THAT EVENING, WHEN the sky was clear, she took a walk, hoping to break up the long night ahead of her. She mindlessly wound in and out of the streets, and when she found herself walking down Mayfield, Charlie and Sam’s street, she didn’t question it. She didn’t wonder if it was her subconscious guiding her here or if it was a simple coincidence. She knew she couldn’t have stopped going this way if she had wanted to. Her legs kept carrying her forward, stopping only when she saw their house.
All the lights were blazing inside, the same way hers always were because it made the house feel less empty. She could hear music, something with a thumping beat, a bright chime of singing voices that she didn’t recognize. Kids’ music. For a moment, she stood in front of the house, unable to move. There was a yellow toy truck parked on the front lawn. She felt her body listing toward the light of the house. She took a step, trying to steady her balance. She moved up on tiptoe, craning her neck. She hated herself for what she was doing, but she couldn’t stop. She saw someone move past the window and her heart slammed in her chest. She jumped back, toward the hedge next door, crouched behind it so she wouldn’t be seen. The front door suddenly flew open. She heard a man’s voice call, “Sam!” and then she saw the little boy on the porch, his shoulders heaving, his long hair in his round, dark eyes. He threw something into the air, panting. A small green blur in the sky. A plastic dog. She heard it clattering on the street, and then something bounced toward her. A tiny red collar. She stepped back.
Charlie came outside. “Sam,” he said, only now his voice was so sad that it made Isabelle ache. Sam folded his arms tightly about his chest. He hunched over. His shoulders moved up and down and then Charlie walked toward the object and picked it up and handed it to Sam. “You don’t want to do that,” Charlie said quietly, and Sam wrapped both arms about the plastic dog. “Better?” Charlie asked and Sam nodded. “Come on, let’s go inside.” Charlie started to put one arm about Sam, but Sam moved past him into the house and Charlie’s arm hung there, for a moment, in the air. And then he turned and looked out across the lawn, right toward the hedges where Isabelle was, and she froze, but he didn’t see her. When the door shut, Isabelle sprang forward and came around the hedge. She bent and picked up the collar. She quietly put it in the mailbox, where they might find it.
Then Isabelle took off. She walked again, faster, until she had rounded the corner, telling herself that this was not her business and that she would never walk down that street again.
But she couldn’t keep her promise. Isabelle always had an errand to do. Grocery shopping. The cleaners. To buy film she wasn’t using. She walked toward Charlie and Sam’s house with her eyes down, and the closer she got to it, the more terrified she was, and the more ashamed, but she kept walking, and every night she learned a little more. From the takeout boxes she saw in the trash can, she learned that Charlie didn’t cook. She learned that Sam liked balls and trucks and that he liked to throw things on the lawn. It was a house full of music. Blues, classical; once, someone sounding like Bessie Smith wailed that just like a flower, she was fading away.
One night she went by later than usual, and even from across the street, a few houses away, she saw the lights were not as bright and she felt a clip of fear. And then she took another step and stopped because there was Charlie on the porch, a glass of wine in his hand. Isabelle fell back in the shadows, crouching behind an SUV. She knew that what she should do was turn around and walk the other way, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Charlie.
Charlie didn’t drink the wine. He was standing so still she didn’t dare move. He rubbed his face with his hands, stared at the sky for a moment, and then began to weep. Isabelle turned on her heel and began running home, and by the time she got there, she was crying, too.
GRADUALLY, THE NEWSPAPER stories stopped. Every morning, she got online and thought about making airline reservations and getting the hell out of there, but she never did. In town, she didn’t feel as though people were staring at her anymore. She saw her friends, she got outside. Life went back to normal, but still, she walked down Charlie’s street. One night, a neighbor came out of the house, an old man in bright blue running shorts and a sweatshirt, a pedometer strapped to his waist. He waved happily at her and Isabelle started. “How far today?” he asked.
“How far what?” It was strange to hear her voice in this neighborhood.
“How far do you walk? I always see you!” He patted his chest. “Six miles,” he said proudly.
“Five,” Isabelle whispered.
