“What?” I asked again, torn between truth and silence.
Tell me.
Don’t tell me.
I’d been uneasy ever since the night of the mountain lion, since my discovery of the thong. I’d decided it was Kelsey’s underwear, that nothing else made sense. But I was queen at making something out of nothing. The thong had still been there, wadded up in the trash can when I cleaned the bathroom at the end of that week. I’d plucked it out of the trash and examined it between two fingers. Don’t be stupid, I’d scolded myself. Just throw it out. And yet I’d rolled the thong inside a clean hand towel and shoved it in the back of my dresser drawer, behind a half-slip and a strapless bra, as though I were preserving evidence for a crime I wasn’t sure had been committed.
No, I was sure.
Phil took my hand across the table, twisting my wedding band around my finger, the diamond appearing and disappearing. I had the feeling there was something he wanted to say, one of the deep and important things that had to be said in a marriage, in any fleeting moment of time alone. But then he smiled and asked, “Should we box up the rest?”
It was nothing.
And if it wasn’t, maybe I didn’t want to know.
We ended up wandering through the outdoor mall in Pleasanton, an area of big-box stores swamped with shoppers on a weekend night. This was the sort of thing we used to do, back in our old life—drool over an area rug or linger in front of a sectional, wondering if it would fit our tight rental space. But there wasn’t really a point to it anymore. We had everything we needed; we had plenty of things we didn’t need at all.
The sidewalks were crowded, and sometimes Phil and I broke apart to pass a slow-moving couple, but we always found each other again, even if our hold was as tenuous as the touch of two pinky fingers.
* * *
Phil’s phone started buzzing at six thirty the next morning, its hard case rattling against his nightstand.
“Ignore it,” I murmured, throwing one of my legs over his. “It’s Saturday.”
He groaned. “There’s that golf tournament, though.”
“Oh, right.” I’d successfully avoided Myriam’s pleas to work at the tournament, a fund-raiser for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. She already had Phil wrapped up in every stage as an unofficial project manager. His role, as far as I could tell, was to be on hand for the inevitable complaints, the patrons who had one too many shots at the bar after the first nine holes and needed to be discreetly plied with coffee. I ran the length of my leg against the length of his. “Well, Myriam can make do without you for a few minutes.”
Phil laughed, wrapping an arm around me, his hand cupping a breast. Then his phone buzzed again, and he sighed, reaching over his shoulder.
“A sprinkler head malfunction,” I guessed. “A dead bird on the course. A trash can that wasn’t emptied.”
Phil struggled to a sitting position, began scrolling through the texts. “Shit,” he said finally.
“Did the landscapers forget to blow a leaf off the parking lot?”
He hopped out of bed, pulling on the clothes he’d shed the night before—the boxers, the jeans. He held up the shirt he’d worn on our pizza date, decided it was too wrinkled and went to the closet for one of a dozen Parker-Lane logo polo shirts. I watched him, propped up on my elbows, the comforter pulled up over my breasts.
“What is it?”
“The bathrooms. Some kind of vandalism.”
“Oh, my God. Do you want me to—”
But Phil was already putting on his shoes. He hustled down the stairs, and a few seconds later, the front door slammed behind him.
I showered in a rush, toweled off my hair and threw on yesterday’s jeans and a sweatshirt before heading over to the clubhouse. It was just after seven, and golfers had already started to arrive. About a dozen people in white pants and pastel polo shirts were milling around the clubhouse.
Helen Zhang and Daisy Asbill were standing near the entrance, wearing crisp white shirts and black pants, name tags affixed to their pockets. Helen gave me an unsubtle up-and-down look, taking in my jeans and tennis shoes.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Phil said something about the bathrooms—”
“Liz, for God’s sake.” Helen took me firmly by the elbow, leading me a few steps away. “We need to keep our voices down.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. I just—”
Up close, Helen’s eyes were almost black, flecked with bits of yellow. “They’re making a decision now, I guess. Myriam’s beside herself, as you can imagine, and what with people arriving...”
