Separation

Kristen’s REM cycle crashed again into the guard rail. The one constant, morning to morning, was the heron.

It was symbolic of nothing -- simply the last inhuman face she’d seen before the Miata and Tod simultaneously punched holes in Lake Springfield..

Something clattered above Kristen’s head, followed by a disembodied curse. That, too, was part of the morning ritual, along with defoliation, granola, stout deep roast drowned in Hazelnut Coffeemate, the digital Journal-Register, the customized multivitamin, the Zoloft, the daily trailer for a watery grave.

Her bare feet hit the hardwood floor — she’d removed the rugs after the California King became single occupancy, and the feel of sturdy, substantial, finite walnut under her was reassuring if not comforting.

As Tod’s canvases and brushes and tools jostled about in the attic, Kristen prepared to meet the remains of the day.

**

“Jenna get you the perinatal clinic piece?”

Kristen didn’t look up from her workstation. “Been in your Inbox since 9. You got anything for the cover yet?”

Oliver knew damned well Jenna had never missed a deadline, but the option of working remotely had been his editor’s idea, and the closet incel had resented Jen stretching a COVID furlough into extended maternity leave into a lifestyle choice necessary for Kristen to retain Springfield Alive!’s top feature writer. Oliver hungered for Jen’s failure. Kristen wasn’t about to let that happen. She owed her.

“Reason I ask,” Kristen murmured calmly, “is if you haven’t committed anything to Illustrator yet, I’d like to give Bet a shot at it.”

Oliver stiffened, but she could virtually feel the vibrations across her desk. She finally glanced up, expressionless. “Bet’s been here six months. You really think she…”

“They,” his boss interrupted, bluntly. “Yes, I believe they’re ready. But you make a point, in your own desensitized way. Bet’s experienced childbirth. You rocked this month’s cover on college basketball culture. I think Bet can bring something profound to this topic. Don’t you think?”

Tables tilted if not turned, Oliver smiled very tightly. “About time she – they – proved their mettle.”

“I agree,” Kristen said, continuing the charade as she shot Jen’s draft to the chief graphic designer. “And, by the way, I know it may seem unfair sometimes that Jenn and Eli work from home, but there’s nothing keeping you from availing yourself of the same option. We can supply you anything you need, including a state-of-the-art multi-terabyte Dell and a subscription to the Adobe Creative Cloud, yours to use professionally and on that book of yours.”

“Lemme think about it.” Oliver may waver – from what Kristen cared to glean, most of his off-duty hours seemed embroiled in ESPN or his literary opus Ghary the Ghostly Goat. Ad revenues were back up post-pandemic, and a franchise in the currently lucrative children’s traumatization genre, subsidized by Springfield Alive!, was an investment in Kristen’s precarious sanity. But Oliver needed to remain close to the seat of power if he hoped someday to claim it. R.L. Stine could relax for the time being. When Kristen turned back, he’d vanished.

Kristen peered out onto I-55 South – the mid-morning traffic had slowed, and the nearby Crowne Plaza stood in crisp contrast to a cloudless spring sky. Rotunda Publications had been virtually surrounded by cornfields when she’d interned at the monthly, but the city was grazing noisily at what remained of the ag fringe. The glass-encased fourth floor dead center office offered a broad view encompassing the distant Statehouse Dome and a suggestion of The Lake to the south.

Kristen had a few minutes before the superfluous weekly meeting with the publisher, and she scanned the passing parade.

The figure was on the berm about 50 feet ahead of the 94 exit ramp -- no floundered car in sight, no backpack or duffle, no obligatory cardboard sign indicative of the overconfident highway panhandler, and too far off the ramp for begging, anyway. Kristen planted her forehead against the double-paned glass, then bought the blinds down in a clatter that turned a dozen heads in the “newsroom.”

