Free Wherever Nina Lies by Lynn Weingarten Page A

seventeen weeks early. “Mom worked with this baby,” Nina had told me. Its head reminded me of an apricot—small and covered in downy little hairs, and soft looking. Its tiny arms and legs as thick as my pointer finger. The baby’s skin was so translucent I could see each vein swirling underneath. According to the article that the picture was attached to, the baby only survived for three hours. Looking at this picture and knowing this filled me with an almost unbearable sadness that I didn’t understand at the time. I was sad not just for the baby, but for everyone in the entire world. This baby reminded me of something that we are all born knowing, but that if we’re lucky, we forget—the world doesn’t make sense, things just happen, oftenwithout any reason, and life isn’t fair, it was never supposed to be. I understood my mom in a different way after that.
    “I guess I’m going to go back upstairs now,” she says. I watch her walk away in her bathrobe, clutching her mug.
    “Hey, Mom?” I call out. For a second, one brief second, even though I know better, I consider telling her what’s really going on.
    “Yeah, Ellie?” My mom turns back. Her shoulders are sagging slightly.
    But I can’t tell her. I’m not going to. And I’m not sure if it’s for her sake, or for my own.
    “Good night, Mom,” I say.
    “Good night, Ellie,” my mom says. And then she’s gone.
    “Your mom’s pretty cool,” Sean says. “Didn’t even mind that you have some random dude sitting here on the couch?”
    “I’m not sure if ‘cool’ is the word I’d use exactly,” I say. “But thanks.”
    “Better than my mom,” Sean says. He’s smirking. “Who is insane.”
    I look down. The laptop’s finally booted up. Only when I hear the door to my mom’s room creak shut upstairs do I start typing.
    I do a search and go to the bank’s website. It loads slowly, a picture of a man and a woman, sitting at a computer, each with a cup of coffee, smiling. My heart is pounding.
    I click on customer login. There’s a tiny link under it.
    Having trouble logging in? Forgot your username or password?
    I click and am taken to another screen. Please answer these questions to access your account:
    Account Holder’s Name? I type in N-I-N-A W-R-I-G-L-E-Y and press return. And then I suck in my breath, my heart pounding as the webpage reloads.
    “If she doesn’t have an account, it’ll tell us, right?” I ask. But Sean doesn’t answer; we’re both staring at the screen.
    A new screen has appeared, Primary Cardholder’s SSN?
    “Does this mean she has an account? I think this must, right?” My voice sounds higher than normal, which is what happens when I’m freaking the fuck out.
    “I think so,” Sean whispers.
    I type in the number.
    Date of birth? My hands are literally shaking.
    Please answer the following four security questions.
    “Almost in,” Sean whispers.
    Mother’s maiden name?
    R-A-I-N-E-R.
    Name of first pet? When Nina was six, she got a hamster. I was too young to remember, but I remember hearing the story about how my dad took it back to the pet shop because it wouldn’t stop squeaking. His name was Squeekers spelled with two e ’s and no a because she didn’t know how to spell squeak. I type in S-Q-U-E-E-K-E-R-S.
    I hit return again. I feel like I’m about to vomit.
    Name of elementary school?
    E-A-S-T O-R-C-H-A-R-D E-L-E-M-E-N-T-A-R-Y.
    The last question pops up.
    Favorite song?
    I start to smile. Nina’s favorite song is Happy Birthday .
    I type it in. Hit return.
    The screen goes white and a tiny globe spins in the upper right corner of the screen, and then a new message appears.
    Welcome, Nina Wrigley.
    “Holy fuck,” Sean says.
    I click on billing history archive. There are only two charges.
    One for $855 at Edge Sports in Edgebridge, Illinois, three weeks before she disappeared. And one for $11.90 at a place called Sweetie’s Diner in Pointview, Nebraska, a week after she was