The trouble with California was that it wasn’t level. Victor stood back, squinting into the early-October glare, and evaluated his progress. Ten wooden posts, the kind you’d use to stake your tomatoes, stared back at him, arranged in a largish, sloped rectangle beneath a shade tree. It hadn’t been easy to hammer them into the rain-starved hillside, that was for bloody certain. Like spearing a boulder with a toothpick. He’d never built a fence before, but the plan was to set up the posts, join them with horizontal slats, then wrap the interior with chicken wire. Problem was, in trying to find a good place to sink his posts on the downward incline, he’d set some of them too far apart. His slats were too short to reach from one post to the next.
After repositioning the errant posts and affixing the slats, after testing the entire structure for strength, after installing
his rudimentary gate, Victor leaned over, careful to press his tie to his shirt, and dug through his toolbox for his staple gun. Assured it was loaded, he took the roll of wire and stapled it to his first post. Nasty business, he soon discovered. The force of the staple gun dislodged a few of his stakes, and the edge of the chicken wire cut into his hands. Besides that, tiny jagged rocks and tough scrubby grass dug into his knees.
Some forty-five minutes later, he stood up, wiped off his trousers, and blotted his brow with his tie. It was an ancient Pierre Cardin with a herringbone pattern he’d never liked anyway. Made him dizzy. His white shirt clung to his wet back, and he desperately needed a glass of water. But, looking down upon his handiwork, he felt a rush of pride. The thigh-high pen might be a bit crude in its craftsmanship, and it might be lacking in finishing touches like fence caps and a gate that actually hung straight, but it would serve its purpose. It would keep a dog in and, with any luck, predators out.
He was ready. He’d called to check what day the manager was off. Fridays. And now that he knew what was expected of him—a little charade where he pretends to debate his commitment to raising a pet—now that he had a safe pen, he shouldn’t have any problem heading back down the road and bringing home his puppy.
But not today. Had to be a Friday.
A flash of movement next door caught his eye. Someone, a woman, was bent over a table in the backyard. He’d never seen her before. Must be the new neighbor. Nothing too stylish about her bare feet, sleeveless tan blouse, and garish-looking skirt.
She marched toward the back door, vanished for a bit,
then came back out with what appeared to be a plate of food. She set it down on the table and peered out at the scrubby hillside as if a few dozen dinner guests might be hidden in the prickly brush. Once or twice she paused to adjust her visor or swat away a fly, but mainly she remained focused on the vegetation.
There was something commanding about her movements that attracted him. Made him picture her fussing over the dinner table at Thanksgiving, good-naturedly slapping at little hands—or big ones—that reached out to grab a sliver of hot turkey. The image made him smile.
She sighed and removed her visor, tossing it on the table. Then, as if someone might be watching, she ran one hand over her smooth brown hair, held back by a clip.
Victor frowned, picking his way across his property to get a better look. Could it be? He climbed the weedy knoll that led up to her yard, careful to lean over and brace himself against the ground as he went. As he got closer, he broke into a smile.
Gen.
Hiding himself behind a screen of dying tree trunks, Victor gave himself a good dusting off. He tucked in his shirt and rolled his sleeves up to hide the dirt stains, then spat in one hand and ran it over his trim beard. With pounding heart, he steadied himself and tried to think of what to say. Comment on her new home, perhaps. Or ask about things back at…what was the name of that place?
He could see through the twigs that she was leaned over now, making kissing sounds and waving something in the air. He stepped out of the brush and onto the edge of her yard, stopping for a moment to pick a handful of yellow wildflowers swaying at his feet. As he gathered them into
a pleasing arrangement, he saw an animal emerge from the
bushes.
It was a coyote.
Victor stepped forward, “Watch it there!”
Without turning, she shushed him. “Quiet! You’ll scare him.” She got down on one knee and held out what appeared to be a steak bone. Kiss kiss went her lips.
He watched as the coyote—the scrappy one who got into everyone’s trash, his back grizzled with silver as if he were part of the dusty earth, his nose too small and his ears too large—wove back and forth in an effort to get close to the meat without getting close to the woman. He kept his black-tipped tail low against his hocks as if anticipating disaster.
“I think you should get inside,” said Victor. “That’s a wild animal.”
“Shh!”
The coyote stepped into the yard now, slinking lower as if crawling beneath a city bus. As thin as he was, his coat gleamed with health. His yellow eyes were intent on the offering as he inched closer, lost his nerve and raced back to the bush, then crept close again.
“Here, sweet thing,” said Gen. “Come baby.” Without taking her eyes off the animal, she called out, “Justin, you getting this?”
“Yeah.”
