by Amy Meyerson
I walked away from the water, toward Big Bear Boulevard. The lake carried the sounds of Jet Skis zooming across its surface, the chatter of people having fun. I tried to imagine what that would have been like, if there had been no carbon monoxide, if Evelyn and Billy had raised me and we’d summered here as a family. Billy, teaching me how to fish. Evelyn, braiding my hair so it wouldn’t fall into my eyes as the wind carried me across the lake. And what about Prospero Books? Would I have spent my afternoons there doing homework? Would Evelyn have helped me between customers? I grabbed my phone from my back pocket and found the photo I’d taken of her and Mom from their high school yearbook. Mom sticking out her tongue and cross-eyed. Evelyn’s eyes shut, trying to contain her pleasure. They were young. They were silly. They were best friends. I searched Evelyn’s pinched nose, the perfect arch of her eyebrows, the straight hair that fell into her face. I squinted, then opened my eyes wide. Blurry or clear, she looked nothing like me. I focused on Mom instead. Her eyes were the same shape as mine, her lips as thin as mine had always been. Billy had thin lips, too. He had our deep-set eyes. I always thought I looked like Mom, but I looked a lot like Billy, too.
I turned right on Big Bear Boulevard, past ski shops and sporting stores, the sheriff’s department. I didn’t want to be Billy’s daughter. I didn’t want two parents who were dead. I wanted the parents I’d always had. I entered a bar. It smelled like stale beer. The customers were talking too loudly. I continued walking. On the next block I found a quiet café with lace curtains on the windows. I went inside and picked a table in the back.
I wasn’t hungry. Or maybe I was. I didn’t know anything anymore, not even the desires of my own body. When the waitress called me “doll” and asked me what it would be, I heard the word coffee from my mouth and wondered if I liked coffee, or if I only thought I did. She returned with a ceramic mug and a bowl of creamers.
“Doll?” the waitress asked. I stared up at her. “You have to believe what’s true.”
“What?” I said.
“I said, ‘Do you want something to eat?’” She exaggerated each word, like she wasn’t sure we spoke the same language. “Are you hungry?”
“No, I’m fine.”
She pointed to the counter. “I’ll be over there if you need anything.”
The coffee was lukewarm and watery. I drank it slowly, savoring the minutes where I was just a customer, where I wasn’t a daughter or a niece, where I wasn’t anyone. I peered over at the waitress. When we locked eyes, she looked away. I was glad she didn’t want to get involved. If she asked me if I was okay, I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears anymore.
You have to believe what’s true. I swore she’d said that, and yet she merely asked me if I wanted something to eat. You have to believe what’s true. Did I know what was true? I had evidence, external facts. I didn’t have truth; I didn’t have the life and soul of my history, the details that might explain how I’d been raised by my aunt and uncle, how they’d decided—not just Mom and Dad, Billy as well—to let me think I was someone else. I threw some money onto the table and ran out of the café. I sprinted past the ski shops, the sheriff’s department, the bars, through the library’s parking lot, to the trash can by the door. I couldn’t avoid this quest. I couldn’t avoid who I was.
The novel fell open almost to the end where a bookmark was sandwiched between a highlighted passage on one page and a black-and-white illustration of a boy carrying a lifeless girl on the other. I read the passage.
He ran until he was stumbling but he kept on, afraid to stop. Knowing somehow that running was the only thing that could keep Leslie from being dead. It was up to him. He had to keep going.
Senseless death, that was what the librarian had said. A parable on senseless death. I’d never read Bridge to Terabithia. Billy had never given it to me. Mom had never given it to me, either.
The bookmark was a simple one, cut from cardboard. Prospero Books in letters so winding they were almost illegible. It took me a moment to find the clue in that curly font. At the bottom of the bookmark, I spotted the artist’s name, Lee Williams. While I didn’t remember Lee’s surname, I remembered Lee, the way he tried to comfort me when I’d gone searching for Billy and found only his absence. Lee, who had always been friendly but stilted, like he didn’t know how to interact with kids. Maybe he just didn’t know how to interact with me.
