Vanishing

by Cai Emmons

  They were renting a one-room cabin. The wood was so wet the fire hissed and sent out rank black smoke, so they gave up on the day, and warmed some soup, and went to bed in two double beds, only a foot apart. Marty lay stiffly with all her clothes on. She wasn’t modest exactly, but she felt strange bedding down so close to a couple who might want to have sex. She stayed as still as she could, feigning sleep. Betsy and Dan began to whisper, quietly at first, then more loudly, until it was clear they were both furious. Now Marty really didn’t dare move. She was sure the argument was her fault. She strained to hear, but only single words and phrases were decipherable: should have told me, never said that, there, here, wasn’t, couldn’t, she.

  It was her birthday, Marty now recalled, along with her recent college graduation that had been the occasion for the California trip. Betsy had made her a cake and threw a party though none of the guests were people Marty knew. The next day Dan took them to a strip tease show, saying it was an important Life Passage. Being from California he thought of himself as more worldly than his New England upper crust girlfriend, definitely more racy. Despite Betsy’s resistance, the three of them drove into San Francisco where, at a club they watched a woman in a G-string draping herself gymnastically over various parts of a grand piano. She touched herself suggestively and did splits and backbends and walkovers as her inky hair rained over breasts and buttocks. Marty and Betsy were the only women there, and the other men were all a lot older than Dan, not sleazy-looking exactly, but people Marty preferred not to look at for too long. She tried to be game and smiled aggressively. Dan’s attention cycled from the performing woman to Betsy to Marty. He looked mischievous, enjoying the shock he was inflicting on the woman who would become his wife, and her friend, both too prudish. At some point Betsy began to laugh, a low gravelly ooze of laughter that lasted a full minute before she got up and escaped to the lobby. Dan raised an eyebrow at Marty. Shall I go out? she asked. She’s fine, Dan assured her. She’ll get over it. But Betsy never returned, and Marty and Dan watched for the next forty-five minutes alone.

  It was after midnight when she arrived at the bottom of the driveway. It was a miracle she’d arrived at all. Several inches of snow had fallen since the road’s last plowing, and the steep quarter-mile driveway had not been plowed at all and hosted over a foot of snow. She wedged her car into a snow bank to get it off the road, tossed a few clothes and toiletries into her carryon backpack, and plunged forward, uphill, keeping her eyes on the outdoor light Dan had left on. The snow came almost to her knees and wormed over the tops of her boots. If she hadn’t been so tired it would have been gorgeous, the snow untouched, the moon almost full, a few light flurries pirouetting in and out of the light like fairy dust. She and Betsy had a name for glittering snow, a long multi-syllable name that was hard to recall now. Triglick—something. The thought of bed kept her going. In the old days Betsy would have made sure there was a hot water bottle between the sheets, cocoa on the night stand. Drink the damn cocoa, she would order Marty who, as a child, never liked hot drinks. She passed a small barn. Only a shed really. So much about this place was an exact replica of what Betsy had grown up with. Marty’s own life bore not a shred in common with the lives of her parents.

  Someone had shoveled an area by the side door. Huffing, Marty entered the mudroom, picking a path through a hodge-podge of shoes and boots, jackets and mittens fallen from their pegs. She stumbled into the foyer. Something was different, she felt it immediately. A strong smell of mustiness and old food and something acidic. It reminded her of the lobby of the first building in New York where she and Art had lived together. They speculated about that smell endlessly, trying to dissect it, deciding it emanated directly from the walls and ceiling and floor of the building itself. It wasn’t decay, but a precursor to decay.

  Though the light was dim she could already feel that things were not tidy. In the morning, when snow-reflected light would invade every room, she would see the untidiness she now only felt. Books pulled from shelves, pieces of mail here and there, pots and pans scattered around the living room, glitter winking up from the hardwood floors like Hansel and Gretel crumbs though far less deliberate. What she gleaned now in the shadows, illuminated only by a night light down the hall, was a kind of shabbiness. WELCOME, said a note on the floor. Glad you made it. First bedroom on the right upstairs. Excuse the mess. Dan.