It wasn’t until now Victor noticed a teenage boy on the back deck. He stood perfectly still with a camera pointed toward his mother.
Kiss kiss.
The coyote stopped to consider things, planting his front feet wide and bobbing his head side to side. Then, in a movement so fast Victor barely saw it happen, the coyote
darted close, snatched the steak, and loped up the hill and into the brush. The back door slammed shut and the boy and the camera were gone.
The woman spun around, smiling at Victor. “Did you see? What a beautiful animal!”
Staring at the close-set brown eyes, the upturned nose, the chin so sharp it threatened to pierce the skin, Victor’s spirits sank. This wasn’t Gen at all. Not even close. A blue jay cried from somewhere behind him, and he realized it was his turn to speak.
Instead, Victor started back to his own yard. He threw down the flowers and called back. “You might want to clear away the dead brush at the edge of your property. It’s a goddamned fire hazard.”
T
HE PHONE WAS
ringing when he stepped into the kitchen where Lila sat eating tuna salad, scraping the metal bowl with her fork as she scooped up each mouthful. He shot her a look that reprimanded her for not jumping up to answer it—blasted thing hung on the wall just above her head—and she motioned toward her food. Victor snatched up the receiver. “Yes?”
“Is this Victor Mack?”
“It is.”
“Bob Rittenberg here from Air King Heating and Cooling. I’m calling about the résumé you sent in.”
Lila’s boot began tapping against the table leg. Victor nudged her, pointed toward the phone, and held a finger to his lips to shush her. “Oh, yes.”
“Are you free to come in for an interview? We’re looking for a senior sales rep for the Valley and you seem to have a good deal of experience.”
“Senior sales rep you say?”
“That’s right. I’m going out of town for a few weeks, but does two o’clock on the thirtieth work for you?”
“Just a minute, let me check.” Victor pressed the receiver to his stomach and waited a full minute before returning it to his ear. “No. I don’t think I can make it.” He didn’t need to look up. He felt his daughter’s shocked stare boring through the back of his head.
“Oh. Okay then. We have a district meeting on Monday, so that’s out. What about the Tuesday following? The seventh.”
“I don’t think so. But thank you for your interest.” He hung up the phone and leaned against the wall.
“They had a job for you?”
“They did.”
“And you turned it down?”
“I did.”
“Is there something wrong with this employer? Like they pay their staff in mittens? Or their units are built by seven-year-olds chained to fire hydrants in Pasadena?”
“Air King is a perfectly reputable outfit. I am simply choosing not to go back to work, that’s all. I choose to retire.”
Lila took a long sip of water, then took her dishes to the sink. “Is this another episode of confusion I should be concerned about? Because I’m not sure the financial arithmetic adds up.”
“Adds up fine.”
“Because I might not always be around, you know. You can’t count on me to support us forever.”
Victor couldn’t help it. The laugh snuck out. “You finding eventual employment and paying for me in my elder
years is not part of my plan, rest assured, my darling Mouse.”
She appeared to mull this over. “I might not even live anywhere close. Just so you know. I could wind up with a cat, living in New York.”
“I wouldn’t advise that. Cat hair is inexorable the way it drifts through the air and works its way into everything. It will demonize these paintings you refuse to show me.”
“They have hairless cats just like they have barkless dogs, and I’ll show you a painting. Eventually.”
“Yes, well. It’s the eventually that has me worried. Time passes very quickly and before you know it, everyone your age will have degrees and careers. They’ll pass you by and you’ll have no real marketable skills. Believe me, I’ve seen it. And your future—”
“My future?” She shook her head, incredulous. “I don’t even have a real past, or a real name—how do you expect me to build myself a future?”
“What are you talking about? You have a name.”
“A legal name!”
He sucked on the side of his cheek. “It’s legal enough.”
She laughed angrily. “Is that what you told yourself when we boarded the plane? That it was legal enough?”
“Don’t get glib with me on this. I told you I had my reasons. Is it so impossible to believe I knew what I was doing? That it was for your own good? My God, does everything have to be opened up and examined to death in this world today? Can you not just trust me on this?”
With an exhausted sigh, she dropped her bowl in the sink and stared down at it. “I’m trying—really trying—to be patient here. What I’m asking for is perfectly reasonable. I want your side of the story so I don’t wind up hating you
for what you did. Mum can’t believe the way you’re…” Lila stopped. Victor’s face had drained of its color and he bent forward, leaning on the vinyl chair for support. “What’s wrong, Dad?”
“You’ve spoken to your mother?”
Lila spoke slowly. “
Yes
. I told you. Mum’s here in L.A. I saw her the other day, remember?”