* * *
I drove straight to my parents’ house. I didn’t turn on the radio or the air-conditioning, and the car was hot, filled with the rattle of the overworked engine. I focused on driving the speed limit, not sure if I wanted to get there faster or slower. I didn’t know what I would say to Mom when I saw her, whether I would hug her or never speak to her again. I kept my attention fixed on driving steadily, on remaining calm, on keeping my speed consistent across the long and flat distance. My phone buzzed and Jay’s name sent a chill through me like hearing from a ghost. I debated picking up until it went to voice mail. He didn’t leave a message. I didn’t call him back. I couldn’t think about Jay. I couldn’t think about Philadelphia. I couldn’t even think about Prospero Books. All I could think of was Mom. Mom, who wasn’t my mom but my aunt. I’d never had an aunt before. I didn’t know what an aunt was supposed to be to you. Someone you saw twice a year on holidays? Someone who was like a second mom or more of a friend?
Mom was in the kitchen when I arrived, singing as she cut peaches. A Janis Joplin song, softer and sweeter in her voice than it was meant to be sung. And that was Mom. She turned everything beautiful and safe, even lyrics written in heartbreak and protest. I dropped my purse audibly on the counter.
Mom jumped. “Honey, I didn’t hear you.”
The knife hovered in her hand an inch above the peaches. Juice dripped from the cutting board onto the floor. Mom remained motionless, gripping the knife, watching me.
“Oh, Mom.” My voice faltered. Mom dropped the knife and ran to me. I let her envelop me, burying my face in her curly hair that looked like my curly hair, clutching her narrow frame, the same size as mine, my entire being a facsimile, a lesser reproduction, of hers. I squeezed her, feeling small again, like a child. Like her child.
Mom kissed the top of my head. I waited for her to tell me it wasn’t true, that it was all a big misunderstanding. I waited for her to rebuild my world, to make everything the same as it had always been.
“We wanted to tell you,” she whispered.
Those were the exact words I didn’t want to hear.
I pushed her away from me. “I shouldn’t have come here.”
I headed toward the door. Mom darted in front of me, blocking my path. “Miranda, don’t leave. Let’s talk about this.” Her eyes implored me to stay.
“Please get out of my way.” I wasn’t asking. It was all I could do not to curse at her. Instead, I said truer words, more hurtful. “She’s my mother, not you.”
“We wanted to tell you.” She grabbed both my shoulders. “I wanted so much to tell you, but Billy... He didn’t want you to know.”
“Don’t you dare blame this on Billy,” my voice roared.
She dropped her arms by her sides. “You’re right. This was my mistake.” She buried her face in her hands and started to cry.
“You’re not allowed to cry right now.” She cried harder. “Stop!” I screamed, startling her. For a moment, everything grew still. “Just stop.” I slid past her and headed to the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t be here. Not with you. I’m sorry, I can’t.” I didn’t storm off. I didn’t slam the door. I didn’t say anything cruel even though I wanted to. I simply walked out. And what was worse, she let me go.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I got as far as the corner. Once my parents’ house was out of sight, I couldn’t drive any farther. Not my parents’ house. My aunt and uncle’s. I didn�
��t know where to go. To the airport to get the first flight back to Philadelphia? Across that familiar path to the east side? Or should I drive, no destination, just pick a highway, any highway, until I arrived somewhere that felt right? Could you disappear if you’d never really existed?
It took me a moment to register the buzzing as my phone. I was relieved when it wasn’t Mom, when it wasn’t Jay, either.
“If you don’t get here soon,” Sheila said, “I’ll have to order a third martini, and it will be all your fault.”
“Get where?” It seemed impossible that life had continued, that martinis existed, that plans were made.
“To Westwood. Please tell me you’re close. You know I hate drinking alone.”
Westwood. I checked the calendar on my phone.
“Joanie’s play.” I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten. Even with everything going on, this was Joanie’s big break, when she’d be praised or panned, or worse, ignored.
“It starts in twenty minutes,” Sheila said.