  She wasn’t quite ready for sleep. Her shoulders were tense, and she felt as if she was still gripping the steering wheel. She set her backpack at the bottom of the stairs and went to the kitchen for milk. It had been hours since she’d eaten. By instinct she found the cookie canister, which in Betsy’s households had always been filled with homemade cookies. It was the same resilient green canister with the painted rose that Marty remembered from Betsy’s childhood home. Remarkable, the things that lasted. She wasn’t surprised to find the canister empty, a couple of stale Oreos at the bottom. She ate them both and washed them down with milk then stood at the sink which offered a view of the living room and its large picture window that looked out on a hazy moon and a sloping snow-covered field. During the day there would be a distant view of the valley. She drank in the peace, understanding why Betsy had always loved it here.

  A mouse-like rustling. It was Betsy, she now saw, right in her eyeline, sitting in an easy chair in the living room, back to Marty, stroking the chair’s arm and staring out. Even the shadowed silhouette of her cheek and shoulder were immediately recognizable. Had she been there all along, since Marty came in? Marty vacillated. She didn’t have the energy to interact with anyone right now, let alone the uncertain persona Betsy promised to be. And if she announced herself Betsy might think she was an intruder. But could she get upstairs without being heard? Should she wake Dan and tell him Betsy was down here? Betsy thumped the chair’s arm in a regular rhythm. Was this a communication, Betsy to Marty? Holding her breath, Marty tiptoed back into the hallway, retrieved her backpack, and headed upstairs. At the top of the stairs the thumping stopped.

  The sound of a snow blower awakened Marty. It was late, almost 9:00. From the bedroom window she could see Justin, tall like his father and mother, clearing the driveway. The day was blue and white, resplendent, the entire hillside covered with a puffy duvet of snow.

  Downstairs in the kitchen Dan and Helen greeted Marty with expressive hugs as if they were squeezing away the years since they’d seen each other. The three-plus years had aged Dan; his unruly hair was longer and grayer, and he sported a small paunch. In the four or five years since Marty had seen Helen, Helen had bloomed from girl to woman. Dan was making another pot of coffee. He was his usual lighthearted, talkative self. He’d made peace with his lot here as a one-size-fits-all country attorney.

  “You certainly are intrepid,” Dan said. “Was the driving awful? It somehow doesn’t seem right that you ended up on my sunny coast, and I’m stuck here in your land of polar vortexes. Your mother is well?”

  “Same as always.”

  Helen thumbed through cookbooks. She was robust and forthright, up for the weekend from Boston where she had just begun law school. In appearance she took after Betsy, though she was much more of the current world.

  “It’s just us tonight,” Helen said. “The family and you. Too many people doesn’t work with Ma. We’re keeping it simple—chicken, rice, broccoli, cake. We have to have cake. It’s not good for her, but what’s a birthday without cake.”

  Dan poured mugs of coffee and the three sat at the nicked farmhouse-style table, Dan and Helen regarding Marty expectantly. “Well, what’s the news from California?” Dan said.

  “Same old. Still making films no one will see. Still teaching to pay the bills.”

  “Sorry to hear about you and Art. Although that’s what you get for going to Hollywood.”

  Marty laughed. “Me and Hollywood, we’re very tight. How’s your practice?”

  “Fine, when my clients aren’t killing
each other and practicing incest.”

  “I guess your father’s optimism about the law is what convinced you to go to law school?”

  “A means to an end,” Helen said. “I wouldn’t recommend it. I’m sure making films is a lot more fun.”

  “Sometimes. Where’s Betsy?”

  “She sleeps late,” Dan said. “She often gets up in the night and wanders.”

  “Is that safe?”

  Dan shrugged. “You’re not one of those people who believes life is risk-free, are you? She manages. Better sometimes than others.”