“Good for you!” he stood there, moving from foot to foot and she realized, with a shock, that he was flirting with her. “We ought to start a neighborhood walking club!”
“Good idea,” she said lamely, and he nodded.
“See you tomorrow!” he said, “I’ll look for you!” He sprinted off.
He knew her. He recognized her. He was going to look for her. She had never seen him before. Isabelle had thought she was the only person here, but while she was busy watching Charlie’s house, people were busy watching her. She couldn’t come back. And yet she couldn’t leave.
The New York City sublet was gone, but Isabelle called Luke and told him the house was his, that she didn’t want to be in it anymore. She found a cheap one-bedroom apartment, a one-floor walk-up over on Broom Street, just a block away, and let Michelle and Lindy help her move in.
She thought of those stories Nora had told her. Nora believed that spirits who had unfinished business stuck around people’s houses, haunting them until someone pointed them toward the light. Every time she heard the house creak, she would nod at Isabelle. “That’s your father,” Isabelle’s mother would say. “He loves us so much, he can’t leave,” and Isabelle would roll her eyes. Now, Isabelle felt like a ghost herself, drawn to Charlie and Sam’s house. But who would point her to the light?
AT THE END of September, nearly a month after the accident, Isabelle went back to work. She hadn’t picked up a camera since the accident, hadn’t been able to think of anything she might like to photograph, and the one photo she tried to take, of two old women talking on a bench, had come out so terrible, she hadn’t bothered to keep the print. She thought she could do the work at the You Must Have Been A Beautiful Baby studio easily enough. Parents pretty much told you what they wanted, and creativity usually wasn’t a big factor. She had called Chuck, her boss, and told him she’d like to come back. “Good, we can use the help,” he said.
“Isabelle!” Emma, another photographer, who often complained that Isabelle got all the good jobs, gave her a brief hug. “Let me get you coffee.”
“Isabelle!” Ted, the lighting guy, strode toward her, crushing her in a hug.
Isabelle stood around while Ted fixed the lights. “You wouldn’t believe the weeks we’ve been having,” he said. “A woman wanted her poodle’s portrait done. When I reminded her we only photographed children, she huffed that her poodle was her child.” He winked at her. “Guess what, we did it for her.”
She laughed halfheartedly. “There,” he said. “All done.” He tipped an imaginary hat at her and left the room, and then she realized that neither he nor anyone else had asked her a single question about the accident or about Luke.
By early afternoon, customers began trickling in. This was easy, by-rote work. She was brisk and efficient and it made the hours fly. Only one person seemed to know who she was, a mother in a powder blue dress with a freckle-faced little girl. She frowned at Isabelle and then said, “Maybe we won’t get our picture taken today,” and left. Isabelle saw her leaning across the counter, arguing with Rick. She heard her name. She heard. “It’s not right. Kids are involved.”
Isabelle moved deeper into her studio, away from the door, and away from Chuck. She shut the door so she wouldn’t hear any more, but truly, all she could hear was the sickening thud of her heart.
EIGHT
IT WAS THE FIRST week of October and Sam was finally going back to school. He had just started his first
week of fourth grade before the accident, and now he had to go back, start a routine again, pretend to be normal. Sam felt disoriented. He had been in his new classroom, but now everything looked different, as if there had been a time warp. The soft red couch that had stood below the window was now against the far wall. All the tables were separated and put in the corners and the red and purple braided rug that had covered most of the floor was gone and the wood had been painted deep blue. The map of Native American Tribes that had been on the back wall was gone, along with the Make Your Metaphor worksheets. Instead, there was a big wall map of China and Sam hadn’t the foggiest reason why. There were reports on the parts of a cell hanging up, and every name was up there but Sam’s.
“Make yourself at home,” Miss Rivers said kindly. She put an arm about him and gave him a quick hug. She showed him the friendly-looking tables where everyone could work at the seat they chose; the class schedule marking off math, reading, science, and free work time; and the list of rules she had put up. “You’re in fourth grade now, so we have some privileges.” He could go outside and get a bottled water if he wanted or a snack from one of the vending machines. He was allowed to go to the office and the school library himself, without a partner. “You know everyone,” Miss Rivers said, and Sam nodded. He noticed that the other kids shied away from him, as if he had cooties or something.
