Girl, Unframed
Page 24
“Sydney, can you hear me?” Detective Chambers asked. His eyes looked into mine. I wasn’t sure if my heart was beating or not.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” I said.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Exhibit 70: Sworn statement of Nicco R. Ricci
Exhibit 71: Photos of decedent’s body, decedent’s face, decedent with and without measurements, surface under decedent’s body
Exhibit 72: Crime scene sketch
Exhibit 73: Sworn statement of Dr. Jonathan Martin, medical examiner, City and County of San Francisco
Exhibit 74: Sworn statement of Detective Don Chambers, City and County of San Francisco
Well, you know this already. You saw those pictures, too. I was suddenly in different clothes. My flowered sundress was gone, and I was in shorts and a T-shirt. There were so many cars outside, and people—press, photographers, strangers. There was the flash of camera lights, the spit and sputter of police radios, sirens, and there were cameramen, and onlookers snapping photos with their phones. I rode to the station in a police car with Lila. We sat in the back. She held my hand, as if we were in this together, but we weren’t, not really. As soon as I’d spoken those words and as soon as she’d let me, we weren’t.
I had no idea what time it was. Detective Don Chambers was there again, and the police chief, too. I sat with Detective Don Chambers in front of a table of recording equipment. For hours and hours and hours I told my story. And then I said it again. I didn’t mean to do it.
Lila appeared much later, clinging to her attorney. She said something like, Baby, you’ll have to stay here, but only for the night. A woman came and led me down a corridor, to a holding cell with iron bars. It had a cot and a toilet and a sink. I had to remove my shoes, and the guard had to look under my clothes for weapons, and she brought me tea and a blanket and I looked right into her eyes and I repeated that lie. I didn’t mean to do it. Any dreams of IT, of largeness in the world, were gone, gone, gone. The summer had been life changing, all right, but in the way an earthquake was, and now I saw only rubble.
I sat on that bed and it wasn’t real, how I’d just been with Nicco in the rain and now I was there. I thought about Nicco and Meredith and Carlos and me on that tour of Alcatraz, and it seemed like a million years ago, because I was a different person now. I was older. The night had made me older.
I would never be Lila’s baby again. Anyone’s baby. And that was right and good, because I wasn’t one, and hadn’t been one for a long while.
* * *
My father had arrived sometime in the night, and by morning, so had Edwina. I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to do it, I said. I was taken to an all-white room with a shower, a toilet, a high, high window, and another window in the door, from which I could see the faces of the other girls trying to see mine. My father moved like he could make stuff happen. There were new attorneys. I didn’t mean to do it. I started to believe my own story. It almost seemed like it had really happened that way. My father spoke in the loud, certain voice that some people use and others listen to. And Lila leaned on his arm.
Here is what you know. Here is what you saw: horrible headlines about Lila and me. Images of 716 Sea Cliff Drive—the orange stucco exterior, the maze of the stairwell, a body being rolled out of the front gate. That clip from Nefarious, again and again. My Academy yearbook photo, where I smile sweetly in that blue sweater. Somber people dressed in black on a sunny day, standing in a half circle as Jake Antonetti was put into the ground.
And then: new headlines, about ninety-four-year-old Doris Brawley, who’d shipped multiple crates of precious artwork to Giacomo (Jake) Antonetti but never got paid. You heard the interviews with the Brawley family—how Jake had every excuse. The pieces were gifts from the Brawleys. They were stolen by delivery drivers. The workmen at the storage facility mistook the art for building supplies and pilfered them. You heard that Aphrodite of Knidos, a marble statue from the fourth century B.C., had vanished. You watched as FBI agents eventually recovered the 46" x 46" Crying Girl, by Lichtenstein; the oil on canvas Jacqueline, by Picasso; Female Torso, by Kazimir Malevich; and four drawings and two paintings that were originally attributed to Willem de Kooning, though the authenticity has since been challenged. Other works came out of that warehouse too, origins yet to be determined. You heard the word fraud. It was such a true word. It was such a perfect word for big, important men with lots of secrets.
