Girl in Reverse (9781442497368) (16 page)

I blink. Twice. Three times, scrounging for an explanation. Instead I give him a
look
. A steely
none of your business
type of look, which I mastered from my mother, and pluck the picture from his hand.

Elliot holds the steering wheel. He stares through the windshield. I cannot look at his face. “That was undimensional,” he remarks, the way you'd judge a flat, old, dull work of art.

“What was undimensional?” And before I can suck the words back in, I know what he's referring to—
the kiss
.

I yank the handle and leap out of the car, my purse tucked up in my armpit. I don't even say thanks. Thanks for what—the ride or the insult?

*  *  *

I go straight to Ralph's room. He's sitting on the floor in his winter coat. “It's gonna take nine lives to figure out my life!” I say.

Ralph looks over, his face screwed up. “Is this a cat riddle?”

“God!” I cringe at the reflection of my pathetic lips in
his dresser mirror and swipe my mouth. I march over and bounce on his bed. “She wasn't there.”

“Yeah.”

“Gone Mom was the big Chinese archaeologist's daughter! Part of the team. She was supposed to come to America as a student, but the guy said she bailed out and stayed in China. That's a lie.”

“Yeah.”

“She was in the slides, though. You shoulda seen them.”

“I did.”

“No, I mean tonight, on the screen. She was there with the bodhisattva's hand against her cheek. You shoulda been there.”

“I
was
!” Ralph shakes his hands, palms up.

“What?”

“I helped the Chows carry some stuff in and I sorta stayed. I just got home. On my bike! Stealth. Last requirement on my
stalker
merit badge—check!” He gives me a grin.

My mind leaps off wondering if he witnessed my undimensional disaster. “So the game of Gone Mom Clue is over without a winner,” I say.

“Who was that tall lady?” Ralph asks.

“Sister Evangeline, from the orphanage. She helped me get adopted.”

“She's a
nun
?”

“She's an un-nun. She gave me that bootie and then she left.”

“Wow! Nuns rarely get fired.”

“She didn't get
fired.
She quit!”

“So maybe she couldn't quit until she gave you that shoe.”

“No way.”

“Well, why was she there?” Ralph says.

“I, uh, didn't ask her. I was so surprised and . . .”

Ralph gives me a look. “Well, you still can.”

“Can't. All I know is her name—Evangeline Wilkerson. I have no idea where she lives.”

“I do,” he says. “I followed her home, which took about a second because she went into an apartment house on Warwick Boulevard a half block away from the museum.” He raises his pointer finger. “
And
I saw her in the window when she flicked on a light on the second floor, left-hand corner on the front.”

“God. Did she
see
you?”

“Nope.” Ralph claws a pudgy hand through his hair. “Piece of cake.” He sighs. “I'm gonna be an archaeologist someday.”

“When'd you decide?”

“Just now,” Ralph says. “You know, all the tools, the sextants, and detective work, and art deals and ancient camel dung.”

“Well, you already know how to
lose
tools,” I say, “like Mom's compact. That's a start.” I feel rotten about her stupid compact. She's been frantic. We have both lied, saying we haven't seen it, which Ralph pointed out technically wasn't lying because we truly haven't seen it lately.

Ralph pours out a million details about shipping problems in China and the trials of reassembling the bodhisattva—dowel rods and special glues and matching paint samples and how it took years to find the pieces of the carved wooden throne in flea markets and pawn shops.

“How did you know all that?” I ask.

“The guy, Dr. Benton, explained it. Weren't you
there
?”

“Hmm . . . I was
distracted
, Ralph.” I get the pictures out of my purse. I want to review them and match them up with the statue. But when I lay them out, my blood freezes. The bodhisattva's head is missing. I know exactly where it is. I got into Elliot's car with six pictures and out of his car with five.

My head is on the pillow, my eyes are shut, but my ears are on duty listening for the phone in case Elliot calls about the photo, and listening out the window in case he leaves it by the front door in the middle of the night.

