Hazel had taken the ring back and marveled at the gold band before slipping it into her pocket.
“Sometimes, I miss the memories most of all,” she had said to Orla. “My mother told me the stories of our life together. We talked about what we’d done and seen. She kept the memories alive. Now that’s gone. I have no one to remember her with.”
Orla had been reclining on the porch against the little wooden rail, but she scooted to Hazel and wrapped an arm around her back.
“I will be your memory keeper, Hazel. And you can be mine. Tell me your stories. In time, they will become my stories, too.”
And the following summer when July approached, Orla had come down to breakfast one morning with the bandanas - ordinary colorful bandanas with that reminder stitched into the fabric: Memory Keeper.
Hazel held the bandana to her heart, for a moment, and then returned it to the table, before slipping out of Orla’s room.
As the day progressed, Hazel tried not to worry about Orla, but looked up eagerly each time the front door opened. It was always Jayne or Bethany. In the afternoon, her boyfriend Calvin walked in. He looked a little hurt when her excited face turned to a frown as he breezed into the kitchen holding a potted plant.
“Rosemary,“ he announced. “My mom took it from her garden. What is it, honey?” he asked at the worried look on Hazel’s face.
“Orla never came home last night.”
He pulled open the refrigerator door, rummaging for a snack.
“It’s Orla. She probably crashed with someone.”
Everyone took the same nonchalant tone, but Hazel didn’t think so. Orla was free-spirited, but she always told the other girls where she was going. And they had a perfectly good telephone. Why wouldn’t she call and let them know?
Orla had recently started part-time work at Zander’s Cafe, an organic restaurant in town. All the girls posted their work schedules on a big calendar next to the kitchen table. Orla was supposed to work the following morning, Monday, at nine a.m.
“Did you call her parents?” Calvin asked, selecting a block of cheese.
“That’s the last place she’d crash,” Hazel mumbled.
“Not if her mom was sick, or it was her dad’s birthday. I think you’re worrying over nothing.”
Hazel didn’t nod her head. Instead, she walked to the counter and frowned at Orla’s empty coffee mug and the devil card beneath it. She couldn’t bring herself to put the mug away and remove the card.
Hazel’s concern intensified the following morning.
The phone rang at 9:15 a.m.
“Hi, this is Stan at Zander’s. Is Orla there?”
Hazel’s chest tightened, and she put a hand to her heart.
“No. She didn’t show up for work?”
“Not yet. We expected her fifteen minutes ago. I was hoping you would say she was on her way. We’ll be swamped today.”
“I’ll tell her to call as soon as I hear from her.”
When Orla hadn’t come home again the night before, Hazel almost called her parents. However, Orla had confided in Hazel about her mother’s fragile and worrisome personality. Hazel didn’t want to scare them, and she didn’t want to anger Orla if she’d merely stayed with a guy, or at a friend’s.
Orla had moved into the house to escape from the judgmental gaze of her parents. Hazel feared it would be a betrayal of trust to tell Orla’s parents she’d missed work, not come home, and was acting irresponsibly.
“But it’s not Orla,” Hazel whispered. She sat at the table, tapped her fingers, and watched the clock.
Orla’s father worked for Clark Construction, and her mother owned a little seamstress shop on Union Street.
Hazel recognized Mr. Sullivan immediately. He was tall and dark like his daughter, with piercing blue eyes and a no-nonsense expression. He sat on the back of his pickup truck, eating lunch from a metal box.
“Hi, Mr. Sullivan?” Hazel was aware of the construction men’s eyes on her. Not because she was beautiful, per se. She wasn’t. Pretty, according to some, but Hazel considered herself average. Her clothes, on the other hand, were not. They were bright and flowery and almost always eye-catching.
He gave her a mystified stare, and then nodded.
“You’re Orla’s roommate,” he said, wagging his finger. “I remember. You lived in China or something.”
Hazel shook her head. “Our roommate, Jayne, used to live in Thailand. I’m Hazel. I’m sorry to bother you on your lunch. I’m wondering if you’ve seen Orla.”
He put his sandwich back in the box and shook his head.
“About two weeks ago, I guess. She stopped at the store to get thread.”
Hazel bit her lip, tempted to turn and leave. She didn’t have to say anything more but knew if something had happened to Orla, she’d regret her silence for the rest of her life.
“Orla hasn’t come home for two nights. She missed work today, and I’m worried.”
Mr. Sullivan unscrewed the cap on his thermos and took a drink, swishing it in his mouth, and then spitting the water off to the side of the truck.
“Sorry. Fiona uses this mustard that leaves a funny taste in my mouth.” He replaced the cap. “Orla hasn’t been home.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. “And you find that unusual?”
Hazel nodded, despite the skeptical look on his face.
“I know Orla is spontaneous. But I’ve lived with her for almost two years,” Hazel explained. “She’s never done anything like this before.”
“Stayed with someone else for a couple of days?”
“Left without telling anyone. We’re like a family. We keep tabs on each other. I wasn’t very worried the first night, but then when she didn’t show again last night and also missed work… It’s not like her. And she’s supposed to make dinner tonight. We rotate. It’s just… it’s not right.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“You call any of her other friends?”
“Of course,” Hazel said. Before she’d driven to the construction site, Hazel called everyone she could think of. No one had spoken with Orla. “She left Sunday morning to return a library book. That’s the last time anyone has seen her.”
Mr. Sullivan put his lunch things away and picked up his hard hat, but Hazel saw the troubled look in his eyes.
“I’m off in three hours. If Orla doesn’t show up to make dinner, call me. I’ll call the police.”
At the mention of the police, Hazel drew in a sharp breath. She didn’t quite know why. Maybe because the police felt like strange heroes considering they were living in a time of near-constant strife between the free-spirited folks like Hazel and the men who claimed to uphold the law. Twice, she’d been arrested for protesting the war in Vietnam. She hadn’t even thought about calling the police.
Their mere mention cast Orla’s disappearance into a darker and more frightening light.
Chapter 9
Orla
Orla swam in darkness. Beneath her eyelids, a black navy reigned supreme. When she opened her eyes, more darkness greeted her. It was not altogether unpleasant, rather like the one time she tried magic mushrooms.
She’d been at a party when a boy thrust the gnarled-looking fungus into her hand.
“Most amazing ride of your life,” he’d said, popping one of the dried gray mushrooms into his mouth.
The fungus had tasted earthy, dank. She choked it down and followed it with a gulp of Coke. Afterwards, she drifted on a river of color and sounds, which collided, merged, and wove a beautiful tapestry of light tendrils connecting everything. It had been tranquil until she drifted back toward reality. She grew exhausted, but when she tried to sleep, the river continued to sweep her down and down.