by Lisa Unger
“Maybe he did,” she offered, looking up at him. In the firelight, his features were licked by darkness, eyes hollow, valleys on his cheeks.
Pop had a way of creating a silence that made her question her own statements without his saying a word.
“But he probably didn’t,” she said finally, looking toward the flames.
“When Stella died and you disappeared, it was one less bill to pay, one less problem to manage. The guy is obviously emotionally bankrupt.”
Like father, like daughter? Maybe that’s where she got it, the emptiness inside, the absence of feeling.
They’d done their research. Her father was on LinkedIn but not Facebook or Twitter, not Instagram. But from the posts of his daughters, and some family friends, they had a picture of him. A profile they’d developed.
Pop went on. “He has family. A wife. Two daughters. A big job as a bank executive. If you turn up, start making noise, he’ll pay to make you go away. That’s my guess.”
In the few pictures they’d found online, he was stiff, unsmiling. A family portrait where his lovely dark-haired girls sat before him and he draped a possessive arm around his petite, fake-smiling wife—who looked a little like Stella. He was tall, severe with a large forehead and dark eyes, thick eyebrows that formed a perpetual frown. He had the aura of judge, warden, strict principal, someone who could wither with only a glance. The one picture they’d found of him smiling had been with his dog. A Rottweiler who resembled him not a little.
He was certainly not the father of her imagination. The spy. The soldier. She’d always thought of him as svelte, with sandy hair and a ready smile. Someone funny, adventurous, in on the joke of it all. Someone like Pop.
“What if he killed Stella?” Pearl asked.
Pop considered this with a lift of his eyebrows, as if maybe it hadn’t occurred to him.
Which she was certain it had; because he always thought of everything. Or so she believed at the time.
“Unlikely,” he said after a moment. “But if he did, he’ll be even more motivated to make you go away. Maybe he’ll pay up even more.”
“Or.”
“Or?”
“Or he’ll kill me.”
Pop pulled her up and into him. She let him hold her, her arms at her sides. He released her and took her cheeks in his palms. “As long as I’m alive, no one is going to hurt you.”
She smiled; he kissed her on the head. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she said.
“I always keep my promises. You know that.”
They were quiet a moment.
Then he went on. “I think since he’s made a habit of paying people off, he’ll continue doing that. The best predictor of future behavior—”
“—is past behavior.”
But something about what she said hung between them. The silence swelled.
“Make a soft approach,” he said finally. “Nice and easy. Don’t startle him.”
So she’d sent him an email to the address she’d found on LinkedIn. The subject line read: This is Pearl. In the body, she wrote: Do you know who I am?
She waited. One day. Two days. No response. She went through all the gyrations—wondering if she had the wrong email, if an assistant went through his inbox, maybe it went to the junk folder. Three days. Four. She felt an uncomfortable wanting. But what she wanted precisely she couldn’t say for sure. She didn’t want a father. She didn’t care about the score, not the way Pop did. But still, there was an ache inside her that she couldn’t name.
She took the train to the city, left a note for him at the front desk of his office.
I am Pearl. Do you know who I am?
She left the number of a burner phone she’d picked up. It had been a pretty stupid move, considering the network of security cameras that existed now, a web all over the city. But she didn’t know about that, then. She knew that Pop didn’t like smartphones, said that they were practically tethers. But she didn’t know about the network of home cameras, security cameras, and police-owned surveillance that was just starting to crisscross the world.
She waited. No email. No phone call. Five days. Six.
“Maybe he didn’t get my email,” she agonized to Pop. “Maybe the woman at the desk trashed my note. She looked at me like I was something she wanted to scrape off her shoe.”
“Or maybe he’s just hoping you’ll go away.”
She thought about giving up. There was a pile of homework for her major in psychology—useful in any profession. Her professor was interesting, someone who pushed and challenged. Pearl had even started dating a guy who made her laugh. When she looked back on that moment in her life later, she thought that maybe the doorway to “normal” was open just a crack. She could have walked through possibly. But Pop.
“Time to turn up the heat a little,” he said. “Just a little.”
Her father’s house. It was so—beautiful. It wasn’t that it was so grand. Certainly, there were grander. But the brilliant green of the lawn, the crawl of bougainvillea around the pergola that hugged the garage, the brick stoop, red door, black shutters, white siding. How his BMW glided from the driveway when he left for work, sometimes with his younger daughter (the older already away at college) in the passenger seat. Her glossy black hair, slim body, pretty clothes.
She was lovely. But it was more than that. She was oblivious to the darkness in her life; she only knew the light. Pearl could tell by the smooth innocence on her face, the careless way she walked, and tossed her backpack into the trunk, stared at the phone in her hand. Life for her was easy. Nothing ever broken that couldn’t be fixed. Nothing ever lost that couldn’t be replaced. Her life was so easy that she didn’t even know there was another kind of life—hardscrabble and unpredictable.
That ache. It was a black hole inside Pearl, swallowing light and time.
For a week, she just watched, burning with feelings she could barely understand.
She parked just up the street in the mornings, watching as they left for work and school. Then she’d leave after his wife departed for her morning errands.
