Girl in the Rearview Mirror Page 10

  I tasted iron. The inside of my lip was raw.

  Amabel came out of the bathroom without having flushed the toilet or run the water for her hands, and I led her back in and helped her. She refused to put on the outfit I’d picked for the car. “I want to wear my dress!”

  “We’ll pack it.” I eased the lacy dress off its hanger and tucked it into the suitcase. Its price tag was still attached—half a month’s rent.

  It was quarter to four by the time we went downstairs. Philip would be getting ready to come home. He’d stall, not dreading the party itself but the anxious preparation preceding it. He’d go out of his way driving home, stop by the inexpensive gas station that stocked his favorite candy bar. He ate these on the way home, toffee crumbling onto the seat, winking if I teased him, offering me a bite.

  Amabel’s suitcase looked pitifully small in Marina’s trunk. Marina had tossed in a leather duffel for herself. It flopped over as if empty. The smell of new car blew out when I shut the trunk.

  Amabel wore her star-shaped sunglasses. “You aren’t coming?” She twisted in her booster seat.

  “Not this time. But you’ll be back before you know it.”

  “When?”

  I took her hand. We counted down from ten on her fingers. “See? It’ll fly by.”

  Marina came out and slung her purse into the passenger seat. Orange prescription bottles showed through its opening. I remembered her vodka drinks and was seized with anxiety. “Do you need me to drive you somewhere?”

  “Finn, you’re fussing.” Marina glanced in the rearview. “Are you ready to go?”

  Amabel nodded at me instead of her mother’s reflection. Her eyebrows twisted into an anxious frown that would have been comical on her miniature features if it hadn’t wrenched my heart.

  I kissed her. “Draw me a picture of what you and Patrick do, okay?”

  I shut her door. The tinted window reflected my worried face. I forced myself to smile and touched the glass, like a blessing.

  The front window lowered. Marina was polishing her sunglasses on a cloth. “Tell my husband not to call me. I’ll call him.”

  “Can I tell him where you’re going? He’ll be worried.”

  She laughed. “Do you think so? I think he’ll be angry. Well. If you’re right, tell him we’re fine and I’m calm.” She slipped on her glasses, as if to give merit to her lie.

  The window rolled up. The car glided away. I went to the end of the driveway and stood barefoot on the scalding pavement, staring after them.

  Tell my husband not to call me. Philip was not disowned, then, but firmly claimed.

  A gritty breeze swept my bare legs. The sun had shifted to a lower perch in the sky. The party would start in three hours.

  13

  The house loomed, large and empty. In the kitchen, dirty dishes were piled in the sink, down to the cheese sandwich Amabel had abandoned. Every twenty seconds or so, the faucet dripped. I began to wait for it, the suspension between drips achingly silent and expectant.

  I dug out my phone and dialed Iris. When she didn’t answer, I waited through her voicemail’s robotic prompt, but after the beep, I couldn’t find sufficiently withering words. I threw the phone onto the island and ran my hands through my hair, pulled it into a ponytail in my fist. Think.

  Marina had left her blue leather notebook on the island. In it were lists of errands, tasks, calls, meetings. Everything done on paper before it was entered into her phone, locked into her calendar. The rough draft of her guest list spanned a dozen pages. Important people, who might already be getting ready: picking up the tux at the cleaners, fixing their hair, steaming the wrinkles from a gown. And I was the only one who knew the hostess had left.

  Here was the seating chart, a timetable, a list of outfits slashed impatiently with her pen. I imagined her doodling in the margins, leaning against her upholstered headboard, Philip downstairs shooting pool alone, or away at the restaurant, or in his car with Iris, his hand on her knee.

  I went upstairs. Marina had shut the bedroom door. I grasped the cool silver handle and went in. The bed was unmade, wrinkles pressed into sheets, intimate hollows in the pillows. Marina’s laptop blinked on the dresser. I opened it, but when the password prompt came up, I tried Ammy’s birthday, and Philip’s, then gave up.

  Marina’s dresser drawers were full. In the bathroom, her makeup bag was gone, but her shampoo and razor remained in the shower, eye cream in the drawer. Her jewelry was still arranged on its enameled tray. Here were her favorite pieces, the slim watch, diamond studs. My favorites, the citrine hairpins, the sapphire cocktail ring, the hammered rose gold bangle.

