“I don’t know. Girl things,” I suggested, hoping to defuse the tension with a silly expression.
“Give me a for instance.”
“Her sleepwalking.”
“That is so not a girl thing. There was nothing playful about her sleepwalking.”
“I know.”
“But, yes, it might have come up.”
I waited.
“It scared her,” Marilyn said finally. “That’s why she went to the sleep clinic. I mean, when you pulled her off the bridge—”
“She told you?”
“Yup.”
“I thought she was too, I don’t know, ashamed to talk about it. I didn’t know she had told anyone around here.”
“She told me. She was really frightened.”
“Did she ever discuss the sleep clinic?”
“Well, I guess she was pleased that they seemed to get the sleepwalking under control. At least for a while.”
“At least for a while,” I agreed. Then: “I didn’t wake up that night.” It was a reflex. I wasn’t interested in Marilyn’s sympathy or consolation, but I knew instantly it sounded like I was.
“No, it’s not your fault, sweetie. You must know that. You have to know that.”
I shook my head and went on, trying to bury my guilt like a seashell beneath beach sand. “Did my mom ever talk about anyone she met there?”
“At the sleep clinic?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
“Do you know something?”
“I’m just trying to figure out her life. What happened…”
Marilyn took a deep breath. “The detective talked to me, too. Obviously.”
“So you know who I’m talking about.”
“Garrett.”
“It’s Gavin.”
“That’s right. Gavin. He said he knew your mom from the sleep clinic.”
“Did my mom ever talk about him when they met?”
“What are you suggesting?”
It was almost like patter, I thought to myself, the way Marilyn and I were dancing around the subject. It was a misdirection of sorts. And so I decided to speak as plainly as I could. “Do you think that my mom and Gavin were having an affair?”
Marilyn sighed. “No, not really. I believe it was more of an emotional infidelity.”
“I think I know what you mean, but I’m not completely sure.”
“You’re young. I think your mom and Gavin were attracted to each other, despite the age difference. Your mom had a decade on him at least. But they were never going to act on those urges. Your mom was never going to cheat on your dad. She wasn’t built that way. But she and Gavin shared something special.”
“Their sleepwalking.”
“Well, yes, but I didn’t mean that. I mean they opened up to each other in ways that I’m not sure your mom did with your dad—or with me.”
“Do you think she talked to Gavin about my dad? About their marriage?”
Another customer passed us in the aisle, an older woman in what I supposed was her husband’s red flannel shirt. We all smiled at each other. When she was past us, Marilyn answered, “Maybe. I guess she talked about whatever people who have these sorts of friendships discuss. What’s lacking in their life. What’s missing. I think a person only falls into one if there’s a hole in their marriage.”
“There was a hole in my parents’ marriage?”
“Oh, Lianna, not like that. But you had to know it wasn’t perfect. You’re a smart girl. But what marriage is?”
“Perfect.”
“Yes.”
“What was wrong with my parents’ marriage—in my mom’s eyes?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I shouldn’t even be talking about this. But your dad can’t be the easiest man in the world to live with. He’s—”
“Right now he’s just completely overcome,” I said defensively. “He’s just wrecked.”
“So you’re all not okay. You’re more than just shell-shocked.”
“Of course we’re not okay,” I went on, angry suddenly for reasons I couldn’t quite parse. But the combination of the way that Marilyn had deserted my family so quickly, the revelation that my mother and Gavin had had what Marilyn called an infidelity, and now Marilyn’s attack on my father had all conspired to upset me. “We’re not okay at all. How could we be?”
She took my arm. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have believed you. I’m a mother, I should know better. Can you come to my house for tea? I’d love to see you. It’s so lonely with Paul at school. Justin is always out and about somewhere, and so the house and the studio are just so quiet.”
I took a breath. “Yes. Sure.”
“And while I see from your shopping cart that you’re feeding your dad and Paige well, why don’t I drop off dinner one day later this week?”
“Fine.”
“I’ll call you so we can coordinate. And Lianna? I’m sorry for anything I told you that I shouldn’t have. I really am.”
I extracted my arm from Marilyn’s grasp and wiped at my eyes, which were starting to tear. “Don’t be. I probably needed to hear it.”
“No, you didn’t,” said Marilyn. We embraced, and I could smell weed on the woman’s dress and thought of how Paige reacted when she detected the stench on my clothes. It made me feel even worse about myself. I presumed that tea meant grass—or at least would include grass—and wondered if I would have the willpower to resist.
I listened to the message that Gavin had left on my cell phone. At the time, almost no one called me on it. My parents had bought it for me “in case of an emergency.” I viewed it more as a rescue flare than a phone. Gavin said he had gone ahead and gotten a pair of tickets to the magic show in Montreal, and that he hoped he wasn’t going to be giving them to his mother and father to use. I had been gazing at my small bag of weed on one of the slate kitchen counters, tempting myself really, trying to decide whether I wanted to flush it all down the toilet or pick out the sticks and stems and pack a bowl. It was lunchtime and I was all alone in the house. I had unpacked the groceries and vacuumed the first floor. The midday sun was cascading in through the windows, and I guessed another day this would have cheered me, but at the moment all it did was illuminate the grime on the screens and the streaks on the glass panes.