  Helen rolled her eyes. “I keep telling Dad—”

  “That I’m hopeless. That I should hire someone to look after her. Or put her somewhere. But honestly, wouldn’t you want to be free and unsupervised as long as you could be?”

  “Free to kill yourself in any number of ways.”

  “She’s not going to kill herself. It’s only mishaps.”

  “So far.” Helen turned to Marty. “I’ve offered to quit law school. At least for a while until we can find someone else.”

  “There’s no need to quit school. You’ve got your things to do. Your mother has hers.”

  Helen’s chair scraped the linoleum. She stood and gulped the dregs of her coffee. “Let’s go wake her up. Come on, Marty. You know the protocol?”

  “Move slowly. Get her attention before speaking.”

  Helen nodded. “Calm, but no condescension. She isn’t a child though you wouldn’t know it sometimes.”

  They headed upstairs, leaving Dan in the kitchen. Helen smoldered. “He’s impossible. He doesn’t realize how far gone she is. Oh sure, sometimes she’s perfectly logical and coherent, but not for long. I can’t figure out if he’s naïve or just stupid.”

  “I’ve never thought of him as stupid.”

  “Not on paper, no, but sometimes he’s amazingly functionally impaired.”

  Outside Betsy’s closed bedroom door Helen stopped and considered Marty. “I can’t believe how long you two have been friends. I honestly can’t imagine knowing anyone for so long.”

  Helen opened the door on a room that was not the master bedroom. It appeared to be a playroom of sorts, with shelves of plastic horses and ponies, stuffed animals of all sizes, beanie babies, blue and purple yoga balls. One wall was decorated with cutouts of stars and moons, the opposite wall with fish.

  “I know, I know,” Helen whispered as Marty surveyed the room. “Dad got her all these things. For a while it was his big project. Actually, she kind of likes it, especially the soft stuff.”

  Marty nodded, suddenly apprehensive. In a four-poster bed loaded with quilts Betsy slept, only a few strands of her graying blonde hair visible.

  “Mum—” Helen rattled Betsy’s shoulder.

  “Don’t wake her on my account.”

  “We have to keep her on a somewhat normal schedule. Ma, wake up. Someone is here to see you.”

  Betsy grunted, turned over, and rose slowly to a sitting position. She regarded her daughter, expression slack.

  “Ma, it’s me, Helen.” Helen’s face was no more than a foot from Betsy’s. Betsy grinned suddenly, and reached out for a hug. “It’s your birthday, Ma. Happy Birthday.”

  Betsy was now all business. She threw back the covers and burst out of bed.

  “You go pee and I’ll come help you get dressed.” Helen yanked off the sheets. “She peed. She often does.”

  Marty didn’t need to be told, the smell permeated the room. Seeing Marty, Betsy stopped. They latched gazes. Something swam at the back of Betsy’s cornflower eyes, translucent as streambeds, the same as ever. Helen hurried over.

  “This is your old friend, Marty. She came from California for your birthday.” Helen spoke as if pressing the words past layers of something viscous.

  “Hi, Betsy,” Marty said. She smiled hard, focused on the eyes, the familiar eyes, trying to ignore the rest, the blank look, the hay-dry hair, the cracked lips, the stench, the sudden awkward intimacy. Betsy’s lips quivered, as if she was about to speak.

  “Happy Birthday,” Marty said. She waited.

  “Happy Birthday,” Betsy echoed. “Happy Birthday.” Her smile was jubilant. She lunged forward, throwing the full weight of her large body into Marty, nearly knocking Marty down. “Martha,” she said into Marty’s hair and neck. Her grip was fierce, her arms and back bony but strong.

  Marty laughed. They pulled back and laughed together. Marty was filled with an unexpected surge of elation. “You’re the only person in the world who still calls me Martha.”

  Martha went downstairs while Helen helped Betsy dress. Dan was playing the piano, a baby grand set in a book-lined alcove of the living room. He pounded out a jaunty Scott Joplin tune that matched his personality. Justin looked up from his computer. He had the cheerful unflappability of his father. Marty took a seat beside him on the couch. A white cat with long hair and green eyes leapt into her lap.

