Searching for Sylvie Lee

by Jean Kwok

  But now, of course, I realized she was right about Jim. I had been blind. He had seemed warm and kind but he did it to be admired and loved, not out of any true generosity of the soul. He was not that observant either. More than once, we had fought because he was much more social than I was. Like a golden retriever, he loved everyone, or at least wanted them to admire him, whereas I did not have much use for most people. I networked when I had to but never wanted to waste my own time listening to others trying to impress me—and most thought I was cold and stiff anyway.

  How could two people move so far away from each other without ever sensing it? How could they lose each other while seeing each other every day?

  It started when I found the leopard-print thong mixed in our laundry. It has to be a mistake, I thought. Was it mine somehow? Or Amy’s? Was Jim secretly a cross-dresser? But the part of me that had always relied on no one but myself took over. I hid the thong from him. I controlled the part of me that wanted to confront him immediately because I knew that if I did, I would never have proof.

  I started making mistakes at work. I could keep only so much of myself under control—sloppy errors, forgotten emails, unprepared-for important presentations, incomplete financial records. When my engagement manager, Martin, asked if something was going on at home, I lied and said no. I could not admit the truth to anyone because I could barely face it myself.

  I did not find anything on Jim’s electronics, so I finally added spy programs to his laptop and his phone to log every keystroke. I watched him with the hundred eyes of Argos. I was the technical one in our relationship and had set up all our gadgets. I had given myself access so I could recover our information if Jim ever inadvertently locked himself out, which he had done before. Meanwhile, I smiled at him as if my heart were not breaking inside.

  It did not take long. A colleague on the verge of a divorce had once said to me: If a man takes his phone with him into the bathroom or to shower at night, watch out. But when Jim had started doing those things, I had rationalized them away. I had been completely taken in.

  The text messages came in as I was preparing to leave for a late morning meeting. First from her: Got my phone back today. Thinking of licking u, this math class’s so boring. Then his response: You make me lose my mind. The cold rose from the floor to meet me, as if I were falling. First the betrayal, that my Jim could do this to me, and then the slow realization that the other “woman” was a child of sixteen. I had sunk to our unrelenting living room floor, my entire life disintegrating around me, all the pieces flying away like leaves from a tree.

  In love and life, we never know when we are telling ourselves stories. We are the ultimate unreliable narrators. If we desire to forgive someone, we tell ourselves one version—he did not mean it, he is sorry and will never do it again. And when we are finally ready to walk away, something else—he has always been a lying bastard, I never should have trusted him and you could always see the lie in his eyes. That day, I called in sick to work and read their texts to each other, each one dropping like a brick against the wounded flesh of my heart. I waited for Jim to come home. He was late. He stopped short when he saw me sitting at the table with my computer open, my head leaning back against the wall of our kitchen. I turned the screen to show him the record of his text messages.

  I did not need to say a word. His face froze and slowly flushed a deep red. Then all of my composure left me and I started to keen like an animal: Sylvie, who hated to cry. He came over and held me in his arms and I let him. He, the man I had allowed into the most intimate, hidden part of myself, still felt comforting.

  I kept saying, “You cheated on me, you cheated on me,” as if to convince myself.

  “Oh my God, Sylvie, what have I done? I am so sorry. It’s over, honey. I’ll never see her again.”

  For a few minutes, we formed a truce in which we held each other. Until the memory of what I had seen that day crawled into my mind. I’m counting the hours until we can be together again. Nothing else matters when I’m with you.

  I pulled away, still heaving as I spoke. “I can’t believe you did this.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and sighed. “Please believe me. I don’t love her. You were always gone and she was there, and I missed you so. She was just a stand-in for you, for the way things were with us.”

  But instead of mollifying me, this only enraged me further. I jabbed my finger in his face, my voice rising. “A sixteen-year-old girl could take my place? I looked her up. She’s a student at your school, Jim. She’s half your age. What the hell are you doing?”

  He froze, and then gripped the sides of his head as if he could block out my words. He groaned. “What a goddamn mess. There’s no excuse. I know. It’s just you’re always so competent, so brilliant at everything. You don’t really need me.”

