The Vanishing Year (13 page)

Like mine. It's all like mine. It's my face. Aged twenty years.

“It's her. You've found her.”

•  •  •

For the rest of the day, I keep going back to the office and staring at the computer, at that picture. That sassy, smart-­aleck face, the expression I recognize but maybe haven't seen in a long time. I have the vague recollection of making
that exact face
for a picture during a night out with Lydia. In the bathroom mirror, I try to imitate it, pulling my mouth to the side, arching my already asymmetrical eyebrow. Back in the office, I download the picture and email it to myself.

I stretch and look around the room. On the far wall there are built-in bookcases, floor to ceiling with books: old, new, hardcover, paperback, thrillers, and mysteries; Ruth Rendell, Dennis Lehane, Ross Macdonald, Arthur Conan Doyle. I run my finger along the shelving and wonder if they, too, are Tara's. The eye-level shelf holds knickknacks and picture frames, and I realize with a start that there's a simple, black frame that holds a picture of me.

I'm sitting on a rock, overlooking a stream, wearing a violet shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. I remember that day, the hike at Breakneck Ridge. It was a strenuous hike, and I was panting by the top, hot and out of breath, out of shape. A breeze was lifting my hair while Henry snapped pictures with his Canon at the summit. I remember him finding the spot for the photo, off the main trail, to a sketchy side path, overgrown and treacherous. Claiming he wanted pictures of me for his offices, at work and in our apartment, something he could look at. I protested, pushing my bangs off my forehead, my hands on my flaming cheeks. It was September, the leaves still green, the air still humid.

I remember him helping me down from the steep rock, the way he pushed me against the closest tree without saying
a word, pawing at my clothes, wanting me, his hands everywhere, his mouth hot and gasping. I remember the way the bark scratched my bare back as he thrust, only twice, before he fell against me, his body limp and panting. I remember being surprised by the need, the sharp, tangible desperation, as he whispered “I'm sorry” into my hair.

I had teased him about it later, and he growled at me, “It's only because you're so goddamn beautiful.” He'd pulled me against him so I could feel how he was still ready, and he softly bit my neck.

I take the picture over to the desk and hold it up next to the picture on the computer. If not for the age difference, we could be twins.

CHAPTER
13

I'm still staring at the computer when my phone rings in my hand. I jump and answer it without looking, assuming it is Cash. Instead, it is Henry.

“Who did you think it was?” he asks, ruffled, after my distracted
Oh.

“No one! I thought it was you. I'm sorry, I'm on the internet. Hey, why was your office door locked?” My tone is accusatory and I silently chastise myself.
Catch more flies with honey,
an Evelyn favorite.

“Oh, was it? Habit, I guess. I sometimes rent out the house and I lock some of the doors. I don't need people going through everything. The key is in the kitchen on the key hook. It's an old skeleton key.” He clears his throat.

“Okay. I jimmied it open. If you don't want people in there, you should get a padlock. Like the other room.”

There is a beat of silence. “That room has old client files.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, I'm on my way back. I'll be there in a half hour or so. Dinner?”

“Sure.” I check the clock on the wall. Somehow, it is four
o'clock. I've literally killed a whole day staring at a picture. My head pulses and I realize I haven't eaten anything. “Is there a restaurant in this town?”

Henry laughs. “This town is 90 percent Italian. There's the best homemade Italian food you've ever had, inside or outside of the city.” Vacation Henry is back.

I laugh with him. “Then . . . hurry home,” I say coyly, and we hang up.

I can't stop staring at her. I blow the picture up and use the scroll bars to move across her face. Her right eye is slightly larger than the other. A thin scar slivers her forehead, close to her hairline. Her ears are double pierced, but she only has earrings in one set of holes. With each new discovery, I race to the bathroom and examine my face.
I have a tether.

My head hurts and I'm tired of thinking about Caroline, of analyzing her. On a whim, I navigate to Google and type in the first line of the poem on the card from Henry.
As you are woman, so be lovely.

“Pygmalion to Galatea,” by Robert Graves.
Pygmalion.
The Greek sculptor who fell in love with his statue. Henry is typically not overly literate nor self-reflective. Poetry and fiction are time wasters, and self-reflection is a hallmark of self-doubt.

I'm still sitting at the computer when I hear his car pull in the driveway. I shut it down quickly and stand up. The blood rushes to my head and my vision swims.

We meet in the hallway and we both laugh.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He dips me back a bit and kisses me hungrily on the lips. I kiss him back, but distractedly. I haven't had time to think about what to tell Henry, if anything. He'd hinted at wanting some distance between Cash and me. I'm hesitant to tell him that he helped me find Caroline, especially considering his reaction at my wanting to find her in the first place.
I need to handle it delicately, so I push it all away, bury it in my mind.

It's too easy to get caught up in Henry's buoyancy. His hair is tousled from the drive, like he's had the car window open. His face shines from the misty air, his cheeks puffed and pink.

