Page 40 of The Five Year Lie

“Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.” She wanders over to the bench and sits down. “You got a text from a man who abandoned you five years ago. What did itsay?”

“That he wanted to meet me. But Iknewit was bogus, Larissa. He’s dead, okay? That’s why I don’t talk about him. There’s no point.”

She’s staring at me again. “He’sdead? You’re sure?”

“That’s right.” Except for the new, nagging feeling in my gut that just won’t go away.

She whistles again. “So who was this guy? All I know is that he messed with your head and that you didn’t want anyone to know you were together. How come I never met him?”

“He’s just a guy.” I take my pipe out of the warmer and blow a puff of air through it to make sure it’s not blocked. “You never met him because you and Tara were having a really rough summer. I barely saw you.”

“Ah. Five summers ago? Yeah, things were...” She gives a mock shiver. “Terribad.”

“Also, I was working more or less full-time for my dad, remember? That’s where I met him—at the office. But he split after three months.”

“And then hedied? I always wondered why you didn’t hunt his ass down and make him pay child support. I figured maybe he was bad news.”

“No,” I say quickly. Defending him is still my natural impulse. “He died right before Buzz was born. Motorcycle accident. He never knew he had a kid.”

“Honey, I’m sorry. Still not sure why you never talk about him.”

Because it hurts.“Because I wanted it to be Buzz’s story to hear first. And also there’s no point. Are we going to blow some glass today or what?” I carry my pipe over to the furnace and step on the pedal to open the door.

The furnace breathes its heat onto my skin, like a friendly dragon from one of Buzz’s picture books.

I leave the studio at four thirty and start walking. But my feet don’t seem to want to turn toward home. After twenty minutes, I find myself on Exeter Street, where Drew lived.

Standing in front of the little three-story building, though, Iwish I hadn’t come. Someone has hung purple curtains and an anime decal in the window of his old apartment. It just looks wrong.

This isn’t the first time I’ve stood here on the sidewalk staring up at his abandoned window. I did this during my pregnancy, while I was hormonal and baffled by Drew’s leaving. I even called the landlord—his phone number was visible on a note inside the vestibule—to ask whether Drew had left anything behind for me.

No dice, though. And the landlord wouldn’t even tell me exactly when Drew had left. He actually hung up on me when I pressed him for details.

On a whim, I climb the three steps up to the door and peer inside the vestibule once again. The same business card is still hanging above the mailboxes. The ink on the phone number is fading, but it’s still legible.

I pull out my phone and call the landlord again.

“This is Bert,” he says. “How can I help you?”

“Bert, I’m standing outside your rental property on Exeter. Five years ago I called to ask you if a man named Drew Miller had left anything behind in his apartment for me. He left suddenly.”

He grunts his assent. “I remember him. And you, too.”

“Well, he’s dead now. His son turned four years old in March, without ever meeting his father. We still know nothing about his departure from Portland. If he left anything behind—like a forwarding address—we deserve to know.”

He is silent for a few seconds. “He’s really dead?”

“I’ll show you his obituary.”

He sighs. “I have a box of his things in my basement.”

My heart leaps into my mouth. “You do?”

“Let me find it. I’ll be there in ten.”

The next ten minutes are the longest of my life. At last, a slender Black man with salt-and-pepper hair comes around the corner clutching a file box. Bert gives me a wary glance before he approaches. He stops a few feet short and balances the box on his hip. “Drew Miller is really gone? What a waste.”

“Do you want to see that obituary?” I pull out my phone.