Sheila was expecting me. Joanie was, too. Joanie, who had slept at my house most weekends in high school. Joanie, who went to restaurants with my family and helped Mom whip egg whites until they peaked. Joanie, who laid across my bed with me as we talked about boys and avoided our homework. Joanie, my oldest friend. Joanie, who knew me better than I knew myself.
“I’m on my way,” I said, turning over the engine and pulling away from the curb.
* * *
Sheila was waiting for me outside the Geffen Playhouse, fidgeting like a nervous mother.
“Come on, come on.” She rushed me into the theater. We found our seats moments before the lights went down.
The curtain opened to the Prosorovs’ living room. Joanie played Irina, the youngest sister in The Three Sisters. As Olga and Masha busied themselves with reading and work, Irina was lost in thought. Joanie wore a simple white dress and stared vacantly at the audience. The first line of the play was Olga’s: Father died just a year ago, on this very day. The anniversary of his death was also Irina’s name-day. Olga continued to explain how in a year they’d healed from a death that had felt impossible to overcome. Already, they were dreaming of the future, dreaming of returning to Moscow. I tried to focus on Joanie—beautiful, young Irina, the only sister who was happy—as she rambled about the value of work. My mind drifted to my own dead father, trying to locate moments when I should have discovered the truth.
When Mom and Billy had fought on my twelfth birthday, my first instinct was that they were arguing over my party, and they were. Billy had promised he’d be there. As my father, he should have shown up. All those times Billy didn’t turn up, Mom never grew exasperated. Or perhaps she did. Perhaps she’d hid it from me, so I didn’t have to be disappointed, so I didn’t have to realize the truth. I thought about the afternoons when Billy took me to Prospero Books, how I always imagined the store was waiting for me, and it was. It was waiting for me so much more than I’d understood.
In the final scene of the play, the three sisters embraced, sharing their unfulfilled desires and misguided dreams of Moscow. Joanie hugged those two actresses. They seemed like real sisters. While I’d always considered Joanie a sister, she had blood sisters, a connection we’d never know no matter how close we were. She had a mother, too. A neglectful mother but one who was hers.
“I would have interpreted the ending differently,” Sheila said as the actresses took their final bow. “I’ve always found the end sad. Determined, not hopeful. Maybe we need the end to be hopeful. Maybe we need to believe that life will decide and life will choose right.” I laughed bitterly at this, and Sheila eyed me, suspiciously.
We walked outside where several people milled around a fountain, sipping wine as they waited to meet the cast.
“How was your trip?” Sheila grabbed a glass of white wine from a tray. She asked me if I wanted one. I shook my head.
“Did you know?” I searched Sheila’s calm demeanor for the sign of a lie.
“Did I know what?” Sheila exclaimed, eager for a bit of gossip.
“You told me you came to our house when I was a baby. Do you remember?” I stood at full attention, ready to pounce the moment she twitched or stammered or did anything that seemed off.
Sheila rested her hand on my shoulder. “Miranda, I know I’m old to you, but I’m not senile. Of course I remember.”
“You said my mom was breast-feeding me,” I said.
“And?”
“Are you sure?”
“I think so,” she said, not understanding.
“My mother couldn’t have breast-fed me.”
Sheila crossed her arms, considering this fact. I waited for her to ask why it mattered, not certain I was ready to tell her my family’s sordid tale, to put it out in the open, particularly to a writer who might see it as a story rather than a life.
She snapped her fingers. “You know what, I dated a man after Billy whose sister had also had a baby. She might have been the one who breast-fed. I can’t remember.”
I wanted to push Sheila on her memories of that evening at my parents’ house, to help her find something amiss, a look Billy gave me, something my mother said that had struck her as off. Before I could say anything, the patio erupted in applause. Joanie and the two television actresses walked through the crowd, arm in arm. Joanie beamed. She was radiant. I wanted to be excited for her, but it was difficult to fight through my emotions, especially since I knew I couldn’t pull her aside to talk about me. I couldn’t steal this moment from her.
Sheila rushed to get in line to greet Joanie. Joanie was gracious with her fans, shaking hands and posing for photographs. When Sheila reached the front of the line, she handed Joanie a program and asked Joanie to make it out to her favorite middle-aged woman.
