Finding Fisher

Author’s Note: When I learned about the tragic death of cover model Josh Nicholson and saw the wonderful photos that Eric McKinney of 6:12 Photography had taken of Josh I just knew I had to write a book in his memory.

This is the novel that Joshua Scott Nicholson inspired.

Dedication from Ray and Linda Nicholson

Josh was smart, good and kind natured. He had a passion for life and when possible enjoyed it to the fullest with his friends and family. He always had a gorgeous smile, bright beautiful captivating eyes to go along with his charismatic personality and wonderful sense of humor. He was a thoughtful young man with an incredibly caring heart. His family and many wonderful friends cherish the times they had with him and wish there could have been many more.

Josh, you are and will always be deeply loved, profoundly missed and always remembered.

In Loving Memory of Joshua Scott Nicholson

August 30, 1990 - December 12, 2014

A portion of the profits from the cover and book sales will be donated to Joining Hearts, Inc., a 501(c)(3), all-volunteer, non-profit organization dedicated to providing housing support to people living with HIV and AIDS in Atlanta, in memory of Joshua.

One

Nicole, would you please clean up this mess? Our small kitchen table has become overrun with my roommate’s senior honors thesis. I’m expecting Franklin here any minute.

My fiancé went home for Spring Break. Back to New Jersey. He said his parents needed some help with their lake house. They’re getting ready for summer boating season.  It was probably for the best because my parents booked a family trip to Maui that didn’t include Franklin.

Not that I didn’t ask if he could come along. But my parents haven’t exactly warmed up to the idea of their only child getting engaged so young. They wanted me to attend law school first. Then get a job at a good firm before even thinking about tying the knot.

Still in her pajamas Nicole ambles into the kitchen. Her long, brown hair looks like it hasn’t been combed in days. When I take a closer look at her pajama top I notice what looks like toast crumbs and the remnants of jelly staining the front of it.

I think you’re going a little nuts, I warn.

"Going? Ha! I’m completely crackers. She holds up one of the mountains of typed pages covering the table. How am I going to get this done on time? My thesis is a complete disaster. And it’s due in two weeks."

I gulp. I already submitted my completed honors thesis two weeks before Spring Break. Four weeks early. My thesis advisor was so delighted she’s already submitted my final grade.

But I don’t want to rub it in because Nicole looks truly unhinged. I’m afraid to say anything that would completely put her over the edge.

I’m sure you’ll get it done, I lie.

She tosses the papers back on the kitchen table. I’m going back to bed.

No! I shake my head. You can’t do that. I don’t want Franklin to see this mess.

She gives a cold laugh. You mean he might actually figure out that you’re human and not a perfect Barbie doll? Say it isn’t so.

I’m not a Barbie doll, I protest.

I notice you’re not denying the fact that you want everyone to think you’re perfect.

I have flaws.

She raises an eyebrow. "Flaws? Plural? I’d love for you to name just one."

I take in a deep breath as I try to think of a flaw. Nothing immediately comes to mind.

"Let’s talk about all the ways in which you’re perceived as being perfect. You have luscious blond hair, stunning blues eyes and the whitest, straightest teeth I’ve ever seen. You have the body of a Sports Illustrated cover model. You’ve never gotten anything lower than an A in any one of your classes and you’ve already been admitted to Harvard Law, arguably the top law school in the country. Your parents are wealthy entertainment lawyers. You’ve been surrounded by celebrities your entire life. And you’re engaged to one of the hottest guys on campus. Do I need to go on?"

I had to wear braces when I was in junior high school, I throw out there.

And let me guess, instead of everyone making fun of you like they did to me when I got braces in junior high school, you were so popular that everyone wanted braces when they saw them on your teeth.

She’s right, but I don’t want to admit it. I need something to make me not so perfect.

I know, I say finally. I fell off of a pyramid when I was cheering in tenth grade and I broke my arm. I had to wear a cast for six weeks. And I still have a small scar where I cut myself.

I show her the scar just below my elbow.

She narrows her eyes as she looks at my arm. I don’t see anything.

I point to the scar. It’s right there.

She shakes her head. This is a scar. She pulls up her pajama top and exposes a huge, deep scar down the entire side of her ribcage.

Yipes. Is that from skateboarding?

Nicole has only talked about it a few times, but apparently she was a skate rat when she was a teenager.

She nods. And that’s just one. I’ve got enough scars to qualify me for a circus sideshow. I’ve had several casts on every one of my limbs, so I don’t feel very sorry for your one little broken arm. Unless you’ve got a little hardware in there as a door prize it’s not a real break anyway.

Hardware?

You know. Pins. Screws. They keep very broken bones together while they heal.

I glance at my watch. Franklin should have phoned me by now. His flight was supposed to land eighteen minutes ago and it wasn’t delayed.

Don’t you have a desk in your room? Maybe you can move your thesis there.

She shakes her head. No room. That’s where I’ve got all my books and articles.

As nonchalantly as possible I remove my cellphone from the back pocket of my jeans and glance at it.

No missed calls.

I should have heard from him by now.

You’ve got that guy on a very short leash. I’m surprised you allowed him to go back to New Jersey without you.

My parents wanted me to go to Maui. It will probably be our last family trip until I finish law school.

And your parents didn’t want to include your future husband in the family outing?