Daisy put in, “It’s horrible. I mean, thank God I had an extra cup of coffee this morning and had to pee, or else we might not have discovered it until later. If one of the donors had discovered it, can you imagine?”
“So, it’s that bad, then?”
“Well, the toilets were flooded, for one thing, and someone had spray-painted these horrible things all over the walls and stall doors...” Daisy began.
I inhaled sharply, thinking of Phil, the hours of work this crisis would demand. “What are they going to do?”
“What is your husband going to do, you mean,” Helen corrected. “Parker-Lane needs to get on this, pronto.”
The doors to the clubhouse opened, and Myriam was there in a white shirtdress and sandals, a clipboard in one hand. She greeted the guests, ushering them toward the bar for mimosas, her voice friendly and confident. “A little issue with the plumbing in the restrooms, but we’re going to have that sorted in no time,” she reported to the group. “If everyone just wants to head around to the back patio, we’ve got a drink stand set up there to get us started.”
Then she was in front of us, a pinched line of worry between her eyebrows. “Parker-Lane is delivering two porta-potties in half an hour,” she said through clenched teeth. “Porta-potties. For two-hundred-fifty-dollar rounds of golf. Will someone please wake me up from this hell?”
“When did it happen?” I asked.
Myriam turned to me, frowning. “Well, I walked the course yesterday afternoon, and went through every inch of the clubhouse with your husband. Everything was in perfect shape last night at six.”
“So someone must have—”
“It’s that fucking gate,” Myriam hissed. “I told Phil that leaving the gate open was a huge mistake, a major security risk. Anyone could have come in here, anyone with a bone to pick.”
Helen stopped her with a hand on her arm. “I didn’t realize the gate was open. When was this?”
“All week long, when those cement mixers and God-knows-what were coming through, the gates were deprogrammed.”
Daisy shuddered. “Any of those workers could have done this, then.”
“Surely they must do some kind of background checks,” Helen said. “I certainly hope we don’t have people coming in here with criminal records.”
“Oh, please!” Myriam laughed. “It’s a business like anything else, with a bottom line. There are no background checks, clearly. And we’re reaping the results of that right now.”
The parking lot was beginning to fill with BMWs and Mercedes and Infinitis, with men and women hoisting golf bags over their shoulders, calling hellos to each other. I felt myself detaching, the air growing thin. I remembered what Fran Blevins had told me about the vandalism at our house, the fixtures missing, the holes kicked in walls. That had been blamed on workers, too—on the riffraff that would drive twelve miles down the winding access road just to find an empty home to vandalize. There was no use in pointing out that the workers had been done by five, the trucks loaded and back through the security gates by the time Danielle had left for Kelsey’s house, and Phil and I had headed into town for dinner. This was how it was at The Palms, how it had been with the mountain lion and how it would be with this:
suggestion was truth, and truth was incontrovertible.
“The thing to do is to keep this quiet,” Myriam was saying, switching back into organizational mode. “If anyone asks, it’s a plumbing problem that came up overnight. We’re going to do some kind of free drinks at the bar and just eat the cost...”
A silver Lexus pulled into the clubhouse parking lot, coming to an abrupt stop near us. “Ladies,” Sonia Jorgensen said, stepping out in a gray dress and heels. “I thought I’d check in, see how everything was going.”
“Someone vandalized the bathrooms,” Daisy told her. “You should see them—filthy things written on the walls. It’s a disaster.”
“Not a disaster,” Myriam corrected her. “A problem, yes. But I’ve got it under control.”
Sonia shook her head. “My God. We can’t even be safe from that, out here.”
Someone called for Myriam, and she turned away, her face set in that smooth mask of efficiency and control. Daisy and Helen trailed her, and Sonia and I were left staring at each other.
“It’s horrible, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Horrible,” I agreed.
