Girl in the Rearview Mirror Page 15

  She nodded absently. “You’re right.”

  I thought of Philip’s hand in mine beside the pool table, the cozy intimacy I’d felt. Marina would enjoy the full warmth of his apology. I knew it, and I thought she knew it, too, and was putting on an act, making him suffer. She’d go to him when she was tired of being on her own, and make him grovel. So I didn’t say anything comforting. I didn’t tell her Philip had fallen apart in her absence, or the Senator was furious she’d left, or the party hadn’t gone as well as it should have. I only sat and watched the TV, poking that greasy toothpick into my thigh.

  A little white dog trotted onto the screen, dressed in a pink coat and booties. Pet raincoats, $19.99.

  Marina flicked it off. “I can’t handle any more absurdity.” She rubbed her temples. “I’ve been having strange dreams. I’m in a classroom, drawing on an easel. There’s a knock at the door. The teacher goes to open it. I can hear whispers from the hall, and all around me pencils keep scratching paper. There’s no reason to be nervous, but I’m terrified. Then the teacher turns around and looks straight at me, and I know, I just know, something horrible has happened.” She lifted her glass, but it was empty. “Why am I talking about this? I hadn’t thought of it in years, until I dreamed of it.”

  I was staring at her, my mouth open. I closed it, my teeth coming together with a click. She was talking about James, I thought, the moment she learned he was dead.

  “You were only in high school?” I asked.

  She didn’t understand. “It was my college art class. It’s not about the room, it’s about the knock. The dread. I’m not describing it well. It’s all falling apart.”

  She tipped the bottle over, but it was empty, too. She carefully caught a drip running down its side. “That was good wine.” She touched the label. “It feels nice to talk like that. That wine is good. That TV was bad. The couch is gray.”

  “You should talk to him,” I said, wanting to move on, feeling disloyal to Philip for listening to his wife’s dream of his brother.

  She shook her head. “I need Philip to listen to me.”

  Firmly, I said, “His side of the story is different from what you’ve heard.”

  With an effort, she opened her eyes and peered at me. Shut them again. “You don’t know.” The wine bottle slid off her lap.

  I put it out in the hall with the plates. When I came back, she was breathing deeply. I shook her shoulder. “You should go to bed.”

  She roused herself. I went to the bathroom to give her a moment. Her solitary earring lay in the soap dish. A sapphire, large as my thumbnail.

  I washed my hands to give myself something to do. When I came out, Marina was on the phone. “Drop the key at my room.” Even drunk, she managed to sound aloof.

  I gathered my purse, trying to be unobtrusive, already knowing she would regret our intimacy tonight.

  She put the phone down. “I need you to help with Amabel tomorrow.”

  “Sure. Call me when you’d like me to come over.”

  “I’m treating you to a room. They’re bringing up a key. Try to hop over before Amabel wakes up.”

  She cut off my thanks with a chopping gesture, then shut herself into the bathroom.

  A bellman dropped off the key, and after he left I waited to say good night. There was a notepad by the phone, covered in pen sketches of a dog. Her coyote, I realized, the one in the backyard. She’d drawn him running, mostly, and once scratching his ear. The drawings were well executed. They made me pity her. She might have drawn them at night, sitting by the silent phone, focusing on the perspective of the cactus in the foreground and the mountains at the back, with no one to call and nothing to think about but Iris. Young, twitchy Iris, with her naked limbs, tacky clothing, candy smell: the opposite of herself in every way.

  19

  Sunday morning was beautiful.

  I woke freezing, tangled in starchy hotel sheets. I fumbled from bed and worked the air conditioner dial until the fan shuddered to a stop. The edges of the velvet curtains were curled and damp. I opened them, letting in milky early light. The sole hour of beauty the day offered before the heat set in. The grid of downtown streets and sidewalks was empty.

  I dressed in my clothes from yesterday and went to get Amabel.

  Marina was passed out on the couch, breathing loudly through her mouth. Amabel was groggy when I touched her shoulder, but within seconds, she was bouncing on the bed, asking about the party, if everyone had missed her, did I want to see her new toys. I got her dressed and left Marina a note.

