Sight Reading

by Daphne Kalotay

  Remy sipped her cocoa. “I sound like I’m complaining. I’m not. I love my life. I just always wanted to live it to the hilt. To not waste anything.” She thought for a moment. “To love fully.”

  Yoni was frowning. He had taken her hands, had leaned over to kiss her, his lips on her cheek, slowly, below her ear. Remy felt her body turn to fire.

  “I can’t, Yoni. It’s too much.” But she couldn’t quite pull away. And so she said again, in a whisper, “It’s over now.”

  “Hey, can I ask you guys something?”

  Jessie was there. A funny smile came to her lips. She stopped midstep.

  “Hey, beautiful,” Yoni said, sitting back as if nothing had happened. “Finally I get to see you. You’re never around these days.”

  “She’s been conducting top-secret phone conversations,” Remy said, surprisingly calm, despite the heat in her face. She reached out to give Jessie a little pinch on the elbow, but she was too far away. “What’s up, kiddo?”

  “Nothing.” Jessie paused awkwardly, and her face looked suddenly unfamiliar, almost that of a grown woman. Remy braced herself for what this new being might be about to say. But all Jessie said was, “Allison’s parents are wondering if . . .”

  Remy didn’t even hear the question. She still felt the fire inside her, her face burning. It would take a long time, she supposed, for the fire to die. But she had made her decision, had followed through. With Vivian, she had gone to her appointment at Planned Parenthood, where Christmas decorations hung obstinately on every wall and the oddly cheerful staff made sure everything went smoothly. It hadn’t taken long. No reason for anyone but Vivian ever to know.

  Yoni sat across from her, listening to Jessie, looking intent. Remy felt another wash of pain, at what she had done, and at what he had already been through. But she managed to find her way back into the conversation, and then it was the three of them, Jessie the same as usual, Yoni behaving as if nothing had happened. He had left by the time Nicholas returned.

  Chapter 9

  EVEN AS SHE DRESSED FOR THE CONCERT, HAZEL PRACTICED THE bright, positive things she would say to Hugh, should they cross paths. She hadn’t seen him, not even from a distance, since the night with the chestnuts, though sometimes, when she arrived home after work in the black evenings, she checked to see if he might have called. It still seemed possible that he might do that, might have a change of heart.

  Almost two months had passed since the night of the chestnuts. How odd, that until that night she had known precisely what was happening in his life, his daily schedule, and now, nothing. Hugh’s absence, and the dark December afternoons, and the Christmas songs littering the air—on some days Hazel found these things painful. Other days they didn’t bother her so much.

  Now she tried to muster some enthusiasm for tonight’s concert, though really she was, even more than usual, dreading it. As much as she loved to watch Jessie and the other children, all that lay ahead of her was an evening of pretending: that sitting alone in the audience didn’t bother her, that the couples all around her had nothing she envied, that the visible happiness of Nicholas and Remy and their baby-to-be did not offend her. The effort of appearing unbothered was itself exhausting.

  Jessie was still in the bathroom, using Hazel’s curling iron, wearing a red velvet dress that didn’t suit her. She had insisted on having the red dress, because Allison Rupka had a similar one. Hazel had tried to explain to Jessie that bright red was fine with Allison’s coloring but all wrong for hers, but Jessie hadn’t listened, even when Hazel found her a beautiful green satin dress with a scoop neck that had looked beautiful with her eyes.

  “Are you almost ready, sweetie?” Hazel called to her, when she had dressed and spritzed herself with perfume and was making sure that her makeup was in place, the splotches thoroughly camouflaged. Two more had cropped up, across her forehead.

  “Yeah,” Jessie said, somewhat glumly. She had sounded this way, morose, ever since Hazel picked her up from Nicholas and Remy’s two weeks ago. Hazel had at first assumed it was her usual pubescent angst, but now it struck her that perhaps there really was a problem.

  “Sweetie, I’m worried about you. You’ve looked sad all week. Is something wrong?”

  Jessie twisted her mouth, considering. Clearly something was up, though she didn’t necessarily intend to share it with her mother.

  “It hurts me when you keep secrets from me,” Hazel said. “Especially if I might be able to help.”

