The Vanishing Year (17 page)

He stayed for quite a while, his big hands around her shoulders as we watched baseball at night instead of our usual
Golden Girls
reruns. I tried to protest but Evelyn smiled and patted my knee, and kissed Mick's cheek. He stayed through Evelyn's birthday, which was in October, and right up to Halloween. I had wanted to be a hippie but Evelyn forgot to make me a costume so I was a scarecrow again, my outfit from the year before recycled. The jeans with the hay hems were too small, so we just left them unbuttoned.

When Evelyn and I came back from trick-or-treating, Mick wasn't there. The next morning, he wasn't at the breakfast table, or hogging the bathroom, filling it with steam and stink, and Evelyn's face was red and her eyes were half-closed. I knew she'd been crying.

Then a week later, he still hadn't come back and I was flopped in her room, watching her get ready for work after school. She stood facing her closet wearing just her bra, her hands resting delicately on her hip bones as her foot tapped impatiently. She was searching for her uniform, a starchy maroon-and-white thing. One of her jobs at the time was as a hotel maid working early mornings.

“What's that?” I pointed to her arm, yellow speckled dots, four of them in a row, like thumbprints in icing.

She looked, casually, and ran her index finger over the smooth vanilla skin of her bicep and shrugged. “Oh I must have bumped into something.” But she turned away from me and put on her uniform real quick after that.

Only later, when I was a teenager, she'd tell me how hard it was to
find a good man.
I'd remember Mick and think,
he was not a good man.
Sometimes he'd come back, then disappear for long stretches, leaving her to cry alone in her room, long into the nights. I'd asked her once if my father was a good man. She'd laughed, always, that tinkling soft giggle.
Only the best.

I swore I'd never be like her, the preening, making it all
just so,
promising this time would be different. I hated to see her weak, could hardly stand it.

Once I started college, I'd catalogue the boys I met:
Good Men
and
Not Good Men.
Sometimes it was easy to tell the difference, the
Not Good Men
would drink and paw at me, pulling on my jean shorts in dark corners of fraternity parties. If Evelyn had met Henry before she died, she would have clapped her small hands together and sighed.
Oh! You found one!
Evelyn was easily charmed, and Henry's favorite pastime was being charming.

I think of Henry now and his gentle smile, his eyes crinkled in the corners as he humors me. The way only I can make him laugh. The way he checks up on me, worries about me, frets and fusses like a finicky cat. His soft, careful hands on my body, his mouth on mine. The way he gives me the last piece of lobster always. How he brings me gifts, small trinkets, flowers, a key chain, because he
just can't stop thinking about me.

He's nearly perfect. But is he good?

CHAPTER
17

I lurk near a potted plant, my hair tucked back into a baseball cap that I found in the bottom of our closet, dusty and faded. I've never seen it on Henry. The gym buzzes with people entering one door in business suits with briefcases and attaches, exiting through another in spandex and Lycra, as though on a conveyor belt. I hover behind the one-way mirrored wall. I can see in, no one can see out. I scan the lobby. I'm semiprotected but nowhere near invisible. I have maybe five minutes. To see what? Hard to say.

Henry jogs on the treadmill, his cooldown pace, and on the machine next to him, the pink-spandexed blonde keeps pace as they laugh. He's gesturing with his hands, and he throws his arms wide for the punch line. The blonde tosses her head back laughing and then stumbles, grabs at the safety bar. A sharp pain stabs my center and I grit my teeth. They both slow and step off, Henry towels the back of his neck and watches her while she pulls up one leg, then the other in a postworkout stretch.

I know this is crazy. I'm spying on my husband. I've become a suburban cliché, minus the twenty pounds of baby
weight and minivan. His behavior has been so erratic and this woman, his hand on her behind, against a backdrop of pink Lycra, has become a mental picture my mind hands me at inopportune moments.

Henry and I have always talked about partnership, working together to make things work. He's always said he'd never divorce. That divorced rich men are inevitably poor men. That any marriage can be fixed, that love fluctuates. His viewpoint, while coldly practical, was one of the reasons I married him so quickly. A four-month courtship, a simple but elegant wedding, an expensive dinner party, and voilà, a cemented spot in high society. Henry with his beautiful, charming wife. Me with my handsome, rich husband.
Illusions are dangerous
, said Evelyn. Yet, I have no illusions about marriage. No expectations of handsome princes and white horses and happily ever afters. Evelyn never believed in happily ever afters, warning against falling in love with an idea over a person.
Ideas are infallible, people are not. Don't confuse the two.
She was an optimist, but never na
Ï
ve. There's a difference, she'd say.

So here I sit, next to a remarkably lifelike ficus tree, wondering if I've done just that. Is this an affair, or a harmless way to pass a grueling workout?

He walks by her and flicks her hair, like he's a third grader at recess. It's the playfulness that's so foreign.

“Zoe?”