**

Kristen was headed deep into a pleasant blur of Prosecco and Netflix when the text alert brought her back to reality, or her version of it the last eight months. She’d quit jumping for the phone on the coffee table after about the first 50 or so times, but the view out her window this morning suggested she might want to respond to this one.

RU LONELY?

The messages were always succinct, neutral, and yet seemingly, potentially rich in tone and nuance. Two possible interpretations, the one more discomfiting than the other, but not by much.

Something screeched on the wood two floors up, and Kristen retrieved the Lunetta and the remote.

**

She had no idea whether birds possessed the capacity for terror. The static black eyes that greeted her a nanosecond before Miata and heron collided in a momentary explosion of flesh and blood and feathers may merely have reflected the failure of the fight-or-flight mechanism or renewed faith in the homicidal ingenuity of the human species.

Tod already had breached the passenger-side windshield, and she (the subconscious she) wondered. Had the heron adjusted its flight pattern two feet, would they have shared a moment of communion bouncing about the Miata, pondering the idiocy of hope and trust in forged steel and on-board sensors, in broad wings and open skies?

She missed Tod piercing the molecular membrane. She always did. The heron consistently was the third wheel in this looping drama, and as the show replayed each dawn, Tod had become a supporting player.

The heron slammed into the tempered glass with an odd, muted, wooden impact, and Kristen’s head popped from the pillow as the thumping continued above.

**

“Sean wants you to call ASAP.” Rene scolded mildly. “Everything all right?”

“Truck overturned on 55 —we were stacked up for about a half-hour.”

Rene began to clarify her inquiry, but her penetrating black eyes darted to the Venti Caramel Macchiato in Kristen’s fist. Kristen had decided a half-hour of twisted metal and pebbled glass sitting on the 55 bridge merited a bonus dose of caffeine and sugar. “See if Oliver got Bet everything they need for the June cover.”

As Kristen settled in, she noted Dr. Badgley had called back, and weighed priorities. She placed her iPhone beside the cooling macchiato, and punched the three-digit extension for Payroll.

“Yeah, sorry,” Sean piped with positively no regret. “You know we’re trying to get everybody with the program on e-deposit, but I still haven’t gotten what I need from…”

“Look, I’ve got a meeting in about five minutes,” Kristen said through her teeth. “Can we pick this up this afternoon?”

“Let me see what I got on the old calendar—” Kristen gently cradled the handset, took a therapeutic sip, steeled herself, and recovered the smartphone.

“Ms. Blackwood?” Dr. Badgley answered almost immediately, cool and genial. “I understand you might want to talk?”

**

“We hit the water almost simultaneously — we’d gotten separated, and then a bird hit the windshield. Big one, because the driver’s airbag went off. Kind of a double-edged sword, when you’re about to turn into a submersible. Neither one of us knew what had happened to the other…”

“We can get back to that,” the therapist suggested. “What you’re describing had to have been horrifyingly traumatic in the moment, but I sense you’ve since gone through considerable reexamination and second-guessing and maybe even moments of self-recrimination. What are you feeling right now?”

**

As Kristen crossed the clinic parking lot, the text alert sounded. She strode on as she thumbed the green icon.

I C U.

**

This time, the heron didn’t appear until the crucial underwater finale. Some state cop told her after that Lake Springfield at some points was nearly 30 feet surface to sandy bottom, and as she came to with a flailing start, a broken white carcass floated past the ineffectual windshield, shedding feathers that receded toward the point of impact. In the murk, there was something angelic in the image, as sun and bridge shrank from view.

Kristen awoke entirely on her own power, tangling sheets and flinging pillows and slipping onto the naked wood floor. She grappled for the mattress and climbed trembling to her feet.

The sounds began as she reached for the knob – a seemingly urgent rustling, wood on wood, steps on ancient planks. Kristen twisted the knob, fairly fell into the hallway. The home was once a farmhouse, and a master bath had not even merited a thought. But now, she heard the presence in the attic begin to descend, and Kristen stumbled and pinballed off the walls closing the gap between bedroom and toilet. As she slammed the door with her shoulder blades, the footfalls dopplered off toward the stairwell.