I didn’t feel like calling Gavin back, because at the moment his name alone evoked the words emotional infidelity. And yet my pulse raced a little faster when I thought of him. When I thought of his lips on my cheek. Marilyn seemed confident that my mother’s relationship with the detective hadn’t been physical, but how could she be so sure? And even if my mother hadn’t strayed from my father, she had had a relationship with this other man that was meaningful and complex.
I decided not to flush the dope into the septic tank. But I didn’t light up either, which meant that I wouldn’t light up that afternoon. In a few hours, I had to pick up Paige after school and bring her to the college to swim. I tried not to drive when I was stoned, and I didn’t want my sister to smell marijuana on me anymore. So, this really had been my only window. I made sure that the baggie was sealed and brought it upstairs to my bedroom.
When I returned to the kitchen, I picked up my phone once again. My mother had always taught me that it was best to get the difficult or unpleasant chores out of the way first. Just do them, she urged, because they don’t go away. And why stew over them? She had offered this lesson in the context of a particularly vexing and disagreeable client; she said she used to call him first thing in the morning, so neither anger nor anxiety would scar the rest of her day. I recalled that advice when I thought about Gavin’s message and the sound of his voice: a low thrum with irony always at the edges. I relaxed ever so slightly. I sat down on the barstool and listened to the message once more. I reminded myself that I had known even prior to my conversation with Marilyn at the grocery store that my mother’s relationship with the detective was meaningful and, on som
e level, inappropriate. But I myself had met him now, and I liked being with him. I had liked the way my blood had leapt when I had stood before him in a midriff as Lianna the Enchantress.
In the end, I called Gavin back simply because I was incapable of not calling him back.
“You went off radar,” he began. “I was getting worried.”
“Oh, there’s really no place for me to go, trust me.”
“Of course there is. Montreal. You got my message with the details, right? I’m hoping we’re still on.”
“What time is the show?”
“Seven.”
“Seven?”
“Well, there is a ten p.m., too, but then I’d have you back in Bartlett around three in the morning. And I’m working on Sunday.”
I thought about this. I thought of my assumptions about what he had in mind—the way I had imagined a hotel and how I would have to decide whether I wanted to spend the night with him.
“So, it would mean an early-bird supper,” he went on, “and that means you will be the youngest person in the restaurant by far. But the place I was thinking of has spectacular risotto and a chocolate mousse that will make that slice of cake you had the other day in Burlington seem like a Devil Dog.”
“Hey, now. I like Devil Dogs.”
“Just saying. I can make our dinner reservation for five. The wait staff will be condescending and self-important because they don’t approve of people dining that early. But they’ll also give us an excellent table because they’ll want to show you off: A young person is here! We’re not really an assisted living facility!”
“You make it all sound so appealing, how could I resist? Sure, I’m in,” I said, and I walked with my phone to a spot by the living room window where the sun was streaming in like a spotlight and stood there, pretending the illuminated dust was a nimbus.
“Excellent. Why don’t I pick you up a little before two?”
A thought came to me. “No. I have some errands in Burlington,” I lied. “Why don’t we meet in the parking lot of the mall by the interstate—exit 14. We could meet by the Sears. This way you don’t have to come all the way south to Bartlett. It’ll save you a boatload of driving in the afternoon and the middle of the night.”
“Why do I have a feeling there’s more to it than that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me guess: you haven’t told your dad about me.”
“Wow. That would be a very good guess.”
“But you know what? I don’t mind.”
“Because you shouldn’t have asked me out?”
“Nah. I told you it’s a gray area. I mean, I’m always happier when I don’t have to explain myself. Sometimes a little reticence makes everyone’s life simpler, right? Mostly I just see your point about the driving. I feel a little unchivalrous, but what the hell? You’re making my life a lot easier.”
“So, we’ll meet there at two thirty?”
“Perfect. You know, this is a first for me.”
A couple of possible firsts passed through my mind: Dating a younger woman? Dating the daughter of a woman whose disappearance you are investigating? Dating the daughter of a woman you may—or may not—have been sleeping with? “And that is?” I asked simply, wondering if any trace of wariness had crept into my voice.
“A magic show in a club! Never done that!”
“Well, it should be way more interesting than what you saw at your niece’s birthday party last week.”
“More interesting than your show? Not likely. I kind of doubt the magician will be dressed like Jasmine.”
“You are obsessed.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But only in all the right ways.”
When I hung up, I guessed I was flattered. I know I was smiling and my face felt a little flushed. But I was also relieved: we each had our own reasons for keeping our date a secret. If I met Gavin in Burlington, I really wouldn’t have to tell my father about him. I wouldn’t have to concoct an elaborate excuse for where I would be on Saturday night. Any little lie would do.