I spin around, my heart in my throat. Reid Pinkman stands in front of me with his head cocked. I hardly recognize him outside Henry's office. Reid is younger than me, in his late twenties, ambitious and single and often lightly flirtatious. Henry is his mentor and fawns over him. I'm always slightly embarrassed around Reid, ever since the night before Musha Cay, when Henry was cruel and Reid witnessed it. He's never brought it up, thankfully.

“Hi, Reid!” I say brightly, giving him a dazzling smile.

“What are you doing here?”

It's ironic, given my circumstances, that I don't actually enjoy inventing lies on the spot. My mind races and my heart thunders in my ears.

“I'm . . . surprising Henry. Well, I was going to, but I just got an urgent call from a friend and I have to run.”

I glance back through the one-way glass and Henry has the gym towel tossed over his shoulder and he and Blonde Spandex are walking toward the door, but slowly. She touches his arm and he leans down to hear something she says.

Reid follows my gaze and nods. “Ah. Okay, then will I see you tonight?”

My head snaps back to Reid. “Wait. What's tonight?”

Reid looks toward Henry, who has stopped walking. Henry and the woman are now involved in deep, serious conversation, and Henry rakes a hand through his hair. The blonde crosses her arms over her chest and juts her chin out and I'm struck with the thought that you don't typically get mad at someone you barely know. Anger is an intimate emotion.

“The firm's celebration for Nippon. The Japanese steel account? Henry didn't tell you?”

“I'm sure he did. I probably forgot.” I pull the hat off and shove it in my purse. “Do me a favor, Reid. Don't tell Henry I was here, okay?”

“Sure thing.” He touches my arm and says hopefully, “See you tonight?”

“Yep, see you tonight.”

I rush into the revolving door just as Henry and the blonde come through the door into the lobby. They are stopped by Reid and I use the opportunity to scuttle through one revolution before I'm spit out onto the sidewalk. Around the corner, I lean against the stone building, under the con
crete plaque with the number 58 on it, and take deep breaths. Who is the blonde? Does Reid know her? This is Reid's gym, too. If Henry was having an affair, Reid would most likely know about it. I have to figure out a way to get to tonight's event. I wonder if I can call Henry's secretary and ask where it is.

My skin buzzes hot. It's a warm day, for April, probably pushing eighty degrees, and my shirt sticks to my back. On a whim, I pull out my phone.

Lunch?
I text.

Starving,
Cash texts back.

•  •  •

We arrange to meet in ten minutes at a Black and Bean, a coffee shop a block away. I know we need to talk to make plans for tomorrow,
tomorrow!,
and my stomach flips. I haven't talked to him since Monday in the park, when he agreed to go to Caroline's with me. I still haven't told Henry about Caroline. After last night and this morning, I'm not sure I will.

My mind swims with unmade decisions and doubt. My ears ring with the sound of broken glass, shattering on the wall behind me, crunching under my shoes. The stench of whiskey, the air permeated with violence.

I might be overreacting. He didn't throw the glass
at me
. He threw it at the wall. Is that different?

Women have girlfriends for this very reason: to bounce their irrationalities off each other. I long for Lydia, the way we used to be. Nonjudgmental and totally accepting. She once slept with two different men in the same night, and when she'd confessed it, the next day, lying in our side-by-side beds, with the late afternoon sun filtering through the smoky haze of our bedroom, I remember sitting straight up in bed, my mouth hanging open. Her choices were not my choices, and all I'd ever said was,
W
ho was better?
And we howled with
laughter. As far as I could tell, she never stopped to question herself when she passed judgment on me. It hardly seemed fair.

When we'd met, I'd been staying at a homeless shelter, wearing third- and fourthhand suits to job interviews that I was neither qualified for nor eligible to work, having not had a valid identification, a college education, or a permanent address. I wandered, exhausted, into La Fleur d'Elise and sat helplessly on a chair, clutching the help wanted ads from the Treasure Hunt.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” The girl had snapped her gum in my direction. “Also your clothes look like shit. When did you last go shopping? Nineteen ninety-two?”

“Do you always greet people this way?” I sat up straight, studying her pink-and-purple-tipped hair, the large curling tattoo on her wispy upper arm, her bloodred lipstick.

“Most of the time. Do you always wear suits to interview for custodial positions?”

“Custodial? I thought it said florist assistant.”

“You're basically pushing a broom, sister. Do you think you can handle that?” She studied the paper in front of her over a pair of electric blue glasses. I realized, with a start, that the lenses were fake, and suppressed a smile. I nodded and she handed me a broom.

“That's it? I'm hired?”

She snatched the broom out of my reach. “Unless you don't want the job . . . ”

“I want it.”

“Good. Now, what are you doing tonight?”

“Tonight?” I blinked at her, wide-eyed. The shelter had a curfew.

“Yes. Tonight. You need to see the inside of a mall, stat.”

“There are malls in Manhattan?”

“There are, but we're going to Joisey.” She shrugged. “I live
in Hoboken. There are malls there. You can stay with me.”

