“I’m done with this,” said Lauren. Maybe she was talking to herself. “If you think of anything, call the Holt Police Department,” said Lauren. “I’m done.”
“I wish I could help you,” said Sylvia.
“Oh well,” Lauren said, her voice flippant in an obvious effort to mask pain. “Goodbye.”
“Bye,” said Sylvia, and Lauren hung up. Sylvia stood in the dark, holding the receiver. She thought of Sunny shrinking into her hooded sweatshirt. She felt Georgia’s soft arms embracing her. And then she conjured a vision of herself comforting a boy with a nightmare. A boy in his own room, with a window full of stars. Sylvia saw her hands pulling up a Superman comforter, tucking it around her child. “I’m here,” she would say, kissing his cheek, his forehead, his nose.
“Mommy’s always here,” she would say.
Through the bar window, Sylvia saw Victoria stagger to her feet. For a moment Sylvia thought Victoria had seen her and was coming toward her, but Victoria was just going to the bathroom.
It seemed an easy decision, finally. What can you do? Lauren had asked, and to Sylvia, it was a challenge. What can you do to save a stranger, a young woman who makes you laugh? What can you do to help someone who deserves kindness and the truth of the story that you have to tell?
Sylvia picked up the pay phone a last time and called the operator. “Collect call, please,” she said. She swallowed, gathering the strength to turn Victoria in to the authorities. Maybe Sylvia would go to jail herself for what she had done. She didn’t know, but the path forward was suddenly—blindingly—clear.
“I’d like to place a call to the police department in Holt, New York,” said Sylvia.
“One moment, please,” said the operator. “One moment, please, and I’ll connect you.”
6
Somebody’s parents had a house in the suburbs, on the beach. The parents were away, and there was going to be a massive party. Someone filled a 7UP bottle with vodka, and they started drinking in Grand Central Station. First Sylvia felt nothing, then jubilant, then a combination of wary and wanting more. She was seventeen.
Victoria had taken something else, some pills. Every time Sylvia was wild, Victoria was wilder. She wore a dress the color of blood. She leaned her head against the train window. She put on big sunglasses, her hair blew around her face. She wore no makeup; none of them wore makeup. Makeup was for nouveau riche, for bridge-and-tunnels.
By the time they got off the train, they were wasted. It was afternoon in the suburbs. Rich men were walking Labrador retrievers and buying ice cream. The dogs had collars printed with sand crabs and starfish. The men wore loafers without socks. Victoria was already too far along, her pupils wide and frightening.
They took a taxi to the address Victoria had written on her hand, the address of the house where the party would be. First they stopped at the Getty Mart for cigarettes, then drove along a road that turned into sand. The house had shingles that were bleached-out gray. Everything in this town had been in the sun too long.
Victoria and Sylvia put their bags in a guest room on the third floor. “This bed is so small,” Sylvia said. She was learning to complain—to expect more, always.
“We’ll snuggle up, then,” said Victoria. She was sitting at an antique dressing table, staring at her beautiful face in the mirror. Sylvia took up a silver hairbrush and ran it through her best friend’s tangled hair. Victoria leaned back against Sylvia. She smelled like Camel Lights. Then Victoria pushed Sylvia away and stood up to rummage in Sylvia’s bag. “Did you bring them?”
“Yes,” said Sylvia. Victoria had gone through Pauline’s drawers and found the jade earrings, the ones from her blood father. Victoria wanted them, wanted to wear them, and that was one small favor Sylvia had to give.
The party had already started. There were seniors in lounge chairs around the pool, juniors by the barbecue grill, sophomores making fruity drinks in the kitchen. When Victoria started dancing, Pauline’s earrings caught the light.
Sylvia started talking to a boy, a senior, Matthew Cohen. (Robert had dumped her the year before.) She could tell Victoria didn’t like it. Victoria kept walking by them, waving. Finally, she took Sylvia’s hand and dragged her outside. “What is it?” said Sylvia. “Vee, I like him.”
“I got some car keys,” said Victoria.
“What?”
