Pictures of You

by Caroline Leavitt

  “Charlie Nash,” Charlie said. Williams held out his hand for Charlie’s and pumped it, nodding with recognition. He sat down behind his desk, looked at the computer, and then motioned to Charlie. “So, tell me,” he said. “I know about the case from what I’ve read in the papers or heard on the news. So, what are we really looking at here? What’s this about?”

  At first, he took a lot of notes, which reassured Charlie. He asked a lot of questions, but then gradually, Hank began tapping his fingers on the desktop, and then he folded his hands and studied him so intently that Charlie sat straighter in his seat.

  “Let’s start with the facts. Your wife is dead, Mr. Nash. You know she’s not coming back and nothing you find is going to change that.”

  “Of course I know that.”

  “And you know I may not find anything, or what I find might not make you feel any better. And you know you still have to pay me for my time.” Hank met Charlie’s eyes.

  “I know that,” Charlie said.

  “You don’t have much to go on,” Hank said. “You don’t have a description of anyone she might have been seen with. All you know is that she was three hours away from your home with your son. You saw each other every day and you said she wasn’t unhappy.”

  “She wasn’t.” Charlie thought of April beaming at him when he came home. He thought of the way she always hooked her legs around his when they went to bed at night. He felt something snaking up his spine. “Isn’t it your job to find out all these things?”

  Hank settled back in his chair. “I just want you to be sure you want to know.”

  “I want you to find out why my wife left. I want you to find out where she was going and why she took our son with her.”

  “I can take your case,” Hank said. “I can call all the people in her address book, and track down some leads. Ask the right questions. Everything’s computerized these days, so my expenses won’t be that much. But even so, I’m not cheap. $5,000 for the month. That should be enough to see if there are leads here.” He tapped his fingers on the desk.

  Charlie thought of the bills he had to pay, the jobs he hadn’t worked because he had felt too stressed. “Whom do I make the check out to?” Charlie said. “I’ll take a month.”

  CHARLIE MAILED HANK pictures of April, her address book, even samples of her handwriting. He told Hank about her waitressing at the Blue Cupcake. He gave him phone bills and MasterCard receipts. Every day, Charlie waited for the phone to ring. He imagined different scenarios. April had been running away to California with Sam to see a specialist, another one of those quack doctors who did quantum touch or qui therapy, the ones April knew made Charlie nuts and that’s why she hadn’t told him. April was going to call him as soon as they got there. Or April had bought tickets to visit one of the friends Charlie had never met, to show off her son and then come home.

  None of it made much sense.

  He thought of April and Sam stepping into another life without him. Once he had overheard them talking in the backyard, pretending to be other people, talking about all the places they would go, and at the time, he had thought it was funny.

  He didn’t think it was funny now.

  He tried to think what he had done, how he had failed her. Had that one argument really been enough to derail them? Hadn’t he come home with little gifts for her all the time? A velvet scarf, a pair of amber earrings, a gleaming silver bracelet as thin as a wedding band. He couldn’t walk down the street without holding her hand. At dinner, he reached across to touch her hair, her chin, the curve of her shoulder. He couldn’t sleep at night without making his body a comma around hers. Wouldn’t he know if she had been unhappy? And Sam. What had she told Sam when he got in the car with her? What had they talked about as they drove, and where did Sam think they were going? What had he ever done to Sam that would make Sam able to leave him, too—or had Sam even known?

  WHEN THE DETECTIVE finally called, it was nearly Halloween. No one knew anything. There was no trail. There was no reason. The airlines had no listing for April Nash. “Do you want me to keep looking? Was there another name she might have used?” Hank said.

  “I don’t know …”

  “Look,” Hank said. “Sometimes I have people who disappear and I can’t find them. They just don’t want to be found, for one reason or another, and that’s their right. They step right into another life, like it was another dimension on The Twilight Zone or something. Sometimes they show up all on their own, they come back as if no time had passed at all, as if nothing had happened. It’s the same with peoples’ secrets. Sometimes secrets just want to stay secrets. They don’t want to be unlocked.”

  Charlie pressed the phone against his ear. Was Hank right?

