from my curiosity and my hope. I wander up and down the hills of Noe Valley, peering into faces of children on their bikes. I go to health clinics the city over, searching the glum faces in the too-bright waiting rooms. I hike the hills of Oakland.
On the morning of the tenth day, I drive out to Point Reyes, climb to the top of the lighthouse, and scan the surrounding beach and ocean with binoculars. On the way down, I watch for a small foot or hand sticking out of a nook in the tower. On day eleven, I comb the Laundromats and burger joints of the Richmond, the crammed residential streets of the Sunset. That night, I spend ten hours straight riding Muni from one point to another, crisscrossing the city like a madwoman, quarters jingling in my purse. On the twelfth day, I do BART. On the thirteenth, Caltrain.
On day fourteen, I take the cable car out to Fisherman’s Wharf, push my way past tourists buying postcards and saltwater taffy. I order crab and sit at a sidewalk café, watching the crowd. The faces of strangers take on murderous features. I spot a man coming out of a souvenir shop. He’s in his fifties, pale, wearing jeans and a tasteful sweater. Under one arm, he holds a package wrapped in delicate white paper. Even as I follow him, I know this doesn’t make sense. I know the chances of this man being the kidnapper are about twenty billion to one. I know I’m behaving irrationally, and yet I can’t stop myself. I walk close behind, but not close enough to attract his attention. I follow him to Ghirardelli Square, into a café where he orders a cup of coffee and a piece of lemon cake. Then down to Pier 39, where he settles on a bench to read the
Chronicle.
Finally a Larkspur ferry arrives and the passengers disembark. An attractive Italian woman in an unusual red hat pushes toward him through the crowd. After they hug, he hands her the gift. I walk away, feeling lost and utterly foolish.
On day fifteen, I wander the Embarcadero, up Stockton, left on Montgomery, and climb the narrow stairway past quaint apartments with slanted doors, up to the top of Telegraph Hill, where Coit Tower stands in the center of Pioneer Park. Inside the tower, I circle the
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