“You just met me.” I gave her a slitted-eye stare. A few months distanced from all that had happened in San Francisco, I was unaccustomed to common courtesy, downright wary of kindness.

“Call me crazy. Or nice. Or lonely.” She shrugged and unwrapped a Dum Dum. She stuck out her hand, a ring on every finger. “I'm Lydia.”

“Are you new to the city?” I asked her, thinking of her
or lonely.

She furrowed her eyebrows. “No. But everyone is lonely. Right?”

She was arrestingly vulnerable, even while she was cutting you. You could just see people blink, unsure if she was putting them on. She linked her arm through mine. “I have a feeling about you.”

I miss her. I miss her laughter, her unique bitchy-nice. I miss having a friend.

•  •  •

In the coffee shop, I wait for Cash, restless and fidgety. With a start, I realize then that I didn't get my call from Henry at nine o'clock. There had been no envelope of cash on the counter this morning, no note. No
I'm sorry,
nothing. I wonder if he's called the credit card company. These little money envelopes feel like a leash that he can take away at any time and I'm left powerless. My face flushes at the thought. What would I have thought of an allowance five years ago? It would have been an extravagance.

I text Henry's cell.
Are you okay? I'm sorry about our fight. Love you.
I avoid saying I'm sorry for any specific thing, because I'm not sure that I am. But I struggle with being ignored. Everyone has fights, this I know. But our relationship feels cracked down the middle.

Cash slides into the seat across from me with two paper
cups and a tray of sandwiches and I quickly tuck my phone into my purse, depressing the ringer down button.

“Can you ever pick a place with mugs, please?” He flashes me a grin and I make a face at him.

“Are you really too good for paper cups?” I peel off the plastic lid and let the curling steam escape.

“Hey, just because I scrape to make rent doesn't mean I don't enjoy the finer things in life.” He gently pushes a turkey sandwich in my direction.

I smile and busy myself spreading mustard on the roll. “Are you still up for helping me? Tomorrow?”

“I am. What's your idea for a game plan?”

“Well, I can rent a car. I just want a navigator. I have no idea where I'm going. I have no idea what to expect when I get there.” The turkey suddenly looks limp and slimy. Oh, God. Tomorrow I'll meet my
mother.
It feels so weird to think about, to say, because my whole life, my mother has been Evelyn, although I haven't called her Mom since I was fifteen. The word
mother
gets twisted around on my tongue, snagged in its own connotations. Who is more my mother? Caroline, who birthed me and left me? Or Evelyn, who rescued me and raised me? Who bought me my first bra, taught me about love and sex, and later, death. Why are the words
mother
and
love
synonymous?

“Expect the best, prepare for the worst?”

“Ha. That's a Henry-ism.” I almost laugh.

“He's a smart man.” We sit in silence for a moment while Cash chews. He dabs his mouth with a napkin and wipes a splotch of mayonnaise off the table. “Have you told him?”

I shake my head, averting my eyes. I don't want to talk to Cash about Henry. I'm not na
Ï
ve, you don't talk to another man about your marriage. “No. Not yet. I will. He's been stressed about work lately. If it amounts to anything, I'll tell him.”

“What do you expect?”

“I don't know. Probably nothing?” I feel the lie slip around my mouth.

He nods and presses his forefinger into the tines of the fork. “It's okay to want something, Zoe. I knew a man, back in Texas, dying of AIDS. He had no one, not one single person in the world who cared about him. His friends didn't know how to handle a sick guy, and this was in the late nineties. Anyway, he read my article and he called me. Wanted to find his mother. Not his father, just his mother. He was raised by his father, a real son of a bitch. Anyway, it took me a few months, and I was racing the clock with this guy. Finally, I found her. I had concrete proof that it was her, there was no doubt in my mind. There still isn't. Anyway, I called her, explain the whole situation. I tell her that her
son
, her flesh and blood, is dying in hospice care, not fifty miles from her house. Her response? She denies the whole thing. Says she never had a son, to never call her again, and hangs up on me. I kept calling for days. She never picked up the phone. He died a week later.”

I push away the tray. “Why did you tell me this story?”

Cash taps the fork twice on the table. “I don't know. I guess it's the one that stuck with me the most. The way you can deny your own child that way.”

“Right. You're not helping.”

He laughs. “I'm sorry. I have a bunch of wonderful reunion stories, too. Do you want me to tell you those?”

“No, it's okay. I'm fine. I guess my goal is just to have a connection, that's all. Just to know it's there. Somewhere in the world, someone knows I exist.” That sounds overly dramatic and I shake my head. “Let's talk about the plan. I'll call the car service today and rent a car.”

“Don't bother. I have a car.”

“You live in Manhattan and have a car? On a reporter's salary?” I tease and pick at a potato chip.

“I'm secretly rich. But I find all my money repels the ladies.” He smirks at me. “No, seriously, it's a used Honda. I park it in my mother's garage. She lives in Queens. We can take the subway to her house and pick it up in the morning.”