Vanishing and Other Stories (23 page)

I was only seven when he left, but around that time I started to look after myself. I would get myself into my pyjamas, and if there was no one home to tuck me into bed—if Mom was working, and she was always working—I'd bring my pillow and blanket down to the living room, curl up on the couch, and go to sleep in front of the TV.

But the night George left, Mom tucked me in. She called in to the hospital and said she couldn't make her shift. I had grown pretty big by then, but still, she carried me to bed.

“Where's George?” I asked.

Mom didn't say anything. She tucked my sheet around me. She pulled it so tight I couldn't move.

It wasn't till years later that I understood about George and how he could never be still, how his need would never let him rest. But that night, lying on my back with my arms straight at my sides, I didn't get it. I just imagined him in the centre of a boxing ring: a stout, flabby bear of a man, swinging and swinging his fists at nothing, and always losing.

 

 

“
TELL ME ANOTHER STORY
,” says Alicia.

She's in her old bed, under the ABC sheets she used as a kid. Her room is exactly as she left it. There are yellowing posters on her wall and her closet is full of clothes she doesn't wear anymore.

I'm on the edge of her bed, and I can feel her bones through the sheet. “I don't know any more stories.” It's past midnight and my head feels heavy.

“Tell me anything.” She closes her eyes and I notice the sweat
on her temples and upper lip. She pulls the sheet higher and says, “Tell me about you and Mom.”

So I tell her how Claire and I used to stay in bed all day: sleep past noon, make love till dinner, order food and eat it in bed. There were times when we couldn't get enough of each other. When we had to be apart for more than a few hours, it was like a sickness. I tell her about when we first moved into this apartment. We repainted the place, and the yellow walls seemed warm and sunny.

“I never knew any of that. I never knew that about the yellow paint.” Alicia turns on her side and holds a corner of the pillow, the way she always slept when she was a kid.

I keep talking. I tell her that Claire and I used to go skating together. That we'd glide along the river holding hands. This is a lie, but I say it anyway. I say it because I want to give Alicia something. Because she's my daughter, and because whatever she's coming down from is making her shake.

“But Mom never liked skating.” Alicia opens her eyes, and for a second she's sober. “Mom didn't own skates.”

I touch my daughter's hair, hair that's as dark as a river at night. “Things change, Alicia,” I say, even though it seems I've been this drunk forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

YOU PULL HIM TO THE GUEST ROOM
by the sleeve of his tuxedo, the sheen of it crumpled between your fingers, and count the steps under your rushed breath until you both drop to the floor, one of his hands fumbling with your tiny black belt, the other pushing the green skirt above your knees, all of it so sudden and stupid there is no stopping—certainly no kissing—and his zipper slides down so easily it's like you've done this before, then he's heaving like an idiot, his breath hot on the crown of your head, and just as you think, How long will this take? he pulls out and spills himself all over your thigh in a pumping sputter, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth making an O, and you feeling the wet of it slide down your leg to the ivory carpet, a stain, this night, and you, thirteen.

 

 

THE DAY BEFORE
your sister's wedding, a Friday, your mother refuses to leave her bedroom. She lies on top of her duvet in a blue shoulder-padded suit, black nylons that cover her stilt legs, and black heels. Her room is high-ceilinged, and kept as clean and cool as a museum. The housekeeper, Rebecca, tucked the bedsheets into perfect, smooth corners this morning.

Your sister, Crystal, scowls at the sheer-curtained window. Her hair is tied up and her soft arms are crossed. You are thirteen, the youngest, and you watch from the doorway. Black-and-white photographs of your father—his glasses, moustache, the lines of his brow—stare back at you from the walls, grim and faded. It occurs to you that your father used to sleep in this room, with its perfume smell. He died ten years ago, and memories of him are like the photographs: grainy, flat, not really alive to you ever.

Your mother repairs a button that fell off one of her blouses. Sewing is a chore she enjoys doing herself because she likes to make use of her slender, elegant hands.

“God has ripped my eldest from me.” The button drops into a fold in her blue skirt. “Torn her like a sliver from my hands.”

“That's not logical.” You know this kind of routine, these dramatics. “If Crystal was a sliver, you'd want her gone.”

“Are you going to leave too, Cassy?” Your mother leans toward you. “Are you going to forget me?”

“Mother.” You lean against the wall and slouch, a rebellion in itself. “You were happy about this wedding months ago. You arranged the entertainment. You chose the menu.”

