Vanishing and Other Stories (25 page)

“I told you, his name is Stephen.”

“How is that spelled? Six or seven letters?” As far as you knew, your brother didn't have friends at that private school of rowers and debate captains. Not friends he would invite to sit at the head table.

“I believe it's seven, with a
ph
,” your mother whispers. “He's a musician.”

“Of course he is.”

“Now hush up.” Your mother's gloved fingers pinch your leg. “Drop your head, hands in your lap.”

When the prayer is over, the caterers—so many of them, and they seem to multiply—bring out plates the size of platters for each guest, though all the food is in miniature: baby potatoes, asparagus tops drizzled with white wine, and a Cornish hen.

“Hello, Cassandra.” Your sister's now-husband sits beside you, looking young and confident in his tuxedo. He is blond, with a pink tone to his skin. The last time you saw him was at a family dinner, much smaller than this one. When you left the table early, he followed you to the basement. The two of you watched reruns of
The Mary Tyler Moore Show
without speaking.

He glances at your shaved legs and whispers, “You look nice.”

You wear a suit your mother chose. It is muted green, with a jacket, knee-length skirt, and tiny black belt. But you tore out the shoulder pads and hiked the skirt higher when your mother wasn't looking. You spread your napkin over your lap. “So,” you begin, though you are bad at conversation. “We're related now.”

“You say that without enthusiasm.” Evan has the smooth voice of a business executive, which he will eventually become. “I saw you yesterday leaving the yard.” He speaks the way girls at school talk to you, as though they are laughing in the backs of their throats. “What is it you do at that ravine?”

You don't tell him that you pick up fallen feathers for Daniel, or that you count the branches of trees. You blush, and hate yourself for it.

Evan smiles, showing the dimple on his right cheek. “It's nice to talk with you, Cassandra.”

“Nobody calls me that.”

Then the prayer is over and Crystal leans across Evan, pokes food off his plate, and laughs at you. “Don't drink
all
the wine, Cassy.”

Your mother whispers to the rabbi, her hand resting on his sleeve, then bursts into laughter at one of her own jokes. She stabs a fork into her hen, managing to make even this look elegant.

And down the table, muffled by the din of cutlery, small talk, and the music of the band, Daniel tilts toward Stephen. His slim fingers rest on his friend's inked wrist. Daniel smiles. Daniel laughs. Their foreheads touch.

“You don't like to eat, Cassandra?” Evan elbows you, and you turn to his smile, his cologne. This time, you don't blush. You meet his eyes.

 

 

SIXTEEN YEARS LATER
, you have managed the unthinkable: you have slept with so many men that you've lost count.

You decide to change your life. You start coming home early, right after work and before dinner. Even at this hour, the curtains are drawn and inside the house is dim. You hear Rebecca in the kitchen, the slice of knife on cutting board. You know the house's layout of rooms, angles of walls, and skirted furniture well enough to stride to the kitchen without switching on a lamp. Rebecca cuts potatoes, a pot of split pea soup on the stove.

“Is she here?” you ask, as though your mother had parties to attend or lovers to entertain.

“Your mommy is upstairs, listening to her music.”

“I'll bring her dinner.” You ladle soup into a gold-rimmed bowl and take a heavy silver spoon from the drawer. Then you brush one hand along the banister and count to twenty-three as you walk up the steps. You knock once, and turn the knob to your mother's room. You notice that the pictures of your father have been allowed to get dusty.

“It's me, Mom.” You stand in the doorway, and the bottom of the bowl burns your palm. “It's Cass.”

Your mother has wrapped herself in her ivory duvet, draped it around her tiny shoulders and her grey-streaked hair. You walk to the bed and sit beside her, then take a spoonful, blow on it, and hold it up to her mouth. She opens her lips then swallows, graceful as always.

“It's your birthday next month,” you say. “And I think we should have a party.” You want a celebration, because there's no telling how long your mother's mind will last. Sometimes it sparkles and she remembers things so crisply that to listen to her stories is like looking at an album of photographs. But twice last week she forgot your name—just for a second, and she didn't admit it. But you recognized the look of bemused confusion, then terror, that crossed her face.

“What do you think, Mom? We could invite Daniel. And Crystal and Evan and their awful kids.”

“Evan?” Your mother stares past you. “Why do I know that name?”