  “What’s wrong with Mommy?” Amabel asked as I gently shut the door behind us. “She had her mouth like this.” She flopped her tongue out.

  “She’s not feeling well. I heard you weren’t very good yesterday.”

  She shrugged and took off running down the silent hallway, her footsteps heavy as hoofs.

  I caught her as she spun for a second lap. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  The fitness center was empty. Amabel ran to the mirrored wall and struck a pose—hand on hip, the other held like a microphone to her mouth. She danced like someone three times her age, and I worried she watched too much TV, worried about the friends she had at school, worried nothing I could do would save her from the onslaught of growing up.

  But then: “I’m hungry.” Her gappy smile was pure kid.

  A waiter in a crisp white shirt seated us on the patio, pulling out Amabel’s chair, bringing crayons. She treated him with regal contempt. We ordered waffles that arrived on heavy white plates, soaked in puddles of strawberry syrup. The coffee came in a thin porcelain mug with a fat jar of cream that soured halfway through the meal. Little birds with hard brown beaks hopped across the patio, edging closer to our feet. Amabel cut a big wedge of waffle and let it fly in their direction. They scattered and reassembled cautiously to peck at it.

  Amabel watched them, twisting in her seat. “How do animals live in the city?”

  “Well, they have waffles for breakfast at the hotel. Then they fly up on the roof to sit in the sun. They swim in the fountain. And then it’s time for bed.”

  She groaned appreciatively. “Finn, birds don’t have bedtime.”

  “You’re right.”

  She dropped another waffle square. “The babies get to sleep in a nest.” She seemed jealous. I knew that afternoon she’d build a nest in her own bed, working her sheets to a tangle.

  I ordered a coffee to go for Marina and picked up a newspaper at the gift shop. At the bottom corner of the front page, a photo of Gonzales led an article about his popular Twitter feed. Bryant would be annoyed. Tweets aren’t news, he complained.

  At our knock, Marina opened the door, releasing a fog of eucalyptus. She was scrubbed and pink. She wore her hair down, and it shone like polished wood. Amabel barreled into her stomach to hug her, and Marina stiffened in irritation. She probably felt ill.

  “You girls ready to hit the road?” Her voice was falsely chipper.

  Amabel bounced around the room. “Can I ride with Finn?”

  Marina shrugged her consent. She slid on sunglasses and marched out, leaving me to handle the logistics of Amabel and the bags. I’d expected her to act haughty for a while, to reassert her distance from me. I didn’t mind. It was a beautiful day.

  “Ocotillo Heights,” announced Amabel as we pulled through the gates, pronouncing the name with an l. Bougainvillea grew wild over the road. Branches scraped my car, petals showering onto the roof. Giggling, Amabel stuck her arm out the window. The sun was cheerful as yellow cake.

  Marina’s taillights flashed at the final curve. The Senator’s black car was pulled across the Martins’ driveway. Marina rudely blared her horn. The driver backed precariously up the road, which climbed steeply for a few yards after the Martins’ drive, and then petered out into an overgrown, dusty thicket. After Marina and I pulled in, the car eased back, like a gate shutting behind us.

  “I wonder why your grandpa’s here,” I said.

&nbs
p; Amabel blew a raspberry. “Can we play princesses?” She darted inside. Marina had already gone in.

  I carried the suitcases into the laundry room and went through to the kitchen. On the island, a cutting board held slices of browning apple and an empty highball glass.

  Voices carried into the kitchen. I crept down the hall. Sunlight streamed out the arched doorway of the living room. I hesitated outside, holding my breath.

  “So it’s true.” Marina laughed, caustic. “You’ve known a month. And done nothing. Do you have any idea what I thought when she came to me? Do you have any idea what that felt like?”

  “Please, let’s not,” Philip said. “I was protecting you. And Amabel.”

  “Spare me. You never thought of me. Of what this would mean for us.”

  “All I think about is you.” To my surprise, he sounded as angry as Marina. “My entire life, everything I put myself through, is for you.”

  “That’s what you tell yourself, isn’t it? You never asked for this. As if you don’t care, as if you’re above it all.”

