The Diver's Clothes Lie Empty

by Vendela Vida

  “Excuse me,” she calls out to the tour guide. “Who are we looking for exactly? I mean, besides a missing person?”

  The tour guide’s face tightens with momentary panic. “Who do you think is missing?” he says. “You were all sitting here.”

  It’s suddenly clear to everyone: The tour guide doesn’t know who you’re looking for. He has no name or physical description.

  Everyone starts talking at once. The majority of people think it is a woman who’s missing. They remember seeing a woman. “I think she was of Oriental descent,” calls out one woman.

  “You mean she was Asian?” says a Japanese American man toward the front.

  “Yes,” says the woman. “That’s what I meant.”

  “I would have noticed if there was another Asian tourist on this bus,” the Japanese man says.

  “I think she was in her forties,” says a stout grandmother. “Sort of nondescript.”

  “That’s your description of our missing passenger?” says one of the shrinking husbands. “That she’s nondescript! God help us.”

  “I mean that I think her hair was of average length and of average color,” says the stout grandmother, clearly embarrassed.

  “I can almost picture her,” a woman in front of you says.

  “How do you picture her?” says a male passenger behind you.

  “I said I could almost picture her,” says the woman in front of you.

  “Well,” says the man behind you. “When you can more completely picture her, please let us know.”

  The tour guide is nervous.

  “Let’s start looking for someone who looks lost,” he says unhelpfully. “I think there’s a good chance she will recognize one of you. She will come to you looking for help. I will carry my umbrella so she can come to me. I’m sure she will recognize the umbrella. People who want to stay on the bus can stay. Hassan, our driver, will be here. He will keep the doors closed and the air-conditioning on. He will call me if our missing passenger returns.”

  “But how will we know to come back to the bus if you’ve found her?” says a husband who looks less shrunken than the others. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but my cell phone doesn’t work here.”

  The tour guide ponders the question.

  “We will all meet back here at the bus in one and a half hours,” he says. “It is almost one thirty now. We will meet back here at three o’clock. Please stay with your partners. Please make note of each turn you take. We can’t have any more missing people.”

  The searchers leave the bus, and the tour guide instructs everyone that to cover more territory, each group should travel in a different direction. He opens up his umbrella. “I’m going this way,” he says, pointing left. An older couple accompanies him.

  You follow your partners—Samantha and Hazel—to the right. Samantha is tall and round, with short brown hair streaked with blond highlights. She’s the one you thought you might recognize, but she’s wearing the Converses with zippers. Hazel is short and petite, with long stick-straight hair; she’s wearing gold sandals.

  “What’s your name?” Hazel asks you.

  “Jane,” you say.

  Hazel has a yellow fanny pack, which she wears on her belly. “It’s her belly pack,” Samantha teases. Hazel unzips it and removes a medium-size notebook and a thin green pen.

  “I’m going to write down each turn we take,” she says.

  “Good idea,” Samantha says.

  Hazel looks around for a landmark. There’s a sign above you that’s written in Arabic and the three of you agree it won’t help you unless Hazel copies down each letter exactly, and even then, it might not be of use.

  “That looks like a hair salon,” Samantha says, pointing to a barbershop.

  “That’s a good landmark,” Hazel says.

  You consider saying something about how many hair salons there are, and how it won’t help. Hazel begins sketching the salon. You wonder how much territory the three of you will cover if she illustrates every landmark at every turn.

  You watch the quick strokes she makes with the pen. She’s good. The rendering is convincing. The pen is a souvenir; on its side it says The Louvre.

  “Okay, all set,” Hazel says after a few minutes. Together you walk another dozen feet until you come to a fork.

  “Right or left?” you say.

  “Up to you,” Samantha says.

  You turn right and Hazel pauses to illustrate a complicated handle on a squat door. The handle is silver and has an animal engraved on it.

  After a minute you continue walking. You pass by a chamber with a fountain inside.

  “What’s this?” Samantha says, peering in.

  “I don’t know, but let’s go in for a second. I’m hot out there. Are you hot, Jane?”

  It takes you a moment to realize she’s talking to you. Your name is not Jane.

  “It is getting hot out,” you say. “I think my ears might even be sweating.”

  “Your ears!” Samantha says, pausing to feel her own. “That’s funny.”

  You all step inside the room with the fountain. The tile on the floor is turquoise and baby blue, cracked. Along the walls dozens of notices—all in Arabic—have been thumbtacked. Is it a center of worship? You see no sign or symbolism that it’s a place of prayer. You have no idea why the room is open to the public.

  The tiled floor must have recently been mopped because there’s a strong scent of bleach. Hazel sits on the bench and starts sketching again.

  “Much better in here with the tiles and the water,” Samantha says, and extends a hand to feel the fountain water. “Are your ears still sweating, Jane?”

  You make a show of touching them, checking them. “Nope, all good.” You touch the water, too. It’s not as cold as you expected. Its flow curls around your fingers, your palm. You dry your hand on your jeans.

  You sit down on the bench next to Hazel. Samantha sits on the other side of her. Hazel starts sketching while looking at you. You turn away.