Rene pursed her lips at Kristen’s tardy entrance, but the look on the editor’s face preempted any bon mot or chiding she might have at the ready. This time, the invasive concern that might have set Kristen off opened her up.

“I don’t know that’s a rule or anything,” the AA drawled as Kristen finished the abridged and edited version, nudging the steaming “World’s Best Poorfreader” mug toward her. “Though I don’t think I ever died in a dream, so don’t go by me. Hold up. Let’s see what The Google says…

“Here we go: ‘Dying can signify transformation or the end of something. Watching someone die in your dream can feel frighteningly realistic, but it's usually figurative. You might dream about someone dying if you're making big life changes like leaving a job or ending a long-term relationship for instance. Dreaming about dying can also motivate you to make a change that you've been putting off. For example, maybe you've been thinking about going back to school or repairing a broken relationship.’

“Shit, I think they nailed it, girl. Ever since, you know, you been walking around here like a zombie, and you haven’t said word one about the thing or especially about Tod. Don’t want you going off on me or anything, but maybe that was your literal wakeup call. You been putting off getting on, you ask me, which you didn’t. So hey, the Big Man needs you upstairs.”

Kristen nodded numbly.

**

“I’m a little confused,” he began after she’d settled onto his faux-leather couch. “You weren’t here the other day, so I asked Oliver to forward me the prenatal piece.”

“Perinatal,” Kristen instinctively corrected her publisher.

“I know how you feel about such things, but I was curious if this clinic might be good for some future ad revenues. But then I thought something seemed odd as I got into the piece.” He turned to his monitor.

“‘As a team of top Springfield-area OB-GYNs prepare to unveil a state-of-the art conception-to-cradle ‘high-touch/low intervention’ perinatal clinic and birthing center, the mood in the Capitol might be characterized as, well, expectant.’ That sound familiar?”

“Yes, as I was the first one to read it. And one of only two people to have a copy – until you, of course.”

He ignored the indictment, and plucked an open magazine from his desk. “‘A Springfield hospital’s proposed cutting edge ‘maternity suites’ have local women and women’s health specialists to say the least expectant.’ Remember that? Refresh your memory – March 2008.”

Kristen was silent for a moment. “Oh my god, seriously? How many pregnancy metaphors do you think there are? Just what are you trying to suggest? That Jenna plagiarized one of my obscure old features? Even if she would have lifted my lead – which she would not – wouldn’t you think I’d notice?”

“You apparently didn’t. You didn’t seem to remember writing it yourself.” Now, the publisher was silent.

“What are you saying?”

He leaned back, creaking his overpriced throne for effect. “This isn’t the only similarity I’ve seen between your stories, so for my own peace of mind, I had personnel give me your girl’s number. It had been disconnected, and when I investigated, turned out she’s supposedly left town altogether.” He adopted a pained, delicate expression. “Now I know we don’t pay top dollar …”

“You think I’m double dipping??” Kristen yelled, leaping from the cushions. “Jen works from home, and she gets her copy to me on time and accurate. So I don’t really give a shit where that home is. Maybe she should have let me know if she moved, but I understand she was in a difficult relationship, and she may not have wanted to air her laundry with me.”

“Sit the fuck down,” he rasped. Kristen stood her ground, panting in rage, and he sighed disgustedly. “Sean tells me her last two checks haven’t even cleared, and she’s made no attempt to change over to electronic deposit like everybody else.”

“I’ve been on her, but what am I supposed to do. And you say her checks haven’t even cleared? That’s certainly a brilliant scheme for me to cook up, isn’t it?”

A publisher struck speechless is an editor/writer’s wet dream. Kristen smiled malevolently, and whipped out her Iphone. “Here. I’m texting Jen right now, and asking her to give you a call. And I’ll get you her original e-mail with the story Oliver obviously neglected to include. If you think I’ve created a phony IP address so I can scam the company for money I have no way of accessing, then be my fucking guest.”