You heard about all that other stuff of Jake’s they found too: a pile of guns and ammunition; expensive gifts from Lila, including a Rolex watch; and a trove of photos of naked women, from Lila’s age to mine. There were reasons, many reasons, to feel uncomfortable without knowing why.
You also saw those pastel courtroom drawings from the coroner’s inquest, held to determine the cause of Jake’s death. You saw sketches of Lila on the stand, raising her hand and swearing to tell the truth. Me, doing the same. You saw photos of hundreds of pieces of evidence, from a picture of Lila and Edwina and me in Mexico, to aerial views of 716 Sea Cliff Drive, to the damage Max had done in the garage that night. You read that I had gotten the knife to scare Jake and that he had fallen into me as he charged forward. On every news channel and entertainment show and media outlet, you heard that “I didn’t mean to do it.”
And then you saw what the grand jury had decided: justifiable homicide. The district attorney would not be pressing charges.
But you would never see or hear what I saw and heard. When I closed my eyes, if I wasn’t replaying images of Nicco and me that night, or Jake spitting those words You disgust me, or Lila thrusting that knife into Jake as he lunged toward her, or Jake’s confused expression before he fell, or the blood inching up the hem of Lila’s robe, I was hearing Detective Don Chambers, who came to speak with me again before the hearing. It doesn’t make sense. The story is too pat. The guy wouldn’t just walk into a knife. The fingerprints on the handle were smeared, like maybe on purpose.…
I would hear him say those same things again and again in my mind. Again and again, I would shrug.
I would say, Lots of things don’t make sense, but they happen anyway.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Exhibit 75: Ivory satin robe belonging to Lila Shore
Before I could go home, there was another hearing, this time to determine who would be my guardian for the next two years.
The judge, the Honorable Joan K. Fuller, asked whether I preferred to live with my mother or my father.
My grandmother, I’d said.
The judge’s orders included these requirements: I would study with a private tutor at Edwina’s home. I would see a psychologist twice a week. Lila and my father would not be allowed to see me more than one day a month. When the judge said this, my father only glanced at his watch, but Lila let out an excruciating cry. It felt like claws ripping me in two halves: before and after.
* * *
Three weeks after that awful night, when I could finally go home, Edwina and I headed to the Fairmont, where she’d been staying. She’d chosen it for a particular reason, and when she swiped the key, that particular reason jumped all over me like I was the returning soldier home from the war, which I pretty much was.
“Max. Max, Max, Max.” I buried my face in his fur. I’ve never been so happy to see someone in all my life.
“Ugh, that damn dog,” Edwina said. “What a nuisance.” But I could tell that they’d formed their own bond. She’d brought his old dog bed from home, and she’d chosen a hotel that not only allowed dogs, but also welcomed them, with dog treats and a minibar with a bowl, a blanket, and toys. I’d see Edwina drop her hand and trail her fingers so he’d come by for a pet.
Max—well, he was also traumatized that night. In his panic to get to me, he’d scratched and chewed that garage door so badly, it had to be replaced. His collar had caught on something, and the tags had been ripped right off. I understood his terror. I understood his desire to protect.
“I’ve missed you so much,” I tol
d him.
* * *
My phone had been found in the cove where Nicco and I lay, ruined by rain, and held as evidence. Edwina had already bought a replacement and set it up, and when I turned it on, there was all my old stuff, as well as a flood of new texts and voice mails. Meredith, Ellen, and even Meredith’s dad had called. Hoodean, Cora, and Lizzie, too. There were multiple calls from Coach Dave, a message from Ms. Fiori, my art teacher. And Nicco. And Nicco, and Nicco, and Nicco. Frantic calls that night and the next day. Cautious messages in the days after that.
