Maybe Mary
Sometimes I lied and told people I was the only one Mary came to see even though she wanted to stay missing from everyone else. People thought I did it just so I could feel important but it’s because I desperately wanted to believe it. I needed to cling to the idea that she might leave all these other jokers, but she’d never leave me. Still, her leaving of her own accord and being okay somewhere is preferable to considering the alternative. The thought of her suffering in fear or pain, waiting for a rescue that will never come, is more than I can bear, especially now as a mother of girls myself. The thought of her being dead is one I’ve never been able to accept either, not even after her parents finally gave her a funeral. I went and spoke like they wanted me to, but it just made me more certain she was alive and would come back to visit me one day.
I remember taking too long to choose my outfit the morning it happened, because I had a crush on this guy in my Spanish class, but now I don’t know what I was wearing when the guidance counselor called me into the hallway to tell me my best friend never made it to school. He asked if I’d seen or spoken to Mary and what she was wearing when I saw her last and could I try hard to recall anything she might have said that could help them find her. He said she was running late and in such a rush to get out the door that she didn’t hug her parents like she usually did. So they never got the chance to see her outfit to be able to describe it for the missing persons report. Her calling out an impatient goodbye and the door slamming were the last known sounds she ever made before she vanished into nothing but our memories of her.
Now that I am the last remaining person on Earth who still believes in Mary’s ongoing existence, I can’t wait to be proven right, even if she’ll probably swear me to secrecy. When I started putting up ads online begging her to come see me whenever she is ready, my husband gently suggested that I talk to my therapist. My therapist is fine to talk to about other things, but not this since all she does is try to guide me into admitting Mary is gone.
I’ve met enough Mary imposters to put me off the project for good, but I go every time because God forbid the one day I decide not to is the day she comes walking into the diner I use as a meeting place. It’s the one where she and I spent nearly every day together until we didn’t. Today I’m meeting a woman who looks remarkably like her in the photo she sent—exactly how I imagine she’d look after a few agonizing decades apart.
I don’t bring anything with me so this one can’t rob me like the last one did. As she approaches our old booth, I hold my hands up to show they’re empty and gesture to my clothes having no pockets.
“Can you prove it?” I ask. “Please? I swear I’m not as naïve or gullible as the ad makes me sound. I’m perfectly rational but I know in my heart she’s still alive. Can’t you just prove it?”
“If you don’t believe me, I can leave. If you think I’m dead like everyone else does, why try to find me? Why should I even be here?” She has a slightly sassy lilt to her voice, both familiar yet jarring.
“Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry. Please don’t go yet.” Her hair is strawberry blond and shoulder length and her glasses frames are a pale blue. Her nose is small, her brown eyes are big, her mouth is a thin line, and her face is shaped like a heart. “You look so much like her.”
She is wearing a soft and cozy gray sweater with faded light blue jeans that flare out at the knee. Her flats are a jewel-toned purple. I memorize every detail of her outfit to atone for my not knowing the answer to that question so long ago. She says she doesn’t want to talk about the disappearance. Anything but that is fine. She tells me about her job as an art teacher but not where—she had hoped to be a painter with her own gallery someday—and I tell her about mine as a librarian nearby. She says she’s glad my childhood as a book nerd paid off and she asks about my daughters. My mind starts to wander and as I rattle off the usual answers about how they’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and how talented they are at their various hobbies, I remember that this could still just be a Mary imposter. A very good one—far superior to all those that came before her—but a possible imposter nonetheless.
Our waitress, who it seems has been around longer than the diner itself, interrupts me and I sit up, paying close attention to Maybe Mary as she claims she hasn’t had a chance to look at the menu yet. Why should she need to read the menu? Shouldn’t she know she is supposed to order the cheesesteak with provolone and no onions? And annoy our waitress like she used to by debating if she should get it without the hoagie to make it healthier, or if she should get lettuce and tomatoes on top to pretend it’s something resembling a salad but then worry aloud that it might get too soggy and to just hold on while she thinks about it and decides, before sticking with her original order. Our waitress says she’ll give us a few minutes.
“Thanks, Dawn,” Maybe Mary says without glancing up. I am startled because Dawn hasn’t introduced herself but before I can read into this, I see Dawn’s name tag on her chest glinting under the diner’s harsh fluorescent bulbs and I deflate faster than a balloon.
Dawn leaves and Maybe Mary continues to read the menu like it’s a fascinating book. After a while, though, I can tell she senses me watching her a little too closely.
“You know, people’s tastes can change over time,” she says.
I stare at her, waiting her out like if she keeps talking about it too much, she’ll get nervous and a confession of some kind will escape her lips. “Sure,” I say. “But I pretty much eat the same stuff. Give or take. I like what I like.”