  I pounded my fist against my thigh. “And this child did. You can’t handle a successful woman, so you had to find a girl who thinks you’re really something. Fuck you.”

  His jaw hardened and a cold, hard glint flashed in his eyes. “Sylvie, don’t do anything rash. I could lose my job.”

  He dared to warn me? “Shouldn’t you have thought of that before you decided to have an affair with a minor?” I was almost yelling. The neighbors must be having a fit. I pressed my nails into my skin so hard I was afraid I would start bleeding. He should suffer as much as me. “Don’t underestimate me, Jim. I’ll see you pay for this.”

  “You vindictive bitch,” he said, and slapped me across the face so hard my head slammed against the wall. I fell onto the floor, stunned by the blow, my vision unfocused. It was all too much. How had this happened? How could this be real? I curled in on myself, sobbing.

  There was a slam and he was gone.

  Chapter 20

  Amy

  Sunday, May 8

  It’s Mother’s Day morning and Lukas’s real grandma and grandpa are coming to visit. Lukas calls his grandmother Oma and his grandfather Opa in the Dutch way, so I do the same, in accordance with the Chinese tradition of following along in naming family. Oma is tiny and round with a fritz of hair she dyes jet-black. Opa is only a bit taller, but skinnier and white-haired. They remind me of a set of matching garden gnomes.

  When they enter the house, I stand and wait to greet them as is proper, but then none of us know which traditions to use. Oma closes her eyes and purses her lips to kiss me three times at the same time I open my arms for a hug. I drop my arms to my sides and extend my hand while Opa places his palms together and bows to me. We all shift on our feet, and Oma says something to me in Chinese. Her accent is really weird. When I look at her blankly, Opa chirps in Dutch.

  Finally, Oma gives me a weak little wave of her hand and says, “Hello.”

  I follow them into the living room. Willem pats me on the shoulder and winks. I wish he would stop touching me at every opportunity. I am dismayed to find that all of the chairs have been arranged in one large circle. I am forced to sit between Willem and Lukas on the couch. We all face each other, every expression, gesture, and word laid bare to everyone else in the group. If this is what Dutch parties are like, how in the world do they manage to flirt here?

  Silence again. I clear my throat and say to Willem, “Are your parents coming too?”

  Helena enters the room with the coffee and tea and says, “They died in China. Long ago.”

  Oh. We sit in silence as Helena passes around a plate of boterspritsen, swirled buttery shortbread cookies that melt in your mouth. I missed breakfast, since the family ate extra early today, so I take two, even though I notice Opa watching me. When the plate gets to Oma at the end, it is empty.

  I cringe in my seat.

  Oma waves her pudgy hands like she didn’t want a cookie anyway, but Helena, careful not to look at me, goes to the kitchen and returns with a single botersprits on the plate, which she then gives to Oma. Opa waggles his eyebrows at me.

  “I didn’t know we were only supposed to take o
ne each,” I whisper to Lukas. I try to ignore Willem, who sits close to me, his legs pressed against my thigh and knee. He has swiveled his head to stare at me.

  Lukas snickers. “Welcome in Holland. People count the number of cookies here.”

  Willem taps me on the back of my hand and says, “Did you do something with your hair, Amy? You seem different today.”

  I try not to move away too abruptly. “No. It’s just that I’m wearing my contact lenses.”

  Willem throws his head back and laughs as if I’ve made a great joke. “Ah, that is it. You look very much like . . .”

  “Sylvie,” Helena finishes for him when his voice trails off. The lines around her lips and eyes tighten. She bares her teeth in a way that is more a gesture of aggression than a smile. “How are you enjoying Holland so far?”

  “Very much. But why do your parents live in Belgium?” She had told me they drove in this morning. Is it safe to have Opa behind the wheel of a car?

  “I grew up in this village, but when Willem and I married, we took over my parents’ restaurant in Amsterdam. They had a business opportunity in Antwerp, so they moved away. They have a number of restaurants there now.” So that’s why Helena had to hijack our grandma to care for Lukas and Sylvie instead of asking her own parents to help.