Sam hung his book bag on a hook and slunk to a seat at a table. All day, he felt out of sorts. His pen leaked during free writing period and stained the tips of his fingers, so he had to go the bathroom and scrub and scrub. During reading, he couldn’t find anything in the school library that really interested him, so he was stuck reading a book about farming that was so boring, he finally closed it and doodled pictures of dogs on a piece of paper instead.
Everyone treated him differently. His friend Don, who had come over to play chess after the accident, just nodded at him but didn’t ask Sam if he wanted to come over for a playdate. Annie, Sam’s science partner from last year, who everyone said had a crush on him, didn’t even look up at him when Sam said hello. “Annie,” he said louder, and this time she met his eyes and then looked away.
No one mentioned his mother or where she might be. They didn’t have to.
Only Teddy Boudreaux treated him the same as he had last year, sticking a leg out when Sam was walking to sharpen his pencil before free-writing period, so that Sam tripped. “Walk much?” Teddy hissed, keeping his eyes on him so long that Sam felt unnerved.
Sam knew he shouldn’t take it personally. No one wanted to be friends with Teddy. Teddy lived with his mother, but because she was never home, he ran wild all over town. He was always in the principal’s office, and last year he had been suspended for two weeks because he had taken a hammer to school and threatened to hit any kid who bothered him. Teddy’s favorite target was always Sam. He made wheezing sounds to humiliate him. “Asthma Boy,” he hissed. Just last spring, Teddy had stolen Sam’s inhaler right out of his pocket and thrown it in the toilet in the boys’ room. By the time Sam found it, he was already wheezing and panicked, and even though the water in the toilet looked clean, he had had to run it under the hot water for a long time before he dared to use it.
To Sam’s relief, Miss Rivers came right over and put her hand on his shoulder. “You take it easy today,” she said.
“Everything’s so different,” said Sam, meaning the room.
“Well, we’re all friends here,” Miss Rivers said, guiding him back to his seat.
Sam stared at the blank paper in front of him. He had no idea what to write about, but he knew the teacher would get mad if he didn’t put down something, so he wrote a few sentences about a movie he had watched on TV. Then, because he couldn’t think of anything else to write, he got up to go outside and get himself some water.
It was cool having privileges, being out in the corridor without a teacher or a partner. The hallways were long and empty and smelled like disinfectant, and for a moment Sam wondered if he could run down them and not be stopped. The vending machines were around the corner, filled with healthy, boring snacks like nuts and raisins. As soon as Sam reached the machines, he saw Teddy, and he stood perfectly still. How had Teddy gotten here so fast and how come Sam hadn’t seen him leave the classroom? Teddy gave Sam the once-over, and then crouched by the snack machine, his hand up in the mouth of the machine. He tugged out a bag of pretzels and pocketed it and then looked defiantly at Sam, narrowing his eyes. Then he thrust his arm up into the machine again.
“What are you doing to that machine?” Mr. Morgan, the sixth-grade science teacher, suddenly appeared. Teddy jumped up, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Teddy, didn’t we talk about this? Don’t you have any respect for school property? Do you like going to the principal? Do you want us to call your mother? Three strikes you’re out and this is strike three.”
Teddy stayed silent, his face flushed. He looked so miserable that, despite himself, Sam felt a pang of pity. “My snack got stuck and Teddy was trying to get it for me,” Sam said. As soon as he said it, he felt shocked.
As soon as Mr. Morgan looked at Sam, his whole face seemed to soften. He looked from Sam to Teddy doubtfully. “We have privilege,” Sam said weakly.
“Not for hours at a time. Get back in class, the both of you,” Mr. Morgan said. He watched them round the corner, and as soon as they did, Teddy’s hands curled into fists, and Sam leaped back, banging into the lockers. Teddy gave him a long glare and then vanished into the classroom.
