Sending Sabrina back to Evanston.
They hadn’t been satisfied with playing at a new life for a few months; they’d wanted it for good. And so the deception had never ended.
He watched Stephanie’s radiant face as his children chattered about O’Hare Airport in Chicago and De Gaulle in Paris, and about their trip. They were so full of new adventures that they asked her nothing about herself; they looked directly at her but always through the haze of their self-absorption, adjusting reality—if indeed they needed to—automatically as they went along.
As I did once, Garth thought. But never again.
“Look, Mom, they gave us these neat little kits; see, the toothbrush folds up—”
“And there’s a mask, Mommy, look, and some of the people wore them when they went to sleep and they looked so weird!”
Garth watched them, his face frozen. Why didn’t she tell me? If they wanted to make it permanent, that was what I wanted, too. Why in God’s name didn’t she tell me so we could deal with it together, make our marriage valid, live an open life . . .
Because she would have had to tell the children.
But we could have done that together.
Could we?
What would we have told them?
That the woman they thought was their mother had fooled them. That their real mother had waltzed off one fine September day and stayed away for a month before she was killed—well, supposedly killed—without making any effort to see her children or talk to them in all that time. Could we have told that to Penny and Cliff?
“And a comb and these funny slippers. Why would you wear slippers on a plane?”
“And they gave us a book of crossword puzzles and we did six of them!”
Of course we could have told them. They’re strong children, and with enough love we could have found a way to help them deal with it. It would have been better than living a lie. If she’d told me from the beginning, she and I could have worked everything out, made a life together. And now we can’t. Now we have nothing together.
I will never be deceived by her again.
His muscles were taut beneath his cold skin, like wires wound on a spool almost to the breaking point. His face was rigid, his eyes blank, hiding the turmoil of his thoughts as he watched Stephanie and his children. She never looked at him.
God damn it, look at me! Look at what you’ve done to us, to all of us . . . He took a long step toward her and saw her flinch—so she was aware of him; she knew exactly how much distance was between them—and he stopped. There would be no confrontation in front of Penny and Cliff. Not now, not until he’d had time to think of some way to bring them up to date on how their mother and their aunt had made fools of all of them again and again and then, most devastatingly, again. He felt he would explode with the rage within him; he wanted to tear his children from that woman’s arms and take them away, cradled protectively, shielded even from the sight of her. But he did not move. He would wait until he could get her alone.
Or get Sabrina alone.
Where was she? It was no longer a question of his dealing with one impostor or the other; now, for the first time since this damned game had begun, he would face them together.
But he could not ask Stephanie where her sister was until he could get her away from Penny and Cliff. And how the hell was he going to manage that?
There was a knock on the door behind him and he jerked around. If that was her—No, of course it wasn’t; she wouldn’t knock. The maids, he thought. Good; they might distract Penny and Cliff. He opened the door.
“Garth!” Alexandra exclaimed. “Good heavens, a day early? Husbands should never do that to wives, you know, it’s—” She saw his stony face and his rigid stance. “Oh, my God.” She looked beyond him, at Stephanie and the children close together on the terrace, and turned back to him. “I gather that’s Stephanie, and she told you.”
“Does the whole world know?”
“Almost no one. Did she tell the whole story? Where she’s been?”
“She told me nothing. We haven’t spoken.”
“Then how did you know?”
He gazed at her in silence.
The color rose in her face. “Well, I guess, if you really do find that kind of love with someone . . .” She looked again at the terrace. “Where’s Sabrina?”
“I don’t know.”
“And from the sound of your voice you don’t care. But I don’t believe that, and I’ll bet you don’t either.” She gazed at Penny and Cliff. “I think we’ve got to get the youngsters out of here so you can explode. I do believe you’re going to any minute now.” She strode past him, to the terrace. “Penny and Cliff! What a fabulous surprise!”
“Is everybody in Paris?” Cliff demanded.
“The whole world, at least. Don’t I get a hug?”
They ran to hug her, and Stephanie looked up, as if just awakening. “I forgot. Giverny . . . the Marmottan . . .”
“Slight change in plans. The grown-ups have a lot to talk about so the younger generation is going to be whisked away.” Casually she put her arms around Penny’s and Cliff’s shoulders. “Come on, you two, we’re going to give your parents some time together. I’m taking you to my favorite cafe, a few blocks from here, as it happens; there’s a magician there every day at eleven-thirty, and I’ll treat you to lunch and cafe au lait.”
“A magician?” Cliff echoed. “A French magician?”
“Probably. I think nationality doesn’t have much to do with it.”
“We’re too young for coffee,” Penny said.
“Maybe in Evanston, but not in Paris.” She was shepherding them through the sitting room.
“What kinds of tricks does he do?” Cliff asked.
“You should never ask that, Cliff; most of the magic of a magic show is surprise. It’s like love,” she added, fixing her gaze on Garth until he met her eyes. “There are always surprises; love is supposed to be able to roll with them, instead of getting knocked out. That’s the magic part: something to hold on to even when you’re not sure what’s going on around you.”
“Can we really have coffee?” Penny asked. “I mean, we’re not any older, just because we’re in Paris.”