  Oma leans forward and says to me, “How you sister?”

  My stomach churns and I feel my insides quiver. I wring my hands. “We don’t know. No one has heard from her.”

  Lukas translates for me while Oma clucks sadly, shaking her head. He rubs his hand over his face and massages his eyes, as if he’s as worried as I am.

  I’d been hoping to bring this up later, after Oma and Opa left, but I can’t wait any longer. We have to take action before it’s too late. I turn to Helena. “Actually, I’ve been considering something. I heard about an organization that searches for missing people.”

  Helena’s head jerks back and she gives me an incredulous look. “What is this?”

  I continue anyway. They have to agree. We have no other choice. “They have a very impressive website, in both Dutch and English. I could show you.”

  She taps her lipstick-reddened lips with a finger. Her voice is high. “And who will pay for it?”

  Is that all she cares about? They’re rich and Sylvie was practically their daughter. What does money matter at a time like this? I’m fuming and cross my arms as I stare at the two uneaten cookies on my tea saucer. “I don’t know yet. We’ll figure it out, but the most important thing is that Sylvie might need our help.”

  “She is fine.” Lukas’s eyes are feverish and overbright. His gaze darts around the room. “She has to be fine.”

  “I thought you were on my side,” I snap. I thrust my arms out wide. I hate them all. “Don’t you want to find her?”

  “No one wants to find Sylvie more than I do!” Lukas yells. He dares to jab a finger in my face. Oma and Opa can’t understand a word and appear alarmed. “Where the hell do you think I go every night?”

  I slap his hand away. I’m shouting as well now. “What? You’re looking for her by yourself? That’s fine, but why can’t we bring in professionals too? Why are you all resisting me on this?”

  “Calm down.” Willem tries to put his arm around both me and Lukas.

  I jump up off the couch, upsetting the saucer on my lap. My cookies fall onto the floor and break, leaving crumbs everywhere. “Oh, I’m sorry.” I am almost in tears. I fall to my knees to clean up the mess.

  “Stop, I will do it.” Helena grabs me by the arm and pulls me upright. She settles me back on the couch and quickly removes the saucer and cookies. She speaks slowly and clearly, as if I am an imbecile. “This organization is not necessary. It is a waste of money. She will turn up. You mark my words.”

  I need to remain calm; alienating them won’t help. “I know you want to believe that, but what if it’s not true?” All of my despair sinks into the pit of my stomach. I’ve been trying Sylvie’s email and phone nonstop and there’s been no response. It’s been too long. My hope is deflating like an old balloon. The possibilities for a happy ending are dwindling.

  Lukas, stiff, uptight prick that he is, says, “We should not involve extra people. We will get in the way of the police. I have heard of these types of organizations and I do not trust them. They specialize in finding people who are—” He swallows his words suddenly and hugs his chest, rocking on the couch. There is such a look of despair and anguish in his eyes that I almost feel sorry for him.

  Willem says in his smooth voice, “I do not think we should interfere either. The police know their job. We should let them do it.”

  Opa, who has probably only understood the word police, says, “We want no trouble.”

  And everyone takes this as the final word on the subject. I sit on the couch and try not to scream. This is just like dealing with Ma and Pa: everyone afraid of any tiny change. Why are they all so scared? I can’t get rid of the nagging feeling that there are things no one is telling me about Sylvie’s visit. But she still hasn’t come home and if I don’t do anything, it’s possible that she never will.

  It’s now Monday morning. The neighbors have heard rumors of Sylvie’s disappearance, and yesterday evening, after Oma and Opa’s strained visit, Helena found a casserole and a bouquet of tulips by the front door. Only a few of the people in our building in New York even know who Sylvie is. I am grateful for this kindness.

  “That is the thing about a small village,” Helena said. “We are all dependent on each other.”

