A Tangled Web

by Judith Michael

  The waiter brought their dinners, sliding them deftly onto the table, though they were leaning so close to each other there was barely room. He glanced at their identical faces, so beautiful it was difficult to believe that there could be two of them, but he did not linger; he refilled their wineglasses and left. He respected discreet conversations.

  “I’m not even sure I want to live in America again. I could live in France, you know, with Léon and Penny and Cliff. That’s what Léon wants. He wants us to have children—so do I—but that doesn’t change anything: I want Penny and Cliff.”

  The words were hammer blows, shattering the crystal of Sabrina’s life. She felt numb, as if the only way to keep her life intact was to cut off all feeling. She sat back and took a sip of wine and looked at Stephanie without expression. “And what will you tell them?”

  Stephanie flushed. “I thought . . . I thought you would . . .”

  “Tell them for you? No. I won’t do that. Or were you thinking I’d walk away and let you walk in, in my place? Why should I? They’re not a set of dolls to be passed back and forth, depending on the day of the week and what suits us. We fooled them once and it took Garth a long time to be able to live with that, and I won’t be a party to trying to fool him again. I love him, Stephanie, I love all of them, they shape my life, but even if that weren’t true . . . good God, you can’t play with people that way!”

  “You said Penny and Cliff still don’t know.”

  “It doesn’t matter. They’re human beings and you can’t toy with them as if they’re not. Besides, they’ve grown up in the past year and I’m not at all sure they could be fooled again. Maybe at first, but not over time. They’re still as self-absorbed as most children, but they’re smarter than most, they’re curious and observant and loving, they see a lot and they listen and they try to fit what they see and hear into a view of the world that makes sense. And after a while, if things don’t make sense, they ask a lot of very tricky questions. Stephanie, I know them! And I won’t have them hurt!”

  “You won’t have them hurt? They’re my children, not yours! You were the one who said they aren’t dolls to be passed back and forth . . . Who do you think you are to tell me you know them, as if you can just walk in and take over and be their mother—”

  “I am their mother,” Sabrina said icily. “I did walk in and take over. I did it because you begged me to.”

  A shudder swept over Stephanie. She pushed her un-tasted food away. Her mouth drooped. “That’s what I’d have to tell them, isn’t it? That their mother wanted to be somebody else and so she . . . walked out on them.”

  The pain in her sister’s voice cut across Sabrina’s anger and she started to reach out to comfort her. But her hand fell back to her lap. My enemy, my love, she thought, as she had before. They faced each other as if they were strangers.

  “Yes,” she said bluntly. “That’s what you’d have to tell them.”

  “But there must be some way to say it so that it doesn’t sound so awful . . .” Stephanie clasped her hands as her thoughts swung wildly from one side to the other. “There has to be a way to make them understand. Everybody has crazy ideas; they’d understand that. Kids always think about doing things that seem crazy and impossible . . . If I could make them feel what I was feeling at the time, I know they’d forgive me. It might be hard for them, but they would, I’m sure they would.”

  She looked at her hands. “No, they probably wouldn’t. They probably couldn’t. It would destroy everything they believe in, the goodness of their mother”—she looked at Sabrina—“both their mothers. They’d hate us both, wouldn’t they? Children believe the world is reliable and predictable, and if I told them what I’d done, what we’d done, the world would seem crazy. Not reliable. Not something they could count on.”

  Around them was the murmur of quiet conversations, an occasional boisterous laugh, the chime of wineglasses meeting in a toast, the clatter of dishes from behind the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. But a hush enclosed Stephanie and Sabrina’s table, and even as they faced each other it seemed to Sabrina that they were speeding away from each other, faster and faster, like a film gone haywire, and soon they would only be small specks, no longer, or ever again, recognizable to each other. And she did not know how to stop it; she thought perhaps there was nothing they could do but watch each other disappear.

  Stephanie shifted in her chair. “But I have to tell them, don’t I? Denton’s solicitor will go to the police, and the whole story will come out; everyone will know I’m alive—I mean, Sabrina Longworth is alive—and Penny and Cliff will hear it from television or newspapers or other people if they don’t hear it from me. Or from you.” She looked at Sabrina’s face. “No, you said you wouldn’t do that. And I couldn’t ask you to. I couldn’t ask you to tell them you’re not their real mother.”

  I am their real mother; I’ve become their real mother.

  “But they’ll hear it anyway; an hour, a few hours after Denton’s solicitor goes to the police the news will be everywhere and that would be the worst way of all; then they really wouldn’t forgive me. If I told them, at least they’d know I’d been honest . . . finally. But honesty isn’t really something we can claim, is it?”

  I’ve been honest in my year with them. Everything I’ve done has been done through my love for them; they know that.

  “No, I’ll have to tell them, that’s all there is to it. They’re my children, and I want them, and if they’re hurt, they’ll get over it. Children are resilient; they bounce right back. Anyway, I don’t believe they’re really completely happy; they must know, deep down, that something isn’t the way it ought to be. When they—”

  “They are happy,” Sabrina said sharply, unable once again to hold back the words. “They’ve had a wonderful year. They’ve been happy and loving and loved. They haven’t felt anything was missing-—” Not fair, she thought. She had no right to claim her sister’s children just because they had had a good year.