She glanced down at the watch on her wrist. “I wish I could stay to help them out, I really do. I have this big meeting with a client in San Jose today, and I’d better get on the road.”
“Are the girls still sleeping, then?” I asked. “I hope they didn’t keep you up too late.”
Sonia’s forehead wrinkled, two parallel lines forming at the bridge of her nose. She spoke slowly, as if I were a simpleton. “The girls are at your house. They spent the night with you.”
“What? No. Danielle asked if she could spend the night with you.”
We stared at each other.
“Well, they aren’t at my house. Kelsey sent me a message late last night saying she was with you.” She opened her car door and reached across the driver’s seat for her cell phone. While she tapped a few buttons, she told me, “I didn’t think to call you. I just assumed...”
No, why would you? I thought. When have you ever?
“Danielle said she was spending the night at your house,” I repeated. “She left around...I don’t know, seven?”
“Kelsey, you need to pick up this minute,” Sonia barked into the phone. “You call me back right now or there will be hell to pay.”
“Maybe they’re at Hannah’s,” I offered.
Sonia scoffed. “I don’t think so.”
“Can I borrow your phone? Mine’s back at the house.” I took Sonia’s phone, punching in carefully the digits of Danielle’s number. It rang four times before her voice came on the machine. Hi, you’ve reached Dani... “Danielle,” I said at the beep. “This is your mother. You need to come home ASAP.”
Sonia held out her hand impatiently and I returned her phone.
“But where—? I don’t understand where they could be,” I said. “Neither one of them can drive. Maybe I should go find Phil...” But I glanced in the direction of the clubhouse and knew this was a bad idea. He had enough on his hands.
I felt a sudden cramp, a fresh wave of nausea. Our girls were unaccounted for, and the bathrooms of the clubhouse were vandalized. The two things must be unconnected, they had to be. This was how my mind worked when it came to Danielle. I went for the worst-case scenarios: Danielle was missing for twelve hours, so she must have been abducted. Or she’d done something unthinkable, and she’d run away.
Sonia swore, hopping into her car. “They’re at the Sieverts’. I’d bet on it. Are you coming?”
Wordlessly, I went around to the passenger side, motivated by Sonia’s confidence. She turned around in the parking lot and took the corner quickly, coming to a stop when we’d reached the Sieverts’ driveway. Mac’s gigantic truck was parked diagonally, blocking two of their four garage bays.
It was as if we were playing a game, but I didn’t know the rules. “Why would they be here?”
Sonia was out of the car, faster in her heels than I was in my tennis shoes. “Deanna told me they were doing this wine-tasting tour, two nights in Napa.”
“But why would they—” I tried again, but Sonia was already ringing the doorbell, once, twice, her thumb jamming against the button. When that didn’t produce an immediate result, she pounded against the door with the flat of her palm. “I do not have time for this,” she muttered.
I pressed my face against the pane of glass to the right of the Sieverts’ door, taking in the dark flooring, the mail on the entry table. The doorbell chimes reverberated through the house. “Someone’s coming,” I said. It was a shirtless Mac Sievert, a pair of athletic shorts slung low on his hips. He spotted me looking through the glass and hesitated before moving toward the door.
As soon as the lock was unlatched, Sonia pushed against the door, sending Mac hopping backward to get out of the way.
“Hey! Look, it’s not my fault. Before you get all upset—”
Sonia was already inside their house, looking around. I followed her, noting the huge expanses of open space, the tasteful clutches of furniture. One of Mac’s T-shirts was draped over the back of a chair. By the staircase I spotted a pair of turquoise Converse, laces still tied. Danielle’s shoes.
“Where’s Danielle?” I asked.
Mac ran a hand through sleep-rumpled hair. “I just wanna say, it’s not a big deal. They were here last night, watching a movie, and then it got late, so...”
Sonia was racing up the stairs, another impressive feat in her heels.