  No note, nothing for Philip.

  Why not leave tomorrow morning? Surely Marina had enough self-control to get through one night of artificial smiles by Philip’s side. But she’d left as though the gala meant nothing to her.

  I sat on the foot of the bed. I pulled out my phone again.

  Bryant answered right away. “How’s the party house?”

  Tracing the weave in the linen sheets with my thumb, I said, “There’s a problem, I think. I’m not sure what to do.” My voice was tight.

  “Hold on.” The phone made a scratching sound, and Bryant’s voice was muffled. After a pause, he came back on clearly. “I just stepped outside. What’s going on?” He was calm and serious. I imagined him handling the Senator’s calls in such a tone. Philip’s made us look bad again: gotten into a car accident, pulled some dubious land sale. Knocked up a girl.

  I said, “Marina’s gone. She just left. All of a sudden.”

  “She left,” Bryant repeated, his tone still neutral.

  “Yes. She took Amabel. She’s not coming to the party.”

  “Start over, Finn. Tell me step by step.”

  I told him how she’d come home midafternoon, earlier than expected. “She was upset, but she wouldn’t say why. She told me she was going away to help a friend.”

  “With Amabel? What friend?”

  “She didn’t say. I don’t know if she was telling the truth.” My face was hot. I shook the hem of my shirt, cooling my skin.

  “When did they leave? Where were they going?”

  “About four,” I said. “I packed some clothes for Ammy. Marina didn’t seem to take very much. Her suitcase looked empty. She said she’d call Philip.”

  “Where’d they go?”

  “I have no idea. They drove away, down the hill.”

  “All right,” he said. “I’ve got to make a few calls here. Just hang tight, okay?”

  “Should I call Philip? Or the museum?”

  “Don’t do anything for now. Stay there. Call me if they come back.”

  He hung up.

  I wandered downstairs. My legs moved heavily. Spiky purple flowers bristled in the vase on the foyer table. I opened the front door and looked down the empty road.

  I cleaned the kitchen, soaping everything by hand instead of loading it into the dishwasher, because it would fill more time. Then I went outside and tidied the pool area, bringing an armful of stuff up to the house. Still no word. Maybe Bryant had been swept up in damage control and forgot he’d told me to stay here.

  My hands were brittle and stiff. I hadn’t told him about Iris. I wanted to forget I’d ever talked to her.

  I was in Ammy’s room, pinning her latest artwork onto her bulletin board, when Bryant called back.

  “Can you meet me at the museum before the party? As early as you can?”

  “I was getting worried. What’s going on?”

  “It’s too late to cancel the gala. I’m going to play host until the Senator or Philip arrives.”

  He paused. I was staring at Ammy’s drawing of a princess and a polar bear.

  “What did Philip say?” I asked.

  Bryant cleared his throat. “Jim will handle Philip. The gala is my priority now. I don’t have to tell you how important it is.”

  “But without Marina, how can there be a party?”

&nbs
p; “We’ll explain that there’s been an emergency. She had to go away unexpectedly, but the museum still deserves a fund-raiser—doesn’t it? I’ll head over there on the early side, make sure everything’s running smoothly. I was hoping you’d join me.”

  I worried the ends of my hair, stiff with chlorine. “I wasn’t even meant to attend the gala, really.”

  “We’ve had plenty of practice at this point. It’ll be like any other event. Right?”

  I found myself agreeing.

  Already, an hour had passed since Marina and Amabel left. I made Ammy’s bed and went through to the bathroom. My reflection was anxious and tired. My dress hung over the bathtub. A knee-length, machine-washable black sheath meant to blend in. It wasn’t within a mile of what I needed if I was attending with Bryant.

  I went back to the master bedroom. I paused in front of Marina’s dresser. The framed snapshot of James—was that a goad to Philip? Did Marina miss him, particularly when she had to nag and maneuver Philip into behaving? I took it for granted that Philip still thought of Tina, though there wasn’t a single picture of her in any of the places I’d searched. People didn’t need photographs of memories they kept in their minds, fresh as filmstrips.

