The Jennifer McMahon E-Book Bundle (55 page)

A
FTER
T
ESS LEFT THIS
morning, Henry found the Swedish vodka left over from a long ago Christmas party and made himself a screwdriver. He needed something to soothe his frayed nerves. To help him erase the image of the shadow girl he’d seen. The god-awful gaping mouth. There were teeth inside. Rows of teeth, like a fucking lamprey.

He’s just fixed his second drink and is tossing away the empty orange juice carton when he looks out the window and sees Emma tearing across the yard, screaming for him.

He charges through the kitchen door to the patio, sure he’ll see the shadow girl running behind Emma, chasing her down.

“There’s a man!” she gasps as she falls against him, sweaty and clinging. He can feel her heart pounding against his own chest.

“What? Where?” Henry asks.

“In the barn.”

Sure enough, a stranger is making his way across the yard, strolling briskly. Henry looks at his watch: 9:45. Shit. Bill Lunde.

“It’s okay, Em. He’s a…friend. I’m sorry he scared you.”

Emma lets go of Henry, looks back over her shoulder at the man coming toward them.

“Why don’t you go on up to your room, Em,” Henry says.

She turns back to him. “But, Dad, who—”

“No buts,” Henry says. “Go on up now.” He gives her a gentle push toward the open kitchen door. She shuffles her way in, dragging her one flip-flop across the tile floor.

Only when she’s out of sight does he realize that he didn’t get a chance to ask Emma what she was doing in the barn to begin with.

Maybe her little friend told her to go poking around in there. Danner with the lamprey mouth.

“I thought we said ten o’clock,” Henry says as Bill approaches. “And I don’t think I agreed to any breaking and entering. Or having my home searched.”

Bill Lunde shakes his head. His eyes are a clear blue, his skin bronze. No fedora, no cigarette.

“The door was open, Henry. I thought I heard someone in there, so I called out, then went in. I was early, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare your daughter like that. I had no idea she was there. I was looking for you.”

Henry doesn’t buy it, but there’s not much he can do. If he makes a scene, threatens to call the cops, it’ll just make him look like he’s got something to hide. So he puts on his best all-is-forgiven smile and says, “Well, we’ve found each other now. Why don’t you come on in and have a cup of coffee?” What he’s got to do is stick to the plan. Appear friendly and forthcoming. Tell Bill the story he and Tess practiced, then send him on his way.

“Indeed we have,” Bill says.

Henry can’t help but feel intimidated, despite the good-natured, guy-next-door demeanor Bill has. If Bill goes digging in the right places, if he discovers that Suz disappeared that summer and begins to suspect foul play, this smiling man with the clear blue eyes could ruin their lives forever.

The room is quiet, and Henry hears his own heart beating. He’s waiting for the inquisition to begin.

“Tell me,” Bill Lunde says at last, “who is Danner?”

“What?”

“Danner. Your daughter was talking to someone named Danner in the barn.”

Henry sucks air through his teeth, making a little whistling sound.

“Imaginary friend,” he says.

Bill Lunde nods, says, “I see.”

Oh I really doubt that,
Henry thinks and somewhere in the back of his brain, he hears Emma’s voice asking,
How did you die?

Silence again.

“So is there something I can help you with?” Henry asks, wanting to get this over with.

“Do you know where Valerie is?”

Henry hesitates, bites the inside of his cheek. Does he tell Bill about last night, how Winnie met him down at the lake, dressed as Suz?

Swim with me, Henry.

“Not a clue,” Henry says. “Boston, maybe. She had family in Boston. That’s where she was headed after college.”

“So you haven’t seen her since?” Bill asks, looking into his coffee mug.

“No.”

“And you haven’t seen or heard from Suz?”

“No.”

“And your wife hasn’t either?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry Tess isn’t here now. I’d like to talk with her too.”

“She had a meeting,” Henry says. “With a client. Someone she’s doing a painting for.” Even this comes out sounding like a lie. Henry wipes the back of his hand across his forehead and feels
that he’s beginning to sweat. He takes a big gulp of his screwdriver, the vodka and juice burning the holes he’s gnawed inside his cheeks.

“Another time, then,” Bill says, standing.

Henry stands with him. Is it possible that he’s gotten off this easily? This was not the third degree he’d been expecting.

“So you’re heading up to the college today?” Henry says.

“Yes,” Bill tells him. “I’ve got a couple of appointments up there.”

“Great,” Henry says, forcing a smile. He’d been hoping for more—a few little details about who Bill was seeing, what leads he might be following.

“Thanks for your time, Henry,” Bill says, extending his hand for a shake.

“No problem at all,” Henry says, his cheeks aching from all this smiling. Bill’s hand is dry and warm. Henry’s is like a dead fish.

Henry walks Bill to the sliding glass doors that lead to the patio and opens them. Bill steps out, hesitates a moment on the patio, then turns toward Henry.

“So you didn’t know she was back?” Bill asks.

