The Shining Girls

Harper ^{24 MARCH 1989}

He is still bruised from the beating by the zealous detectives when he goes back to 1989 to buy a full set of papers from a newsagent to cheer himself up. He sits in the window of the Greek diner on 53rd Street. It’s cheap and bustling, serving up food from the counter, with a line that sometimes snakes round the corner. As close to a routine as he comes.

He makes a point of making eye contact with the chef, a man with a thick mustache that varies between solid black and shot through with gray, depending on whether he is the son or the father or the granddad this go-around. If the man ever recognizes him, he makes no show of it.

The murder has been pushed out by a ship running aground and pouring oil into a bay somewhere in remote Alaska. Exxon Valdez, the name of the tanker is in huge capitals on every front page. He eventually finds two columns in the metro section. ‘Brutal attack’, it reads. ‘Saved by her dog.’ ‘Little hope of survival’ says one. ‘Not expected to live out the week.’

The words are not right. He reads them again, willing them to jitter and shift like the ones on his wall to spell out the truth. Dead. Murdered. Gone.

He’s become adept at navigating wonders. The phone directory, for example. He looks up the hospital where she is either in intensive care or the morgue, depending on which paper you read, and calls from the payphone at the back of the diner, near the restrooms. But the doctors are occupied and the woman he speaks to is ‘unable to give out personal information about a patient, sir’.

He smarts for hours, until he realizes that he has no choice. He has to go see for himself. And finish it if need be.

He buys flowers at the gift shop downstairs, and, because he still feels empty-handed (it burns him that he does not have his knife), a purple teddy bear with a balloon that says ‘Get Well Beary Soon!’

‘For a little one?’ asks the shop assistant, a big warm woman with an air of permanent sadness. ‘They always like the toys.’

‘It’s for the girl who was murdered.’ He corrects himself. ‘Attacked.’

‘Oh, that was so awful. Just terrible. There have been a lot of people sending her flowers. Total strangers. It’s the dog. It was so brave. Such an amazing story. I’ve been praying for her.’

‘How is she doing, do you know?’

The woman tightens her lips and shakes her head.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ says the nurse at the front desk. ‘Visiting hours are over. And the family has requested that no one should disturb them.’

‘I’m a relative,’ Harper says. ‘Her uncle. Her mother’s brother. I came as soon as I could.’

There is a stripe of sun across the floor like yellow paint, a woman’s shadow across it as she stares out over the parking lot. There are flowers everywhere, like another hospital room from another time, Harper remembers. But the bed is empty.

‘Excuse me,’ he says and the woman at the window looks over her shoulder, guilty, fanning the cigarette smoke out. He recognizes the resemblance to her daughter, the jut of her chin, the wide eyes, even if her hair is dark and smooth, held back by an orange scarf. She’s wearing dark jeans and a chocolate brown turtleneck, with a necklace made of mismatched buttons that click together as she fiddles with them. Her eyes are glittering from crying. She exhales a puff of smoke and waves, irritated. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘I’m looking for Kirby Mazrachi,’ Harper says, holding up the flowers and the bear. ‘I was told she was here.’

‘Another one?’ She gives a bitter laugh. ‘What bullshit story did you spin them to get in? Fucking useless nurses.’ She crushes the cigarette against the windowsill, harder than necessary.

‘I wanted to see if she was all right.’

‘Well, she’s not.’

He waits, while she glares at him. ‘Do I have the wrong room? Is she somewhere else?’

She flies across the room, furious, and jabs him in the chest with her finger. ‘You have the wrong everything. Fuck you, mister!’

He falls back under her wrath, holding up his offerings in innocent protest. His heel clips against one of the buckets of flowers. Water sloshes onto the floor. ‘You’re upset.’

‘Of course I’m upset!’ Kirby’s mother screams. ‘She’s dead. All right? So just fucking leave us alone. There’s no story here, you vulture. She’s dead. Will that make you happy?’

‘I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.’ This is a lie. He’s overwhelmed with relief.

‘And tell the others too. Especially that Dan prick who can’t be bothered to call me back. Tell them to fuck right off.’