  “There’s nothing you can do about it,” Jessie said.

  “But what is it, sweetie?”

  Jessie scrunched her lips together, chewing on them. “Something I think I saw.”

  Something she thought she saw . . .

  Though Hazel rarely thought of the doppelgänger, whom she had last glimpsed a decade ago, she swallowed hard, wondering if something similar might have happened to Jessie.

  It had been ages since she had thought of the woman at the hospital, and in the airport. And though she had wondered, at one point, if Jessie, too, had seen her, gradually the memory had faded. She considered that vision, or whatever it was, a remnant of the past, of the stressful time right before everything fell apart. After all, that was when the split had occurred—between Hazel’s notion of who she was, of what her life was, and what it actually turned out to be.

  Yet now Hazel felt a shiver between her shoulder blades, recalling how it had felt to watch that other Hazel, the happy one, hand her plane ticket over and walk contentedly away, to some other, better life. It had been ten years, and still Hazel hadn’t found her way through that gate.

  “Never mind,” Jessie said.

  “Sweetie. You can tell me. What did you see?” Really Hazel was wary of what Jessie might tell her.

  “It doesn’t have to do with you.”

  Relieved, Hazel said, “Well, it does if I’m the brunt of your pouting every day for two weeks straight.”

  Jessie scrunched up her face and said, “Why are there spots on your face now?”

  Hazel’s heart seized. “You can see them?” Even Hazel couldn’t see them through the makeup.

  Jessie let her shoulders slump. “Not now. In the mornings, before you put on your makeup. I can’t see them at all, now.”

  “Is that what’s worrying you? Oh, sweetheart.” Hazel was touched. “Please, don’t worry about me, all right? It’s the same thing as always, nothing scary. I’m not sick. No need to worry at all.”

  But Jessie didn’t look reassured. In fact, she looked sad. Hazel said, “That’s not all that’s worrying you, is it?”

  Jessie looked up. “I think something’s wrong between Dad and Remy.”

  Hazel felt her eyes widening. “Why would you think that?” she asked, tentatively, aware of her limits.

  “Something I saw.” But then Jessie seemed to recognize the power she held, and said, “Let’s just go, okay?”

  It has to be Remy, Hazel thought to herself: something must have happened with the baby. Maybe she had one of those tests and had gotten bad news. Or she had miscarried. It happens often enough. Still, it surprised Hazel to feel her heart sink. “I wish you would tell me these things.”

  “There’s nothing you can do!”

  “Sweetie, really, I’m sorry.” For some reason, Hazel felt tears collecting in her eyes. How odd, when she had thought it one more affront, that Remy, too, would have Nicholas’s child. Now, though, she felt no relief. She would keep an eye out for Remy and Nicholas tonight, to see if her guess was correct.

  IN THE AUDITORIUM, HAZEL SAT NEXT TO MIDGE AND TRENT DAVIS, with Nina and Rob Altschuler on her other side and Mary-Claire and Christopher Coviello in front of her. Behind her, Gayle Boudreau and Helen Wynetsky complained about how they could never get their husbands to come to these things. The room smelled of fresh floor wax, and of pinecones decorating the walls, and of musty winter coats retrieved from the far reaches of hall closets.

  The orchestra had emerged, filling the stage
with the proud, creaky sounds of tuning instruments. The students grinned at their conductor, Mrs. Brody, knowingly and a bit smugly, as if they were all in on a dirty joke. Below, on the risers, the choir lined up, the boys in their beige slacks and button-down shirts, the girls in their dresses of velvet and plaid. There was Jessie, in the red velvet. She nearly blended in with the others, despite her height, and the shine of her hair, and the green of her eyes.

  When Hazel spotted Luke Greerson among the tiers of skinny boys, her heart snagged at the thought that his father was somewhere nearby. She pulled her shoulders back, tried to smile as if all was well in her little world. She told Midge and Trent that Simon must have grown a full head taller since she had last seen him. She told Nina and Rob that Morgan was absolutely blossoming, right in front of her eyes. She told Gayle and Helen yes, she would indeed be heading down to North Carolina for the holidays. Now she could see Nicholas and Remy sitting together near the front, just the backs of their heads. She had not glimpsed Hugh.