  “Her life is over. You still have yours and you should get on with it.” Hank was quiet for a moment. “I can call you again, if I have any other leads, but truly, I’m sorry.”

  “So am I,” said Charlie. “But please keep looking.”

  IT WAS THE end of the day and the whole fourth grade was going a little nuts because they’d brought in their Halloween candy, and even though it wasn’t allowed in school, everyone had been sneaking bites. Sam had brought red Twizzlers, the one candy his father hadn’t edited out of his bag, but they tasted gluey and unsatisfying.

  Sam walked home from school that day alone, as usual. He had given up trying to talk to his old friends because they looked at him like they were about to cry or they ignored him, as if having a dead mother was something that might happen to them, too, if they stuck around him.

  He was glad he didn’t have to go to After School anymore, where more kids would act weird around him. He had begged and promised his father he’d be responsible enough to walk home and stay home by himself, that he wouldn’t answer the door to strangers, that he’d call if he went to a friend’s house. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” his father had said doubtfully, but then Sam had blurted, “Mom let me do it all the time,” and his father’s face had changed, and he had slowly nodded his okay.

  Sam roamed through the park and sat on one of the swings, pumping his legs, trying to stretch out the time before he had to go home. Every time he opened the door, he thought this might be the day and a miracle would happen. He would open the door and the whole house would smell like sugar and the angel would be standing there, smiling at him, thanking him for being so patient.

  “Hey.”

  Sam spun around, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe because there was Teddy. “That was nice what you did. That thing with the snack machine. Thanks.” Teddy squinted at him.

  Sam shrugged.

  “Why’d you do it? Because you’re scared of me, right?”

  Sam hesitated. “Nuh-uh. Because you were hungry.”

  Teddy flushed. “Yeah. How’d you know that, Asthma Boy? You psychic?”

  Sam looked past Teddy. No one else was in the park where they were. If Teddy beat him up, no one would probably see or even hear him shout. Sam swallowed. “Because I was hungry, too. My mom used to remind me to take my lunch.”

  Silently, Teddy considered him. Sam wondered, if he got up really fast, if he ran, whether he could make it to the end of the park before Teddy caught him.

  “So, you want to come to my house?” Teddy asked.

  THEY HEADED TO Teddy’s house, crossing Lark Lane and then over to Jason, and suddenly the soft pine-needled lawns gave way to scrubby grass. Sam was radiant with excitement. He loved the way he felt, like he wasn’t Asthma Boy or Accident Boy anymore. Like he was as invincible as Teddy, who no one dared to mess with. They crossed over to Defray Street, and two older boys Sam didn’t know nodded at Teddy, and then they actually nodded at Sam, too.

  “Here we are,” Teddy said.

  Teddy’s house was smaller than Sam’s. The front lawn was balding in spots and the paint on the house was chipping. When Teddy opened the front door, it was dark inside.

  Teddy clicked a switch. The living room was cluttere
d with newspapers and dirty dishes and there wasn’t a rug on the floor, which was scuffed blue linoleum. Teddy opened a wood cabinet and took out something and waved it at Sam, a small package of whiskey sour mix, a picture of a couple clinking wine glasses. Sam startled. “I’m not putting any whiskey in, dummy,” Teddy said. “You mix it with soda water. It tastes better than lemonade. Trust me. I’ve had it a million times.”

  Sam wasn’t thirsty, but he took the fizzing glass Teddy offered him and sipped, and to his shock, he liked the tart, sour taste of the drink.

  “What time does your mom get home?” Sam asked, and Teddy shrugged.

  “Whenever she feels like it. Six. Ten. Midnight. What about your dad?”

  “Five.”

  Teddy’s face darkened. “Yeah, well, I get to do whatever I want here. I usually have pizza for dinner every night, if I want. And I watch whatever I want on TV and no one tells me not to.” Teddy drained his glass. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get some money.”