  “Look this way,” Hazel says. “Don’t be shy.”

  You turn back to her. “You realize I’m not a landmark, right?”

  “So where are you from?” Hazel asks, still sketching.

  “Florida,” you say.

  “Oh, Samantha here is from Florida,” Hazel says.

  “Really,” you say. “Miami?”

  “No, the Gulf Coast,” Samantha says. “Near Sarasota. A town called Dellis Beach.”

  You are from Dellis Beach.

  “Where are you from?” they ask, almost in unison.

  You try to not to pause. You need to say a place in Florida that’s not Dellis Beach.

  “Miami,” you say.

  “Oh, because I was going to say you look familiar,” Samantha says. She looks at you, tilts her head back, taking you in.

  Your mind moves quickly, miraculously. “I think you might have been on my flight to Casablanca. On the nineteenth?” you say. “You probably saw me there.”

  “I was on that flight,” Samantha says. “Isn’t that a coincidence? That must be where I recognize you from.” She pauses as though remembering something. You’re afraid of what she’s going to say. “Did you see that woman who kept having to get her suitcase down from the overhead compartment?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” you say, and laugh.

  Samantha turns to Hazel. “There was this woman sitting on my side of the plane in this crazy patterned dress who kept taking her suitcase down, opening it, and then putting it up and taking it down, opening it, and putting it up. She must have done it a hundred times.”

  “At least,” you say.

  Samantha studies Hazel’s sketch. “That’s so good, Hazy,” she says. She stares at it a moment more, then turns to you. “You just look so familiar,” she says to you. “Further back than the plane. If only my mind still worked the way it did when we were in college.”

  “The hazards of age,” Hazel says. “But there are some things I’m glad not
to remember.”

  “Like what?” Samantha says. “You’re the least regretful person I know.”

  Hazel seems about to offer an example of something she’s glad to have forgotten. “You know what?” she says. “I can’t think of anything.”

  “See, told you,” Samantha says. They both laugh.

  “You went to college together?” you say.

  “Yes, Florida State University,” Samantha says.

  “So you were with the big group of women on the plane? What happened to them?”

  “Oh, we all went to Marrakech together, but then when we went to Casablanca, the rest of the ladies wanted to spend a few days there. Our guidebook said that when you get to Casablanca, the first thing you should do is get out of Casablanca. So we did.”

  Samantha stares at the sketch Hazel is making of you. She takes out a pair of glasses from her pack, and puts them on, and that’s when you know for certain that it’s her. She looks exactly as she did that day.

  “You know who you look like?” Samantha says to you, then turns to Hazel. “Your drawing makes her look like that woman I was telling you about, that one in the delivery room. Remember how I was telling you I didn’t know which twin to give the baby to?”

  “Oh, you have to tell her that story,” Hazel says to Samantha.

  You know the story. The story is about you. You are not ready. You don’t ever want to hear this story.

  “I don’t know if you know anything about Dellis Beach but it’s pretty small—around twenty thousand people—and near Sarasota,” Samantha says. “There’s a young community and an old community.”

  You need to get away from these women, from this story.

  “Which community are you part of, Sam?” Hazel asks.

  “Ha!” Samantha says. “I will remind you that even though I graduated a year ahead of you at FSU, we are technically only seven months apart.”

  “So were you roommates?” you say. You hope this question will change the conversation, that it will unleash a tidal wave of memories of their college days.

  “No,” they both say at the same time.

  You try not to let your disappointment show. You need the subject to change.

  “Anyway,” Samantha says, “back to my story. There were these two young couples in town. The girls were twin sisters. They were really close, but one was prettier than the other.”

  “Is that relevant?” Hazel says. “You’re so lookist sometimes.”

  “I’m lookist? Don’t be calling me any kind of ‘ist.’ I am as fair as they come.”

  “Right,” says Hazel. She winks at you.

  “Saw that,” Samantha says. “So there were two equally beautiful twin sisters in our town,” she continues, smiling.

  “Were they identical or fraternal . . . or do you call them sororal?” Hazel asks.

  “I think they were fraternal,” Samantha says.

  You shift closer to the edge of the bench, wondering if you could make it out the doorway fast enough to avoid being followed. Samantha will recognize you soon.

  “So tell her what happens,” Hazel says. “I’m almost done here, by the way. Sorry to keep you ladies captive but I’m really excited about this drawing.”

  “No problem,” Samantha says, turning back to you, eyes alight. “So this was about two months ago now. I was the nurse on duty at my hospital and this one twin gives birth—it’s an intense birth, no pain medication. She insisted on doing it natural, if you can imagine. She gives birth to this beautiful girl, a nose like Cleopatra’s.”

  You wince. You stare out the doorway of the room. You have to get away.

  “I think I see her,” you say.

  “Who?” Hazel says.

  “The missing woman. I saw her pass by. I’m going to go ahead if you don’t mind.”

  “Go! Find her!” Samantha says. “We’ll catch up.”

