Someone Else's Lady

Five years passed since I moved to San Francisco. My marriage to Michelle was beyond anything I could have ever imagined in my wildest fantasies. If my life wasn’t perfect, then it was damn close. Michelle and I were perfect for each other. Instead of being annoyed by her erratic hours, as she feared I might be, I found the lack of predictability fun and exciting. I liked not knowing what to expect, but this didn’t mean we didn’t have some comfortable routines. The way we went about doing some things, either on our own or together, could be predictable enough. We knew that unless I was sick, I would be the one doing the cleaning and the laundry. On the other hand, we knew that she was most likely to be the one to do the cooking. We loved our lives together and the general spontaneity of it. We never knew if we might indulge in pizza at midnight. Or maybe we would have fun between the sheets early in the morning instead of late at night. We did what we wanted to do when it was convenient for us and when the opportunity presented itself. I saw Angela every now and then over the years. She grew her hair to the middle of her back, but recently cut it to her shoulders. Now she looked like she did when we first met, only slightly older. At one point, Angela requested my help on a case she was working on involving the abduction of two kids. Detectives sometimes went to other countries on account of their cases, but it was more common for a U.S. Marshal to work on international cases. I met with Angela in a conference room that basically consisted of a small room with flat carpet, a rectangular table, and six chairs. There were no windows or wall hangings on the off-white walls. There wasn’t even a coffee maker or a water dispenser, although there was a wastebasket in one corner of the room. She was already waiting for me when I stepped into the room, elbows leaning on the table, chin casually resting in the palm of her hand. “Hallo,” she said in German as I took a seat next to her. She seemed to study me for a moment before I said, “Hey there. How have you been?” “Oh, I’m okay. You?” “Great. What’s up?” She then told me about a case involving an American woman whose Armenian husband had kidnapped their two children to spite her because she wanted a divorce, tired of his abuse. The woman and the authorities both had reason to believe that the husband had returned to his homeland with the children. “Do you speak any Armenian?” “No, sorry. Not one of my languages.” I looked at Angela’s profile as she flipped through the pages in a file folder that sat before her. It was the first time I had ever really seen her smile, and I was amazed by just how beautiful her smile really was. I had no idea she had such nice teeth, not that there was anything wrong with Michelle’s smile and teeth. Angela just had—well—a really nice smile. Her lips were a little fuller than Michelle’s. I mentally chided myself for comparing the two when she slid a family photo in my direction. I studied the foursome. The adults looked like any ordinary couple, and the kids—a boy and a girl—simply looked like kids. The father and the kids had black hair and dark eyes, while the mother appeared to have brown hair and hazel eyes. I placed a hand on the photo. “Oh, shit,” I said a moment later. “What?” asked Angela. “These kids aren’t alive. And they’re not in Armenia either. He might be, though.” I glanced up at Angela and saw the skepticism in her azure eyes. “I’m so sorry, but it’s true. Just like the headache you have right now.” Angela blinked sharply and sat back in her chair. I knew I was right. “I don’t know how or why, but every now and then, I get a really strong feeling about something. They’re just random. I can’t control what I sense and what I don’t, but I’d be surprised if I were wrong in this case—as much as I’d like to be.” Angela’s cell phone chimed a quick little tune. She slipped it out of her pocket. “Neumann.” I watched her expression as she spoke to the caller. It was a mixture of sadness and shock. “No. She’s with me now. This is exactly what she said… I don’t know… Yeah, okay.” She ended the call and looked at me. “Wow. You are one amazing lady, Miss Ballard.” “Michaels. Please don’t tell anyone you don’t have to tell. I don’t care to make an appearance on Oprah or have a movie made about me. I want to help people, not be turned into some kind of freak or celebrity for an ability I don’t know how I got, why I got it, or how it even works.” “No problem,” she assured me. A moment of silence passed, and then I asked her, “Now what?” “I’m taking you to Armenia with me.” I emitted what sounded like a cross between a snort and a chuckle. “Michelle might not like that very much. I’m not sure I’m up for the idea either.” “Most of us aren’t up for most of what life has to hand us. But you’re the only one I know who can tell me things no one should be able to tell me.” “Maybe so. I just didn’t think you liked me, despite saving my ass a couple of times as you did.” “You didn’t?” she asked, a hint of surprise in her voice, as she gathered some papers. “No, not really. I was just under the impression you weren’t very fond of me.” “Interesting,” she said, putting her head in her hands and rubbing her forehead. “Take some ibuprofen.” “What?” she asked, glancing back up at me. “For that headache.” “Oh. Yeah. I will.” A moment of silence passed, and then she asked almost hesitantly, “So, how is life with Michelle?” “Can’t imagine going back to living without her,” I said, not at all sensing that that would be exactly what I would soon be doing.