“He's married to Crystal. Your other daughter.”

She smiles brightly. “Of course, that one. He was so attractive, wasn't he?”

“You hate him. Said you'd never leave him a dollar and referred to him as ‘the goy.'”

“Of course.” She smiles. “I hate him.” Then she brightens, her face childlike and full of wonder. “Oh, yes,” she says. “A party.”

Sometimes you wonder—briefly and in secret—if she's faking it, if this is her idea of a joke. You spoon soup to her mouth and watch her smile flirtatiously at the wall, showing her teeth and blinking her blue-streaked lids.

 

 

CRYSTAL IS BEING LIFTED
on a chair and your extended family sings and dances a hora around her. Your sister's face is red and sweating from the alcohol and the attention, and the bottom of her dress lifts and drops like a huge tulle wing.

This is when Daniel and Stephen sneak off. You watch as your brother and his friend walk away from the band, the toasts, the candles. They are going toward the dark edge of the forest, to the ravine. They keep pace with each other, their hands in their pockets. From behind, at this distance, they look like brothers. You count Daniel's steps as he moves away from you—forty-seven until you can't see him anymore. You stare at that place, where Daniel took his forty-seventh step. The same way he often stares at a branch long after a bird has alighted there, then left.

 

 

YOU HOLD YOUR MOTHER
'
S BIRTHDAY PARTY
in the backyard. This time there are no candles or caterers, and there are only five guests.
Daniel arrives first, his tattered suitcase in his hand. He took the bus up, and maybe it's travel that has worn him so thin. The skin of his face is grey and covered in a film of sweat.

“Hey. How are you?” He speaks casually, as though he's forgotten the years that have passed since you last saw each other.

“Daniel.” You say his name to reassure yourself that this man is really your brother. “Come in.”

You lead him to the backyard, where Rebecca has set a plastic table with placemats and plates and glasses of wine. There is an early spring sun, though it's not as warm as it looks, and everyone wears sweaters and scarves. During dinner—cream soup, baked chicken, Rebecca's signature mashed potatoes—your mother makes up for the weather by putting on a wonderful performance. She calls everyone by the correct name and she eats with the correct fork. She tells stories of her past—of how poor she'd been as a child, of how she met her husband—and she tells jokes.

Crystal eats for two, though you are sure she is not planning on any more children. The two kids she does have run through the yard, ignoring the food she served them. “Don't go too far!” Crystal yells desperately as they run toward the ravine. “Stay where I can see you!”

Evan arrives late—a meeting ran longer than expected—but he is polite. He kisses his wife's cheek, shakes Daniel's hand, and looks you in the eye to make it clear he remembers nothing. Then he flirts with your mother.

“I don't believe it for a second. I don't believe that you're sixty-five,” he says to her. “You could be Crystal's younger sister.”

Everyone takes seconds and compliments Rebecca. Only Daniel doesn't eat much. As you watch him slowly lift his fork
to his mouth, you think of one of your past boyfriends, someone whose name you can't quite remember. He was from Brazil, and before he immigrated, he'd been a doctor. Once, he showed you a book that you couldn't keep your eyes from:
A Guide to Tropical Disease
. There were pictures of microscopic bacteria that bloomed like flowers. And there was a photo of a man with the same thin look your brother has now. The caption explained that he was afflicted with an illness that is rare among humans. One that passes between birds, as they nest high above jungles.

“You look cold,” you say to Daniel, then go inside to get him an extra sweater. The only one you find is from his days at that private school. It has hung in his closet for years, but when he pulls it on, it still fits. He's even skinnier than when he was a teenager.

“Bad memories,” he says as he adjusts the collar.

 

 

YOUR SISTER FLIES AROUND THE DANCE FLOOR
, gripping the chair. You stand from the table but don't know where to go. You want to be at the ravine, to hear leaves crunch under your party shoes and to pick up smooth stones to show Daniel. Years ago, the two of you invented a secret language of tunes and whistles. You pretended that you could communicate with birds. That's what you'd like to do now: sing and whistle. But Stephen and Daniel are down there, and you are not invited. There are different languages and different secrets to learn now.

Evan's not dancing the hora. He's not even watching his wife, though she looks happier and lighter than ever before. Evan is
looking at you, where you stand with one foot on the tile floor and one on the grass.