  You walk quickly out of the room, and then when you’re out of their sight, you run. You hear your breath. As you round a corner, you collide with pedestrians and apologize without stopping. You turn to see if Hazel and Samantha are behind you. You think you see them. You duck under a stairwell to hide. Someone’s coming down the stairs. You keep moving. You picture your sister. You picture the baby. You remember how the nurse, whose name you now know is Samantha, held her out to you, but your sister intercepted. She took the baby from Samantha, and rocked her uncomfortably.

  You pulled the sheet of the bed up and over your head and covered your face. You stayed like that until Samantha gently pulled the sheet down to your shoulders. “Oh, honey,” she said. “This isn’t a morgue.”

  You run down a narrow passageway with small doors. Laundry hangs above you. You hear a baby crying, you hear someone playing an oud. You smell urine.

  Friends who had given birth themselves had warned you about the third day after birth, how the hormones would overtake your body and you would be left a sobbing mess. You didn’t think it would happen to you. You thought your experience would be different because the baby was not your own. But it was worse.

  You run faster, harder.

  Your sister came to your house, a week after the birth. She rang your doorbell. She never rang your doorbell. Usually she knocked or used the key. She knew where the key was hidden: underneath the paint can next to the recycling bin.

  You opened the door. “What, no baby?” you said.

  “She’s with the nanny,” she said.

  You told her you’d love to help out whenever you could; you reminded her that you hadn’t seen the baby as much as you expected.

  “Can we sit?” she said as she stood on your doorstep.

  “Of course,” you said, and she entered and sat down at the kitchen table. You made tea for both of you. You feared that she was going to tell you the baby was sick, that she was dying. There was a somber tone to her arrival at your doorstep.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you too,” you said. Your concern grew. You rarely told each other this. What was wrong with the baby?

  “I don’t want what I’m about to tell you to be personal,” she said.

  “Okay,” you said, swallowing hard. You knew that meant it would be personal.

  “Do you have something stronger than tea?” she said.

  “Like coffee?” you said.

  “No, like vodka.”

  You made your sister a vodka tonic. “I have fresh limes from my neighbor’s garden,” you said to fill the silence.

  “It’s fine as is,” she said.

  You placed the drink in front of her.

  “I’ve been disloyal,” she said to you.

  “Oh no,” you said, thinking, Thank God it’s not about the baby.

  “For how long?” you said.

  “Five months now.”

  “I’m sure things with the fertility . . . I’m sure everything got complicated,” you said. “Maybe you and Drew can see a counselor.”

  “It did get complicated,” she said.

  You run through a tiny courtyard where boys are playing soccer. You almost trip over the ball. You keep running, and the boys’ laughter follows you.

  Your sister asked for another drink. You made her one. This time you placed a slice of the lime on the rim.

  “Who’s the man?” you said.

  “That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

  She paced. She walked out to the deck, and then back again.

  “I can’t do this,” she said.

  “Can’t do what?” you said.

  “It’s him,” she said. You followed her gaze. She was looking at your husband’s socks. He was in the habit of taking them off when he was reading on the couch and leaving them on the floor.

  “Who?” you said.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Who?” you said, this time louder.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, looking at the socks.

  You run faster. You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears. Your
sandals slap against the cobblestone.

  Your husband didn’t come home that night, or the next. You left him messages on his cell phone telling him not to bother. But you hoped he would bother, you hoped he would care. You imagined him coming in the front door and finding you wherever you were in the house and telling you your sister had a problem: she’d entwined your lives so thoroughly that she’d gotten herself confused. But he didn’t call, and didn’t return to the home you no longer wanted to live in.

  You called your husband’s parents. You wanted them to know, but the conversation had exploded into accusations and lies and screaming. You called Drew, your sister’s husband, and he told you your sister and your husband were planning on living together with the baby. He told you he was suing his wife, and your husband, for custody. This conversation too ended loudly, and you hung up, threw the phone, broke the phone. Broke everything of your husband’s, told him not to come back for anything—it was all broken, burned, sold.

  Your nipples still ached. Your milk had come in and you had not nursed. You called the midwife and told her your breasts felt they were being pricked by pins. She advised you to buy cabbage leaves and keep them in your freezer, and to periodically place one of them on your nipples. You lay on the floor of your bedroom with cold cabbage leaves cupping your breasts.

  You tried to avoid mirrors. Your body was still swollen, the veins on your chest and legs a sickly blue. You called your boss and quit. He had refused to give you maternity leave. He had said to you: “It’s not like you’re really a mother, now is it?”

  A week after your sister had come to your house, the midwife knocked on the door. “You didn’t answer my calls,” she said when you looked out the peephole. You told her everything. She held you tight, and then helped you put all your things in storage. You stayed at her house, slept on her couch under a blanket she had knitted for a baby she had lost in the final trimester. She told you about Morocco; she’d lived there after college, had traveled alone and met new friends, one of them a midwife. She made you want to go, go to the desert, see new things, to experience what it was like to be a woman in a country like that. She told you it would give you a new perspective, which you hoped, at the time, meant that you would see everything as a mirage.