Crystal turns to your mother with wet, turquoise-rimmed eyes. “You're still mad about the dress, aren't you, Mom?” Your sister plans to wear a puffy, blindingly white thing, with gathers and
folds and complications your mother can't abide. “It's the stupid fucking dress, isn't it?”

Your mother ignores her, sniffs. “Cassy, get Mommy some coffee.” Then she almost smiles. So she is half joking, exaggerating her role of distressed mother-of-the-bride. The sun from the balcony window hits her cheeks, and her hair is uncombed and scattered over her shoulders. She reminds you of a stage actress, stunning and deceitful. “Without sugar, please.”

Crystal leans against the window, her forehead pressed to the glass. Your mother's smile fades. And right now you are convinced that you're smarter than your whole family—smarter than all of them combined. Except, of course, for Daniel, who is never asked to get coffee.

Your mother picks up the button and threads the needle. “And go tell Daniel he needs to be fitted for his tuxedo.” It is as though she has read your mind. “Tell him he has no choice.”

 

 

FOUR YEARS LATER
, Crystal and Daniel have moved out, and the house seems even bigger than before. No one ever sits in the “family room,” and two of the bathrooms are never used.

As roommates, you and your mother suit each other. She wakes you in time for your statistics classes at the university. And when she misplaces her reading glasses, you find them easily. You don't hate her taste in music, and sometimes you even sing along to
My Fair Lady
and
West Side Story
. And your mother never gets in the way of your routine: nearly every night, you have drinks with men who cheerfully ignore your age. Sometimes you tell them
your secret—you call it your “first time”—and they enjoy that kind of story. “You're a bad girl, aren't you?” they say, and you like this version of events. You were bad. You were in control.

Then, when the man of the night falls into a spent sleep, you crawl from his bed, find your crumpled underwear, tiptoe out the door. You never spend the night, never leave your number. You walk home alone, no matter how cold the city wind. And when you reach your dark, Gothic house, you crawl into bed, lift the plastic receiver of your phone, and dial Daniel. He is always awake.

“What are you doing?” you whisper sleepily when he picks up.

Since he left home, your brother has been a serial mover. He has a need to be portable, and owns only one, duct-taped suitcase. He currently lives in a New York high-rise, with a man who cooks excessive breakfasts: hash browns, stacks of buttery pancakes, tall chilled glasses of orange juice. You visited once, picked at the food, and felt your stomach lurch with a fear of heights as you stood on their balcony.

“Reading,” says Daniel through the phone line.

“I met a man who writes kids' books today. He bought me a Caesar.”

“Maybe you should marry him.”

You smile, and can tell from his voice that Daniel smiles too. “Maybe you should.”

“I'm going to Boston for a while.” Daniel coughs gently. “Without Gareth. I'll call when I get a phone.”

A list of Daniel's past area codes and home numbers is trapped in your mind for life. “When are you coming home?” You hold your breath, wait for the usual answer.

“I don't know, Cassy. Soon.”

 

 

YOU HAPPILY LEAVE
your mother's high-windowed bedroom to find your brother, though it is not a simple operation. The house is so large—your mother calls it
stately
—that when you count your steps under your breath from one room to another, you often lose count. From your mother's bedroom on the third floor to the back door on the first, it is approximately seventy steps, twenty-three down a winding, white-banistered staircase.

On your fingers, you count twenty-eight steps through the black-and-white-tiled kitchen with the chrome fridge, the marble countertops, the spice rack. Caterers arrange crystal bowls of caviar, stack wineglasses, garnish potatoes, chop onions. Rebecca, who has dark hair that peaks low on her forehead, stands at the stove. She is making chicken soup, because she has no patience for fancy, catered food. The room is crowded, hissing, and hot. It smells of bread dough and cut dill. One counter is piled with puffed and braided challah. You pause to count: thirty-two loaves.

It is sixteen more steps to French doors that open onto a professionally tended garden. Hired workers are laying a heavy, tiled dance floor on the close-clipped grass, and installing a tent to cover it. Tables and chairs are in piles. You don't bother with shoes, and it is ten long strides through this garden, the grass sharp between your toes. The cool air snaps at your arms, but you hold your shoulders back for the benefit of the tent men. They are older, unshaved, and you feel sweat on your neck and behind your knees. You wear small white shorts and your gym shirt from two years ago—they must notice. Beyond the gate is a slope that tumbles
down to the ravine and the overgrown forest your mother calls Sheol as a joke. Your brother will be there.