Henry feels his throat constrict. “Who?” he croaks.

Suz. Suz is back.

“Valerie. She’s here. In town.”

“Oh,” Henry says with a relieved little gasp. “No, I didn’t know.”

Bill smiles again, nodding, and Henry is positive that inside that smile, Bill is laughing at him for being such a piss-poor liar.

“D
O YOU MIND IF
I smoke?”

Tess shakes her head. Watches Claire reach into a large embossed leather bag, retrieve a silver cigarette case and take one out. Inside the lid of the case is a tiny mirror.

Look in the mirror to see what you saw.

Clever riddle. One Tess hasn’t heard in ages. She wonders where Em heard it, figures Henry must have told it to her one night when he was drunk. Told her and forgot, which is why he looked so freaked out hearing it again.

But what if he didn’t tell her?

Tess shakes her head. He
must
have.

Claire lights her cigarette with a book of matches on the coffee table, inhales, then stares at Tess through the screen of smoke.

They are sitting in the living room of Claire’s rented house. The floors are hardwood, polished to a shine. Everything else is white. The walls, the furniture. Even the tiny cups Claire has served the espresso in. The lack of color puts Tess on edge. It’s like stepping into a blank canvas. Anything can happen next.

Outside the window, a hummingbird flits by, the shimmering ruby of its throat a surprising splash of color.

Just as Tess is about to point the bird out to Claire, it’s gone.

“I’m sorry,” Claire says, reaching back into her bag for the case and holding it out to Tess. “Would you like a cigarette?”

“I…”
Don’t smoke. Haven’t since college.
“I’d love one.”

Anything can happen.

Claire lights it for her. She has the most amazing hands. All muscles and tendons. The hands of a sculptor. Tess would like to sketch those hands. She imagines the studies she’d do: page after page of Claire’s hands shown from every possible angle—holding a cigarette, grinding coffee, cracking an egg. An egg in Claire’s hand would be one of the most exquisite things Tess can imagine seeing.

Odd. This is something the old Tess, the Tess in Suz’s notebook, might have thought once. The Tess who walked around, eyes wide in wonder at every little detail; the Tess who expected miracles in everyday life and found them simply because she knew they’d be there.

The cigarette is surprisingly sweet, like candied violets. Though she only had candied violets once, on a wedding cake. Not
her
wedding cake. Someone else’s. She and Henry didn’t have a cake, sharing a pint of ice cream instead as they stood, waiting to catch the train to Montreal for their weekend honeymoon. Mint chocolate chip, it was. Funny how romantic it seemed at the time—Henry still in the suit he’d borrowed from his father, feeding her ice cream from a plastic spoon, laughing when he got some on her nose, then leaning down to kiss the spot of ice cream away.

Tess tells herself she won’t inhale, but she takes the smoke into her lungs and finds the sensation intoxicating.
Oh God
. How could she have given this up for so many years?

“Tell me about yourself,” Claire says.

Tess laughs, letting the smoke seep out of her chest, which
now feels cleaned out and hollow. Empty. “Not much to tell,” she says. She relaxes into the couch.

Anything can happen.

“Oh, I doubt that,” Claire says. “I really do.”

Claire’s accent troubles Tess. It sounds vaguely European, but Tess can’t quite place it. Claire has short coal black hair, bright green eyes, and alarmingly high cheekbones. She wears light makeup and smells like cardamom. She obviously works out, she’s lean and muscled. Probably close to Tess in age.

Tess wishes she’d chosen something more elegant than the linen pants and black T-shirt she’s wearing.

“What about you?” Tess says, turning the question around. “Where are you from?”

Claire smiles. “Here and there. I owned a gallery in Santa Fe but sold it last year. Now I’m in New York. Before all that, Prague.”

“Prague,” Tess echoes, thinking about how once, she and Henry were going to hike through Europe, see all those ancient cities. Other than the occasional weekend trip to Montreal, Tess has never been out of the country.

Tess studies the cigarette in her hand. There’s a small brown picture of a tree inside a diamond near the filter. Obviously not American. If she had traveled through Europe, she might have smoked a cigarette like this. Might be able to show off now, calling it by name.

“Let me tell you why I asked you here,” Claire says. “As I said on the phone, I’m very drawn to your work.”

Tess smiles. Can’t imagine what on earth her generic little paintings of flower gardens and watering cans could possibly offer this woman.

Her eyes wander back to Claire’s hands. They’re almost masculine, which seems incongruent with everything else about Claire.

A robin’s egg would be particularly stunning in Claire’s hand. Delicate and blue.

She finds herself wanting to touch Claire’s hands, to run her fingers over the knobby knuckles and corded tendons. They remind Tess of a cat’s paws; she thinks of the way a cat’s paws stretch, knead at the air, claws extended.

How odd. To want to touch another woman’s hands. It’s something young, college Tess might have considered. But not
this
Tess—the practical mother who keeps the checkbook balanced, fills the pantry with jars of homemade strawberry jam, makes sure Emma has an umbrella when it’s going to rain.