“Now, just calm—” But Kristen already was on the other side of the castle door.

**

“Okay. Here’s thing the thing. We were fighting when the car went off the bridge. I keep forgetting my phone automatically synchs with the Miata’s Bluetooth. So I get this call, and I know who it is from the caller ID, so I pick up not realizing it’s about to go on-speaker. I pretend it’s a client, and then she comes on with a greeting, well, suffice it to say it left nothing to the imagination. And like I said, we had a knockdown/drag-out – verbally, for God’s sake – and we go into the water.”

“After you’re thrown from the car,” Dr. Singh prompted. “I still find it a miracle you survived.”

“We were almost to the northern bank. I hit the water and bobbed up almost immediately, while Kristen landed, you know, in a marshy area. Some dudes had been out fishing, and they got right to me, and since I’d busted the windshield when we smashed through the rail and the ca was only half-submerged, she was able to get out pretty easy. But yeah, miraculously, just a few scratches and some major trauma.”

“Quite an experience to go through together. It can destroy or rebuild a relationship.”

“We got some couples counseling, I promised to cut it off with Jen – that was her name – and we seemed to be back on our old rhythm. Shit, Kristen didn’t even want to know Jen’s name. Then Jen started calling again. I was honest with Kristen about it, and told Jen to fuck off. She finally did, but things started getting worse instead of better, and Kristen was getting weirder, more withdrawn. I finally moved into my attic studio, but I can’t seem to get more than a few hours every night.”

“We can look at a prescription for that,” the counselor said. “And this Jen?”

“Jennifer? I had to change chiropractors, and she just, well, I guess you could say she’s totally ghosted me.”

**

“I had to get to a meeting with the printers, but I have to man up and tell you I’m just horribly, terribly sorry for what I suggested. Your Ms. Blackwood left me a voicemail – nice girl, er, young woman – and, well, I guess with your mentoring, it makes sense some of your style might have rubbed off. I’ll leave your business to you, including however you want to deal with that rat-prick Oliver. Again, just horribly sorry. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“So that was her boss,” the detective said, tapping the stylus on Kristen’s screen. “We’re trying to get in touch with him now.”

“Wonder if she was suicidal,” the partner murmured, leaning over the sill carefully, then yanking bank with a grimace. “I mean, if she called in the tip on Blackwood…”

The detective shrugged as they moved outside under the tech’s glare. “Two dead women, one looks like she’s been in that pond three, four months, the other makes like a bird out her fourth floor window after making the ‘anonymous’ call? And get a load of this text string.”

“Thread. Gimme.”

**

JB: You can’t seriously. Never do that to U.

K: Quit calling

JB: PLS. This is nuts. PLS. Come over – talk this out

K: LV HIM ALONE

“And then it cuts out for a few weeks. They must’ve talked it out. Or maybe did more than talking.”

U O ME

U O ME

CREDIT

K: Where R U?

U KNOW. CREDIT CREDIT CREDIT CREDIT

RU LONELY 2NIGHT?

RU LONELY?

RU LONELY?

I C U

“Cause that ain’t some creepy stalker shit…”

“Just go on.”

K: Kanowski knows. It’s over. I have to tell.

I COME OVER TALK THIS OUT.

“Jesus.”

“You may want his number. Look at the dates.” 

**

Tod took the Lake Springfield Bridge and the 94 exit with excess care. After the humiliation of confessing his sins, the string of missed calls from the Sangamon Sheriff’s and the maddeningly ambiguous news that Kristen was both a “person of interest” and the victim of some “mishap” at the office wouldn’t quite coalesce.

The ringtone nearly caused him to go off the frontage road. He stabbed at the wheel.

The voice from the dashboard was young, female, distant, solicitous and yet something else.

“Are you lonely?”