  “I don’t believe that,” Stephanie said firmly. “They must have a feeling, even if they don’t understand it, that something is wrong. And when they know I’m their real mother they’ll be happy because things will seem right again and they’ll want to be with me and no one else.”

  The waiter came with raised eyebrows, and when Sabrina nodded, he removed their full plates. “It was not good, madame?” he asked each of them.

  “C’était excellent. Malheureusement nous étions distraites.”

  “Nous reviendrons,” Stephanie said. She looked at Sabrina, her eyes bewildered. “It feels so natural to speak French, but it feels right to speak English, too. It’s as if I’m always caught somewhere between two people, whatever I do. Whatever I decide.”

  Outside, in the mild evening, they retraced their steps back to L’Hôtel. Stephanie walked past the fine antiques furnishing the sitting room of their suite, past a table with fruit and a bottle of champagne sent by the manager, to the terrace, filled with late autumn flowers. She leaned against the low wall, gazing at the steeple of the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. “It’s terrible, what we’re doing,” she murmured. “I hate it, I hate it, but I don’t know what else to do.”

  Sabrina was in the doorway behind her. “What do you hate?”

  “Hurting you.” She did not turn around. “You knew that’s what I meant; you always know what I mean. I hate hurting you. But wouldn’t it be enough if you kept Garth and I took Penny and Cliff?” She heard Sabrina’s sharp intake of breath and she swung around. “I’m sorry, oh, God, Sabrina, I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I sound like a vendor haggling in the market. It’s just that I feel so trapped . . . that there’s no good way to untangle what we’ve done . . . and I love you and I know you love me and I need you—we’ve always needed each other; we’ve always been closer to each other than anybody, anywhere—but still . . .”

  “Still we’re further apart than we’ve ever been.”

  “Yes.”


  The width of the terrace stretched between them. Sabrina’s arms came up and Stephanie leaned forward, as if to move into her embrace. But at the same moment, Sabrina’s arms fell to her sides and Stephanie leaned back against the wall. The terrace seemed to widen between them. They looked at each other in the faint light, identical faces, beloved faces, separated by all that they themselves had set in motion. Around them, the scent of chrysanthemums and stock seemed painfully sharp; the distant sounds of traffic suddenly rose to a clamor.

  “I’m going to bed,” Stephanie said and, in a flurry of movement, crossed the terrace, passed Sabrina in the doorway, and disappeared into the bedroom. Sabrina stood where she was, watching the church steeple fade as the lights of the city went out one by one. It was very late; the hotel slumbered. On the street below, a dog barked, a man said good night to friends, a pair of motorcyclists revved their engines and roared off into the distance. In the silence that followed, as clearly as if they were beside her, she heard her children’s laughter and the clatter of their feet as they dashed about the house. She closed her eyes. I won’t give them up. I won’t give them up. I won’t give them up.

  What does that mean? I have no way to keep them without destroying their love for me and for Stephanie.

  She was crying. She turned from the terrace and walked blindly to the closed door of the bedroom. The lamp beside her double bed was on; in the other bed, Stephanie lay curled up on her side, her back to the room. Silently, Sabrina closed the door of the marble bathroom and washed her face and undressed, then slipped between the cool sheets of her bed. She could hear Stephanie’s irregular breathing and knew she was awake, but she said nothing; in her separate space, she lay awake through the night, thinking of home and imagining Garth holding her hand, as he did every night as they fell asleep and every morning as they awoke and turned to each other to begin a new day.

  When the sun reached their room, Stephanie threw back the covers and stood up. She glanced at Sabrina’s closed eyes and thought, She isn’t asleep, I know she isn’t, she didn’t sleep any more than I did, but she doesn’t want to talk. And even if she did, what can we say to each other? She walked past her sister without speaking and closed the bathroom door quietly behind her.

  She showered and washed her hair and dried it, combing it with her fingers. She dressed in the clothes she had brought into the bathroom with her, then eased open the door and went back into the bedroom. Sabrina was not there.

  She’s gone! Stephanie thought wildly. Garth will be here tomorrow, and she’s left me to face him. I can’t, I can’t, I’m not ready! I don’t know what to say to him; I don’t know what to say to Penny and Cliff. I’m not ready; she can’t leave me here alone!

  She ran into the sitting room. Sabrina was sitting on the terrace, wearing her silk robe. Coffee and a covered basket were on the table beside her next to a folded copy of Le Figaro; she had not opened it.

  “Oh, thank God,” Stephanie said. “I thought you’d gone.”

  “Not yet.” Sabrina’s face was pale and Stephanie saw a reflection of her own sleeplessness and uncertainty in her sister’s eyes.

  “Are you going to wait for Garth?”

  “I haven’t decided anything about tomorrow. Have you called Léon?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What will you tell him?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know!” She stood in the doorway. “What should we do today? We have to do something, don’t we?”

  “Alexandra called while you were in the shower; she wanted to have lunch. I told her I was thinking of Giverny or the Marmottan for today, and she said she’d like to go along and she’d be here about ten.”