  I showered in the master bath and wrapped myself in a robe. Their closet was the size of my apartment. Marina’s pastel wardrobe seemed to huff at me. I sank my hand in the pocket of one of Philip’s blazers, the capaciousness surprising, swallowing my wrist. At the bottom, a slice of Big Red gum had gone dry and stiff in its silver wrapper. I folded it into my mouth and slowly chewed it to softness.

  Marina’s party dress hung in plastic. A white gown in buttery silk so fine you could have drawn it through a wedding band. Marina was counting on most of the women to wear black. More slimming, less likely to stain or make your complexion ghastly in photos. Only Marina could wear white without ever blemishing it; only Marina with her honey hair and perfect tan outshone the white.

  I wasn’t bold enough to wear her dress. I found a comparatively simple black gown, calf-length with a full skirt and cap sleeves, backless.

  In the full-length mirror, I looked unlike myself. The dress draped beautifully, making every movement sensual and fluid. It transformed me, as a cape transforms a magician. I tilted my chin and assessed my hair. Waves, I decided. I stood barefoot on the bathroom rug and worked Marina’s hot iron back to front. The wet strands sizzled against the paddles, puffs of steam releasing as I twisted my wrist. I was jumpy, energy fizzing under the surface of my skin. But I was also weirdly calm. The hands that painted a liquid black line around my eyes were perfectly still.

  As a last touch, I stepped into a pair of slingbacks. I didn’t dare borrow any jewelry. I texted Bryant that I was on my way.

  14

  Marina’s desk was a clean expanse of glass shaped like a teardrop, her computer in the fat swell, a row of carved statuettes along the pointed end. A stack of lilac stationery towered at my elbow. It was serious paper, heavy, soft. I shook out my wrist and copied Bryant’s words again.

  Welcome, I wrote, in a fair mimicry of Marina’s tidy, slender cursive. Thank you for attending this year’s gala! On it went, gushing and grateful, a tone not very like Marina’s. The idea, Bryant said, was that Marina had prepared these cards in advance. Picking one up at the door, guests would feel her graciousness, even in her absence. At the corner of the card stock, a white orchid clung to a dainty gold pin, for men to wear on their lapels and women to fasten to their updos.

  Bryant had closed me up in Marina’s office. Its windows overlooked the sculpture garden, where the party would proceed after dinner. Totem poles bordered a patio, where three blond women set up a bar. A fountain stood at the center of the patio, a circular platform like a lily pad springing up in the middle, rinsed endlessly with water. Beside this, a wooden platform already held a drum set and a tangled carpet of cords.

  Bryant was bustling around the museum, organizing the caterers, going over the schedule with Marina’s assistant, confirming details with security. I flipped over another card and began again. At last, dozens of cards stood in stacks on the desk. I packed them into a box and carried them to the lobby. My heels rang across the polished marble. Here were men unloading leafy tropical plants from a cart, arranging them to screen off the ticket counter and gift shop. Here was the coat check, where someone might drop off a shawl or handbag. Here was the sign-in table, swag bags choked with tissue paper. I fanned out my forged notes. I felt efficient and authoritative. This was going to work, I thought. The gala would go on, the Martins wouldn’t be embarrassed, and Marina would come back when she’d cooled down. She’d have to thank me, for carrying on so well.

  I pinned a flower to my dress and followed the hum of activity into the ballroom. Tuxedoed caterers moved in tight circles, setting vases on tables. More slowly, a young woman in a white shirt and white suspenders hunched over, dealing cutlery beside plates. Another trailed with a ruler, setting each piece right. I left them to it, wandering through double doors to the utility area, where banquet tables were laden with chafing dishes. The greasy smell of meat drifted in the air. Bryant stood with a clipboard, addressing a troupe of college kids in white gloves. Professionally, he didn’t acknowledge me until he was done with them.

  He touched my elbow in lieu of a kiss. “T-minus thirty minutes.”

  “The ballroom’s just about set up,” I said. “And the cards are ready to go.”