  Sam couldn’t believe it when Teddy led him into his mother’s room. When his own mother was alive, she never let Sam’s friends play in her room, and Sam wouldn’t have wanted to bring them in anyway. It was too private. When Teddy started to rummage through his mother’s dresser drawer, Sam hung back. Teddy pulled out quarters and nickels and placed them in a pile on the bed, which was still unmade, the sheets kicked to a corner. “You do the closet,” Teddy ordered, and Sam wandered into the sea of Teddy’s mother’s dresses and skirts. All of his own mom’s things were gone from her closet. He fingered a silky red blouse and then a cotton skirt, and there, over in the corner, was a blue printed dress just like one his mother had worn to Sam’s Blue Cupcake soccer game. She had stood up and cheered, even though he was just the water boy and no one even wanted any water to drink. The clothes seemed to whisper around him.

  “We have enough money,” Teddy called. “Let’s go get some pizza. It’s on my mom.” Teddy shoved the money into the pockets of his jeans. “I do this every day,” Teddy said conspiratorially. “And you can come over anytime.”

  Sam thought about being home alone. “Okay,” he said.

  NINE

  ISABELLE GOT LORA Jones’s name from the Yellow Pages, choosing her because the office was within walking distance, right off Deeder Road by the beach, and mostly because Lora Jones was a psychiatrist, not a psychologist, and might be talked into giving her pills to help her sleep without dreaming about the accident every night. She hadn’t been a big believer in therapy in the past, because what was it but talk and couldn’t you do that better with your friends who loved and knew you? Didn’t she do that with Michelle and Lindy and Jane? But she knew she couldn’t keep calling up her friends and crying to them. “It’s time to move on,” they said gently, as if she were a stalled car that only needed a little push.

  Isabelle was surprised she had gotten an appointment, but she had liked Lora’s voice on the phone, like a pour of honey. Now that she saw her, she liked the way she looked, too, the startling white hair cut to her chin, the draping velvets of her clothes. She smelled of cinnamon, and, to Isabelle’s surprise, Lora hugged her when she walked in.

  “Dr. Jones,” said Isabelle.

  “Call me Lora,” she told Isabelle, and the hem of her long blue dress swayed against her ankles. When she turned, Isabelle saw a blue butterfly clip sparkling in Lora’s hair.

  They sat in the chintz chairs, and the whole time Isabelle spoke about the accident, Lora was still. “I’m not surprised you’re feeling discombobulated,” Lora said.

  “I can’t drive anymore,” Isabelle said. “It’s stressful for me to even be a passenger.”

  Lora nodded. “Why, of course you would feel that way. I can give you some Valium. Take it a half hour before you get in a car. Just for the time being.”

  Isabelle wrapped her arms about her chest.

  “You’re going to have to get in a car sometime,” Lora said. “Nobody’s saying you have to drive now. You can start slow, with baby steps, and with a little help.”

  Lora sympathized with everything that Isabelle told her, that she couldn’t eat, that her dreams were filled with the accident, that every time she saw a newspaper, she felt sick. Isabelle twisted the strap of the pocketbook on her lap. “There’s something else,” she said. She looked at her lap and told Lora that she was sneaking over to Charlie and Sam’s house, that she couldn’t stay away from them. Lora studied Isabelle with an even gaze.

  “You’re spying on them,” Lora said.

  “I just want to make sure they’re all right,” Isabelle said.

  “You can’t do that. You can only make sure you’re all right,” Lora said. She held up a finger. “I have an idea for you,” she said gently. “Write a letter that you will never mail. Write it to Charlie and Sam. Tell them how you feel about what happened that day,” she said. “It’s just to get your thoughts out on paper, to see the power those words have and then to let them go. Afterward, you can just rip up the paper or burn it, if you want.”

  “I don’t know …,” Isabelle said doubtfully.

  “Why aren’t you more angry? The man’s wife was negligent. You were injured. You were ready to leave here and now you can’t.”

  “What?” Isabelle shifted on the couch.

  “Why aren’t you angry, too? His wasn’t the only life derailed. Yours was, too.”

  “A woman died. There was a little boy involved. He could have died, too.”

  “And he didn’t. And the accident wasn’t your fault.” Isabelle stared at her. “Write the letter, Isabelle,” Lora said, and then before Isabelle could respond, Lora stood up, smoothing her skirt.