Joanie hugged us both before she was pulled away by an older man in a suit who introduced her to a circle of older men in suits. Some guy recognized Sheila and begged her to join him for a drink. She asked if I minded before dashing off. Joanie reappeared at my side, and we watched Sheila and her new friend vanish onto Le Conte Avenue.
“I want to be like that when I’m her age,” Joanie said wistfully. I didn’t mention that Sheila’s husband had killed himself, that Sheila’s confidence was an act, a way to fight the grief.
“You were amazing,” I told Joanie.
“Thank you,” she said in the rehearsed way she’d been thanking everyone on the patio, then she laughed at herself for pretending with me. “I was so nervous I don’t remember a second of it. I don’t think I missed any of my lines.”
“If you did, no one noticed.” I grabbed her hand and she squealed. We scanned the patio. “So tell me who’s important.”
As Joanie started to explain that the man in the suit was a producer, someone stopped behind Joanie and put her hands over Joanie’s eyes. She had dyed blond hair and wore layers of makeup. Joanie grabbed her wrist and turned to hug her.
“Jacks.” It was Jackie, Joanie’s eldest sister. Her mother and her other sister, Jenny, were standing behind Jackie. They formed a huddle, a secret meeting between family that I watched from the outside.
Joanie’s mother petted her hair. I tried to remember the last time Joanie’s mom had shown up to support her daughter. She’d missed every school play, leading roles at the tiny theaters on Santa Monica Boulevard. She continued to stroke Joanie, saying, “talented” and “star” and “famous” and “amazing” and “my daughter.” My daughter. I wanted to tear her hand away and scream that you can’t just turn up when someone succeeds, you have to be there along the way, but Joanie was glowing under her mother’s praise. Those comments meant more to her than the accolades of the executives and directors who had been at the show, the ones who might make her career.
Joanie and her family were going to have a drink somewhere on Westwood. “You’ll come?” Joanie asked me, h
er arms linked with her sisters.
I told her I was tired.
“Let’s get lunch tomorrow before my curtain call? No, wait, Chris’s parents are coming. Then his brother’s going to be here with his family. What about next week? Shoot, Lonnie and Sarah are flying in for the show.” I didn’t know who Lonnie and Sarah were. “The play will be over after Labor Day. We can do a weekend getaway to Ojai or something?” Joanie frowned. “You’ll be gone by then.”
“Joanie, it’s fine.” It was fine. It had to be. I was going through something, but Joanie was, too. I couldn’t take this away from her, but I couldn’t be part of it, either.
“Joanie, we should really get going,” her mother said.
“You were wonderful tonight,” I told her.
“You really think so?” she said, the perfect ingenue.
“Just don’t forget about me when you’re rich and famous.” I did my best to sound chipper.
“I’ll take you anywhere in the world you want to go.” She blew me a kiss as her sisters guided her through the gate. I watched the four of them disappear across the street, arms linked, a force against the chilly night.
* * *
When I got back to Prospero Books, I looked up Lee Williams, ruling out several Lee Annes and Mary Lees, a college football star and a glassblower from Detroit. There were still thousands of Lee Williamses in America. The Lee Williams I was searching for didn’t have a Facebook page. He didn’t use Twitter or Instagram. His picture didn’t even come up in images. I Googled Mom instead. Her likeness filled the screen. Dad’s arm around Mom at a formal event, Mom’s pretty face flush with wine and the energy of the room. Mom’s professional photo from her website, hand on hip, hair straightened, no-nonsense gaze. Mom and one of her clients, whom I could tell was an actress from her extravagant clothing, from her comfort at being photographed. I scanned the pages of photographs of Mom. I didn’t find any pictures of her with me. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d been photographed together. My parents weren’t big picture takers. They weren’t the type to commemorate every moment, to share the details of their lives with everyone they knew. I’d assumed it was because they were private, but they must have not wanted something to become obvious in photographs that I hadn’t seen in life. Maybe everything they did was decided around keeping their secret.