  “Perfect.” In his tux, Bryant evoked Cary Grant. His demeanor was confident, if tightly wound. He set his hand on my back and ushered me toward the door. “I’m off to handle the sound. Let’s reconvene in the lobby at quarter to. Not that anyone should get here early, but you never know, the older guests . . .” He trailed off as we entered the ballroom. He snapped his fingers, and a caterer rushed over. “These flowers are too high, you see? They’ll block the person opposite. Trim them down.” A dip of the head, and the guy was off.

  Bryant picked invisible lint off a chair and sighed.

  “Is the Senator arriving early?” I asked.

  Bryant looked surprised. “Why would he?” He squeezed my elbow. “There’s no need to be anxious, Finn. Just smile, and have a good time. Okay? I’ll see you in ten.”

  The galleries were empty and bright. Marina had arranged the objects with plenty of space between them, as in a boutique. Fringed ceremonial gowns, drums with stained tops, wood carvings splintered with time. Placards beside each piece described not only its origins and significance but also the lengths to which the museum had gone to acquire and restore it. I could see Marina typing out the cards, landing on a tone both self-congratulatory and serious, her new reading glasses standing on the very tip of her nose as if she hardly needed them.

  I imagined her at the airport, glasses on, reading a magazine at the gate. But she’d be attending to Amabel, which she rarely had to do; she’d be tired and edgy, the party a nagging buzz in the blare of her thoughts.

  Or maybe she wasn’t thinking of the gala at all. Probably all she could think of was Philip with Iris. Iris’s garish bright hair, her sweet voice, her cat’s smile.

  I went to the Frowning Man, friendly territory for my phone call. I dialed Philip’s cell, and when there was no answer I called the house. I was sure it would ring through, but then Philip picked up.

  “Finn?”

  “You’re home.” I felt dumb, my tongue thick.

  “Did you expect something else?” His voice was cool.

  “Is your dad with you?”

  “No.” I heard ice cubes hit glass. “He let me know. If that’s what you called about. Marina’s . . . emergency.” I imagined him in the living room, in front of the bar cart where Marina had stood earlier, her hands shaking as they poured vodka in the middle of the afternoon.

  “Have you heard from her?” I asked.

  Philip grunted. “I assume she didn’t tell you where she went.”

  “I tried to call you.” After I said it, I realized it wasn
’t true. I tugged my earlobe. “I didn’t know what to do. I’m at the museum now. Everything is all set for the gala.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the gala.” He sounded as though he’d be angry if he wasn’t so tired. I wondered what he’d told the Senator about Iris—whether he’d confessed, or pretended to be innocent. More likely, he’d said nothing at all. Told his father it was none of his business.

  “Are you going to be here soon?” I asked.

  He laughed. “I doubt it.”

  Now he’d be sitting on the couch, or slouched in the womb chair, digging a toe into the carpet and wishing his empty glass could refill itself.

  “Philip.” My voice was a whisper. “I know about Iris.”

  His reply came back sharp and clear. “What’s that?”

  “She came to me. She told me what’s going on. She asked for my help.”

  There was a click like a caught breath. Philip said, “Are you the one who told Marina?”

  “No!” I said quickly. “Absolutely not. I’ve been trying to talk to you, but I couldn’t find how to bring it up, and then Marina left, and that has to be why.”

  The line clicked again. “Jim’s calling. I have to go.”

  “I just wanted—”

  “Don’t tell anybody anything. Don’t say a thing.”

  The Frowning Man had a hooked nose, brown skin tinged red—was that original, or an effect of the paint’s aging? His smooth black hair lay in a clean line above his grim scowl. He stared fiercely at a fire extinguisher mounted on the opposite wall. I ran my hand over his brow, knowing it was forbidden. Smooth as driftwood.

  Suddenly a male voice rang through the room, followed by a bubbly lounge beat. Speakers were mounted discreetly in the corners of the ceiling. The music was much too loud. The ancient statues and ritual masks seemed to wince.

  A dismayed laugh came from my chest like a hiccup. Everything was absurd. The museum, the party, the Martins, and especially me—wearing Marina’s dress, carrying Iris’s ultrasound in my purse, an absolute impostor. I smoothed my skirt and shook the feeling away. How many times had I plunged into a party, even when I wasn’t in the mood, and easily found my groove: flattering and teasing and flirting and listening, the sense of my power buoying me up? Bryant was right—tonight was for the party. Philip would see when he got here.