Pearl then returned around 3:30 to watch the girl come home on the bus, usually with a gaggle of friends. Designer clothes and styled hair, lip gloss, and bubbling laughter—teasing, pushing, chasing. They’d disappear behind that red door and to Pearl it seemed like they had entrée to a world from which she’d always been, always would be, excluded. A world not of privilege, but of belonging.
Then one night in the gloaming, she climbed out of her car and began slowly walking up the street. She knew he’d be pulling into the driveway at 6:10, so she made sure she stood behind the big oak—out of view of the house, but visible from the driveway. She stood listening to the birdsong and the wind kicking leaves up the street.
When he pulled in, he turned his head and saw her.
She lifted her hand, and they locked eyes. Did he know her?
Then, he turned his head and the garage door opened. He pulled inside. She waited, heart thumping, thoughts wild. Did he see me? Recognize me? Maybe it’s too dark. Maybe this is too bold.
The garage door closed heavily behind him, rumbling and squeaking, quieting the evening birdsong. He never even exited the car.
She walked back to her vehicle. Her inner life was usually cool, but that night it roiled with a storm of anger she didn’t know was possible.
It was something deep, something that maybe had always been there, lying neglected, silent. She got in her car and drove, gripping the wheel, until she came to an empty parking lot across from a deserted sports field. Pearl pulled in there, found a far spot, stopped the car.
A long wail, like a siren, escaped her throat. A sound she didn’t even know she could make. It rocketed through her; and then she did it again and again, pounding on the steering wheel. She screamed for herself, for Stella, in rage at
the man who was her father, his pretty, clueless daughter—her sister?—the normal life she’d never had. Even Pop—who was what? Her father? Her captor? The man who probably killed her mother? And yet she was hooked into him in a way she had never been to anyone else.
Then a flood of tears, as if a whole lifetime of pent-up emotion was released in a single moment.
When it was over, she was spent, exhausted, rested her head on the wheel, her breathing ragged. The sun set, casting the field in gold. Then streetlamps came on. Finally, she was in darkness. After a while, she took the long drive home. Home. Back to the house she shared with Pop.
But when she got there, the house was empty, as it often was lately. Pop was busy. He had a new job, something that was taking a lot of time and energy. She was often alone with her schoolwork, with her books. She read and read, just as she had always done—disappearing into other worlds, other lives.
When she checked her email on returning to her laptop, there was a note from her father. Her biological father. The man who was nothing special.
Yes, it read, I know you. Should we meet?
THIRTY
Anne
On the kitchen counter, there were three phones, all charging. Two burners, both flip phones, and a smartphone. Anne currently managed four email addresses, five post office boxes. And she held two properties, condos, owned by a shell corporation. Thanks to Pop’s crooked old lawyer, Merle, her assets were managed, and she had a single legal identity that was utterly clean—passport, Social Security number, driver’s license.
That identity was her escape hatch. She’d finish up what she was working on, and then she was going to go clean.
“This is my final—act,” she said out loud.
She didn’t like the word “con.” It had such a base connotation—a scam, rip-off; there was something ugly about the word that didn’t reflect all the careful nuances of the game. What she did, what they did, it was so much more than theft. It was a science and an art, a delicate give and take. Pop believed that he gave as much as they took, which she always thought was bullshit. But later she saw that there was a truth to it, without it being the whole truth.
Pop was quiet, which meant he disapproved or disagreed. He was just a ghost in the corner today, barely a shadow. That’s what he was. A ghost. A shadow. Long gone but still with her.
“And then what?” he said finally.
That was Pop. He was always accusing her of going in too deep, getting too personal, giving too much. But Pop? He didn’t even know who he was when he wasn’t running a game. He’d become edgy, restless. He’d sit blank for hours, as if he’d been powered down. He was nothing without it.
But it wasn’t like that for her.
She could become anyone, go anywhere, shift off one self, pick up another. She could give it up anytime. And when she did, she’d spend some energy getting to know herself finally—the real girl behind all the masks she’d worn.
“I’m tired,” she said. “I want to just ‘be’ for a while. Travel. Take some cooking classes in exotic places. Learn how to ski. Whatever. Whatever it is people do.”
He laughed a little—gently, not unkind. Never unkind. He loved her, in the way that he was able. “Life’s not like that for people like us, kitten.”
“I’m not like you.” It came out edgy, defensive. Softer, “I’m not.”
“Oh, no?”
“I can live without it.”
“Are you sure?”
One of the burner phones jumped and danced. Ben.
She’d been out of contact since their last chat. He’d called several times, texted, emailed. Then he’d gone silent for a while. She could imagine him sweetly worried, but also desperate. She’d given him something—hope that he could love someone again, that he could be loved. She fed his broken ego with her words, her need for him, their talks when she’d asked his advice, the photos they’d exchanged. She’d given him the free flight of fancy. What might be.
Pop always said that you couldn’t con an honest man, but that wasn’t the whole truth. You couldn’t con someone who didn’t need something, who didn’t want something badly enough to believe it was possible.
“You like him,” said Pop. “Is that it?”
She didn’t answer him.
“Big mistake.”