  Keeping my face close to the wall, I peered in. I could see half the room—the couch, the fireplace, the white canvas that had intrigued Iris. Marina perched on the couch, resisting the gravity of the feather cushions. Philip stood gripping the red womb chair, his back to me. His hair was wet and curling on his neck. His polo stretched over the broad muscles of his back.

  He said, “You and Amabel can go away for a while. Take a few weeks. It will blow over.”

  “Go on vacation? Now? How would that look?” Marina’s pale, hungover face was wounded and righteous.

  They weren’t facing each other. They addressed the empty space to my left, like actors on a stage. Eastern light poured through the huge windows behind them. Philip’s silhouette was edged in light, Marina’s face half shadowed and half illuminated, her hair gleaming like the surface of a swimming pool. Then I remembered the Senator was there, too. He must be standing on the other side of the room, by the bookshelves, out of my sight. I drew back, so I could hear but not see them. So I would not be seen.

  “We’ll pay her,” Marina said. “She can’t want much. She doesn’t know anything about money.”

  “You’re panicking. That’s exactly what she wants. You’re forgetting that she can’t prove anything.”

  “The insinuation would be damaging enough,” she said. “It could ruin us.”

  “She’s bluffing. She’s got nothing and she knows it.”

  “She has him, doesn’t she? She heard it all from him in the first place.”

  My mouth was dry. I was waiting for Philip to say nothing had happened. Tell her the story that had comforted me: the harmless if stupid flirtation, Iris’s aggression in the car. But already that story was fraying, like a shirt that looks good in the store and cheap in the daylight.

  Marina, sensing weakness, became triumphant and condescending. “How many times did I tell you not to trust him? I never understood why you didn’t cut ties with that loser, why you didn’t—”

  “He’s my oldest friend!” Philip’s voice rang clear now, but the snarl in it stunned me. “Not that that’s worth anything to you. Clint won’t say a word, I promise you.”

  There was a muffled thud from the corner of the room. Something dropped. I put my face to the door again.

  “Wait a minute,” a gravel voice said. “Just wait, now.” It took me a moment to recognize it as the Senator’s.

  Marina half stood, but he protested, “No, don’t get up.”

  He crossed the room, coming into my view. His sunburned scalp glared red over clouded features. He sank stiffly onto the couch beside Marina and drew a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his forehead.

  Marina watched him, concern tightening her lips. Oddly, she looked guilty.

  The Senator’s hand traveled to his lapel, reflexively straightening his flag pin. He cleared his throat. “You’re acting like children.” His voice was bitingly sharp. “It’s bad enough that you lied to me. I can’t stand this bickering.”

  “It’s none of your business,” Philip said, unmoved.

  The Senator’s tongue flashed across his lips. “Marina and I disagree with you. In fact, when the girl approached her, she called me immediately. I regret how badly I reacted at the time. I was in shock.” He patted Marina’s knee, and she stared at her feet. “Now it’s time for us to come together and deal with this.”

  Philip didn’t seem surprised by his wife’s betrayal. He kicked a leg back and dug his toes into the carpet.

  Marina leaned toward the Senator hungrily. “We’ll pay her. Jim, don’t you agree?”

  “If we pay her, she’ll never leave us alone.” Philip spoke without intonation, knowing she wasn’t listening.

  The Senator didn’t acknowledge either of them. His head was tilted thoughtfully. He inhaled deeply, ready to speak. I thought he might rise and pace to the windows, address them in his bombastic way as if from a stage. But he stayed seated, hands braced against his knees.

  “You made a horrible mistake. And with such duplicity. I cannot imagine what you were thinking. It’s inexcusable. I’ve learned more about this girl, where she comes from. And the things I’ve learned have turned my stomach.”

  Philip groaned, mutinous.

  The Senator pointed at his son. “The fact of the matter is, we share a name. Therefore, in every way that matters, we share a future. You’ll remember I told you much the same after your shameful car accident.”