  Willem and Helena had taken the weekend off for Mother’s Day and plan to go to their restaurant today. “If the workers don’t see the bosses regularly,” Helena says, “they get up to no good.” They start their car to leave, and I notice the next-door neighbor, a tall, stooped older gentleman, waving for them to stop at the end of the driveway. Willem rolls down his window, and the man says something and then clasps him on the shoulder before Helena and Willem drive off. The neighbor catches sight of me watching from the window and gives me a friendly nod before returning to his house.

  There’s no sign of Lukas. I go into the kitchen and light some incense at the altar for Grandma and the gods. As I bow to the photo of Grandma, I see Ma in the shape of her face, this woman I never knew. Grandma, please keep Sylvie safe. I called Ma yesterday to update her and to wish her a happy Mother’s Day. She sounded so frail and sad, with both her daughters far away. After I change the water in the little vase of flowers in front of the altar, I phone the police again.

  Danique sounds surprised to hear from me, but she is warm and polite. There have been no further developments. Yes, they are checking all possibilities and if they find anything, they will certainly contact us right away. Have a nice day, goodbye.

  My hands are shaking when I disconnect the line. Then I take out the card Filip gave me and call Epsilon.

  The connection is bad but I reach the Karin that Filip had mentioned and she sounds smart and competent. I explain the situation with Sylvie, and she says, “I will come to your house and we can talk further. Is tomorrow all right?”

  A wave of relief floods through me. At last, someone willing to take action. “Can you tell me what your fees are?” I hold my breath, waiting for an answer. I have never wanted anything as much as I want this woman to come and help me. I would pay anything, somehow.

  Her soft voice fades in and out as she says, “We are [static]—not need to worry.”

  I decide to leave it at that for now.

  The next day, after Helena and Willem leave, I wait anxiously for Karin to arrive and text Filip again to thank him—in case he missed my earlier texts. He still hasn’t responded. I’m sure his schedule is busy and he forgets to check his phone. I am pleased to see Lukas roar off on his Vespa as well. He’s carrying his camera bag. I hope this means he will be away for much of the day. I shouldn’t be sneaking around their house like this when I’m a guest. But Sylvie’s more important. Please let this woman
not be a fraud.

  Karin pulls up a few minutes early in a black minivan with a pet barrier and two large dogs inside. She strides toward me and shakes my hand with a firm grip. She’s probably in her midforties, with short tawny hair and stocky, muscular legs. She is dressed like a hiker in heavy-duty climbing pants and solid boots. “Can I bring the dogs inside?”

  Her eyes are direct, her grip firm. She seems solid and dependable. Maybe this will work out after all. I relax a little. “We have a cat. Would that be a problem?”

  “Oh no, they are very well-behaved.” She clicks leashes onto the dogs, one brown and one black, and leads them inside. Despite their tails, which are waving furiously, the dogs are calm. I hear a hiss from the staircase and see a flash of orange as Couscous bolts upstairs.

  The dogs sit quietly at Karin’s feet. I make coffee while we chat a bit. She’s warming me up before we get to the real deal. I learn that the smaller black dog is named Feyenoord and the brown one Ajax, after two rival Dutch soccer teams.

  I take the coffee to the dining room table. After she sits, I pour us each a cup and then start to pace in front of her. I should sit to be polite, but there’s too much adrenaline coursing through me. The dogs perk up at the motion and follow me with their heads, wagging their tails. This could be it. This could be our breakthrough. Or it could be yet another big disappointment. “So can you tell me a bit more about how you work?”

  Karin leans back in her chair and gestures with her left hand. “We are mainly a volunteer organization. It depends on the case, but mostly we use our dogs, which have been specially trained. In addition we also employ sonar, underwater cameras, GPS, ground radar, metal detectors, and magnetometers. If we need to search in the water, we have our own specialized diving team. The dogs can greatly reduce the possible area and then our divers, for example, can do a more specialized search.”

  Yes! This is exactly what I’d been hoping for. I start bouncing from foot to foot. Ajax gives a little bark, wagging his tail, but quiets after Karin shushes him. “That’s wonderful! You’ll be able to follow Sylvie’s trail and bring her back from wherever she’s gone.” I am beaming.