It’s still a sore spot that I don’t really want to get into with Nicole. So I ignore the question. I think I’d better give Franklin a call. I’m getting worried. This isn’t like him.

Let me give you some privacy. I’ve been out of bed way too long anyway.

I frown. You haven’t even been out of bed thirty minutes.

Exactly. Way too long.

Before I have a chance to respond she shuffles back to her bedroom.

Pacing the tiny kitchenette I feel my stomach knot. What if something is wrong? I don’t want to panic, but I can’t help myself. He would have called if he didn’t make the flight. And he would have called when he landed. Neither of those things have happened.

I stare blankly at the phone for a few seconds then quickly dial his number before I have a chance to stop myself.

My chest tightens as the phone rings. And rings. And rings.

Finally there’s an answer. A female voice says, Hello.

Before she has a chance to say anything else I end the call. Then I stare at my cellphone in horror. Why is a woman answering my fiancé’s phone?

My heart feels like it going to beat right out of my chest. I rarely have anything to be anxious about because every aspect of my life is so well-planned and orchestrated. I don’t like leaving anything to chance.

Hearing a women’s voice on the other end of the line is not what I expected.

There’s no way Franklin is having an affair, is there? The very idea is preposterous. Why would he cheat on me? I’m everything he said he ever wanted.

There has to be some sort of explanation. I quickly dial his number again. After a few rings the same woman answers again. Who is this?

Who is this? I fire back.

I asked you first.

Her New Jersey accent is so thick it almost sounds fake. More like a caricature than an actual person.

I clear my throat and try to respond as calmly as I can. I’m Franklin’s fiancé.

There’s silence on the other end of the line for four seconds before the woman cackles like a chicken. You’re shitting me.

No. I am his fiancé. Would you mind telling me who you are?

I think I would know if my son had a fiancé. 

Mrs. Smith? She doesn’t sound at all like I expected or how Franklin described. He said his mother was a financial analyst on Wall Street. She doesn’t sound like she works on Wall Street. She sounds more like a street walker.

Everyone calls me Sherry. Like the booze. She gives another cackle.

The way she’s laughing makes me wonder if she’s drunk. I’m trying to find Franklin...

You’ll be trying for a long time.

What do you mean?

He’s gone.

Gone where?

How the hell should I know where people go when they die?

Click.

It takes me a moment to realize she’s hung up on me. And then another moment to process what she said.

Franklin is dead.

That can’t be possible. How could he be gone for good? He was only supposed to be gone for a week for Spring Break. There must be some kind of mistake.

I debate the wisdom of phoning back. But what else am I going to do? I try to recall everything that Franklin ever said about his parents and his family in the four years we’ve been together.

He told me he was an only child, like me. His parents were still happily married, like mine. Both of his parents were in banking and worked on Wall Street. They lived in a wealthy commuter neighborhood in New Jersey. He told me it was easily accessible to Manhattan by train. And they owned a lake house in rural New Jersey, where they would spend their summers. They had a boat that his father spent most of his free time fixing up and that his mom despised. He said his mom preferred to spend her time shopping and going out to lunch with her friends. I remember thinking how much that sounded like my mom: getting annoyed with my dad for spending so much time polishing his classic cars, but then going out all day with her friends to the spa or shopping on Rodeo Drive rather than spending time with my father.

Franklin showed me photographs of his parents. And pictures of their mansion in the suburbs and their beautiful lake house. I even saw a photo of the boat. He kept all of the photos on his cellphone. He said he liked to look at them when he was homesick for the East Coast.

Surely he told his parents about me? I talked about him with my parents all the time. But his mom sounded so surprised that we were engaged.

I take in a deep breath and dial the number again. This time it just rings and rings, but no one answers. It doesn’t even go to voicemail.

I hurry into my bedroom and fire up my laptop. I decide to do some internet investigation. The only thing I’m able to find when I type in Franklin Smith + New Jersey is an article in the New Jersey Daily News. I gasp when I click on the link and read the headline: Two Dead in Fiery Crash on Route 94.

Former Old Town resident Franklin Smith, 22, and Olivia Hathaway, 21, also of Old Town, were pronounced dead at the scene of a fiery crash which took place late Friday night on Route 94, just outside of Old Town. No other cars were involved in the crash and police are still investigating the cause of the accident.

That’s it. The entirety of the article. For such a short piece it leaves more questions than it answers, at least for me.

Questions like: Who is Olivia? What was she doing with Franklin in the middle of the night? Where is Old Town? That’s not the place he told me he was from.

The whole thing seems so surreal and I wonder if this Franklin, the one in the article, is my Franklin.

My fiancé really can’t be dead, can he?

But how many Franklin Smiths can there possibly be in New Jersey?

Franklin always told me he didn’t have time for social media. He didn’t want any stupid antics from his college days following him around the rest of his life, especially when he had his sights set on someday being a prominent lawyer, and maybe even entering politics. Now I wonder if there was something more going on.

I think about the times Franklin and I joked around about our parents finally meeting. He always seemed to have an excuse about why I couldn’t meet his parents. Every Parents Weekend there was a special event in New York City that his parents just had to attend. He’d go home for the holidays, but there always seemed to be a reason why I couldn’t go with him. I never gave it that much thought.