  She scribbled something on a pad and handed a prescription to Isabelle. “Valium. Really mild.” Isabelle had hoped for something stronger, but at least it was something. “Next week, same time,” Lora said, and then showed Isabelle the door, a curl of her perfume winding around them both.

  THAT NIGHT, ALONE in her house, Isabelle took out paper and a pen.

  “I am so sorry”

  It didn’t sound like enough to her. What was sorry?

  “Dear Charlie,”

  She forcibly crossed it out and wrote instead

  “Dear Mr. Nash,

  “I just wanted you to know that. I am so sorry for what happened and so glad your son is all right. If there is anything I can do or any way I can help, please let me know.”

  Lora had promised her that she would feel relief, but instead, Isabelle felt like screaming. She bunched the paper up in her fist and then dropped it in the wastebasket. A letter was nothing. Then she took a Valium and lay in bed, the sheets pulled up to her chin, waiting not to feel anything at all.

  SHE WOKE UP groggy, dreading going into work. Maybe today would be slow. Maybe no one would come into the studio at all. She’d take a brisk walk to wake herself up, come home and shower, and then go to work.

  She passed the supermarket, the park. The air was getting cooler. A wind had picked up, and she wrapped her coat tighter around her. She dug for her sunglasses against the bright glare of the day. There was a playground with a wire fence, a spill of noisy kids, flocked by teachers in fall coats, with careless hair, laughing and talking together. Long ago, when she was so desperate to have a child, Isabelle had avoided playgrounds and parks. She hadn’t wanted to be reminded of what she didn’t have. She didn’t want to listen to the mothers complaining about how tired they were, how busy their schedules, while Isabelle sat there with her arms wrapped around herself, sick with envy.

  She stood on the outside, fingers hooked onto the links of the fence. In the corner, a group of girls were holding hands in a line, the last girl clutching the wire fence, the rest winding in and out of one another’s open arms, until they were all twisted, with their arms crossed tightly. All of them were singing, spelling out in a kind of raucous chant, “R-a-t-t-l-e-s-n-a-k-e spells rattlesnake.” Over and over, almost hypnotic, in this strange, sad little minor key. Rattlesnake, ra
ttlesnake. The chant got to her, as if it were directed at her, as if she were the snake. Isabelle released her fingers from the fence, and just as she stepped back, a boy ran across her field of vision.

  She knew him right away. She knew the shock of chocolate hair, the hunch of his shoulders. “Sam.” She didn’t realize she had actually said his name out loud. She looked around. Where was his teacher? She hoped he had a friend on the playground, that he wasn’t just by himself, although he appeared to be. She hoped he was happy, that he liked school. “Sam,” someone called, and Sam looked right at Isabelle, meeting her eyes like a jolt of electricity. Isabelle’s heart was thundering, and her coat flew open in the wind. She ducked her head and sprinted away. Sam. She had seen Sam.

  And he had seen her.

  SAM WATCHED HER running away. He felt a bolt of heat. The air sparked in his lungs every time he took a breath. There was that splash of light, and that sound, like a rustling of heavy wings. He pinched the skin of his wrist hard to make sure this was no dream.

  The moment he had seen her he had known who she was. When he looked at her, the sun shimmered behind her. He narrowed his eyes, trying to keep her in focus, his heart rocketing in his chest. Then her coat opened up in the wind and he heard the flapping of huge, heavy wings, beating so loudly he had to reach up his hands and clap them to his ears.

  He looked around, dazed. The teacher wasn’t looking at him.

  The angel. She was the angel from the accident and she could help him contact his mom!

  But all of a sudden, she turned and ran away, looking back once, as if she were telling him to follow her, to hurry. This was his chance! He glanced behind him to make sure the teachers weren’t watching, and then he sprinted after her. He followed her past his house, past the Fro-Zen ice cream place.

  When he crossed the street after her, the cars seemed to stop as soon as Sam’s foot left the curb. The angel didn’t turn around to see him. The light stayed green not just for her but for him as well. He put his hand up in wonder, and he felt it pulse.