I didn’t return any of the calls. Not then. Not for a long while. I felt ashamed and full of horror that Meredith had to get back on that plane to testify at the coroner’s inquest, and that Nicco had to too. They had to get up on that stand and swear to the truth. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing or even talking to any of them and saying that lie straight to their faces: I didn’t mean to do it. I couldn’t bear to hear what they said or did or felt on that stand, while I was in that white room with the window, being rightly punished. I loved Meredith and her family, but I had broken and lost so much more than the necklace they gave me. And Nicco—well, he’d finally seen the bad person I truly was. I was dirty and dark and guilty, and maybe always had been. It was better if I kept my darkness away from all of them.
* * *
Before Edwina and I flew back to Seattle, I had some unfinished business. Lila had already moved into another rental in Sea Cliff, a much smaller and older house, but not far from 716. How she could be anywhere near there, I didn’t know. Those roots, probably.
In the new place, boxes were piled everywhere, since she was still unpacking. Right then, Lila was deeply in debt, though this would change when Peyton Place was released. Of course, it would become a huge hit, especially because of that courtroom scene, where Constance and her daughter, Allison, have a tearful reunion after the murder of the abusive, lecherous Lucas Cross.
The new rental might have been much smaller than the old house, but it still had the same view. You could still see that bridge, and the headlands, and the sea, and I could still smell the ocean. The shipwrecks and fires and quakes that had happened right out there still haunted from her own backyard.
“Baby, thank God!” Lila said. She hugged me. She had my favorite things set out in the kitchen—the Beecher’s macaroni and cheese, those Asian pears I always liked. I wouldn’t be eating any of it, though.
We took our iced tea into the living room and sat on the white couch, surrounded now by tan walls. I could barely sit there, remembering Jake on those same cushions, fuming over the huge bouquet the FBI had sent. Somewhere in those boxes was that smiling, staring doll too. The one passed down from woman to woman in my family. I hoped she never got out.
Lila took my hands and looked deeply into my eyes. “There are just so many words,” she said.
But there were only a few necessary ones.
“I’m here to say good-bye.”
“Good-bye for now. You’ll be here for Christmas, of course.”
No.
I was leaving that place. I didn’t yet understand everything that had happened. I only knew that there’d been a fire and that our lives had been destroyed, though, this time, no one had run out holding only a baby and a photo from a wedding to a cruel man. All of it was gone, and I was glad. Maybe that woman, the one who fled, had been the ghost who kept trying to tell me so many things I needed to know.
Lila held my hands and I looked into her beautiful eyes, and right then I was still confused about why I had helped her, why I had lied for her. I thought it was because that night felt like my fault, and because she was my beautiful and helpless mother, and because Jake had hurt her, and because she needed me. I thought it was because I was trying to give her what no one else ever had, real love and devotion. I thought it was because she’d had it harder than me, so maybe I owed her a debt that I could finally pay and never have to pay again, and because it would be easier for both of us if she didn’t suffer. I thought I’d lied for her because I was her object but she was everyone’s object. Because her beauty and her body were her power, but that wasn’t all I had, or all I was. Because, well, maybe I just plain wanted her to love me.
And while all these things are true, I now know there was another reason: When you’re a toaster and the lever is pushed, you toast.
* * *
Edwina and I said good-bye. I asked the driver to take us past 716 Sea Cliff Drive. But I didn’t want to see our old house. I wanted to see the one next door.
After three weeks, more walls had gone up. The place looked more defined. It looked more like the house it would become. A frame—it could be a good thing if it held you rightly and properly. But this one was as hazardous as ever, with high places and no railings. It was still uncovered, exposed to the elements. The rain would still pour in, and the fog would still loop and wind through the beams. All the stuff in there wasn’t entirely sheltered yet.
It had a long way to go before it was done.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Exhibit 76: Flowered sundress belonging to Sydney E. Reilly
Exhibit 77: Photo of enlarged blood-splatter pattern on sundress
I finished school a year early. What else was there to do? After one awkward meeting at Cupcake Royale with Meredith and Hoodean and Cora, I didn’t see friends. My former life at Academy belonged to someone else. Even cupcakes did, honestly. So instead I studied. The rain dripped down the windows.