  “I didn’t know you had cats.”

  “We didn’t until recently. Seamus, our very old dog, died, and a neighbor brought us this cat, thinking we needed another animal. Ma fell in love with him before Dad could say no.”

  “What’s his name? Or hers?”

  “We call him Albert, but Ma has a million names for him. Whatever seems right at the moment.”

  “Your mother was never a cat person. She always preferred dogs. And horses.”

  Justin laughs. “I think she’s a lot of things now she never was before. How are they doing up there?”

  “Fine, I think.”

  “Helen isn’t always the most patient.”

  “She seemed okay to me.”

  “Just wait. It’s weird, you know—the whole thing.”

  After a lot of restless movement, Albert settled, and Marty stroked his back. “She remembered me, your mother did.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

  “It comes and goes. Dad keeps thinking something is going to jiggle everything back into place. But that’s pretty much magical thinking.”

  “How does he manage when you two aren’t around?”

  “Neighbors with hearts of gold. It won’t last forever. We’re trying to nudge Dad into making other arrangements. Or in Helen’s case, bulldoze him.”

  The deep snow, the blinding sunlight, the family gathered, the birthday, the guest—there was a cast to the day that set it apart, removing them all from the surly march of time. Martha, who was no longer Marty, tried to stay centered in the day’s peace, its lack of pressing demands, but something thrummed on. Perhaps it was only the frayed nerves of the traveler, or the recently uncoupled. She wasn’t used to being in the midst of another family. The past spirited around them like smoke. She missed Art, kept picturing him walking on the beach with a woman, the faceless nameless one she imagined he’d taken to France. She knew Art wasn’t thinking of her. He hadn’t called her once since the separation, and she felt gone to him, along with all those years they’d spent together. Poof.

  Before she left California she had made an effort to dig into unpacked boxes and find a few photographs, mostly small black-and-white snapshots taken years ago with a Brownie camera. She laid them out on the coffee table. There was a tattered school photo of Betsy in sixth grade looking angelic in a white blouse, smiling expansively to expose her dimples. There was one of her astride Simba, her downturned gaze fond as he reached his neck forward to graze on something tasty. There was another of her as an early teenager leaping, suspended mid-air, mid-laugh, scarf of hair rippling behind her. Despite the photograph’s lack of focus, the joy could not have been clearer.

  Everyone leaned in to look, everyone except Betsy who sat on the carpet nuzzling her face into Albert’s fur.

  “Pictures of you, Ma,” Justin said. “When you were younge
r. Want to see?”

  Betsy ignored him, or didn’t hear. Martha got up and sat beside Betsy on the carpet. She reached out to pet the cat. Betsy’s head shot up, eyes like road flares. This cat is mine. Martha withdrew her hand.

  “You were so beautiful, Ma,” Helen said.

  “A heartbreaker,” Dan said. “Why else do you think I married her? Not to mention that she rescued me from my ignorance and squalor.”

  Helen placed the photo of Betsy leaping into Betsy’s hand. “Look. That’s you.”

  Betsy looked. She smiled but said nothing. Did she recognize herself? She handed it back.

  Sunlight reflecting off the snow invaded the house, bleaching everything, exposing layers of dust almost congealed into felt. Betsy’s attention flew here and there like a gnat, erasing Martha one moment, then bringing her back to life.

  Helen shooed them out of the house for a walk—Ma needs her walk—while she stayed behind to bake the cake. It was so bright out Martha could scarcely open her eyes. She had left her sunglasses in California not imagining she would need them Back East at this time of year. She and Art always used to talk about light: how to capture it on canvas, how best to deploy it in film, what bright and low light did to the shapes of faces.

  Betsy stood on the compacted snow of the driveway, staring down at her booted feet.

  “Is she up to this?” Martha asked Dan quietly.

  “Oh, she’s fitter than all of us, aren’t you Bets? On a day with no snow she walks for miles.”