  All through “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” Gayle explained a complicated cheesecake recipe to Helen, while Rob Altschuler scribbled things into a thick, ratty-looking datebook; Nina kept brushing at his pencil as at a housefly. Then came a song where the children appeared to be singing in Russian, and everyone looked down at the photocopied program notes to figure out what they were saying. Midge told Hazel that Jessie looked lovely up there with her hair in ringlets. Hazel told Midge about the green dress she had found, how it suited Jessie so much better than the red one. “But you know how it is when they decide on something,” she whispered.

  She wanted the songs to end, the orchestra’s anemic accompaniment, the choir director much too serious about it all, scowling at the students and even at Mrs. Brody, as if every one of them had somehow failed him. Hazel shifted in her seat, trying not to slouch. The effort of retaining a pleased expression had begun to tire her.

  Afterward, everyone moved toward the lobby. Hazel went quickly to the restroom, to make sure her makeup was still in place. She dusted on another layer of powder and freshened up her lipstick. When she stepped back into the hallway her pulse began to race, from fear of seeing Hugh and of the way her voice might sound, should she find the strength to speak to him. She wondered what the other parents thought, if any of them had, in earlier weeks, noticed her together with him, and then apart.

  In a blur, she searched for Jessie among the drift of red velvet dresses. There she was, with a small group of friends. Hazel held back, knowing not to interrupt at such a moment. She nodded at the principal and at the vice principal, and clutched her purse at her side, as if holding a partner’s hand. She was waiting for someone she knew to pass by, so that she, too, might become just one more chatting parent with her coat slung over her arm.

  Remy and Nicholas had spotted her; she saw their glances and approached them, feeling a certain relief at finally having an activity to occupy her. “Hello, there.”

  Standing side by side, tucked into their winter coats, they looked the same as always. Still, Hazel searched for a sign of strain between them, for a hint of what had happened. Nicholas’s eyes showed just his usual fatigue. Remy looked gaunt, though, her eyes slightly puffy; they hadn’t been that way when she saw her in the science classroom.

  “Hello, Hazel, don’t you look beautiful,” Remy said in a soft voice. Hazel thanked her, thinking, Yes, Remy has had bad news. She has lost the baby. She no longer looks pregnant at all.

  “So, we made it through,” Nicholas said, with a wink. “How have you been?”

  “Fine, thanks.” It occurred to her to wonder if they might have somehow heard about Hugh. “And thank you for taking Jessie tonight.” Since Hazel was invited to Ginger’s annual holiday party, Nicholas and Remy had agreed to take Jessie a day early.

  “Oh, it’s no problem. In fact, she’s sleeping over at Allison’s.”

  “Ah, here she is,” Remy said, with that devoted pride that Hazel had witnessed before but that never failed to shock her. “Congratulations, kiddo.”

  Jessie was beaming. “Did you really like it?”

  “It was beautiful,” Hazel told her.

  As if in an effort to cheer herself up, Remy said, “I loved that Scottish ballad,” and turned to Nicholas. “You said you thought you recognized it from when you were little, right?”

  Hazel watched them as they spoke. Yes, something had indeed gone wrong, though they were doing their best to cover it up. Then again, anyone looking at Hazel would not have guessed that, trapped inside her rib cage, her own heart was wilting.

  “I loved the Russian one,” Nicholas was saying. “You all sounded perfectly drunk. Slurring your words. Tripping over them.”

  “That’s my favorite one!” Jessie said, laughing. “That, and the one about the tropical elf.”

  “That was cute,” Hazel told her as the Rupkas approached, Allison at their side, her velvet dress a deep red, her hair in a matching bandeau. The Rupkas greeted them, and all five adults talked easily. Hazel felt herself relax.

  “Bye,” Jessie was saying now, reaching up to embrace Remy, who kissed her hair and gave her a smack on the behind. “Bye, Mom,” she said to Hazel, who told her, “Be good, sweetie,” and hugged her.

  “Bye, Dad.” Jessie reached up to Nicholas, too. He kissed her cheeks and said, “I love you.”

