Three Ways to Disappear

by Katy Yocom

  “I did know better. Mother and Daddy talked about germs all the time. But I couldn’t think of a better revenge than pushing him into the creek, and I wasn’t going to let the germ part stop me. I guess I thought he might get a little sick.” She paused. “I don’t feel guilty about it. We were little kids. But you’ve carried it around with you all this time.”

  Tears prickled Quinn’s sinuses.

  “Look. Don’t,” Sarah said. “You need to let that go. This is who we are. Two sisters whose brother died a long time ago. You think you could have stopped us? You couldn’t have stopped us. We were going to get out of that house one way or another. If not that day, another day. We had cabin fever like crazy.”

  “No. Any other day and the servants never would have let you get past them. But they disappeared for a while that day, remember?” Quinn said. “I’ve asked myself over and over why I let you go. It was the monsoon. You two had been making a racket sock-skating in the hallway, and I was tired of listening to you do that stupid chant.”

  Sarah smiled. “‘Ladies and gentlemen, take my advice. Pull down your pants and slide on the ice.’”

  “That’s the one. When I saw you slip out, I thought, ‘Finally. Some peace and quiet.’” She fell silent. “I don’t know. We kids were all upset by whatever went on that morning with Mother. I always wondered where everybody went. The whole time I was bathing you, I thought Ayah or somebody would come in and make a huge fuss that I was doing a servant’s work. Which I barely managed to do as it was.”

  “I think they left.”

  “No, what’s weird is that they were there somewhere. Ayah was, anyway. After I bathed you, she came in and dressed you.”

  “You dressed us. I remember because you were looking for pants in the shirts drawer, and I couldn’t believe you didn’t know how our dresser was organized.”

  “No, Ayah came in and made you promise never to sneak out again.”

  They stared at each other, full of doubt.

  “And God only knows where Mother was,” Quinn said. “Whenever I ask her about it, she just deflects.”

  “But you know what?” Sarah said. “It happened the way it happened. We might as well blame Marcus. He’s the one who put the snake down my shirt. Sneaky little shit,” she added, and Quinn blurted a painful, wicked laugh and hid her face behind her hands.

  “Can you forgive me?” she asked.

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” Sarah said. “I wish you could see that. We can call it fate, we can call it a freak accident, we can call it what happens when somebody makes a bad judgment call. But those are all just stories we tell ourselves. Does it matter which one we choose?”

  Quinn lowered her hands from her face. “I think it matters more than anything.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. “Hey,” Sarah said. “Aren’t you supposed to call your kids tonight?”

  Quinn started guiltily. “What’s today? Friday?” She took a shaky breath and blew it out. “I think I’d better wait till tomorrow.”

  .

  The next morning, Sarah got up early and put a pan of milk on the stove. Quinn had expected Sarah to blame her; that seemed clear. But divvying up the blame had never been the point. They needed to talk about the past so they could move on. Forward was the only direction that made sense. She tossed cardamom pods, black peppercorns, and cloves into her mortar and was grinding them by hand when Quinn wandered, pajama-clad, into the kitchen.

  “That smells fantastic,” Quinn mumbled, her voice groggy.

  “Hey, sleepyhead. Go call your kids,” she said lightly. “I’ll have masala chai ready by the time you’re done.” They exchanged a smile. They would be all right, Sarah thought, although it might take a day or two for the tenderness to wear off. That was okay. They had a whole week ahead of them.

  They returned to the park the next morning at dawn, and every day after that. Most days, they sighted Machli and the cubs. Sanjay arranged a tour of the Ranthambore School of Art, where the headmaster spontaneously invited Quinn to give the students a drawing lesson. It went so well, she went back twice to do it again.

  As their week in Sawai drew to a close, Sarah observed a fragile peace take hold of her sister. As for herself, a thread of adrenaline began humming through her veins. They were going back to Delhi. Back to Ayah, or so they’d been promised. She knew it could all be a fraud, but she couldn’t fend off a growing sense of hope. Ayah, after all these years.