  “Giverny or the Marmottan?”

  “Well, anything to do with Monet. When I was in school here, whenever I had a problem I took refuge in his garden or his paintings. There’s something about their perfection, even while it’s not quite real, that always made me feel there was a core of serenity I could reach, even if it took a long time.”

  “A core of serenity. Oh, if only . . .” Stephanie shook her head and, after a moment, said, “Is there more coffee?”

  “Of course. And croissants. I’ll take a shower and then we’ll ask the concierge for the train schedule to Giverny.”

  Stephanie sat down as Sabrina went to the French doors. But as she reached for the pot of coffee, Sabrina came back and bent down and kissed her on both cheeks.

  “Good morning, Stephanie. I love you.”

  Stephanie turned and put her arms up. “Oh, I do love you, Sabrina. I love you and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about it! I wish . . . I wish . . . oh, God, I don’t even know what I wish!”

  Sabrina knelt beside the chair and they embraced, their cheeks together, their eyes closed. The sun warmed them. “I’ll get ready,” she said, and left quickly, while Stephanie’s eyes were still closed.

  Stephanie poured coffee and bit into a croissant, barely tasting it. She gazed for a long time at the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, thinking of people stopping in on their way to work, looking for something. A core of serenity. And maybe they find it, she thought, unless they’ve gotten themselves into the kind of mess we have.

  But if we hadn’t started this whole crazy thing a year ago, I never would have met Léon. I wouldn’t have met Robert or Jacqueline; I wouldn’t have found out all the things I could do in London; I wouldn’t have been Alexandra’s friend.

  But I would have had my children.

  And taken them for granted, the way I used to do.

  She was dizzy. She closed her eyes and opened them to the brilliant sun and still nothing was clear. I want it all, she thought again, with despair—all, all, all—haven’t I learned anything? She felt herself tense with the impossibility of it, and then she thought, Well, no one can have it all, I know that, but it would be a lot easier to accept whatever I can have if Sabrina would decide what we’re going to do, so I wouldn’t have to—

  She was ashamed, and she gripped her hands in her lap. I’m sorry, Sabrina: I’m still trying to get you to take the responsibility for my life.

  The knocker on the door of their suite startled her. The maids, she thought, walking through the sitting room. They can come back when we’re gone. She opened the door.

  “Mom!” Cliff yelled, and flung himself against her, pushing her backwards into the room.

  “Mommy, bonjour, bonjour!” Penny was dancing up and down in her excitement as she burrowed against Stephanie under Cliff’s widespread arms. “Daddy taught me that, did we surprise you? We did, didn’t we? That was our surprise! You didn’t know we were coming!”

  Stephanie staggered beneath the onslaught of her children. Joy flooded through her and she bent her head and clasped them in her arms.

  “You didn’t know, did you?” Cliff demanded. “We kept it a secret, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, you did,” Stephanie whispered. “Oh, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you . . .” She could not stop saying it. Her lips were against the upraised faces of her children, her body opened to their warmth and electric energy, and she felt faint and stumbled backwards again.

  She heard the door close and looked up, over the heads of the children, into Garth’s eyes.

  Shock struck her like a wave, and she looked quickly away. She had cut him so completely out of her life that it was incredible to see him this close, with the children there, almost as if they were the family group she had long since denied. And he had been reaching toward her with a love in his eyes she had not seen since their first years together, sending a stab of jealousy through her that her sister had brought that out in him where she herself had been incapable of it.

  She shook her head as if to fling off her thoughts. She had registered, in one swift second, that there was more gray in his hair than she remembered, that his lean face had a gentleness she did not remember and that he was far handsomer than she remembered, but then she withdrew from him
and returned to the clamor of her children. That outstretched hand, the love in his eyes, were not for her, and she could not tell him she wasn’t Sabrina. She wasn’t ready. She could not even greet him as if she were his wife. If he didn’t like it, that was too bad; what right did he have to spring this surprise on her? She would deal with it later. Maybe he would just go away and leave her with her children.

  With the children and Léon.

  “You smell different,” Penny said accusingly. “Are you wearing perfume? You told me you don’t like perfume.”

  “Oh. Well, most perfumes . . . Maybe it’s my shampoo; it’s a new kind. Tell me about your plane trip. And how come you’re here. I thought . . .”

  Huddled together, they moved past the closed bedroom door and onto the terrace, Penny and Cliff’s high, excited voices propelling them along. Garth stayed where he was, cold with shock and fury. This woman was not his wife. He had known it the moment their eyes met. He had lived with Sabrina for thirteen months and he knew her as he had never known another human being, and this woman was not Sabrina.

  This woman was Stephanie.

  Not killed in an explosion. Not buried in London. Not mourned for a year. Instead, living in . . . well, wherever the hell she’d been living; what difference did it make? Wherever it was, she would have had to be in hiding, since she was supposed to be dead. But here she was, traveling with Sabrina, sharing a hotel suite, having a couple of weeks together—was that why Sabrina had come to London so often in the past year, to visit her sister?—then going back to whatever life she was living now.