I reenact, for the thousandth time, the kiss fiasco. How could I have seen it coming?
What were you doing? Maybe you're just like a pigeon, a pigeon that sees a bit of Chinese stuff in front of himself, and whether he's hungry or not he can't help it—he swoops down and pecks it. Animal instinct.

I sit up, blinking in the dark, return to my folding chair in the Buddhist temple.
“. . . his daughter, Lien Loo, who planned to come study in the U.S., remained in China.”
Gone Mom caught behind Dr. Benton's myth. What should I do? Just leave her there or what?

The Thinker
jumps to his feet, looms furious at the side
of my bed.
What kind of idiot are you? Show him your pictures. Get answers.

Jesus preaches,
Seek ye the whole truth.

The
Girl before a Mirror
says,
Reach out.

The bodhisattva smiles, touches my fingertip.

They will all sleep better than me tonight.

*  *  *

Sunday morning the newspaper carries a big headline: “The Sublime Side of China,” with a front-page photograph of Dr. Michael Benton face-to-face with the bodhisattva. Dr. Benton stands with his hands in his pockets looking up like they are dear, old friends. I read his quote. “Our bodhisattva was the victim of a thousand-year wreck, the result of China's political collapse, religious turmoil, chronic warfare. It was neglected, abused, and scattered. Our team saved this sacred sculpture from oblivion.”

I search for the continued story inside, praying I won't be in a picture, but instead, right there in clear, full view is the whole finding team,
the gypsies
, in China, including the camels and my smiling first mother front row, center. It is the same picture he showed us Friday night.

Lien Loo, close up, right here at our kitchen table.

I stare down between my elbows at the squiggles in the tabletop and cry a little bit. She is closer and farther away every minute. Other photos show additional “finds”: a pair of Ming Dynasty vases, guardian lions called chimeras, a
famous carved jade disk, and a long shot of the audience that includes the back of Evangeline's head.

Dr. Michael Benton's quotes continue. “But all we brought together in China fell apart during shipping. We thought we'd have our bodhisattva in Kansas City a decade ago. Some things are simply worth waiting for.”

Floorboards creak upstairs. The toilet flushes. Dad will be down in a minute in his blue plaid robe and slipper socks.

The percolator waits for him. I fold the paper together and replace the rubber band. My hands are sweaty. My stomach is Jell-O.

“Morning, Lily,” Dad says with a flip of his wrist.

“Hi.”

He stands at the counter, opens the Folgers can, sniffs it—
“ahh . . .”
—before he measures. He walks to the refrigerator for the ritual look inside. He always does this. It drives Mother nuts.
Don't just stand there with the door open!
But she's not in here, so he's free to cool the whole downstairs if he wants.

He sits across from me, pulls his ashtray over, and lights a Lucky Strike. The match smells good. The percolator talks coffee. He gives the front page the once-over, shakes his head, and says in his crazy-ol'-world way, “What the heck? What'll they think of next?”

Huh? Do you mean the bodhisattva? China? Newspapers? Is it just the shock of seeing something that's Chinese and decent and peaceful?

“What?” I sound sharp.

“The Chows.” He points to the background of the front-page picture, where you can see them by their buffet table. He shakes his head. “My tenants. Those two don't miss a trick, I'll tell you that. A Chinese cafeteria in a museum!”

“What's wrong with Chinese food? Have you ever tried it?” I snap.

Dad turns, eyebrows raised as if to query,
Have you?
He pours coffee that sloshes onto his saucer. The coffee smell reminds me of Elliot. One and a half cigarettes later he comes to the inside page with more photos. I rub my thumb along the chrome table edge. Mother would die to know toast crumbs live between the rim and Formica.

Dad scans the pictures of Chinese vases and jade. He stops. His eyes tighten on the photo with Gone Mom. A tiny ripple seems to cross his face.

Do you know her? Did you hide my box in the attic? Did you look in it? Does her face ring a bell?

My heart is in the freezer, but my mouth can't stand the silence. “It's about art they found from old China.”