“Let’s go,” said Victoria. “Let’s go to your dad’s house.”
“My dad’s house?”
Victoria’s face was animated, brilliant. She was looking for a fight. “We can talk to him, tell him that you need him,” she said. “Your father! He lives a few streets over. Ocean Avenue, I can find the house. He’ll listen to me. Trust me.”
“What are you talking about? No!” said Sylvia. She dropped her cigarette on the lawn and turned to walk away.
“Don’t leave,” yelled Victoria. “I can help you, Sylvie! I can make him see you!”
Sylvia hissed, “You’re being crazy.”
“I’ll fix it for you,” said Victoria.
With a boozy clarity, Sylvia realized she was sick of Victoria and her dramatic pronouncements. Victoria didn’t want Sylvia to be with Matthew or anyone.
Sylvia shook her head. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s just go back to the party.” As she walked across the lawn, leaving Victoria seething, unsaid words echoed in Sylvia’s mind: This isn’t a Nancy Drew book, Victoria. This is my life.
It was easy, so easy, to forget about Victoria. Time swung forward, and Sylvia was sitting in Matthew’s lap. He kissed her neck, and she picked up handfuls of sand and watched it run through her fingers. She felt a small flickering of desire, eclipsed fully by a flame of wanting more to drink. Matthew brought her a glass of something; maybe it was gin. There was no more tonic, he said. By this time she was lying on the beach, looking up at the sky.
Sylvia thought Victoria would find her when it was time for sleep. At some point, with Matthew passed out next to her, Sylvia realized it was time for her to say her good nights and go to sleep. There was a row of houses along the beach; Sylvia almost went into the wrong one but heard music from the right one, Blues Traveler’s “Alone.” A few people were still awake, either drinking or having sex, but most were passed out. There was a circle of people around a bong in the living room, but Victoria wasn’t there.
Sylvia found their room. It was empty. She got into the bed and entered a black passage of sleep.
By the time they found the dead woman on her bedroom floor, Sylvia and Victoria were back in the city. The owner of the house where the party had been held made his son give the police a list of everyone who had been to the party, and everyone on the list was interviewed.
As she had promised Mae, Sylvia told the police that Victoria was sleeping with her in the attic bedroom. Sylvia told them she had drunk two wine coolers.
The truth was that Victoria didn’t come back until dawn, and when she did, she woke Sylvia by flinging open the bedroom door.
Victoria’s dress was wet. She took it off and climbed into the bed, putting her face close to Sylvia’s. Her limbs were cold, and she was shivering. Her hair, too, was drenched. When Sylvia asked what had happened, Victoria said, “Please be quiet.” When Sylvia asked why she was wet, Victoria said, “Promise me you will never ask me that question again.” She said, “I love you so much, Sylvia, and I’m the only one who loves you, and you know that. You asked me to do this, and I did it. I did this for you.” Sylvia lay awake then, afraid to say another word.
In the morning Victoria handed Sylvia one of the jade earrings. She had gone for a midnight swim, said Victoria, shrugging without apology. The other earring, she said, must have fallen off in the waves.
Book Five
1
The days moved like molasses. In Baghdad, they kept sorting through rubble, trying to find something of my brother. In Austin, I went through the motions of living. Gerry and I ate and we slept, even made love. But I was not present. I was paused,
praying that my brother would somehow come home. I began to understand the parents of missing children who said they just wanted to find a body, even if it meant their son or daughter was dead. It was so awful to wonder and wait.
One afternoon Jonesey stopped by my desk, where I was staring into space. I was supposedly on floor duty, but no one had come in all morning. I felt like crying, though there were no tears left.
“Request for you,” he said. “Line two.”
“Send it to voice mail,” I said, rolling my stiff neck back and forth.
“No,” said Jonesey.
I looked up. “I’m about to go to lunch,” I said dully.
“You haven’t had a client in days,” said Jonesey. He put his hands on his hips.
“Oh, jeez,” I said, but Jonesey had whirled around and was walking purposefully to the front desk. He put the call through, and my extension rang.
