All the Missing Pieces - Julianna Keyes Page 0,113
Or Argentina. No more make believe borders, no castles, no moats. I’m no longer willing to be a prisoner of my own making, paying the price for a crime I did not commit.
I figure Dumb and Dumber will take their lightly discounted money and leave Chris and my father alone. My dad will wile away his days in white collar prison, swapping ramen and working on his tan. Maybe Angela will continue to write to him, but probably not.
Trapper will find the suitcases, count them out, and get over the fact that there’s a bit missing. The twenty million dollar mystery will be ninety-five percent solved, and he can move on with his life. There’s no need to look for me. None of that money has ever been in my bank account, nor will it be.
If Rodney opens the envelope, it’s his decision what to do with the ten grand. He can become a chef or a video game designer or take up canning—it’s his life. He can live it.
I accept a glass of complimentary champagne and stare out the windows at the planes taxiing down the runway. I don’t think about where they’re going or where they’ll end up. I just watch them lift off, rising into the clouds until they’re gone, out of sight.
23
I HAVE A TAN. I’VE put on six pounds. I’m not sure how, since all there is to do is read and swim and eat fish and coconut. And I walk. I slather on sun block, and I walk. A lot. I walk without ducking into parking garages or putting on disguises or keeping my head down. I say hello to my neighbors, most Yap natives, but a few expats, friendly people from England and Australia and a chatty couple from Brazil. In the month that I’ve been here we’ve had dinner five times, and each time I’ve introduced myself with my own name, sat down to a meal as myself.
It’s not as easy as it sounds. I’ve resolved to tell only the truth, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to tell the whole truth. This leaves gaping holes in my story, in my past, in the fabric of this friend they’re making. I can see the hesitation in their smiles, and sometimes on my walks I see them together, sharing drinks or chatting without me. It’s hard to accept just part of a person, to know they’re keeping pieces of themselves hidden. It’s hard to build a relationship with so many gaps in the foundation.
But it’s fine. I spent three years as a hermit. Too much companionship is like too much of anything. It makes me sick. I’ll have to build up my tolerance.
I bought an e-reader at the airport, and I’ve been reading lots. Some fiction, some travel. Getting ideas on what to do with the rest of my life. If I thought time stretched out endlessly while I hid in the apartment, I was mistaken. Here it goes on forever, extending as far as the sea, melting into the horizon, no promises, no lies. Just time.
Two weeks into my stay I visited one of the resorts and paid to use their internet, checking the news from home. Trapper found the money, and they’ve decided to close the case. My father’s appeal was heard; the conviction was not overturned. He’s still alive, so I assume Johan and Davor got their money and have moved on to other victims.
Now, as I do most days, I’m sitting in one of the wooden beach chairs planted in pairs in the sand at random intervals by the nearby resort. There’s just one other person twenty yards away, preoccupied with her own life and ignoring me.
I sip my orange soda and stare out at the interminable sea, the water smooth and unbroken. The sun is high, reflecting off the surface, reminding me how many hours are left in this day, this life. I curl my toes in the sand and press until I can feel the cooler grit beneath, rubbing my heels over it, creating an indent. When I lift my foot, white sand floods back in, erasing my work. I sigh and shift in the chair, the slats pressing into my thighs, and glance at the other guest, now reading a magazine and holding down a floppy hat with one hand. She’s busy, the kind of busy you are when this is your vacation, not your life. Not the rest of your life.