“This day…I knew it would come.”
She watched as he rubbed his jaw, trying to pick his way through the plaque building in his mind. As angry as she was, the confused expression on his face—a look that was appearing more and more frequently—made her feel like weeping for him.
“Dad, you need to see a doctor.”
He stared at her. “No doctors.”
“But—”
“No doctors!”
His eyes weren’t the same when he vanished from his own mind. They became the eyes of an old man. They opened too wide in an effort to see through the neurosludge and, in doing so, exposed spidery veins creeping toward the irises. Pink rims. Water that threatened to spill onto his cheeks, perhaps from tear ducts that burst from such desperate attempts to see life clearly again. The glaring light overhead revealed the skin beneath his eyelids to be papery and transparent. Bloated blisters beneath his eyes. His existence had never seemed so fleeting.
As he crossed the room to pull open the curtain, then peer outside and look for the cops, just as he’d done the other day, she walked up behind him, wrapped her arms around
his middle, laid her head on his shoulder, and squeezed him with equal parts fury, frustration, and sadness.
God, she was a selfish bitch for what she was thinking.
This gunk that was cruelly coating his brain was not only stealing away her father. If the truth about her past didn’t come out soon, it too would be gone forever.
The end of California summer stretched itself across the early days of October. The hills were baked to brown in most parts, scarred with dusty trails and clogged with bushes so parched they snapped from the stirring of a sparrow’s wings. With any luck, if the fires that raged in areas surrounding the city didn’t get too greedy, if the Santa Ana winds behaved, if the temperatures cooled down; the hills overlooking L.A. would soon be woken up, slapped on the cheek by their longawaited friend—the winter rain. Soon, paper-thin blades of grass, in Veronese green no less, would work their way through the trampled tangle of baked straw that covered the hills and the state would once again be rioted with life.
Her mother had been back in her life nearly a week; it had been the best and the worst seven days of Lila’s life.
Heaven to luxuriate in having a mother again. Hell to deal with Victor at home while coming up with excuses for his silence. As long as Elisabeth believed the conversation between Lila and Victor was about to happen, she was willing to wait. But the moment she realized her ex-husband-turnedchild-abductor was refusing to cooperate would be the moment she dialed 911. The excuses Lila had come up with had grown from reasonable (Dad wasn’t home last night) to downright lame (Dad had a bad day; he’s feeling a bit fuzzy just now).
Walking along Melrose Avenue, Elisabeth and Lila listened to the sky—usually sleek and silent and blanched to near white, but now dingy brown and cramped with bloat—grumble and belch overhead. It was the way Lila loved the rains to come on, with threats and warnings and days of false starts.
“I hope you didn’t mind me stealing away your afternoon,” said Elisabeth as she folded up her sunglasses and tucked them into her canvas bag. “It’s just that it’s been so long, you know? I didn’t realize how much I adored waiting for you outside your school until it was gone. Little things like that are the things that really get you.”
Lila hadn’t touched her mother yet. She’d allowed herself to be touched, hugged, but hadn’t had the nerve to reciprocate. Now, seeing the look on Elisabeth’s face, she reached over and stroked her mother’s cool brown shoulder. It was like touching lightning. Elisabeth looked up. It startled her too.
“It’s okay.” Lila pushed her hand into her back pocket. “I’m glad you came.”
“Me too. Someone stopped to ask me directions to the Wallace Stuckey building. He thought I was a student.”
“Or maybe a teacher.”
Elisabeth stopped and frowned. “Now why would you say that?”
“No reason. I just…”
“There was absolutely none of that sort of submissiveness or reverence—not even the slightest bit—that people use with teachers. I’m certain he thought I was a student.”
“You’re right. I mean, I’m sure you’re right.”
“Actually, I wouldn’t have minded if he’d asked me out. He was darling.”
Lila exhaled rather than laughed.
Elisabeth walked ahead a bit, her gait so smooth she might have been on ice. They came to a pretty shop with peach stucco.
VERY DEAR
, said the sign. Beneath the smooth arch of the window stood a silver mannequin wearing slim black pants, gleaming ankle boots, and a crisp, white trench coat. Elisabeth sighed as if it were an outfit she’d been eying for months. Who knew? Maybe she had. “Classy, don’t you think?”
“Definitely. You’d look good in it. Try it on.”
Elisabeth lit a cigarette. “Forget it. You know what ‘very dear’ means? Very expensive. I’m afraid I’m destined to be a window shopper only.” She sucked on the cigarette, then exhaled slowly. “Did you get an answer from your father yet?”
“It’s been a crazy week. Soon, though. I promise.”