“Go get dressed.” He pats my bottom and gives me a wink. I skip-step into the bedroom and pull open my suitcase.

“Oh, I brought something for you.” He's holding out a hanger and a bag. I unwrap a simple straight sheath dress, black with tiny silver faux-buttons up the back.

“Where did you get this?” I ask him, eyebrows raised.

He shrugs and gives me a lopsided smile. “I bought it a while ago, but I've just been looking for the right occasion to give it to you. We'll be hopelessly overdressed.”

“Better over than under,” I say, another Evelyn-ism. ­Evelyn, who would wear her Sunday best to the grocery store, just for fun, complete with hat.
You only live once, you know. And who knows, maybe someone will think we're really somebodies.

I slip on the dress and it fits like a glove. Henry always knows my exact size, even if it fluctuates due to brand. When I turn around to face him, he hands me a pair of simple black sling-backs, an impeccable complement to the dress. I cock my head to the side.

“What, are you surprised?” He shakes his head, a curved smile playing on his lips.

“Always.” I snatch the shoes and slide them on, wiggling my toes. I bounce back and forth on the balls of my feet: The day has energized me, filled me with nervous anticipation. I've sworn not to think of her, but I find myself wondering what she'd make of me. Of this whole scene, this rich, powerful husband of mine who buys me clothes in the perfect size, in a style he likes, even though I hadn't stopped to ask myself if I liked it.

I give a twirl in the mirror and decide that I do. I wouldn't have picked it, but then again, some of my favorite pieces come from Henry's mind. The man knows how to dress a woman.

Feeling daring, and unlike myself, I whistle at him. He turns and, with a quick movement, I shimmy out of my panties and toss them on the bed. He lifts a brow, his mouth bowed down in surprise.

“Well, now. Dinner should be interesting.”

•  •  •

The restaurant is small: one waitress and ten tables, only four are filled. The room is dark, lit by flickering candles and twinkling white lights that are absorbed by the maroon tablecloths draped over two-top round tables. Everyone knows one another, on a familial level, the Sartinis, the Petruccis, the Tomasis, they descend on us newcomers like a flock of seagulls. Fishing Lake used to be a textile town, Henry explains. Two mills flanked the small community, attracting hundreds of Italian immigrants in the early 1900s. When they both closed, in the early seventies, the population divided: one half bedroom community commuters with long drives into the city, and the other half descendants keeping up the remaining tourist industry. A small restaurant, a bakery, a corner store, a rental management company.

“My father was the former,” he tells me. “A lawyer, commuting into New York.” I hold my breath. He hardly mentions his parents. I know they are dead. Henry has mentioned a car accident. I tried to relate, my own father died in a car accident, I said at the time, but he'd brushed me off.

“Mr. Whittaker was a wonderful man,” stage-whispers a man from the table next to us. He is small, his shoulders hunched into the table. His hands are large and his knuckles misshapen. He claws a fork that shakes over his plate of ziti. “My boy got in trouble, that boy was always in trouble. Mr.
Whittaker saved his hide plenty of times.” His eyes twinkle and he nods at Henry. “But he knew how it was to have a troublemaker son.” He shakes his index finger at Henry. Henry smiles at the man.

“Were you a troublemaker?” I tease, coyly. Henry smiles and rolls his eyes in the man's direction.

“That's Mr. Zappetti. His mind,” Henry says and taps his temple with his middle finger. The man shakes his hand in Henry's direction and laughs.

“You kids.” The man turns to me. “My son, he's a good citizen now, just like your Henry. The wild boys. They run wild.”

Henry is pulled into another conversation. The men, they want his advice on their investments, the women compliment my dress and
ooh
and
ahh
when I tell them Henry bought it as a surprise. They cluck and raise their eyebrows when I order white wine
(
What's
wrong with the red?)
and when I remind them which house is Henry's, Mrs. Zullo, a tiny gray tuft of a woman, nods knowingly and clicks her tongue.

“That's the old Vizzini place.” She raps the table with her knuckles and all the tables around us say
ohhhhhh
in unison. “That old
strega
. She died in that place, you know.”

Her husband elbows her. “
Vita mia
, hush now, that was forty years ago.”

I look over at Henry, who is forty years old, and wonder when they moved there. Where did he live before? So much to learn about my husband, so much I don't know. It's odd, I realize, to have this much blank space in a marriage, this broad of a canvas to fill in. Maybe. I don't know, this is my first one. His foot touches mine under the table.

Mrs. Sartini, as round and wobbly as Mrs. Zullo is small, shakes her finger at us. “Mrs. Vizzini, she died of a broken heart. Left by a man at fifty.
Zitella!”

The crowd breaks up laughing. I don't know what
zitella
means, but even Henry tips his head back in belly laughter.