The bell rang at two thirty, and Sam’s stomach lurched. He half expected to see his mother. She used to meet him at the front of the school in the car, revving the motor, her radio so loud, everyone could hear it. She never looked like any of the other mothers. She’d be wearing a pretty, bright-colored dress while the other mothers were in shorts and T-shirts, their hair in ponytails. The other mothers were as brown as nuts from the sun and the beach, but his mother was as pale as a piece of paper. The other mothers also huddled together and chatted about school and their kids, but Sam’s mother stood apart. When someone said hello, she looked surprised, as if they had said hi to the wrong person, and barely turned her head.
When she zoomed up to the curb, she jumped out like a chauffeur for him. She held the door of the car open like it was a chariot. “Let’s vamoose,” she’d say, with a flourish, and he couldn’t wait.
Now, he hung out on the sidewalk. He folded his arms, he tried to make himself a small, tight ball. He felt the other mothers watching him.
Someone tapped him. “How are you doing, Sam?”
He turned and there was Archie Simpson’s mom. He and Archie weren’t friends, though they had been in the same class since kindergarten. Archie was big and freckled and he picked his nose, something that always made Sam want to sit as far away from Archie as he possibly could. “Fine,” he said forcefully. “Just fine!”
She looked at him doubtfully. Her eyes filled with sympathy that made Sam want to cry and scream at the same time. “Is your dad coming to get you?” she said. She raised one hand up like a visor over her eyes. She squinted down at him. “Because I’m just waiting for Archie, and I’m sure he’d love to have you come over.”
Sam squirmed. Archie didn’t read or draw or like to do anything but Pokémon, which bored Sam. “Really,” said Archie’s mother. “Would you like to come with us?”
“No, thank you. I’m allowed to walk home by myself now,” Sam told her.
CHARLIE WAS IN the supermarket, stocking up on fruits and vegetables. Neither he nor Sam had any appetite, but it was still important to have family dinners, to brush your teeth and act normal, even if you felt you could never be normal again. Charlie wheeled down the pasta aisle, grabbing sauce and ziti, a green cylinder of grated cheese.
Maybe he’d buy some wine, have a glass at dinner to tempt an appetite. He knew that you could stay lost forever if you wanted, if you didn’t fight it every second. Charlie had seen it with his clients. Husbands or wives
whose spouses had left them in the middle of the renovations would insist on moving forward even though they couldn’t walk into a room without bursting into tears. A couple whose baby had died of SIDS would repaint every room in their home except the baby’s. He remembered them. The unhappy ones. The ones whose lives had crashed like comets into solid earth.
Last night, when his mother had called, she’d told him to act as if he was happy and then he would be. She insisted it was a whole philosophy her book group had been discussing.
“I can’t act as if April is still alive,” he snapped, and then, hearing his mother’s hurt silence, felt instantly sorry. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just a little hard right now.”
“You never listen to me. No one is saying that you should act as if April’s alive,” she said. “Of course you can’t. Of course it’s horrible and tragic. But just act as if you have hope. Can you do that one little thing? Can you do it for Sam?”
Charlie thought of how, every day, sadness would build up inside him but he’d tamp it down, waiting until Sam was asleep, and only then would Charlie cry. “I’ll see what I can do,” Charlie said.
He bought the groceries and put them in the car, and then as he was driving home, he spotted the sign: Henderson’s Detective Agency. Impulsively, he pulled the car in. Maybe they could find out what happened, tell him where April was going on that road.
When he walked in, the main room was empty, and almost every inch of wall was covered with maps. When Charlie walked closer, he saw they were maps of Spain and China and Germany. They were beautifully framed, and in the far corner was a clock divided into six time zones. All Charlie could think was, Look at all the places where you can be lost. Look at all the places you can disappear.
Charlie didn’t know what he expected, probably a dumpy guy in a badly cut suit, who smelled of cigarettes. A door in the back of the room opened and a man strode toward him, in an expensive dark suit and silver tie, as polished as the flat-screen computer humming on his desk. “Hank Williams, and no relation,” said the man. “I don’t even like country music.”
Pictures of You Page 13