The other day, while Paige had been swimming her laps, I hadn’t wanted to risk disturbing our father in his office. Today I decided I would. Marilyn’s remarks about my father and Gavin—the first a man who couldn’t be easy to live with, the second a man my mother had been emotionally tethered to—were no longer dogging me like bad dreams, and I attributed this to my brief conversation with the detective. In a few minutes he had managed to quiet the unease that Marilyn had triggered. But I still wished that I had pressed the woman for details about both men—probed to learn what Marilyn had meant. And yet how could I? I was Warren and Annalee Ahlberg’s daughter; my instinct was to defend them. To believe the best about them both. Nevertheless, that afternoon while Paige was in the college swimming pool, I hiked across the campus to the limestone and marble monolith that housed the English Department. I wasn’t precisely sure what I would ask my father (if anything), but I felt the need to be reassured that he was who I thought he was and my parents’ marriage had been fine. Not perfect. But fine. Moreover, his office on an autumn afternoon might be the right spot to share with him Paige’s fears that she may have had a sleepwalking occurrence—or two—and together we could figure out what to do next.
When I arrived, the door was open and a slender girl my age with lush, auburn hair was sitting beside my father. They didn’t notice me, and so I leaned against the wall outside and listened for a few minutes as they discussed the student’s vision for an honors thesis about Wallace Stevens. I wondered if I sounded that pretentious and that ridiculous when I was talking to my adviser. I hoped not. But there was also something intimate about their conversation. I was struck by the way she had pulled a chair around so she was seated on his side of the desk. When she left, I saw that she was wearing a tight retro T-shirt with a Russian cosmonaut on the front. I ignored her as she passed me and then collapsed into the other chair—the one across from my father. I reached behind me and shut the door.
“Well, this is a lovely surprise,” my father said.
“I got bored at the pool. Do you have another student coming in?”
“Not for a few minutes. How’s your day?”
“Weird.”
“Elaborate.”
“I ran into Marilyn Bryce at the supermarket.”
“Oh?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I used to love grocery shopping with you and your mother when you were little,” he said, his tone pensive.
“Why?”
He sat back in his chair, an antique leather monster that shrunk him a bit, and rested his hands on his stomach. He was wearing a knit tie and a blue oxford shirt. His blazer was hanging from the wooden coat rack beside the door. “I was nurturing you and that always made me happy. The chore is all about feeding and comforting…and, one must admit, consumerism. And, of course, I was with you or with you and your mother. How could I not love it?”
“You know that Mom knew Detective Rikert, right?”
“That was abrupt.”
“Sorry. It just came out.”
“Yes. The detective told me the day I flew back from Iowa.”
“But Mom didn’t talk about him when she was…”
“When she was at the sleep clinic,” my father said helpfully, finishing the sentence for me. “No, she didn’t. Why?”
“I was just wondering.”
“Why now?”
“I have too much time on my hands.”
“Perhaps. Maybe you should volunteer at the elementary school. You like children.”
“I like giving them magic shows,” I corrected him.
“Do that then. Or read to them.”
“Or crafts, maybe. God knows Mom taught me enough crafts.”
He looked out the window and grew ruminative. “That detective,” he began, and he paused. Then: “If I hadn’t had an alibi, I am confident that in the eyes of that detective, I would have been more than a suspect. I would have been the suspec
t. If I hadn’t been in Iowa, I am quite certain that Detective Rikert would have believed that I killed your mother.”
The last four words reverberated in the room for me like a clap of thunder. My father had said them calmly, almost abstractedly. A sickening twinge of dismay—not quite fear, but a cousin—rippled along the back of my neck.
“Why would anyone think that?” I asked, my voice small and dazed.
“Oh, husbands are always the suspects in these things. Until they’re not.”
This was the moment, I decided, when I should tell him what Marilyn Bryce had said. In my mind, I heard myself speaking the sentence: Marilyn Bryce said you weren’t the easiest person to live with. But I couldn’t do it. Instead I murmured like a small child, “But you two loved each other.”
“We did.”
I waited. He turned back to me and met my gaze. “But…” I murmured, trying to start a sentence for him.
“There were no buts,” he said, and he sounded definitive.
“Can I ask you something else?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“This is kind of random, but I keep thinking about all of Mom’s miscarriages. She really, really wanted another child. You did, too, right?” I curled one of my legs underneath me.
“Absolutely. You and your sister are everything to me.”
“Did you and Mom ever look into why she kept having them?”
“The miscarriages?”
I nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “Of course. Your mother put up with ultrasounds, MRIs, a hysteroscopy. Her thyroid was examined. Her prolactin was measured. Her ovaries were tested. There were no chromosomal abnormalities in her eggs. Her uterus? First-rate. She had a model uterus. Utterly perfect, as far as these things go.”
“Then why?”
“We’ll never know,” he said. “I’m not sure what put more of a strain on the marriage in those days: the miscarriages or the medical testing.”
“And you never did find the cause.”
“No. I can only speculate.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, maybe it was me.”
The Sleepwalker Page 12