I can't stop checking my phone. For what, I'm not sure. Another email from Cash? Another picture of her? The clock creeps toward nine and one by one, the tables empty with bids of
good-night
and
nice meeting you,
and too-friendly cheek kisses, until Henry and I are finally alone. His fingers tickle my thigh and I shift away.

“What did you do today?” His eyelids are drooping, sleepy-drunk, and he has a dopey smile on his face.

“Not so fast. You were a troublemaker?” I prod, tapping his toe with mine.

He waves his hand, annoyed. “Mr. Zappetti is a storyteller. No, I was not a troublemaker. I was a kid. I think we soaped his windows one Halloween.” I cover my mouth with my hand. “Hey, it's tough to entertain yourself in this town,” he protests, his eyes shining.

“Tell me what you did today,” he says, again, smiling. My mind goes white. I hesitate, my hand fluttering above my wineglass.

All at once, I remember Caroline, her arched eyebrow, her dark wild hair, her mischievous eyes. Then,
Aren't I enough?
I can't do it. I can't kill the evening, break this spell. I picture his smile fading, his posture straightening, how he would adjust his collar or clear his throat. He'd say something so
Henry
like,
I thought we discussed this before, Zoe
or
You found your birth mother . . . on Facebook?
As though it were laughable and it would be diminished. Instantly reduced in the way that only Henry can, with a flick of his wrist or a twist of his lips. Then we'd sit in silence. I'd clear my throat and he'd throw back the rest of his wine and we'd leave. No, no, no. Henry looks so happy and free, his shoulders loose and the furrow between his eyebrows is smoothed.

“Not much,” I say, deflecting. “I read a book by Ruth Rendell. A mystery novel. Have you read her?” I twirl a fork between my fingers. I'm fishing.

Henry scratches his chin and looks up at the ceiling. “I don't think so.”

“Really? You have one of her books on the nightstand in the other bedroom,” I say and raise one eyebrow, an expression I excel at.

“Oh well,” he says flippantly, “that was Tara's room. She read voraciously.”

“Oh? The guest room was Tara's bedroom?” I'm not exactly feigning surprise—I hadn't expected him to be so blunt about it.

“She would sleep there sometimes. I worked late, she liked to go to bed early. I suppose it sounds odd now. It seemed so normal at the time.”

I picture a
Brady Bunch
relationship: chaste kisses on the cheek, while he brought her chamomile tea and McVitie's biscuits. Pats on the cheek. Making love in the dark, missionary style.

“No, I think it's fine. I just had no idea.” I take a deep breath, the words stuck on my tongue. “Henry, I don't know anything about her.”

He leans back in his chair. “She was very different than you. Very timid, a bit scared of the world. You wonder why I don't know what to do with you.” He laughs and I relax back in my seat.

“Do you keep that room hers?” I cock my head to the side and study his face. He averts his eyes, squinting at a grapevine wreath on the far wall.

“Not intentionally, Zoe. I don't come here much anymore. Do you know that we used to spend every weekend here?” He shakes his head and chooses his words carefully. “It's hard to come back sometimes.”

“You still love her.” I feel stupid even as I say it. It's so obvious, but I'm not even sure if there's anything wrong with it. Why wouldn't he? She never gave him a reason not to, except
for the simple fact that she's gone. His love for me, then, is by default.

I've broken the spell anyway, and for the wrong thing.

“It's complicated,” he sighs. “It's not like a divorce. I didn't have any control over the end of my marriage.” He rests his cheek against the
L
of his thumb and forefinger and studies me. “Is that hard for you?”

“Not usually. But we've been married nearly a year and we've never had this conversation. That's hard for me.” This was the kind of talk that we should have had a million times, drinking wine, wrapped in blankets on a cold winter night. The kind of close, furtive confidences of lovers, whispered kisses and shared breath.

“The room is not a shrine to Tara. I guess I'm lazy. I rent this house out, just a few times a year in the summer and again in the fall to hunters.” His eyes flick across my face.

“You've never been called lazy in your life,” I joke. Half-joke. The room is fuzzy and I feel coquettish, preening, looking up at Henry from under my eyelashes.

“You call me out, Zoe. I never knew how much I would love that. I've certainly never had it before.”

For something to do, I pour another glass of wine. I realize I've drunk almost the whole bottle of white alone, and I slosh more than a sip full down the side of the goblet and onto the tablecloth, which I then rub with the pad of my thumb.

“It's not a shrine,” he repeats. “It's just easier. I have a new life. I'm remarried. Sometimes, it's like I've lived twice. I wonder if she ever existed at all. That room is physical proof, that's all. I don't think about it, I don't go in there. Do you want me to change it? I will.” He blows out a breath and it tumbles across the table, warm and sweet. “I'm not preserving it. It's just that I haven't changed it, that's all. Do you see the difference?” He seems desperate for me to understand now,
his hands splayed out across the tablecloth, and I feel a stab of guilt.