“Lauren Mahdian,” I said. “Sunshine City Realty.”
“Oh, hello,” said a woman. The connection was bad; I could scarcely make out what she was saying. “I’m … Um, I’d like to find a house. Or maybe an apartment. I don’t have a job yet, but I’ve sent out my résumé.”
I rolled my eyes and mouthed Thanks a lot to Jonesey. “I’d be happy to show you around,” I said. “Is there a date and time that works best for you?”
“How about now?” said the woman.
I pursed my lips and breathed in, but Jonesey was watching. “Sounds great,” I said. “Right now sounds great. Why don’t you come by the office? We’re located in Hyde Park, at Forty-second and Duval.”
“Okay,” said the woman.
“What’s your name?” I asked, my pencil poised, but she had already hung up.
“Good luck,” said Jonesey, tossing his blazer over his shoulder. “I’m meeting Gil at Lucinda’s.”
“Have a great lunch,” I said. I played Scrabble online until I heard the front door open. A pregnant woman in a rumpled black dress stood in the front of the office, touching her hair. Her face was puffy. I stood and made my way toward her. I felt like I knew her somehow, though I did not know her.
“I’m Lauren,” I said, holding out my hand.
“Hi,” she said. She held on too long.
“Have we met?” I said.
“No,” she said. “I just— I’ve heard of you. The website. You look like your picture.”
“So you’re new in town?” I asked.
She sighed. “I just got here. Literally.”
“Great,” I said. “Would you like to sit down here? Or we could grab some lunch.”
“I’m really hungry,” said the woman.
“Fair enough,” I said.
We walked next door to Hyde Park Café. Aaron, one of my favorite waiters, sat us in the front room by a window. “I don’t think you’ve told me your name,” I said after the woman had ordered a lemonade and I’d ordered a Fireman’s Four.
“It’s Syl— It’s Sarah,” she said.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“Likewise.”
Aaron returned with our drinks, and the woman ordered a burger and fries. I said I’d have the same, though I really wanted another beer. “Can you tell me what you’re hoping to find?” I asked.
She looked out the window. “I like it here,” she said.
“Hyde Park Café?” I said.
“Austin,” she said. “It strikes me as a good place.”
It seemed I had hooked a nut job. “Would you like me to tell you about some of Austin’s premier neighborhoods?” I said.
“Where do you live?” said Sarah.
“I live east of I-35,” I said. “It’s called French Place.”
“Do you belong to a health club?” she asked.
“Um, no,” I said. “I don’t.”
“I think I’d like someplace in the country,” Sarah said.
“Westlake is very nice,” I said. “Or if you go south, there’s Circle C.”
“It’s just me and my baby,” said Sarah. “But I want him to have his own room. That’s very important. Two bedrooms. And a kitchen.”
“That seems reasonable,” I said.
“I want to be somewhere quiet,” said Sarah. “I want to stay home as much as I can. I want to be with him, you know?”
I had no idea what she was getting at. Had this person been abused? “Let’s talk about price range,” I said.
“I think I can be happy here,” said Sarah, staring out the window.
My phone buzzed, and I glanced down. (Gerry called it “getting figital” when I played with my phone in restaurants.) Detective Brendan Crosby was calling me from Holt, New York. I hadn’t talked to him since my fruitless visit.
“Excuse me,” I said. Sarah nodded and looked teary. I rose, bumping the table, and I went outside as I answered. I stood in the sunshine and watched a bus drive down Duval Street. A man pedaled past on a bicycle. He had two kids in a little buggy attached to the back. Though the father had no helmet, both the kids wore plastic saucers strapped to their heads.
“Lauren,” said Detective Crosby.
“Hi,” I said.
“I’m calling with some news,” said Detective Crosby. “Are you sitting down?”
“No,” I said. I looked around for a bench, but an amorous couple was wedged into the only available spot. I sank down on the front steps of Hyde Park Café. “Yes,” I said.
“Lauren, we just arrested a woman for the murder of your mother,” said Detective Crosby. “She’s in police custody. Her name is Victoria Bright.”