  When the day arrived, they left before dawn for the long car ride to the city. The plan was to meet on the maidan that afternoon. Sarah had insisted that they meet in a public place. She wasn’t convinced that this so-called nephew—Rajit, he called himself—was the real thing. True, he knew things about the DeVaughan family circa the early 1970s, which meant he knew Ayah, probably. But in India, there were aunties and aunties. The latter category included more or less every older woman you knew.

  Sarah had named the date and place of the meeting, and Rajit had written back to her post office box, okaying the time and date but suggesting that they meet instead at his house, where Manjuli would be waiting. Sarah wrote back to say she would be at the maidan at the appointed time.

  They arrived twenty minutes early and found seats on a bench not far from the cricket pitch. The afternoon was sunny and crisp; women wore cardigans over their saris and salwar kameez. Ayah: Would she look more or less the same, or was she ancient now? How old was she? Fifty-five? Seventy? Sarah wondered if she would recognize her. Ayah would no doubt recognize Sarah and Quinn by their coloring alone.

  An hour ticked by. This was inauspicious. If Rajit wanted his money, why didn’t he show up? He knew where to find them; he knew they were carrying cash.

  Or maybe the tollbooth workers were protesting again. There were a hundred reasons for them not to show.

  Quinn blew out her cheeks.

  “Let’s give them a few more minutes,” Sarah said.

  A man approached wearing dress slacks, a light-blue button-down shirt made of shiny synthetic material, and a thin gold chain. He strode up with harried strides, namaskared, and launched into an apology: The roads, terrible, terrible, but what a pleasure to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you. He smelled of hair oil. He looked younger than Sarah had expected. Twenty-five at most.

  The sisters glanced at each other and stood. Quinn murmured a hello and then managed to efface herself to a remarkable extent, as if she could turn invisible through sheer force of will. Sarah fought down the impulse to confront him.

  “It’s a pleasure.” She checked his waistband for the bulge of a gun. “But I’m surprised. I thought you’d be bringing Mrs. Singh with you?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said. “Auntie has been at home cooking since the past three days. She’s preparing quite a feast in your honor. Come, we should go. She’ll be fretting.”

  Sarah arranged her face into a facsimile of a pleasant look. “It’s been such a long time since we’ve seen Mrs. Singh,” she said. “Do you by any chance have a picture of her?”

  “A picture?” Restrained insult, real or calculated. “No, I’m afraid I do not carry a picture of my auntie with me.”

  “But you understand why I ask.”

  “I understand, yes, but I am sorry you don’t trust me. You call me a liar.”

  “She didn’t call you a liar. We don’t know you,” Quinn pointed out in a surprisingly firm voice.

  “Achchha. This is true. Well.” He thrust his hands in his pockets. “My auntie has been talking a great deal about Dr. DeVaughan and Mrs. Doctor. She told me your mother played tennis.”

  Sarah gazed at him. All the white ladies played tennis.

  “Your mother didn’t care for India. And you father was a great believer in oranges for good health.”

  Sarah and Quinn exchanged a glance.

  “Achchha,” Sarah said t
o Rajit. “What’s your address? We’ll take an auto-rickshaw and meet you there.”

  .

  They arrived at a modern high-rise apartment building and took a tiny elevator to the sixth floor. Quinn and Sarah exchanged a glance on the ride up, as if to say, What happens now? and I guess we’re about to find out. In the narrow hallway, Rajit unlocked a forest-green door and swung it open, calling, “Look what I found on the maidan!”

  They stepped inside.

  Hurrying through a doorway from an interior room, there she was, unmistakably Ayah: the way she moved, the way she wiped her fingers on the dishcloth and exclaimed and put her hands to her own cheeks, then to Sarah’s, then Quinn’s, exclaiming, “My girls! My girls!” and they were laughing and chattering, and it was painful, somehow, to be so overjoyed.

  They’d grown taller than Ayah, and she’d grown rounder and older, obviously, but was still vigorous. She wore a tangerine salwar kameez, her hair in a long black braid shot through with silver. “And what did you think you were doing with that tiger, young lady? Lucky you didn’t get yourself killed! And now you’re a celebrity because of it. Such a crazy world.”