“Has he explained anything at all? I mean, what does he have to say for himself?”
“Not much.” Two girls came out of the store, both clutching enormous bags overflowing with silver tissue. Lila moved aside to let them pass. “He’s been having these spells. Plus not sleeping. It’s been a rough couple of months, actually.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s Alzheimer’s. Early onset.”
“That’s kind of what I was thinking. But he hates doctors. Refuses to go.”
Elisabeth looked at her, amused. “Of course he doesn’t go. The man’s been surviving on illegal documents for over a decade. If anyone dug into his files too deeply, they’d find out Victor Mack doesn’t exist. Have you ever known him to see a doctor?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not.”
“What about you? Did he take you to doctors?”
Lila ran her fingers along the edge of her shorts. “I’ve always been healthy.”
Elisabeth laughed angrily and sighed. “The lawyer warned me about that. Doctor. Dentist. Eye doctor—we’ll need to book them all. Please tell me you’re on the pill.”
“The pill? I really don’t have any need for—”
“Baby, your dad’s fudging to buy himself time. He could even be making travel plans. My lawyer is breathing down my neck about this; I really think we need to act now.”
“I need a few more days. It’s just, it’s hard to know what’s going on with him right now.”
Her mother half laughed, half grunted. Then she shook her head. “I should just hold my tongue. Even with what he’s done, I don’t want you to get stuck in the middle. I’ve never wanted to be one of those parents who gains ground with her children by denigrating their fathers. That kind of thing is damaging to young people.”
“I guess.”
They strolled along once more, this time in silence.
“So tell me more about this psychic,” Lila said after a minute or two. “It’s wild she told you to come west.”
“I met her back in Toronto. Amelia was her name.” She rolled her eyes, reddened. “You’ll probably think this is crazy.”
“No, I want to hear.”
Her mother hesitated, still unsure.
“Seriously. I’m into that kind of thing.”
“Well, I was just walking up Amelia’s driveway—I don’t have the gold Mazda anymore. Not with all it cost to look for you. I’ve been using the subway. Got myself a Metropass and it gets me around well enough. Kind of embarrassing at my age, but that doesn’t bother me. Of course, here I had no choice. I leased the little Toyota.”
Lila nodded. “What happened with the psychic?”
“Right. I walked up her driveway. She lives just off the Danforth in a narrow place with a shared driveway. Remember? Just like in Cabbagetown. The kind where you knock off your side mirrors every time you back out, but—if I’m going to be honest—hers isn’t nearly as charming as ours.” She paused and Lila worried the story had gone off-road again. Paranoia from living with Victor in recent days, she supposed. But Elisabeth continued, “So, walking up the driveway, I got to thinking about the way you used to sit on the hot pavement in your shorts and leather sandals and draw all over the driveway with that big fat sidewalk chalk. And how you refused to use the white chalk because it reminded you of school. Then I knocked on the screen door, and the moment Amelia let me in, she said, ‘Who’s the young girl with the blond hair?’ I knew right there to trust whatever she said. And she told me you were out west.”
“That’s incredible.”
“She didn’t know where, exactly. But the more she went
on, the more apparent it was that she was seeing palm trees. And hot sun. Never-ending sun, she said.”
“She got that right. Other than today.”
“Then she said you looked very different. Your dyed hair, I suppose. I figured he’d either have cut it off or colored it. Not exactly necessary, if you think about it; it’s not as if I knew to come here before now.”
“Are you planning to stay in L.A.?”
“I’d like to.” She smiled. “Especially now. But beyond selling the odd painting or sculpture, I’m not really earning anything. It takes me a long time to finish a piece of work these days. I’m not one of those artists who keeps pumping them out.”
“No? I always imagined you working away at it.”
Elisabeth blushed, touched her throat. “Don’t forget the years have been stressful. Some years I managed a watercolor or two, or maybe a small figurine, then other years, well. It’s not the number you produce—it’s what you sell them for.”
“I guess. I just can’t imagine not painting all the time. I finish hundreds, I just don’t keep them. One day, I like to think, I’ll have enough confidence that—”
“To be honest, what I became very good at, and grew to love, were the media interviews. All the activity surrounding your disappearance made your mother something of a star. One time I popped into Pharma Plus for vitamins and caught two older ladies whispering and staring at me. They actually came up to me and said they’d seen me on Citytv. Can you imagine? It was like being a celebrity. I thought for a minute they were going to ask for my autograph.”
They strolled past a coffee shop, through the delicious scent of fresh-roasted beans. “But speaking to the press isn’t
a skill that would translate into many positions, other than maybe newscaster. And I’m too old to start up with that.” She turned to her daughter, studying her face. “You could, though. You have the presence, the looks. The camera would love you.”
