What Happened to Lani Garver (35 page)

"I know he is private, and streetwise, and very stubborn, and determined to live his life his own way. Last time, I had probably thirty people looking for him, not including the police. If he has not contacted you, I'm sure he probably will. I want you to promise me that you'll give him a message."

Shock clamped my throat shut. The pressure must have formed the tears that squirted out of my eyes. It felt like a jet stream, blinding me, but she was too blinded herself to notice, I guessed, because I heard her sob.

"Tell him I love him. Tell him I was never, ever sorry we adopted him. Tell him that when I said mean things to him ... it wasn't because I hated him. It was that ... I was scared. I liked him just the way he was, but other people were always hurting him, and I just wanted to prevent some of it. I was scared if he didn't change, that he would get in some very serious trouble."

I jerked my tears away as my jaw hung.
Lady, you have no idea. You have no idea, and I have pneumonia. And if I tell you, I will drop dead right here.
It was not my job to do this, I reasoned. I had walked into such a different scenario than what I had expected. I couldn't even remember what I had expected, or what had inspired me to come here. Who knew what crazy ideas sick people could come up with?

I decided to pick at my stitches, twisting them, the little pinches keeping me alert.

"If you know where he is, and he doesn't want you to tell me, I understand that, too. Tell him I won't go looking for him again. I'm the big-time loser in that battle. Now he's even older and smarter. Maybe he was right last time. Maybe in running away he was fulfilling some destiny! But Claire? I want him to visit me! I can't stand the thought of not seeing him for another two years. Or even a few months."

I felt one stitch unravel, and I pulled ... pulled again.
Weird, feeling it run out your flesh ... tickles.
I stared at the suture in my palm, enough sanity left to look up at Mrs. Garver, wide-eyed. She was staring blankly over my shoulder. I could have taken off all my clothes and danced naked and she wouldn't have noticed.
Interesting scenario. Two crazies in one room. Talking like they're both sane.

On she blathered as I forced myself not to tug on any more sutures. "... agency near my husband's military base in Texas ... plans adoptions of older children—children who had been orphaned or had escaped from the black market in Mexico. It was easier to get one of those children than a baby. We wanted a child so badly ... I had been a schoolteacher. We figured we could handle an abused child—we would do whatever it took. And we would be doing some child a favor, who didn't have much other hope."

"That's ... nice." I half listened, trying to tell myself I would have to come clean. But my gut wanted to bide for time. To get it, I thought of a question I'd really been wanting the answer to.

"So ... how old was Lani?"

My heart clattered as I heard
was
instead of
is
filling the air. Fortunately she didn't notice, and just laughed a little, like some memories were managing to improve her mood temporarily. "Instead of a birth certificate, we only got a certificate of citizenship. The doctor judged by his teeth and bones he was about seven. We always celebrated his birthday on the Fourth of July! He wanted a summer birthday, so that's what we had. He loved the beach, the ocean. We would have all our relatives down for the entire day."

"You've had an unusual life." "Yeah, it's an epic saga." "I want to hear about it." "Some other time..."

There was a lot about Lani's life I would never know, I realized, and I fought to keep the overwhelming sadness from hitting me like a sledgehammer. I couldn't deal with too many thoughts on what-it-means-to-be-dead—not on top of everything else right now. I tried to focus on my gratitude for knowing a few things. I knew now that he celebrated his birthday on Independence Day. He'd been such a free spirit.
Damn, if that wasn't appropriate.

"I just wish we could have figured out what to do with a son like Lani while living on so many military bases. Some fathers wouldn't let their sons play with him ... Some tried to blame us, would ask us questions about how we'd raised him, as if they were our judge and jury, trying to figure out what we'd done to 'cause' him to turn out that way. Do you see why I wanted him to change, Claire? Do you think I'm a terrible person?"

I glanced at the small suture in my hand, noticing with satisfaction it wasn't bloody. I'd been keeping my head somewhat low, self-conscious about my black eye. I wouldn't be bleeding in front of her next. I scrunched it into my fist and shoved it into the pocket of my parka. A train of salt and seaweed rumbled up my chest, and I tried to answer. I pulled tissues out of my parka pocket and coughed into them.