  Ayah made introductions. Her daughter, Gitanjali, a librarian, a bit older than Quinn and Sarah, which meant Ayah had left a young child at home when she took care of the DeVaughan brood. Gitanjali’s husband and their two lanky little boys, and Ayah’s sister Prema, who was Rajit’s mother, and Ayah’s husband, Arjun, whom they had always heard about but never met. He was bald on top with longish sideburns and looked a little like Salman Rushdie.

  It was easy to believe Ayah had been cooking for days. They started out with bowls of chaat and progressed through pakora and samosas, baingan bharta and saag paneer, naan and dal and chana masala and aloo gobi and mattar paneer and towering piles of rice. A feast on the order of Thanksgiving dinner.

  Ayah had not heard the news that Dr. DeVaughan had died long ago, so there was that shock to get through. “Such a good man,” she said, wet-eyed. “A heart like a giant.” She asked about Mrs. Doctor somewhat warily, and then about Quinn’s family. Quinn had brought pictures; Ayah said they should wait till they were done eating to look at them but then decided she didn’t want to wait. She wiped her hands carefully, took the photos, and looked up, bright-eyed, at Quinn. “So much like Marcus and Sarah!”

  Sarah’s marital status was tut-tutted over. “And you in India all this time and didn’t look me up,” Ayah added, scooping up dal with a piece of naan.

  “I tried,” Sarah said. “I put an ad in the Times.”

  Ayah hadn’t seen it. “When I saw you on the TV, I thought I might fall down dead from shock. Sarah.” She shook her head affectionately. “Sarah and Quinn. To have you here now, in front of me.” She pinched her nephew’s cheek. “It’s lucky Rajit found you.”

  Lucky indeed.

  When they finished eating, Ayah folded her hands beneath her chin and smiled fondly at them, as if they were still little girls. “You were such smart children. So curious about the world. Quinn, you were the artist. And Sarah, with all the questions. To this day, no one has made me think harder than you. And Marcus.” She shook her head. “I’ve always wondered how he was reincarnated. What life he’s living now.”

  “I don’t think of him that way,” Quinn admitted. She’d eaten too much. She’d never known Ayah could cook like that.

  “How do you think of him?”

  “As he was. As a little boy.”

  Ayah clucked her tongue. “You cannot stay stuck in the past. The world is change. We’ve no choice but to let it carry us forward.” She took a sip of chai and turned to Sarah. “And you? How do you think of him?”

  “Like … ” she hesitated. “Like someone who was granted only a little time. But he changed us all.”

  Ayah set her cup down with a deliberate gesture. “You still feel guilty,” she said to Quinn. Her voice rose. “You girls were not responsible, neither of you, for what happened to Marcus. How many times did I tell you that? That was my duty. The very reason I was part of your household was to look after you children.”

  There was heat in her voice. Quinn shifted uncomfortably. “But I was the one to give them a bath the day they sneaked outside.”

  Ayah folded her arms. “I am not sure you girls realize that, in fact, I wasn’t there that day.”

  “I thought so,” Sarah said, just as Quinn said, “Yes, you were.”

  They exchanged a look. “I was always confused about that,” Sarah said. “I remember you served us breakfast, but then … ”

  “You had to have been there,” Quinn said. “You dressed them after their bath. You made them promise never to sneak out again.”

  Ayah looked at Sarah. “You have a very good memory, young lady. I was there for breakfast. I brought you children your toast and eggs and sat with you while you ate. But later that morning, your mother sent us all home.”

  She turned to Quinn. “What you’re remembering, when I made them promise not to slip out again—that happened the next morning. I was helping them dress, and I found their dirty clothes all crusted with dried mud in the hamper. I realized what must have happened the day before, with none of us there to stop it.”

  It took a moment for Quinn to make sense of it. “Wait,” she said. “You were supposed to be watching us, and she sent you home? Why would she do that?”