My father sniffs, scratches his thigh, sets his drippy cup right on the print as he reads.

“Java's ready!” he announces, instantly abandoning the article when he hears Mother. He refolds the front section and turns it facedown as she enters in her sateen scuffs and nylon mesh Sure Set Slumber Net. Dad gives her a peck and
carries his coffee refill and the sports page to the living room.

I cannot sit here one more second anticipating her looking at Gone Mom. And I cannot get up for the very same reason.

“Hey,” Ralph says, coming in. He flips open the paper and glances at me. He assesses the situation, eyes darting from the bodhisattva photo to Mother to me.
What gives?

He pours a glass of orange juice and plops onto a chair. I fan my nose. “God, go brush your teeth.”

“I did already.” He puffs into his palm, then turns it to me. “See?” Ralph leans across the table to study the bodhisattva picture. “Wow! Neat!” He holds it up for Mother. “Bo-dee-satt-vah, continued on page five.”

The roller coaster careens forward. I sit strapped in my seat.

Ralph scans the inside pictures. He's checking page five for a problem picture of one of us. He flicks me a look and points to the group picture. “Hey, Mom, these people—archaeologists and stuff—found this amazing statue from
China
and . . .”

Mother steps over, wiping her hands on the apron tied over her robe. She peers down. It's clear she doesn't register she's seeing my birth mother. “Beautiful,” she remarks, pointing to the pair of matching vases, “They'd be perfect in our front windows.” She adjusts the bobby pin in her left pin curl. “They're exotic.”

Ralph reads aloud that Dr. Michael Benton will work for several days in Kansas City researching artworks in our collection and updating their labels. “
Provenance
is everything,” he is quoted as saying. “The accurate history of an artwork is key. Meaning and identity are often revealed in layers.”

Ralph slides me the funny paper. Dad turns on the radio in the living room. Mother fills the toaster. And Gone Mom lies flat on her back on the kitchen table, smiling up at all of us.

*  *  *

Ralph is talking fast up in my room. “I checked it out first. I
saw
we weren't in the pictures before I showed Mom. If one of us
was
in a picture, I would have spilled my orange juice on it. I mean, didn't you want to know what she'd do when she saw the picture, if she recognized it?”

I release my hands from around his neck.

“She doesn't know about them,” he croaks. “I could tell.”

“Or she conveniently forgot.” I tilt my head. “But
Dad
acted weird.” Ralph looks up as if this is not news. “He was nervous the minute Mom came in. Folded the paper, turned it over.”

“Yep. He's always on
Vivian Firestone alert
.”

“What're you gonna do?” Ralph asks.

“Move to China.”

“Seriously.”

“Continue bulldozing piles of problems from my past and shoving them into today.”

Ralph looks at me as if this is a good thing, spreads his arms. “Your past is a thousand times more mysterious and interesting than your
now
.”

“Yeah. Whether I want it or not, my past
is
now.”

Monday after class I head down to the art room praying Elliot will be there. I will wait a second and see if he looks up from his drawing table and mentions finding my picture. If he doesn't, then I'll say I left my lipstick in his car and is it locked and can I borrow the keys so I can go out and get it, blah blah blah.

I will act as if life has not become surreal since our pigeon kiss.

But Catty Piddle is sitting on a stool by Elliot. He looks flattered by whatever she's saying, even though she's really not that cute—horse teeth, stubby neck, and that lumpy pageboy. Or at least he doesn't look miserable. He writes something down. Probably the time and date of some sorority beauty contest she's asking him to judge.

Gag.
“Hi, Patty,” I say.

She gathers her books. “Oh, hi. How are you?” Her
smile looks pulled up with marionette strings.

We dangle there a second, then she waves at Elliot, mouths
Thank you!
, and leaves.

Elliot's cheeks are splotchy red. He looks down, twirls his pencil on the table. As usual, when he needs to fill in an awkward silence, he doesn't. “I . . . I left something in your car,” I say. My voice sounds like it's
his
fault.