Dawn returns and overhears Maybe Mary tell me, “Well, my cholesterol is too high nowadays, so no cheesesteaks for me. I’ll just have the garden salad.” Dawn shoots a knowing look at me and I try not to meet her eyes as my mind races. Is there any way Maybe Mary could have researched Mary’s preferred diner meal? I can’t think of how but honestly I can’t think of anything right now. But also, it could have just been a throwaway comment. Cheesesteaks are the most popular item on any menu in our area of small towns bordering Philly.
“Excuse me,” I say, standing up and trying to conceal the sound of my heart thudding against my ribs, straining to break free of my chest and leap across the table to demand that Maybe Mary just tell the truth one way or the other, come what may. “I’ll be right back.”
As I walk to the restroom, I pass Dawn and she halts me with a shove of my shoulder. “I’ve always thought you were losing it,” she whispers, “and we’ve got bets going in the kitchen on if you’ll ever find her or give up, but I think this could be her. I know we have no clue what she’d look or sound like as an adult, but—”
“I know, right?” I light up at the thought that it isn’t only me who thinks this Maybe Mary could be the Mary. The one I’ve believed in and waited for longer than deemed healthy by my husband and a mental health professional. But unlike them, Dawn’s opinion counts. She used to complain about the hours we spent at this table, behind our backs loud enough for us to hear and to our faces, with a gruff affection that made us feel special. Dawn looked on in horror with me when one day, Mary’s crush was seated in the booth behind us and Mary got so distracted admiring his beautiful face that some juices from her cheesesteak dribbled down her chin and he noticed before we did. When he signaled to Mary that she might want to dab at her face with her napkin, Dawn fled from us to laugh in the kitchen. She would stop other people from choosing our table if she knew it was close to the time we’d usually arrive, and she sat in our booth, her arm around my shaking shoulders, and cried with me on the day the news of Mary’s disappearance started to spread and take hold of our whole town.
As I head back to Maybe Mary, feeling a touch more confident in her authenticity, I try to climb out of my head and temporarily silence my many nagging doubts and suspicions. I decide to just enjoy her company, regardless of who she is or isn't, or why she left or why she is here.
We share stories about the people who make up the current tapestry of our lives. I talk more about my daughters—how they’re both funny but one is quiet and one is loud. I tell a little lie that my husband believed I’d find Mary someday. To be honest, his biggest selling point is that my falling in love with him managed to distract me from my Mary obsession for a while. I didn’t even share it with him until he was already so hooked on me that it wouldn’t scare him away. I’m not sure if he thinks it’s the strangest or saddest thing about me. Maybe Mary tells me about the guy she’s been dating for about a year and how she isn’t sure yet what she’ll do if he proposes. He is a mechanic and she says he’s even got her changing her own oil these days. I laugh at this because her dad used to take care of all that stuff. When she and I drove around, I would get out at the gas station to fill the tank for her while she stayed inside the car to draw in her beloved sketchbook or sing along with the fancy new CD player. She was always drawing the same images over and over until she could reproduce them with her eyes closed while playing her favorite songs on repeat, until the melodies and lyrics were embedded into the very fabric of our shared being. I wonder if this Maybe Mary knows that or if it’s yet another in a long line of coincidences calculated to drive me to the brink of madness.
I try to keep it casual but steer us to the topic of her parents and if she’d ever want to see them again. I am desperate to know why she disappeared—if they did something wrong, if she needed my help, if there was anything I could have done. She gently but firmly reminds me of our agreement to avoid that subject. We keep talking like everything is normal, pretending this meeting is just like any reunion between old friends. We laugh about trivial memories, but I notice it’s me providing the details and her affirming them. The hours slip by until she gets up to go.
If this isn’t Mary, what would be the alternative? That a benevolent stranger who kind of looks like her happened upon the ad and wanted to give me some twisted form of closure? To help me avoid facing the very real possibility that my best friend in the whole world had been kidnapped and murdered when we were only teenagers and I hadn’t been able to save her? To let me believe that I’ve now had this one last meal with her and a chance to tell her how much she means to me and to say goodbye before she abandons me forever this time?
“Wait.” My voice cracks because I’m not sure I want to know the answer. “Are you really her?”
She turns back to smile at me, but her eyes are sad. “Does it matter if I am? I love you. That’s all you need to know.”
A surge of rage bursts into my throat but a wave of nostalgia and heartbreak washes it down just as quickly before I can speak and say things I’ll regret. We look at each other in silence for a long minute. I remain where I am and watch her leave. Why couldn’t I just tell her I love her, too? Outside, a car starts and I wonder if it’s the last known sound of her I’ll ever hear.
Anna Vangala Jones is the author of the short story collection Turmeric & Sugar (Thirty West, 2021). Her writing has appeared in Wigleaf, Craft Literary, Berkeley Fiction Review, Short Story Long, and Necessary Fiction, among others. Find her online at annavangalajones.com.