  “For that, you will have to ask your mother. But enough of this. The past is past. This day is a celebration.” She picked up her napkin, folded it with emphasis, and plunked it on the table. “Now. I remember two little girls who couldn’t get enough of kheer. Who is ready for some now?”

  The rest of the visit hewed to sunnier territory. Gifts exchanged and declarations of affection. Promises to keep in touch. Rajit ferried them to their hotel, and Sarah pulled an envelope from her money belt. As they were leaving, she handed it to him. He took it and not very discreetly counted the money, then smiled and bowed and said it had been a great, great pleasure and he hoped to see them again.

  At the hotel, Sarah wanted to chatter about their visit. But Quinn walked into the bathroom, stared at herself in the mirror, and walked out again with brimming eyes. “She left us to the wolves.”

  Sarah was perched on the edge of the bed, removing her shoes. She looked up. “What?”

  “Mother. She sent Ayah and the others home, and then she, what, climbed back into bed with one of her trashy novels or something? She didn’t watch us! She had to have heard what was going on. I mean, what happened? She was having a bad day and just couldn’t cope? She basically said, ‘Here, universe, here are my children, do what you will.’ And then had the nerve to blame the cook for what happened! Where the hell was she? Where was she?”

  Sarah set her shoes down. “Quinn.”

  “When I go home, I’m finding out what the hell happened.”

  “Quinn.”

  “What?”

  “It isn’t going to help. Whatever the answer is, he’s gone. It happened the way it happened. We can divvy up the blame any way we want, but does any of it help?”

  “Yes. It would help me to know why nobody was watching us. And why nobody even bothered to tell me I was in charge! The truth is supposed to set you free, so let’s have it. All of it.”

  Sarah studied her sister’s face. “You’ve got part of the truth now. Do you feel any freer?”

  “I feel like shit, is how I feel.”

  Sarah picked up a pillow and offered it to Quinn. “Punching bag?”

  “Can I punch Mother instead?”

  Sarah patted the bed next to her. “Come here, Quinnie. Sit with me.” She scooted over, and Quinn climbed up next to her, and they sat side by side, cross-legged. Sarah put her arm around Quinn and gently tugged her closer. Quinn let her head rest on her sister’s shoulder. “So, aside from shit?” Sarah asked.

  Quinn’
s throat ached. “I just feel tired.”

  “I bet you do.” She kissed the top of Quinn’s head. “You can set it down now.”

  Quinn

  At the airport, after clearing security, Quinn found a grimy public computer, wiped it down with hand sanitizer, and wrote the email she’d been composing in her head for days, since her last phone call home. Since before that, if she was honest with herself. Since the day she’d decided to go to India.

  Dear Pete,

  Do you remember the day we found out the sex of the twins? Afterward, I cried because having a boy and a girl felt like my punishment for letting Marcus and Sarah sneak outside. When I told you what I’d done, you begged me to forgive myself and said you loved me anyway.

  I took that as a promise that when things became painful for me as a parent, you’d be there by my side. But instead you’ve opposed me and undercut me ever since the night Nick nearly died of an asthma attack. I will talk about it that way even if you don’t like it.

  I think you’ve decided to let me be the one who’s scared, so you don’t have to be. You get to nudge the kids behind my back and say, “There goes Mom, freaking out again.”

  This trip to India has made me realize it’s not you I’m afraid of, when it comes to Nick. It turns out, I’m afraid of me. Afraid I’ll make some split-second decision like I did the day Sarah and Marcus slipped out of the house, and our son will die because of it. And I’ve been unfair to you, treating you like you’re too casual about Nick’s safety.

  But it’s unfair and unloving of you to hold me in contempt.

  You criticize me for letting Mother walk all over me. Can you see that you walk all over me, too? The morning after that trip to the ER, you told me to argue with you if I saw you were missing the warning signs. You told me to insist on taking his symptoms more seriously. And every single time I’ve done that, you’ve dismissed me.

  Maybe the damage we’ve done to our relationship is too much to repair. If so, we can end this marriage. Or we can decide it’s not too late, and fix it. We get to decide. We HAVE to decide.