She picked up the burner phone, scrolled through Ben’s texts.
“What?” goaded Pop. “You think you’ll get married. Settle down. Leave this life behind?”
She could just let Ben off the hook right now. Never answer him again, close down her profile, cancel the email she used for him, trash the phone. He’d be sad that he’d lost “Gwyneth.” He’d get over it. Eventually. But she didn’t want to let him go.
I’m so sorry, she typed. I’m okay.
I’ve been so worried.
My sister, she overdosed. She’s in the hospital. Just dealing with all of this. I’ll call you later.
Her phone rang. It was Ben but she didn’t answer.
“He’s ripe,” said Pop. “He’s hooked. Right now, he’ll give you anything. He’s desperate to keep you in his life. Don’t give that desperation time to turn to anger. You know how men get when something gets taken away from them.”
Sorry, she typed. I can’t talk. I didn’t want to say it like this.
?
But this situation with my sister. Life is short.
What are you saying?
I love you, Ben.
It almost felt true. Even though she wondered if she would recognize a true feeling within herself. She waited, a little breathless.
I love you, too. I wanted to tell you in person.
Soon. I promise.
Looking at the words on the screen, she felt the utter disconnection of the text message. How it floated in space, no touch, no tone, no expression. It was perfect for the con, a blank slate that others could fill with meaning. But so flawed for true connection. And, yet, she felt a connection to Ben. Didn’t she? She wanted to tell him her real name. Her real story. But how could she now?
“Wow,” said Pop. “I stand corrected. You’re the master. Keeping him on the line, driving that hook in as deep as it can go.”
Her other phone pinged. She picked it up. It was from Selena.
Who are you? it read. What do you want?
Good questions. Truly.
“Too many balls in the air,” said Pop. “Didn’t I teach you never more than one? How many do you have going—three?”
It was just two now. Ben and Selena. She’d let the others go—the family who thought she was a long-lost cousin, the guy who thought she’d hacked his camera and caught him watching porn.
“This is it, Pop. Just this one last thing. And I’m done.”
“Yeah. That’s what they all say.”
The silence expanded between them. She almost killed Ben’s burner phone, but then didn’t. He was her escape hatch. She could easily become the woman he thought she was. She could disappear into that life if she wanted to, couldn’t she? Maybe she could even stay there. Maybe she even wanted to.
“So, who are you, kitten?” said Pop. “What do you want?”
She caught a reflection of herself in the window over the kitchen sink. Just a dark form, lit from behind.
“Maybe it’s time for me to find out.”
He issued a soft chuckle.
“Start peeling back those layers, you might not like who you find.”
THIRTY-ONE
Oliver
Stephen was stupid. He was snoring, mouth wide open, arms flung over his head, cheeks flushed. Oliver watched him, wished he was sleeping, too. But he couldn’t. Because his mom was in the room next to them, and after an evening of closed doors, and lowered voices, he heard her crying through the wall. She’d come in to read to them, give them kisses. She l
ay with them a while, as long as they promised not to talk. He knew when his mom was upset—when she was sad, when she was tired and cranky, when she was mad at Dad. When she was mad at them. He knew. Stephen never noticed anything because he was stupid.
Oliver wished that he was stupid, too.
He knew that something was wrong, and no one would say what. He’d talked to his dad earlier that day. Take care of your mom, he’d said, his voice on the phone sounding strange and far away.
Where are you, Dad?
Don’t worry. Everything’s okay. You’ll see. A couple of days and things will be back to normal.
But he’d never heard his dad sound like that. There were unfamiliar noises in the background of the call—a ringing phone, voices he didn’t recognize.
Everything’s okay. Just hang tight.
His mom had said that, too. But Oliver was old enough to know that when grown-ups kept saying that, then it wasn’t true. Things were not okay.
And, then, after Mom left their bedroom, went back to the room next door where Jasper and Lily slept when they were all visiting together, after they’d been quiet for a long time, he heard his mom crying. Not just getting teary, the way she sometimes did. Not yelling-crying the way she sometimes did when they were really being “little assholes,” as their dad liked to say. Just crying. Stuttering breaths, little sighs. Crying the ways girls did, long and sad. She cried for a while, probably didn’t think anyone could hear her, and then she was quiet.
He got out of bed and walked through the jack-and-jill bath (why did they call it that?), pushed the door open. He walked over to the bed. He was going to ask to climb in with her. But the bed was empty. Mom was gone.
Maybe she went downstairs the way Grandma did sometimes. Sometimes Grandma went down and made warm milk. A couple times he’d followed her. And they sat and talked, about whatever—school or comic books, things his mom and Aunt Marisol did when they were younger. The tree house that used to be out back of what was now Grandpa’s house, what trip Grandma and Paulo were taking. Why Grandma and his real grandpa weren’t married anymore. Sometimes people fall out of love, and they’re just better off apart. Sometimes that happens. And it’s hard at first but then, after a while, everyone adjusts. It sounded like another lie that grown-ups told. Zander said that it sucked, even with two birthdays, two Christmases. But Oliver’s mom wasn’t a kid when Grandma and Grandpa got divorced. And his real grandpa was way less nice than Paulo.