Lila laughed at the suggestion. “I’d be terrible. I’d blurt out the wrong thing. Draw on my clothes.”
“Don’t be too quick to dismiss it. There’s a reason so many people chase fame. It feels damn good to be a celebrity. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the attention.”
Lila tried to make sense of it. Her mother came to
enjoy
being interviewed about her abducted daughter? And missed the attention once it died away? She supposed it was possible to become so entrenched in the job of looking for someone that it becomes part of your makeup. Even people kept captive could feel anxious or displaced upon their rescue. She’d seen it on TV. “Maybe.”
Elisabeth stopped at the corner of a short street called Bitter Cherry Drive and pointed toward a grand two-story Georgian mansion with thick columns stretching from roof to ground. Black shutters flanked massive windows, and vines scrambled up the whitewashed bricks. Iron fencing buffered it from the street, but the imposing gates had been left open. The front yard was a gravel courtyard lined with riots of trees and tropical shrubs.
“Wow,” said Lila. “Nice place.”
“It’s not mine. Belongs to a friend I met when we first arrived. It’s converted to apartments inside; the rooms are mostly rented out to artists. There’s a photographer and a few students. Worth about four million, if you can believe it.”
They walked into the courtyard, gravel crunching beneath their feet. “Incredible.”
“I have a little deal with the landlord. I get half-price rent in exchange for art lessons. He’s a very talented individual, but he’s struggling a bit with his creativity. We think working in another medium might be just the jolt his subconscious needs. What he doesn’t know is he could also use the sort of stability a female brings.”
“So you’re dating?”
“Not for now. But we’ll see. I would definitely consider it.” She pointed toward a pond in the center of the courtyard, where a concrete statue held an urn on one shoulder. “The fountain comes on after dark. It’s set up on a timer.”
“Pretty glamorous place to live.”
“I suppose so.”
Elisabeth pointed to a tree at the far edge of the property. “It grows oranges. Kieran loves picking them, but I never let her eat them. Nothing serious, but her hands break out in these tiny red bumps. The itching makes her crazy and I refuse to use those corticosteroid creams on a child. On myself either. People are always looking for that quick fix. Well, I never used that stuff with you, not even with the eczema you used to get each winter. No, it was oatmeal paste for Delilah Blue and it’s oatmeal paste for Kieran Scarlett.”
Lila imagined, rather than remembered, her mother standing at the kitchen counter of the Toronto house, stirring oatmeal in one of the deep cobalt bowls from her childhood. “Must be why I love oatmeal.”
Elisabeth’s face broke into a smile. She linked her arm through her daughter’s and led the way toward the house. “Come. Let’s go upstairs.”
T
HE INSIDE OF
her place had the sorrowful stillness of an apartment that had sat empty for too long. One that had
seen too many residents come and go to waste any energy on absorbing the personality of any particular person. The curtains were gathered so tight that they seemed more intent on keeping in the dark rather than blocking out the light, and the minimalist futon-sofa-and-black-TV-stand decor allowed the stains on the battered carpet to become the only real focal point in the room. If Lila had hoped to gain any insight into whom her mother had become in the years since they’d parted, it wasn’t going to come from this lifeless space.
“The furniture came with it.” Elisabeth yanked back the curtains. “Amelia said I wouldn’t be here long, which gave me such hope. Of course, now I hope she’s wrong because I don’t want us to be apart.” Staring at Lila, Elisabeth set her hands on her hips. “Now what can I get you? A cup of tea?”
Lila nodded. “I haven’t had tea in years.” It was so different with Elisabeth. So easy. With Victor, she had to fight for her place as child of the family. He had always needed his daughter to pick up grapefruit juice from the store, top up his scotch, soothe irate neighbors who found notes on their cars. With Elisabeth, she could just stand back and let her mother be the parent. Take Lila for breakfasts on Sunset, brew her tea. It felt delicious.
She followed her mother and dropped into one of two vinyl chairs squeezed into what was probably not meant to be an eat-in kitchen. Just as she kicked off her boots, settled back in her chair, and tucked her feet beneath her, Lila felt a small, demanding presence. She turned to find Kieran standing, calm and silent, right behind her. “Kieran! Where did you come from?”
“From the babysitter.”
“Just across the hall,” said Elisabeth. “Works out well because Kieran can run home as soon as she hears our door thump shut.”
Kieran blinked. “I go there after school some days.”
Lila looked down at the girl’s outfit. Same as at the restaurant: trim white blouse, pleated skirt, kneesocks, and oxford shoes. “Must be some fancy school.”