“You’re older than you were yesterday. Anyway, it’s half hot milk. That’s what café au lait is: coffee with milk. If you don’t like it, we’ll switch to hot chocolate.”
“How about wine?” Cliff demanded. “I mean, as long as we’re in Paris . . .”
Alexandra laughed. “That’s a bolder step. We’ll discuss it on the way. Garth, you and Stephanie take your time; you can join us later.”
“No!” Stephanie had moved swiftly from the terrace, terrified of being alone with Garth and having to tell him who she really was. “We’ll go with you.” She was so nervous her movements were jerky as she sidled past Garth and opened the door. “Come on, let’s go, let’s go.”
Alexandra looked at Garth. “I’d be glad to take them; it would be a treat for me.”
“No!” Stephanie cried. “Come on!”
“Come on, Daddy.” Penny took Garth’s hand. “Isn’t it amazing to see Alexandra in Paris? And we’ll all have café au lait!”
“Half milk,” said Cliff. “It sounds awesomely boring. Can’t we do something else, Dad, until it’s time for the magician? Like climb the Eiffel Tower?”
“And walk off all our angst,” Garth murmured, and only Alexandra heard the bitterness in his voice.
Cliff frowned. “What’s an angst?”
“Anxiety, depression, worries, problems.”
“I haven’t got any. So can we go?”
“Daddy, let’s go!” Penny cried.
They were tugging at his hands, and Garth saw beneath their excitement the first faint signs of worry that something was wrong: their mother wanted to go with them to the cafe and their father was holding back, and why was that? And they hadn’t even kissed, and they always kissed, all the time, even when they hadn’t been apart f
or two weeks. Garth met their eyes, tinged with apprehension, and gave in. He let them lead him out the door behind Alexandra, who, with a brief shrug of resignation, had followed Stephanie into the corridor.
L’Hôtel was lavish with antiques, marble and velvet; Garth had noted them peripherally when he arrived, thinking mostly of Sabrina and the surprise he and the children had planned: two days in Paris for the four of them and then a week for the two of them alone while Penny and Cliff flew to London, where Mrs. Thirkell waited at Cadogan Square to take them under her wing for a few days before taking them home to Evanston. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Now, taking the velvet-lined elevator to the lobby and walking blindly past pink marble and a soaring curved staircase, he knew that it was clearly the worst idea in the world.
No, it was a good idea. Based on what I thought . . .
Not thought. Knew. I knew the way things were between us. I didn’t dream it or willingly deceive myself. I brought Penny and Cliff to Paris because we were a family in the best sense of the word.
The sun’s glare stopped him just outside the entrance and he shaded his eyes, watching the others a few paces ahead. Alexandra and the children looked back when they realized he was not with them, but Stephanie looked fixedly ahead, her back stiff. And in that stiff back, Garth saw the Stephanie of their last quarrel, thirteen months ago, just before she went to China: the Stephanie who had not returned.
Sabrina had returned. Sabrina, who had shown again and again how deeply she loved them.
She wouldn’t do this to us. She wouldn’t live a lie, pretending to mourn her dead sister—pretending to marry me!—pretending in every way that made us lovers and friends and husband and wife, and brought magic into our home.
I don’t believe that. I do not believe that.
But . . . magic and surprise, Alexandra says.
Well, I am surprised.
“Daddy, come on! It’s just a few blocks, Alexandra said!”
“Garth.” Alexandra waited until he caught up to her. “Tell me what you want. We’ve got to do something to help Penny and Cliff; they keep asking me if everything is all right. They ask Stephanie, too.”
“And what does she say?”
“That everything is fine and she loves them.”
Garth shaded his eyes again and looked at his children. “Can’t you think up a story about my wanting to be alone with . . . their mother? You’ve already said it once; add some window dressing. Make it sound romantic, if you don’t mind stretching the truth to the breaking point.”
“Garth, don’t pass judgment yet. And don’t be so bitter. You don’t know the whole story. You don’t know what she’s been through.”
“I don’t give a damn what she’s been through. Nothing would justify the lies, the pretense—”
“Wait a minute.” Alexandra’s eyes were wide with surprise. “I didn’t mean Sabrina. I meant Stephanie. You don’t know anything about her.”
“I don’t want to. Why the hell should I? You think that after she’s been romping around the world for more than a year without a sign that she gave a damn for her family, I should start worrying about what she’s been through? Oh, Christ, Alexandra, I’m sorry; I shouldn’t dump it on you. If you still want to take Penny and Cliff for a while and give them some story to explain it, I’d be very grateful.”
“I’ll take care of it; I love being with them. We’ll be at Le Petit Prince, on the Seine; keep going to the river, then turn left. You can’t miss it. Take as long as you need: we’ll be very happy watching the magician.”
Garth watched her stride ahead and scoop Penny and Cliff into her orbit. But already his thoughts had moved on.
She identified the body. She went through the funeral. If she wasn’t pretending, how did that happen?
Whom did we bury that day?
They had always been so close, Sabrina and Stephanie; in some ways mystically close. Had he ever really known either of them? Had he really been a part of Sabrina, or had he deluded himself about the magic of this past year, fabricating what he wanted to believe just as he had willed his belief that she was Stephanie those first three months before he figured out the deception?