“What?” I said. I put my hand to my throat.
“We’re still getting all the facts,” said Detective Crosby. “We got Victoria’s name from a woman who contacted us with very convincing new evidence. She decided to come forward after all this time. And, well, it looks like Victoria Bright’s fingerprints match a set that was found at your house.”
“What?” I said.
“This is a really good day, Lauren. We have a call in to your father. There will be a new trial.”
“My father?” I said. I started laughing and crying at the same time. I waited for the smoky feeling, but things stayed clear.
“I’ll be in touch, Lauren,” said Detective Crosby.
“Oh my God,” I said. I repeated, “Oh my God.” The sun was hot on my face. I heard the bus pull away from the bus stop, and I saw a little girl standing by the ice cream shop next door, holding a strawberry cone. The pregnant woman came outside and sat down next to me.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m going to go now,” she said. “I hoped I would be here when you got the call.”
“My father …” I said.
“Thank you for telling me about Austin,” she said. “It seems like a good place.”
“I can’t believe this,” I said.
“Believe it,” said the woman. Without asking, she leaned over and embraced me. Surprising myself, I leaned in to her. I felt comforted, peaceful, in this woman’s arms. Her belly touched mine, and I thought I felt her baby—an elbow or a foot—although that may have been my imagination.
Sarah let me go and stood.
“Please be in touch,” I said.
“I’d like that,” said Sarah.
As I watched, she began to walk south on Duval Street. Something in her stride was familiar. She held herself like Alex, I realized—the way she moved seemed to convey an inner confidence. She turned back and met my eyes. I lifted a hand in farewell. I hoped we would meet again.
2
In the cavernous church, Mae bowed her head. She pressed her hands together in prayer and saw that they were old, the veins prominent and dark. She remembered her mother saying, as she shuffled slowly to take communion, This isn’t me, honey. This old person isn’t me.
Mae was an old person now. But she could still remember the August morning when she’d unpacked Victoria’s overnight bag and found a red dress, soaking wet. “Victoria!”
she’d called. “What on earth is this?”
Victoria had stood in the doorway of the laundry room, pale. She was wearing a bathrobe. Seventeen! She was just seventeen.
“Why is your dress wet?” asked Mae.
“I went swimming,” said Victoria.
“Swimming! Where?”
“We went to a party on the beach.” Victoria held up her hand as if to stop her mother from talking. She was shaking. “Listen,” she said. “Mom, something really bad happened.”
“Tell me,” said Mae. She sank back onto her heels, the dress falling to the floor. Victoria came to Mae and sat in her lap like a child. Mae ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair. Victoria began to cry, racking sobs.
“What happened, baby?” said Mae.
“It was a party,” said Victoria. “I was drinking. I drank so much.”
“It’s okay, honey,” said Mae. “Everyone makes mistakes.”
“No,” said Victoria, turning her face to her mother. “No! No, Mom! No!” She balled her hands into fists and shoved them into her eye sockets, saying, “No, no, no …”
“Get ahold of yourself, Victoria,” said Mae.
“I was drunk. We were at a party on the beach,” said Victoria.
Mae shook her head, trying to take it in. Her daughter on some beach, drunk …
Victoria went on, “I went to find Sylvia’s father—it was the same town. I thought I could just talk to him. I wanted to make him understand. Sylvia needs him!”
“Sylvia’s father?” said Mae. Her head spun. “What are you talking about?”
“I— I found some whiskey,” babbled Victoria. “It was in a glass bottle—a decanter. I just thought … I don’t know what I thought. I was going to drink some. I was going to talk to Sylvia’s dad. I went upstairs. I thought maybe I would find a place to sleep or something. I forgot which house …”
“Good Christ,” whispered Mae.
“Listen to me,” said Victoria, seizing her mother’s shoulders painfully. “Listen to me.” Mae nodded, her mind already a few minutes ahead. Victoria would finish this story, and Mae would call Preston, who would know a lawyer. Breaking and entering, unlawful trespassing …
Close Your Eyes Page 18