“Hey, are you just allowed to... I mean, I’m not a lawyer or anything, but—”
“My husband is a lawyer,” Sonia told him. “You’re eighteen, right? And our daughters are underage.”
Danielle’s backpack was at the top of the stairs, and I picked it up tenderly, as if I were holding on to a lost relic from childhood. I gave the zipper a tug and looked inside—her school binder, fat with papers; a pair of pajamas; a Ziploc bag with her toothbrush. I felt a whoosh of relief. She was here, she was alive. She wasn’t smuggling drugs in her backpack, or, for that matter, cans of spray paint. I could deal with the rest.
Mac’s bedroom was on the right, through a set of double doors. The room was dark, and it took me a moment to get my bearings. It was larger than the master suite in my home, larger than some of the apartments I’d lived in when it was just Danielle and me and a load of baby paraphernalia. Mac’s room had a billiards table, heaped with pool cues and balls, discarded clothes, a row of empty Corona bottles. On one side of the room, a big-screen TV was bolted to the wall, and asleep in front of it on a futon was Danielle, her knees tucked to her chest inside an oversize 49ers hoodie. On the other side of the room, Sonia was yanking Kelsey out of a king-size bed by her elbow. In her jeans and skimpy tank top, blond hair matted to one side, Kelsey might have been an embarrassed starlet, her image caught by waiting paparazzi.
I stood over Danielle and put a hand on her shoulder. She opened her eyes and stared at me, then sat up. Yesterday’s mascara was a dark smear across her cheekbones, like war paint. “Mom,” she croaked. “I’m so sorry.”
I held up a hand, silencing her. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“What did I tell you?” Sonia was asking Kelsey. “No more messing around, no more getting into trouble. Six months without trouble, and we would buy you that car. Now the clock resets.”
“Nooooo,” Kelsey whined. “It wasn’t even my fault.”
From the doorway, Mac said, “It was nothing. They were just hanging out here and then everyone got sleepy, and I said they could stay. It was no big deal.”
“Were they drinking?” I asked.
“No, those are mine. Seriously, it was just—”
“You’re not twenty-one, either,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, but...” His smile was sheepish.
Soni
a stormed past us, jerking Kelsey along like a marionette. “I don’t have time to deal with this now, but believe me, your parents are going to hear about this.”
Danielle was on her hands and knees, digging underneath Mac’s couch. She pulled out a textbook, one that Mac had probably shoved under there during the first week of school and never looked at again. She looked up at me. “I can’t find my shoes.”
“They’re downstairs,” I said.
She pulled the 49ers sweatshirt over her head, pulling her own T-shirt up in the process and revealing a knobby ridge of spine. I fought the urge to help her disentangle herself. “Thanks,” she said, handing the sweatshirt to Mac.
“No problem.”
Downstairs, Danielle stuffed her feet into her Converse, and we did the walk of shame down the Sieverts’ sidewalk, into the bright sunlight. Sonia and Kelsey were already backing out of the driveway, the Lexus pointed in the direction of the white house with its marble columns. Down the street, cars filled the clubhouse lot.
It was only once we were inside our house that we spoke—Danielle first, the beginning of a dozen apologies I would hear over the next few weeks. I thought we were going to spend the night at Kelsey’s house and Mac invited us over to watch a movie and It was just a bad decision and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
I doubled over, resting my hands on my thighs to steady myself. I didn’t realize until that moment that I’d been shaking, anxiety rendering me breathless.
“Mom?” Danielle’s voice was wobbly with tears. “I didn’t mean to—”
But the panic seeped out, like water through a colander, leaving only anger.
I’d trusted her, and she’d lied. She’d come close to getting away with it, too. If she’d come home and hopped in the shower, I might never have known.
“Sit down,” I told her. “You’re going to start again, from the beginning.”
PHIL
It had been wishful thinking, that day in the upstairs hallway. Give her a little shake, utter a little threat and hope it would all just go away.
The Drowning Girls Page 9