“But I feel there’s something missing,” Claire continues.

“Hmm?” Tess has gotten lost, forgotten the arc of the conversation.

“I look at your paintings, and feel something’s missing.” Her green eyes look right into Tess’s.

“Missing?” Tess bites her lip. A remark like this would usually cause her to feel defensive, but somehow, coming from Claire right now, what it makes her feel is caught.

Claire nods, takes a sip of espresso. “I sense something just under the surface. Something untouched. This is what I want you to explore in the piece you will create for me.”

“I’m sorry?” Tess murmurs.

Had she already agreed to do the piece? And what exactly was it this woman wanted?

Tess sits forward on the couch, ready to make polite excuses followed by a quick exit.

“Passion,” Claire says, leaning forward to put her hand on Tess’s arm, sending such a surprising jolt of electricity through Tess that Tess lets out a little gasp.

Claire smiles, keeps her hand where it is. Says, “That’s what’s missing.”

D
RIFTING IN AND OUT
. Clouds in the sky. Clouds in his head, on the back of his eyelids. Pretty pictures. Fluffy bunnies. A jack-o’-lantern. A moose. (Oh god, not a moose.)

Once upon a time, Henry, Tess, and Emma lay tucked inside a brightly colored hammock strung between two trees, watching the clouds,
cocooning
. The world felt so safe then. So perfect. They’d get up soon and build a campfire. Make some s’mores. Tell bad jokes.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Boo.

Boo who?

Why are you crying?

Henry hears a splash, opens his eyes. The world spins. He’s not in a hammock at all, but on a reclining plastic lounge chair beside the pool, a plastic tumbler of warm vodka in his hand. Emma has just done a cannonball. Henry watches his daughter surface, but he is unable to do the same. His eyes close. He’s under the clouds. Under his own pool of water.

“Hey, Dad! Watch! I’m a frog!”

That’s nice, sweetie. So nice. Nice to be a frog. Ribbet ribbet. Hop hop.

Henry thinks of the frogs in the aquarium. Bloated. Forgotten. And then he’s gone. It’s like someone’s flipped a switch in his brain. The
you’ve been drinking since seven in the morning and got almost no sleep last night
switch. He’s with the frogs. And they’re splashing. Croaking. Trying to escape. His daughter the frog. His daughter. The frog. Croaking. Splashing. So much frantic splashing.

Henry can’t open his eyes.

“She’ll drown in that pool,” Henry is saying to Tess somewhere in the back of his brain, in the land of the past. The voice of doom and gloom. The little black rain cloud. “You should have let me fill it in. We could have a tennis court. Green clay.”

Henry rises to the surface, forces his eyes open. Emma is upside down in the pool. Henry only sees legs. Legs. Thin little legs scissoring in the air. Coming out of the rubber inner tube. Kicking. Head underwater, she’s caught, struggling to right herself.

Oh God! Henry rolls off the lounge chair, tips the whole thing over. He gets to his feet, lurches forward. His baby is drowning, there, right before his eyes, like he always knew she would. Like he’s seen in his dreams a thousand times.

I told you so,
he hears himself say to Tess.

The legs are kicking furiously. Henry runs toward the pool. Trips on the white wooden deck chair he usually perches in at the water’s edge. Tess calls it his lifeguard chair.

He goes down. Crash. Like a tree. The tree in the yard that became the canoe. One hundred and twelve rings. The ridiculous boat that will never see water.

His head hits the concrete and splits open.
There go my brains
, he thinks.
There goes my life
.

What if time is not a linear thing?

What if you can go back?

Put the two halves together to make a whole. Crawl through the hole.

Boo who?

Why are you crying?

Splash. Stroke. Stroke. Someone has jumped into the water with Emma. Splashing. Struggling. Emma coughs, gags, cries. Henry lifts his head—his bloated, two-ton head—blood seeping from the gash above his eyebrow and into his eyes.

Suz is carrying Em out of the pool. Only it’s not Suz. It’s himself in a blond wig. The wig falls off and he sees shaggy dark hair. White T-shirt.

He’s sure he sees himself—his young, brave, college self—pulling his daughter from the pool. The Henry he was meant to be.

The figure comes closer, holding Emma in his arms. Henry closes his eyes, afraid to look up into his own face, sure that if he does, this Henry—the weak, pathetic, drunken Henry—will just disintegrate into a pile of useless atoms.

Emma is gasping, crying so hard and loud, calling, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

Henry holds his breath, counts to three, and opens his eyes.

“Hello, Henry,” says the man, who Henry can see is not a man at all but a woman. A woman with the strongest, most beautiful arms Henry has ever seen. But then, looking carefully, Henry sees the pale cross-hatching in the skin, a pattern of scars covering her arms like sleeves.

“Winnie?” Henry gasps, finally looking up from the arms to the woman’s face.

“Looks like you might need some stitches,” Winnie says.

Henry lets all his breath out and everything fades to black.