"You sound like you have a terrific cold. Please, let me make you a cup of tea with lemon." She got up without waiting for me to say "no thanks." It seemed that getting this huge load off her chest had given her back some sanity.

She shoved a photo album from the coffee table at me before walking into the kitchen.
Rich Philadelphia people manners.
They have this idea that it's bad manners to leave a guest alone in a room. If they had to, they would offer you a book or the family photo album.

If I see pictures of him, I will explode. If I can't ever see his face again, I will explode.

I flipped open the album to some random page with my eyes closed, then forced them open. I withdrew my hand to my chest as he smiled up at me. Somehow it made me calmer. It was such a calm, confident smile, with almost a laugh in his eyes.

He was younger, maybe age eleven, surrounded by a bunch of blond and gray relatives who looked nothing like him. Between this sea of necks and faces was the Hackett beach in the summer. Underneath was scrawled in pretty pen,
July 4,
and the year.

He wore his hair kind of long, even back then. It dripped down over his shoulders, wet from the ocean. And maybe because I'd been used to seeing my own plastic smiles in my photo album from Macy, I got an immediate splash of the plastic in the smiles of the people surrounding him. Lani was smack in the middle of the photo, like some person had looked through the lens with military precision, to let it be known who the guest of honor was. While all the people were huddled together, only his mother had her arm around him. All the aunts and uncles were crossing their arms, or pulling in ever so slightly, like maybe they didn't want to touch him. One aunt's eyes went sideways toward him, like Macy's in that picture of us with Lyda Barone. Only Lani's smile looked sincere.
Never cared what people thought of him and his games of dress-up ... even back then.

I was so busy noticing what was going on with the other people, I almost missed the biggest thing going on with Lani. His soaking-wet hair, shiny from seawater, dripped diamond dots onto his chest, like his dad had managed to pull him out of the water just long enough to take the picture.

I put my hand to my chest, trying to keep my heart from revving up. But his mom's statement swept through my brain again. "
He loved the beach, the ocean.
"

I didn't dare think of the night before. Yet I couldn't help seeing him whimper up at Tony. "
But ... I can hardly swim.
"

"Claire ... don't do this," I whispered, trying to prevent other memories from tumbling over one another.
"Lani, how'd you think of that magazine plant, it was outrageous..." "I think really well on my feet..." "Lani, will you get out of that outfit and help me think?" "Claire, I am thinking..." "I always land on my feet...
"

I sat forward slowly, trying to think this through like a sane person. My biggest shock the night before had not been Tony Clementi showing up or anything Tony had done. It had been Lani's reaction. A normally streetwise person playing such a cowardly victim? It hadn't made enough sense.
Was it all an act? Did he realize he couldn't fight a group of huge guys? But if he could swim—

I shook my head hard, trying to shake the thought away. There were a million holes in a scheme like that. It was too risky, too off the wall. Other solutions would have been far easier. He could have ... thought to call the cops. By law, wouldn't the cops have to take him as far as the bridge if he said he was in danger?

I didn't know. Or ... he could have faked a seizure and gotten off the island in an ambulance. The hospital is on the mainland. That seemed crazy, too, but less risky than letting a bunch of huge guys try to drown you and hoping you'll get away.

But we hadn't had time to get the police or an ambulance.
Neither of us had been prepared for Tony appearing out of nowhere like he had. I'd found out the hard way, it had been too late for 9-1-1 calls.

I remembered Lani asking a question just before Tony showed up. "Claire, if those guys catch us, and this time Tony is with them ... what is the most likely thing they would do to me?" I had thought he was just psyching himself out with fear.
Did he have a better reason to ask? Was he already looking for a way to beat them at their own game?

I jumped as Mrs. Garver's shadow came over the photo album. I looked at her, looked through her.

"I didn't mean to startle you," she said, surprised at my overreaction. "Do you want honey in your tea? It's better for a cold than sugar."