No, damn it; she loves me as I love her. I know that. I know that. Some things can’t be faked.
Once before, he had felt this unraveling of certainty in a world gone haywire: last Christmas, after he had kicked Sabrina out and she had fled to London. Alone, in the late night stillness, he had thought, Things fall apart; the center cannot hold. Now, on the Rue de Seine on a brilliantly sunny day in October, he longed for a center that could hold, a stable center, a place where trust could live.
He could hear Alexandra pronouncing French phrases and his children repeating them, frowning in concentration. But they kept looking back, too, and their frowns then were for Stephanie and Garth, a little distance back, not near each other. Garth lengthened his stride and caught up to her. “We’re going to talk. Alexandra is taking care of Penny and Cliff.”
“Not now, later, please, not now.” Stephanie looked to left and right, into tiny ateliers and shops, as if some place might offer escape. She could not talk to Garth. He thought she was Sabrina and she did not know how to act like Sabrina with him; she had no idea what they were like together.
I just want my children. I just want to be with them and think that everything will be all right from now on.
“Not now,” she repeated to Garth, her voice rising. “Later, later, not now.” Sabrina wouldn’t have said that, of course; Sabrina would have greeted him with the same love that he’d had in his eyes when he came in the door. He’ll think I’m angry, tired of him, maybe he’ll think I’ve met someone else. Well, that’s too bad. I’m doing the best I can. I can’t face anger and accusations and . . . hatred. She shook her head again—“Not now!”—and walked swiftly on.
* * *
Sabrina sat in the bedroom of the hotel suite, behind the closed door, her hands limp in her lap. Why hadn’t he told her he was coming a day early? Why hadn’t he said he was bringing the children? She could have planned for it; she and Stephanie could have been prepared. Why had he thought it should be a surprise?
But those weren’t the important questions.
How could he have believed I was the woman who answered the door? How could he have been fooled again, after the year we’ve had together?
But it seemed he did believe it. And had gone off to a cafe with his children and with Stephanie. The Andersen family, on an outing in Paris.
She sat beside the window overlooking the street and the church steeple, but what she saw was the house in Evanston, the bedroom she shared with Garth, the kitchen where Mrs. Thirkell reigned and Penny and Cliff helped make dinner and brought their schoolwork to their parents for help or admiration, the dining room where they had welcomed Lu Zhen because he had no love in his life and they had so much.
I helped Garth with Lu Zhen. I helped Cliff with some of his problems and I made it easier for Garth to talk to him. I helped Penny believe in herself enough to withstand the sexual pressures at school. I was a friend to Claudia and helped her put the squeeze on a disreputable congressman. I finished the design of the Koner Building.
I could say that I’ve done a good job in Evanston; I wrapped things up nicely, no loose ends dangling. I could say that my story there is finished; that it’s time for me to leave.
In her mind she saw Garth’s smile of greeting as it would have looked when Stephanie opened the door to their suite. She sat in the bedroom, seeing his smile, feeling his touch. Oh, my dear love, forgive me. Everything got so complicated . . . The only thing that stayed simple and clear was my love for you and the children, but I couldn’t separate it out from all the rest. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you.
* * *
Alexandra swept the children into the cafe and in a flurry of energy held their attention by commandeering a table and imperiously demanding menus, sparkling water and café au lait. Whil
e they waited for the magician, she wove elaborate stories about the posters that covered the walls; she told them how one of the waiters got his large red nose, why madame peeked out from the kitchen but never took a step into the cafe, why the dog was curled up in a corner looking so mournful. She was exhausted by the need for such continuous creativity, but she was exhilarated by their enthralled faces, and so she went on and on, silently wondering why the magician had chosen this day of all days to be late.
Outside, Stephanie stood at the window and watched the backs of her children’s heads, bent forward to be close to Alexandra. Once in a while Penny jumped a little in her chair; she always did that, Stephanie thought, when something brought her a special delight. The minutes passed, the crowds flowed around her, leaving her a little space of her own. Behind her, couples strolled along the Seine or sat on benches, eating lunches from paper bags. Through the glass, Stephanie watched Alexandra talk and caught glimpses of her children’s laughing faces. They looked up eagerly as a red-mustached man in a tuxedo and top hat came to their table. He carried a large basket, and after saying something to Penny and Cliff, he gestured over the basket with a white-gloved hand, and instantly a hat made of brilliantly colored feathers appeared on Penny’s head. Her eyes wide with wonder, Penny reached up to touch it. She took it off, and she and Cliff turned it this way and that, looking inside it, trying to find the secret to the trick. Like their father, Stephanie thought. Believing everything has an explanation. But then she saw them look at Alexandra and the magician, laughing with delight, and she knew they believed in magic, too.
She put her hands on the warm glass window. Something was happening to her: she felt like a stranger. Outside, looking in, not able to hear what her children were saying, not able to share their laughter and wonder and delight. But I’m not a stranger, she thought; I’m their mother. She repeated it aloud. “I’m their mother. They love me. I’m their mother. I’m their mother.”
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