The voice that comes on is unexpected.
The computerized operator.
“The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again.”
So Grace has moved once more. Like their parents, she never stays at one address long. Each time Suzy has tried calling her, the operator would come on instead with the new number, which Suzy imagines is a sign, a message from Grace telling her that she has not completely given up on Suzy. Although Suzy also knows that Grace, as a teacher at a public school and a church, needs to have her number listed. But this time, Grace didn’t. Nothing, no further information available. Suzy dials the operator. Grace Park, she insists. I need a number for Grace Park. Yes, the area code 201, Fort Lee, her last name is Park, my sister. The operator tells her, no, nothing; there’s Grace Park in Edgewater, Grace Park in North Bergen, but not in Fort Lee, no one under such a name. Maybe Grace has moved to a town nearby. Maybe she has found a deal in one of those riverfront rentals along the Hudson. 7:30 a.m., not a good time for a wrong number, not surprising that they would hang up: Grace Park? I am Grace Park. I don’t have a sister; you’ve got the wrong person; do you know what time it is? The school, then, she must try the school. Fort Lee High School. Surely the school must be listed. Surely there would be a secretary who would take the call and deliver the message. It is then that the thought flashes across her mind—why not go? Why not just go there, why not tell Grace in person that there might be more to their parents’ death, that it might not have been random after all, that a guy named Lee had known their parents, that another guy named Kim out in Queens might know even more, and that Detective Lester, he called for the first time in five years, he might know something, he might even have found a clue?
But then Suzy is not so sure. Grace would surely just walk away. She would pretend not to have seen Suzy and hop into a car with one of her colleagues. Who’s she? the colleague would ask. No one I know, Grace would answer without once glancing in Suzy’s direction. Worse yet, she might get mad, furious. She might drive off after telling Suzy never to come near her. Do me a favor, Suzy; leave us alone. Those were Grace’s parting words at the funeral.
Suzy throws her coat on anyway. It has not occurred to her that Grace would move without leaving a number, or that Grace might one day become unreachable. It is as if the phone number, or just having the phone number, or the possibility of the phone number, affirms Grace’s presence in Suzy’s life.
The headache seems to be getting worse. A bit of fresh air might not be such a bad idea. Fresh air, who’s she kidding? Fort Lee, a half-hour bus ride from the Port Authority, not the freshest outing. Before she loses courage, she is out on First Avenue, waving down a cab to Port Authority, where the Number 156 departs every twenty minutes.
It takes all her concentration not to get sick on the bus. The constant lurchings, the reek of gasoline, the jammed traffic in the Lincoln Tunnel—none of it helps. It does not seem to matter that the bus is moving in the opposite direction from the Manhattan-bound traffic. The tunnel keeps spinning. Suzy holds her breath, thinking that it might keep her stomach from rising up again. Two bottles of wine, not so smart to get on an interstate bus the first thing in the morning. A man on the other side of the aisle keeps fumbling with the paper bag in his lap. He takes something out and begins nibbling it, exuding a distinctly crunchy noise. Hash browns, wrapped in the McDonald’s cover. Soon he takes another out. Suzy wonders how many are in there. How many hash browns can a person eat at once? The sudden pungent smell of its microwaved, fried grease rushes up her nose, and Suzy swallows hard, pressing her forehead on the cold windowpane to push the nausea away.
The hard surface against her skin seems to help a little, but then a gigantic billboard emerges on which lies a striking blonde in a neon-green bikini that looks electric against her implausibly copper tan. WELCOME TO NEW JERSEY, it says across the top of the blonde. It is impossible to tell what the advertisement is for exactly, but the bus swerves past before Suzy can study more closely. Suddenly it is not clear if the chill in the air signals the winter’s coming or leaving. Could the summer be just around the corner?
She hasn’t had enough water. She wonders if Hash Brown Man has some spare water in his paper bag. She wonders if he will share it, although she can’t decide if she wants water that has been stuck in there with all of his other fried snacks. She is thirsty, shivering. The summer is definitely nowhere near, she thinks, huddled in her coat with her face pressed back against the window.
It is impossible for her to raise her head. When the driver tells her that this is Fort Lee High School, this is where she should get off, Suzy inhales once before running out, holding her face in her hands. Then she is not exactly clear how she pushes through the main entrance, bypasses the security, makes it up the stairs, finds her way down the corridor, and finally, bending over a toilet bowl in the first-floor ladies’ room, heaves up the contents of her stomach, her hair stuck on her wet face.
Her mouth tastes sour—that is the first thing she remembers thinking. After flushing the toilet, she staggers out of the stall, turns on the tap, and dunks her face in the cold water. Something gives inside her, a horrible knot, a twisted froth. She swallows the water, and it is surprisingly refreshing, this tap water in the ladies’ room at Fort Lee High School. Then Suzy lifts her face with water dripping from her wet hair, only to see that she is surrounded by a roomful of young faces peering at her.
“You okay?” One of the girls steps forward, offering her a piece of brown paper towel from the dispenser.
“Yes, fine now, I’m fine. Thank you.” Suzy wipes her face, and feels suddenly wide awake. The first period must not have begun yet. Around her are a group of girls, now scattering back to their corners to wait in line for a stall, to stand before mirrors, holding aluminum cans of spray to their highlighted hair or applying another layer of lipstick, mascara, eyeliner on such youthful faces. A commotion. Teenage girls all getting ready at once. Suzy had been like that, long ago, so impossibly long ago. And Grace. Of course Grace. What would Grace say if she knew, if she saw her right now? The thought alarms Suzy, and she quickly rinses her mouth again and smooths her hair. It is better now. The sick feeling has passed. And most of all, she is finally here, at the Fort Lee High School, where her sister must be standing before a class, before a roomful of boys and girls who are now rushing out at the loud thud of a bell.
“Wait, please!” Suzy calls after the one who offered her the towel. The girl turns around, the glitter on her eyelids twinkling under the fluorescent gleam. “Do you know where I can find Miss Grace Park? She teaches ESL.”
The girl turns to the group around her as if to say, Do you know? No one seems to know; their faces are blank. Of course, ESL, only for the kids whose English is not fluent. Then a tiny voice pops out of nowhere and volunteers in Korean, “I do.”
Suzy turns around to find a small, round girl to her right, who seems to have been standing there all along. She is curiously short, barely over four feet tall. She is alone, unlike the other girls, who all seem to be traveling in groups.
“Are you one of her students?” Suzy stoops a little to face her. “No, not anymore,” the girl answers, lowering her gaze as though she is not used to making eye contact with an adult. Her jeans are belted too high, definitely no hip-huggers. No piercing in her ears. No makeup whatsoever. A true FOB. There were girls like this even back in Suzy’s school days. They spoke very little English and only hung out with each other. They carried Hello Kitty bags and kept photos of Korean pop stars in their wallets. They looked frightened when white boys spoke to them and avoided girls like Suzy and Grace, whom they secretly called Twinkie.