"Uhm..." I couldn't think of what honey was. Somehow the question came out, but it sounded like somebody else's voice. "Did you say that ... Lani was a good ... swimmer?"

"I wouldn't say 'good.' He liked to frolic in the waves at the beach, but where he could still touch bottom. He didn't do too many athletic things well."

Doyee.
I had been stupid to even consider a scheme like the one I'd been concocting. My disappointment almost made me slump.

"Why do you ask?"

I just pointed at the beach picture and muttered something about how I thought I remembered him from swimming lessons when I was a kid, which was bullshit. And she had asked about tea.

"Um, I'll take honey. Thanks."

So Lani was just an average swimmer. Her answer was predictable. Typical. So mundane. Life just isn't melodramatic enough to allow for a weak kid in a nightgown to outsmart a bunch of big, strong, popular people. I felt mad at myself for considering any made-for-TV hopes.

I stood up, suddenly restless. Because Mrs. Garver thought Lani ran away, I was back to my original problems. I knew I should tell her—it was a matter of honor. Then I'd have to worry about the police, and Vince seeking revenge, and all the stuff that struck me as I had walked over here. I came to the foot of the stairs and gazed up. My only hope was that some evidence of a struggle had been left in his room—something that would force the police to find the story believable.

"Mrs. Garver?" I muttered toward the kitchen. "I think I left something in his room."

"Go on up. Maybe you'll see something I missed. Something that will tell us where he went this time."

I started up the stairs, rolling my eyes to hell and back.
Mundane. Typical. Real-life answers from Mrs. Garver.
She obviously had looked in the room to notice he was gone. She probably cleaned up, too, never thinking she could be destroying evidence.

I opened the door with one finger, kind of wheezing and ripped up, not really wanting to look for anything at all. I stood there in the quiet, staring at the bed where we'd spent so much time ... him picking me apart and putting me back together with a sadder but wiser perspective.

My body reacted, though my heart and most of my memories were still frozen. I reached for his blanket. I fell to my knees, brought it to my nose, and inhaled a sweet smell, more like perfume than cologne. I tried to roll my eyes, but they were filling up again, and I kept inhaling. I gripped the blanket, scared I would cry loudly and his mother would hear. I kept my spazzing throat from letting rip.

Then I saw the book. It had been under the blanket, right about where he had been sitting. I hadn't remembered it being there when I crashed out yesterday. But I hadn't been looking for it. I picked it up.

It was large and heavy, with a beautifully painted angel on the cover and the title
Andovenes' Angéls
... with the little mark over the
e
that made me wonder if it was in English. I ran my finger over the cover before opening it. The cover was flecked with mud, and the image of Macy tossing it from the car shot through my head.
Whatever made me think she was so smart? Smart for kindergarten...

I turned some pages, and a sweet musty smell filled my head, despite my nose being half full of snot. The pictures were colorful, strangely lifelike—almost like photographs instead of paintings. It made the angels seem even more real. There was a picture for every two or three pages of writing. The book wasn't in a foreign language, but it was in weird English, like Shakespearean English. I wasn't sure I would understand it, so I leafed through a big section about cherubs, just looking at the pictures. It was followed by another section on fighter angels. The huge angels had muscles everywhere, even in their fingers. And yet, they didn't look rough like warriors. They were a contradiction that was hypnotizing—beautiful and innocent, yet strong, with piercing eyes, leaving the impression that no beast or monster or warlord could create a problem they couldn't handle.

I leafed through until the section on floating angels cracked open. Instead of a picture of a beautiful angel on the opening page, there was a picture of what looked to be a teenager, but in old-fashioned clothing. The face and hair looked strikingly like a modern-day teenager's, and I realized part of the value of this art was its timelessness. The artist had been a kind of genius, catching all the natural best of humanity, always.

But after ogling at the healthy shine of the blond hair and the roses in the cheeks, anyone would have the same initial thought.
Wait ... is this a boy or a girl?
The floating angel had Lani's same intelligent, piercing gaze, peeking out from between the branches of a tree.