  Philip let out an indignant cry and began to defend himself, or blast his father, I couldn’t quite hear because Marina joined in, exhorting the Senator to side with her. The Senator sat with his head bowed, absorbing their words like blows, but his lips worked as though he had a pebble in his mouth, and I thought that he was holding in something very harsh, but wouldn’t contain it for long.

  I stepped away.

  Fresh flowers bloomed in the foyer. Peonies again. I thought of Iris crushing the petals. Are these real?

  If the story Philip told me was true, there would be nothing to pay off, nothing to anger the Senator so deeply. So Iris’s version must be true. Pregnant. And the Martin name at stake.

  I ran up the stairs. I wanted to see Amabel. I craved her face, her bossy voice, her simple goodness.

  I knocked as I swung her bedroom door open. “You locking me out?”

  The room smelled of pollen. The curtain blew out from the window and heat flooded in. Patrick the stuffed dog was splayed on the floor. The dresser drawers were pulled open, clothes trampled on the carpet. The bathroom door was closed. I called to her, “Do you need help?”

  No answer.

  I brushed Patrick off and tossed him on a chair. I went into the bathroom. She wasn’t there. The pressure of the open window must have pulled the door shut.

  I passed through the bathroom, stepping over the little wooden stool at the sink, into the playroom. Amabel wasn’t there, either. The block castle we’d painstakingly built was toppled over, one skinny tower standing in the rubble. I called out to her again.

  Silence.

  I thought she was hiding. She often hid from me, giggling as I scratched my head and searched under pillows and inside shoes. She was mad at me for ignoring her—hadn’t she asked me to play when we got home?

  I checked Philip and Marina’s bedroom. Unsupervised, she’d sneak to this forbidden place. But she wasn’t hiding under the bed, or in the tub, or in the closet behind Marina’s gowns.

  She wasn’t in the guest room, pulling feathers from the leaky duvet or curled in the wicker chair suspended from the ceiling by a chain.

  “I give up!” I called.

  Silence.

  I ran down the stairs. I was anxious, but impatient. I still thought she was playing a game. There were a thousand places to hide in the Martins’ house.

  She wasn’t in the poolroom. Not under the dining table, not in the pantry. I went out to the garage. Amabel liked to sit in Philip’s car, fin
gers curled around the steering wheel, mouth revving a froth of spit. Or she’d ride her scooter down the street, leg pedaling furiously, wheels rasping. But the scooter was propped against the wall. The Senator’s car still blocked the driveway.

  She wasn’t in the side yard, scraping her shins trying to climb the citrus trees.

  These were her favorite places, but now I was furious I’d checked them first.

  I was running across the sharp dry grass. I screamed, “Amabel!” and the shrill note scraped my throat.

  She’d never gone to the pool by herself, ever. She didn’t even like the water. Hated getting her hair, her face, wet. But I ran.

  Grabbed the gate. It swung open. It wasn’t locked.

  Amabel’s flip-flops were on the patio.

  Her inflatable shark floated in the pool. Purple and pink striped, black plastic handles on the back; she liked to sit on it and kick her legs to paddle. I could picture her there, turning to me and waving. But now it drifted, riderless.

  I couldn’t see her at first. Then I did. She was in the water, behind the shark.

  I meant to dive in but I must have been running because I hit the water with my legs bent. My kneecaps collided with my chest. I kicked, half swimming, half walking, too slow. My clothes dragged on my body. Amabel’s face was in the water. I eased her over. She seemed to flinch when the sun hit her.

  “It’s okay,” I told her. “It’s okay.”

  I managed to lift her onto the patio. I leaned over her. Her face was blue. A trick of the light, surely.

  “Amabel.” I shook her shoulders. I waited for her to open her eyes, cough, spit up water. Nothing happened. I held my hand over her mouth. I couldn’t feel breath.

  The day kept running, artificially, like a film. I felt like I was in poured wax, moving slowly. Only my pulse was racing.

  I shouted for help. What came out was, “Ammy! Amabel!”

  I’d learned CPR, but confronted with her familiar face and delicate frame, I was afraid. I pressed into her chest, and her rib cage felt breakable. I blew into her mouth. Her lips were stiff, her nose slimy, her little round chin hard as bone.