I visited Dr. Mann, with her auburn hair and looped scarves and kind eyes. Twice a week, I’d sit on the couch next to the table with the Kleenex box and the little clock, and I’d talk to her. Dr. Mann would listen, or gently suggest new thoughts, helping me to put the puzzle together. We untangled the knots of Lila and those paintings, and Nicco, and my own desire, and mothers and fathers, going back years. But I didn’t tell her the truth about what happened that night. I still kept the secrets. I felt too ashamed about being an object to admit it out loud. I couldn’t say that yet.
The deep need I had for an exciting IT that summer had burned to the ground. Now something else was rising in its place. It wasn’t about being seen and noticed anymore. Or about a guy or an event that might magically arrive to make me different and somehow larger. This IT was about becoming full in the world and in my body and in my own self, already large by the fact that I existed at all, larger still after the things that I’d survived. Now, in the early-morning hours when the lake was still glass, I’d go down to Lake Union Crew and take out a scull. I’d row and row. Those legs in that boat got stronger than they’d ever been. I had to learn to set the boat on my own, using only the stability of my own body.
And I learned how to drive.
One day I got a text. It was a photo. Just that. The image was the back of a big guy in motorcycle leathers, a red bandanna on his head, tattoos up his arms. In one hand, he carried a little red trike.
I smiled.
Big dude, little bike, I texted back.
It looked bigger in the Craigslist ad, Nicco responded.
Hey, I have to get off and walk when I go up hills too, I typed.
Then came this: I haven’t forgotten you.
I decided to drive out to see him after my “graduation,” which Edwina and I celebrated with a little cake she baked from a Duncan Hines mix. Her gift to me was a Subaru with a million miles on it, because that’s what everyone in the Northwest drove, and because it had room for Max. Also, for all of my stuff that was now in the back.
“Look at you in there,” Edwina said as she stood in her driveway, arms folded, to see me off. “You look like a beautiful young woman.”
A changed young woman.
“You drive carefully, now,” Edwina said.
“I’ll keep it under a hundred,” I said, and she scowled.
Flying would have been easier and faster, but I couldn’t take an airplane. I couldn’t sit in first class, looking at magazines that might have Lila’s picture in them.
And I didn’t want to step foot in the arrivals section of that airport, imagining Jake hugging me. I needed to get there a new way.
* * *
When we pulled up into the Lands End parking lot, Max started jumping and whining and scooting all around because he remembered. He remembered that place, and his favorite parts of it too, I was guessing—the running so fast, the other dogs, the great and stinky dead stuff. Before I could even get him on the leash, he shoved out of the car and sped off.
“Max! Get back here!” I called, but it was no use, and who could blame him.
It was late afternoon, and the fog had cleared and the sky was the bright blue of early summer. Max galloped toward the shore like a racehorse, but it was clear that it wasn’t just the beach that he remembered. He spotted Nicco way before I did, and now I could see Max in the distance, greeting Nicco like he’d been counting the moments until he could see him again. From that far away, I could only see Nicco bending toward the big guy’s neck, giving him a good scruff. But then Nicco waved, and I waved back.
He walked toward me as Max leapt at his side, bumping into him on purpose in a show of dog love. When Nicco got closer, it was so astonishing, because he still looked like himself. There were those eyes again, and there were those black pants rolled up and his white shirt unbuttoned and his tie loosened. My throat got tight with emotion. The then-and-now of it crushed my heart, and as he took me in his arms, I could have broken down crying, but I didn’t.
He gave me a sweet kiss.
“You,” he said.
We walked. We talked nothing-talk—Carlos, his moms, his classes at College of Marin. It was safer that way. I felt so full of feeling, I could barely speak.
Our shoes were off, and we were on the soft part of the sand where your feet sink a little. He stopped. He rubbed my arm. “Syd.”