  It was right after that, as the Rupkas were shepherding the girls away, that Hazel spotted Hugh. He stood near the auditorium doors with his coat buttoned tightly, his scarf tied in a knot, preparing to leave. Next to him, holding on to his arm like a girl in an old-time movie, was Roberta Plotnik. Her coat was open, revealing the trim, youthful figure, the unlined neck. Her smooth face, with the full, rosy cheeks of a woman still in her early thirties, was radiant.

  Hazel felt herself cringe with abhorrence of Roberta, of her needy hand on Hugh’s arm, like a little old lady crossing the street. To remind herself of just how insufferable Roberta was, Hazel looked for the familiar gold wedding band, the widow’s medal hanging coyly, hypocritically, as it always did, around her neck.

  To Hazel’s shock, the ring was no longer there.

  Hazel grabbed at her coat, which was sliding off of her arm. “I’d better run to Ginger’s,” she told Nicholas and Remy, hoping her voice was not shaking. “Before the eggnog’s gone.”

  “Have fun. Happy holidays.”

  “You, too,” she told them, her heart imploding. She pushed her arms into her coat as if it might somehow protect her, and turned away.

  RUSHING OUT OF THE BUILDING, NOT BOTHERING TO PULL ON HER gloves, she wondered how she could go to Ginger’s party now. A mixer, Ginger called it, when really it was just another holiday party with a hill of coats on the master bed, a tangle of scarves braided with unfamiliar perfumes, abandoned plastic cups on every surface, the meaningless chatter of people Hazel had met before but whose names she had to be reminded of each subsequent year. Never had Hazel skipped this party, even in the years when she had felt truly blue, as she always did over the holidays—even that time when she had not quite recovered from the flu. Always she went, to support Ginger, and to prove to herself that she had not given up, because you never knew when or where you might meet that special someone.

  Tonight, though, she drove straight home, her bare hands trembling on the steering wheel, and left her car shuddering itself to sleep in the garage. Stepping into the foyer, she dreaded the silence that awaited her. She opened the closet and was suddenly too exhausted to pluck out a hanger. Instead she dropped her coat onto the wooden settee, where it lay like a hobo in a park. She kicked off her shoes with something close to anger; they fell onto their sides at an uncouth angle, lying there as if stunned. Straight to her bedroom she went, where she undressed quickly and pulled on her flannel pajamas. In the bathroom she removed her makeup, massaging it off with cold cream until the splotches gradually revealed themselves like a drift of clouds. It didn’t matter that she had managed to cover up the spots; i
t didn’t matter, because she was still, beneath all the makeup, not the person she wanted to be.

  Her mascara she rubbed off with Albolene, leaving shiny dark circles around her eyes. In the mirror she looked as though she had been punched. Angry thoughts knocked at her: What did Roberta Plotnik have that she didn’t have? What made Roberta such a candidate for love, for romance, for happiness? What had she done that Hazel hadn’t?

  Hazel dreaded her cold sheets, the empty pillow next to her head. She went back downstairs, to the credenza in the dining room, and fetched the bottle of Irish whiskey. Prudish Roberta with her wedding ring around her neck . . . And now the necklace was gone, as if to prove that her new love was genuine, the real thing.

  Hazel brought the whiskey with her to the kitchen, where the light felt harsh, a spotlight on her pain, on her ugliness. Was that all Roberta had to do to get what she wanted: toss away her old ring to get a new one? Hazel poured milk into a mug, placed it in the microwave to warm, and was about to press the Start button when she realized that she was indeed right. That was exactly what Roberta had done. She had done what Hazel hadn’t managed to do: stepped past her grief, found her way out of sadness.

  Hazel stood that way for a long time, her finger on the Start button. Was that all it took, then, a simple tossing away of a wedding ring? Tears rolled from her eyes, mixing with the Albolene. Something had happened, something had broken inside her. But no, it wasn’t just inside her; it was in this room, she felt it, the air itself felt different. She looked carefully, farther along the counter, holding her breath. Then she walked over to give a few pokes in Freddie’s glass tank, where the body lay oddly flat, a puddle of its old self. It was true, finally. He was dead.

  Chapter 10